Crossing the street in Cuenca: Tips from a pro
Somewhere in Cuenca, there’s a perfectly painted pedestrian crossing. Maybe two. They are decorative, symbolic, and approximately as binding as a pinky promise at a kindergarten birthday party.
You, a sensible foreigner raised on fairy tales of driver courtesy and zebra-stripe sanctity, step up to the edge. You wait. A car comes. You wait more. It speeds up.
Welcome to the Cuenca pedestrian experience.
If Charles Darwin had left the Beagle long enough to travel to Cuenca, he probably would have noticed that the principle of “survival of the largest” often applies to traffic in Cuenca. Buses, trucks, and cars typically take precedence, and pedestrians are expected to navigate accordingly.
Don’t know when to step off the curb? Follow the abuela and you’ll be just fine.
This means that stepping into the street requires attentiveness and a keen sense of timing.
Crossing the road is not so much an act of transit as a game of psychological chicken. Drivers aren’t malicious. They’re just playing their part in a well-rehearsed local drama: the car pretends not to see you, you pretend you don’t care, and then, with the confidence of someone who’s just remembered they left the oven on, you stride forward and hope for the best.
Charlie has tried everything — hesitation, negotiation, interpretive dance. Nothing works better than boldness combined with resignation. The Cuencano technique involves stepping out slowly, maintaining eye contact, and conveying (without words) that while you don’t want to die today, you’re also okay with it if that’s what it comes to.
Hint: Use an elderly person as a shield. An abuela with a bundle is the holy grail of traffic stoppers. She is probably pink-cheeked and wearing a dark hat and a pleated skirt that falls below her knees. Failing that, adopt a confident look and cross like you own the continent.
Also note: a “one-way” sign means some of the traffic will be going that way. Not all. The rest may be coming at you from the opposite direction with a mattress strapped to the roof and three children in the back.
Eventually, you’ll adjust. You’ll dart across without breaking stride, maybe even sipping a juice you can’t pronounce. You’ll stop flinching when a taxi grazes your sleeve. You’ll smile when a local gives you a nod of recognition — not for being brave, but for finally getting it.
You won’t have become Ecuadorian. But you’ll have survived the street. And here, that’s something.
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