I hate shoe-shopping, and consequently have the smallest collection of shoes compared to every single other woman I have ever met.
It goes thusly: one pair of hiking sandals for hot weather, one pair of running shoes for whichever aerobics, step or hip hop class I am currently forcing myself to go to (or, you know, for running) one pair of black high heels for weddings, funerals or job interviews, and, the crown jewel, one pair of all purpose lace-ups which I wear when it´s not hot, I´m not at a gym (or, you know, running) and I´m not at a wedding, funeral or job interview.
At the moment, these shoes happen to be black leather lace-ups in a neutral business design, the reason being that I was working as an English teacher in the banks and law-firms of Frankfurt, Germany, when their predecessors died.
I´ve had the shoes in question for almost three years, only the first few months of which were actually spent in the banks and law-firms of Frankfurt. For the rest of the time they have served me well through most of Europe while I was doing anything and everything but nothing that had the least need of me looking anything like official. Right now they are backpacking through Peru with me. They´ve even climbed a mountain.
The black leather business lace-ups are black no more. They are a scruffy and dented looking grey with red and white blobs of paint from when I helped a friend paint his office. The soles are worn so far that I can feel every single pebble I step on, the lining is completely gone, the age of being anything near waterproof has long passed. But somewhere underneath it all you can still see the proud Frankfurt business shoes of old.
Now, in Peru there exists such a thing as shoeshine boys (the word is my own invention). Every Plaza de Armas (ie main square) will have a number of these scruffy looking boys and young men carrying a little wooden box containing various shoeshine aids which also serves as their seat. The box sports a little pedestal that the client can rest his or her shoe on while it is being brushed and buffed.
The shoeshine boys of Peru have a problem: tourists, being the people who generally have money to have their shoes shined, in this day and age wear either sneakers or trekking shoes which are rather difficult to shine. (I might add though that a hardened shoeshine boy, when paired with a tourist who has a guilty conscience and will give money for anything, will give it his best shot.)
You can imagine the hopeful gleam in their eye every time they spot me, single white female with money and shoes that not only are perfect for being shined, they also really need to be shined.
So here is my shoeshine boy story:
I have been backpacking through Peru the past few weeks, filling the time between working as an English teacher in Trujillo and flying home with the mandatory cultural visits and backpacking adventures, and every town I´ve visited has been increasingly more touristic.
In Trujillo, the city I lived for 5 months, where tourists only come to leave again as soon as possible, the shoeshine boys would nod at me and pull a questioning face, and then disappear as soon as I had shaken my head to tell them no, not today, thank you.
In Huaraz, a small mountain town which has a fair amount of backpackers of the most adventurous and sporty kind, the shoeshine boys would ask me softly if I wanted my shoes shined and I would have to reply audibly that, no, I didn´t want them shined today, thank you.
In Lima, the huge capital city, the boys would ask me and linger annoyingly after my no, apparently expecting me to change my mind.
In Arequipa, a beautiful big city in the lower mountains which has double decker touring buses in three colours touring the city for the many tourists, the boys would come up to me in groups, and upon hearing my no, they would linger and ask repetitively: “Why not, you shoes are filthy!”
At the moment I´m in Cusco. In Cusco, tourist capital of Peru, the centre of which is equal part tourist and Peruvian, the Peruvians being there because they are trying to sell things to the tourists, the boys come to me in droves, demand why I don´t want to have my shoes shined, and follow me around until the Plaza guard blows his whistle, at which point they will make a hasty retreat.
So why do I keep saying no? Firstly, because I really don´t care if my shoes are scruffy. I´m just that kind of person. Secondly, because I suspect some kind of trick. The boys usually quote one Nuevo Sol (25 Eurocents) as their price, and although this could theoretically buy them a simple meal at a Peruvian farmers market, it still strikes me as way too cheap.
But earlier today I thought: You know what? I´m flying home soon, my shoes really are filthy, the next time a boy asks me respectfully without harassing me I´ll say yes.
30 seconds after sitting down on a bench on the Cusco Plaza de Armas I was having my shoes shined. The shoeshine boy had told me I could pay him anything I wanted and I decided quietly that I would give him 2 or 3 Soles for a mediocre job and 5 Soles for a good job. An excellent price, when you consider that an hourly wage in Peru is about 2 Soles.
He took out the lace of my right shoe and proceeded to give it the shine of a life time, with so many bottles of various liquids and brushes and cloths that I lost count. He also tried to make small talk, which he wasn´t particularly good at, even after I had convinced him that I truly, honestly spoke enough Spanish to follow him. (Cusco is the only city I´ve encountered in Peru where they speak English to you as a matter of course.)
Nearing the end of the first shoe, the shoeshine boy said: I´m going to put a special liquid on your shoe now to finish off and make it shine. It won´t mark your trousers. I nodded to let him know I understood and he finished off my right shoe and started on the left.
About a tenth of the way in he suddenly announced that the special liquid he had used was 13 soles.
What the &%$* I said, I´m not going to pay that money, you can stop right now.
But I asked you if I could use the liquid, he said. Then he looked up at me innocently and pointed at my shoes, one shoe shining princely black like spat-out liquorice and the other still looking grey and worn like its unfortunately pauper-born twin.
I bloody-well knew it was a trick.
Luckily, there are two “fortunately for mes, and unfortunately for the shoeshine boys”:
Firstly, I speak Spanish. Now, my Spanish is nowhere near perfect but it is certainly a lot better than that of most Westerners in Cusco and I can say with absolute certainty that he never actually asked me to use the liquid or warned me about the price. I´m sure the language barrier and subsequent confusion with most tourists is what earns him his 13 soles.
Secondly, I am the kind of person who walks around with white and red paint splatters on her shoes for 2 years and am consequently also the kind of person who will quite happily walk around with one shiny and one scruffy shoe. Just another opening for a good anecdote.
I ended up, after a lot of haggling on his end and me telling him to give me my shoelace back and go away on my end, paying 6 Soles for him to finish off the second shoe. It was one Sol more than I had planned to give anyway, as he had really done a rather good job. That one Sol still made me feel bad though. It´s funny how 25 Eurocents can make you feel bad as long as you have the feeling you were tricked out of it.
When these shoes die, I´ll be sure to buy some nice un-shineable trekking shoes. (Hey, if I wear black leather lace-ups for climbing mountains, I should obviously wear trekking shoes for studying psychology in The Netherlands…)