When the clock strikes 5 p.m. in Bogotá, a horde of cars finds itself stuck in an all-too-familiar congestion nightmare. A motorbike weaves in and out of lanes, trucks incessantly honk, and what seems to be hundreds of engines idle in the blistering Colombian sun. Even pedestrians add to the motor muddle, as they dart dangerously through the gridlock. But then a savior in stripes descends upon the fury.
White face paint and charcoal-lined eyes accentuate an expression of utter horror aimed at the motorist who just ran a red light. Pale gloves flash at a honking heathen, and gregariously exaggerated steps imitate the pedestrian who just can’t wait their turn. After three vehicles nearly collide in an intersection, a fleet of performers stretch colorful fabric across the hoods.
But it’s not all chastising. A series of cartwheels as perfect as pinwheels follow the family that uses the crosswalk. Applause greets the cyclist who waits their turn.
This monotonous commute has been ambushed by mimes.
The scene is the result of a slogan called “arm yourself with love,” which mayoral candidate Antanas Mockus started advocating for in 1995. As a former professor of mathematics and psychology, Mockus hoped to transform the fragmented city into a “6.5-million-person classroom.” After all, the Bogotán government’s past efforts to mitigate waves of violence with, well, violence, had proven ineffective. Mockus became mayor after being elected on the smallest campaign budget in Colombian history.
The new mayor began his term by tackling the 1,500 annual traffic-related deaths in the city. He seemed to abide by an old theater saying: If the show isn’t going well, send in the clowns. Ever the political performer, Mockus did just that.
The mayor gave 1,800 traffic cops the boot and hired a meager clan of 20 mimes. Armed with nothing but signs that read correcto and incorrecto, the silent troupe theatrically mocked lawbreakers and applauded polite motorists. A system purely based on public approval was on trial in Mockus’s so-called classroom. And it worked.
“Rather than strength or physical violence to get people to cross the street in the right place, he used behavioral change—and this was powerful,” says Paulius Yamin, a behavioral scientist and Mockus’s former research assistant. “There are not always going to be police on every corner, but there are always citizens, and people care about what others think about them.”
The 20 mimes quickly expanded to 420. Yet, the performers dotted only a select few intersections in just two neighborhoods.
“The people who designed it understood that in a 7-million-person city like Bogotá, a very small percentage would actually see the mime artists,” says Felipe Cala Buendía, the author of Cultural Producers and Social Change in Latin America. However, Mockus believed in the power of word of mouth. “They create situations—a drama almost—performances that are attractive, that you would remember, that are strange and unexpected. And because of that, people speak about them.”
Even though the mime program ended before the close of the 1990s, thanks to extensive media coverage, the people of Bogotá can still recall the striped superstars to this day.
“Show them a picture of the mime artists at that time, from [over] twenty-something years ago, and they will know what it is. Even if you don’t have any text, they will know it’s from Mockus’s time… And that is powerful and completely intentional,” says Buendía.
The mimes became a symbol of Mockus’s broader public policy package called cultura ciudadana, or “citizen culture,” which centered on advancing policy goals through strategic cultural interventions. Ordinary citizens with no real authority assumed superhero status under the guise of stripes. Behind silent mocking and theatrics lies the politics of play. The scheme used art and expression to ask the spectator, a passive citizen, to challenge how they lived and behaved in the city. When individuals were willing to engage with the mimes and play along, they were forced to rethink everyday interactions between one another and their larger community. In doing so, ordinary citizens assumed an active part in the theater of civic culture.
“Instead of thinking that only the politicians can solve the problem, or that the problem will never be resolved because ‘that’s the way we are here,’ [Mockus’s mime scheme] shows that it’s a collective responsibility to change,” Yamin says.
By the end of the mayor’s first term in 1998, the mimes had faded from use. Yet, their spirit remained. The mayoral office distributed over 350,000 “thumbs up” and “thumbs down” cards for citizens, empowering them to take on the stripes. As Bogotá’s civic culture transformed, traffic violence decreased by 50 percent.
In the 30 years since, traffic mimes have spread to other Latin American capitals with much success: Caracas, Lima, Tegucigalpa. La Paz even introduced traffic zebras.
“Self-efficacy and outcome-efficacy are essential—the belief in people that they can make a difference with what they do. In the end, what [Mockus] managed to do, which was really powerful, was to transform the behavior of people,” says Yamin.
Maybe mimes are a black-and-white illustration that it’s possible to shift ways of thinking in society. Perhaps someone who carelessly crosses the street in the wrong place can transform into someone who cares enough to inspire others.
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