Albert Kambale reported for Agence France Presse on the transport solutions in Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) which I am happy to repeat here.
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| Photo: colognetocapetown.com |
What do you do when you need to deliver several hundred pounds of potatoes, 150 stalks of sugar cane, 30 eucalyptus saplings and eight sacks of coal, without motorised transport?
For residents of Goma, in the war-scarred east of the Democratic
Republic of Congo, the answer to this, and many other problems, is the
tshukudu.
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The ‘Tshukudu’ statue in Goma pays tribute to
wooden bicycles that transport most of the city’s loads.
PHOTO:Skyscrapercity.com
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They’re operated by a group of 1,500 proud, often burly men who not
only have their own union but saw a giant, gold-coloured statue erected in their
honour a few years ago in this capital of North Kivu province, on the border
with Rwanda.
“The tshukudu is our whole life,” said driver Damas Sibomana.
Their vehicles, pronounced “chookoodoo“, measure about two metres
(more than six feet) long, have wide handlebars and a raised front wheel. They
balance improbably large loads, as the tshukudeurs -- as the drivers are known--
push their vehicles along almost as much as they “drive” them.
Many drivers live outside the city and their day begins by
transporting agricultural products grown in the verdant hills to the north,
which feed the city’s markets. The good news? It’s downhill.
Once in the city centre the drivers await further orders for
deliveries or return, again fully loaded, back to their starting point.
Jean-Marie Firiki gets up at 4:00 am but his descent stops in
Kibumba, 30 kilometres (19 miles) to the north of Goma, which boasts of being
the tshukudu’s birthplace. The 35-year-old works as a tshukudeur at dawn and
builds the machines during the day.
“A decent tshukudu costs $50 (36 euros),” Firiki said, “but the
cost of a beautiful one can be $80-100” -- quite a sum in DR Congo, where the
majority of people live in extreme poverty.
But the boon is no fuel costs, and driver Sibomana says they can
earn $10 on a good day.
There are no machines in the workshop that Fikiri shares with other
craftsmen. Like most of the country Kibumba has no electricity supply. The men
work the wood -- here it’s eucalyptus -- with a handsaw, a chisel, a plane and
some sandpaper. It takes two days for a craftsman to make one scooter.
Paulin Barasiza works next to Fikiri. The 52-year-old traces the
invention of the tshukudu back to about 1973.
Our fathers would sell potatoes and tobacco at a Rwandan market
several kilometres away, he said. “They used wheelbarrows but these where
inefficient. This is where the design came from” -- inspired by bicycles.
The first tshukudus were made entirely of wood and the wheels were
greased with palm oil several times a day to keep their gears from seizing
up.
Sales began to pick up in the late 1980s but the decades that
followed have been marred by inter-ethnic violence and regional conflicts that
would ravage Kivu and still mark the province today.
It was paradoxically during this dark period that the tshukudu
experienced significant upgrades: old tires glued on to protect the wheels,
metal hubs and bearings and the addition of springs to aid steering.
Today, tshukudus cover vast distances and can carry up to half a
tonne. Some models have a brake that works by applying friction to the rear
wheel.
When a big load needs transporting to Goma, Sibomana employs two
our three extra drivers for the day. Solidarity is strong, and thanks to help
from other tshukudeurs, he was able to buy a field and a plot of land where he
is building a house.
In early evening after a hard day’s work the scooter takes on
another role: courting. The roads are full of young drivers taking their
girlfriends out for a ride, both standing on the tshukudu as the man, in back,
scoots it along.
The profession is held in high esteem. To have a daughter marry a
tshukudeur means she “will not die of hunger“, said local historian Dany
Kayeye.
