cover story

They are the wheels of the e-commerce boom， fueling a fast-paced middle-class lifestyle with hot meals and next-day deliveries. These modern-day “rickshaw boys” sometimes leave chaos in their wake， disrupting more than just traffic. If some consider them a blot on the urban landscape， many more rely on China’s kuaidi legions for their everyday needs. But the job means long hours， intense competition and bleak prospects. We take a look at life behind the handlebars and on the road， delving into the fraught dynamics， business and brotherhood of kuaidi

他們誕生于電商時(shí)代，是穿梭于大街小巷的靚麗風(fēng)景；

他們與時(shí)間賽跑，維系著快遞行業(yè)的高效運(yùn)轉(zhuǎn)

——走近我們身邊的“城市騎士”

EDAILY XPRESS

From warehouse to door， Hatty Liu spends 24 hours with the courier army ferrying packages across the city

Work begins early at the distribution center of courier firm STO Express， outside Beijing’s eastern Fifth Ring Road. Drivers report at 7：30 a.m.—6：30 a.m. if the workload is heavy—when the warehouse doors open to reveal packages from all around the country， scattered in heaps across the floor.

China’s delivery industry is now the largest in the world. According to the State Post Bureau， courier companies—kuaidi （快遞， literally “quick delivery”）—processed around 31 billion packages in 2016， a number that’s grown more than 50 percent every year for the last six years. An estimated 1.2 million people work as express deliverymen， also called kuaidi； at peak periods such as the “Singles’ Day” shopping holiday， each driver may deliver up to 300 parcels per day， piled as high as the warehouse ceiling.

Couriers are first responsible for sorting these packages by hand： checking addresses， scanning labels， and taking those in their delivery area to their electric-powered van. Liu， an STO courier， arranges his in neat stacks by community， building， and hall number， before setting out in rush-hour traffic to the city center. With an average 100 packages to deliver every day before 3 p.m.—closer to 200 on Mondays， since some offices can’t accept deliveries on weekends—he uses any method he can to save time. After parking outside his first office building at 9 a.m.， Liu arranges the packages again by floor in a burlap sack and works his way from highest floor to lowest. Occasionally a package is dropped off with a co-worker or in a convenient cabinet in the hallway， and Liu places a call to its absent owner as he sprints back to the elevator.

The best of all possible days is one where nothing disturbs this routine. Although soft-spoken， with an almost Zen-like attitude toward setbacks， Liu has a surprisingly long list of professional peeves—and almost all are wrinkles that cost him extra time： “Big or heavy packages； packages that are strange shapes that you have to carry up stairs； places with no elevators…residential communities， they’re slower [to answer]， more spread out than offices； and communities like this one，” he says in front of a locked building， where he just had to fetch a fob scanner from the property management office.

“Cash on delivery is the worst of all， because you can’t just drop the package off outside，” Liu adds， picking one up as he speaks. It’s a product that cost 299 RMB and， as he feared， a call to the recipient reveals that they will not be home until evening； 6：30 p.m. is as early as they can make it. Liu will have to come back then， pushing his post-delivery workload even further into the evening.

If a courier’s day begins hours before they show up alongside bleary-eyed white-collar workers at their offices at 9a.m.， it also habitually wraps up late into the night. The routine is repeated seven days a week. Couriers work on what’s known in China as a “comprehensive schedule，” which means they take turns taking individual days off every month， but can’t name days off ahead of time. “Sure， come along， but there’s not much to see； just hard work，” Wu， a veteran STO courier， replies when TWOC asks to shadow him for the day. Wu claims that the monotony and comparatively low pay is driving many of colleagues to join the food delivery business. But he’s not leaving anytime soon： “I’ve already done this for so long”—three years—“and I’m getting older now.”

The 3 p.m. delivery deadline is something Liu has imposed on himself， so as not to delay the second half of the “outside” part of his day： door-to-door pickups of outbound packages. Retracing his steps through all the morning’s office and residential buildings， he peers at the outboxes of any company that has pre-arranged for daily pickups， and visits customers who’ve made a special appointment. On a bad day， these appointments， in addition to the cash-on-delivery packages， can keep him out until 7p.m.

But the work doesn’t stop when he straggles back to headquarters. Before evening’s end， a courier also has to wrap， label， and scan the outbound packages； sort them into piles by location for shipping； then scan the barcode on the receipts of all his day’s deliveries and tally the total payment. “That could take me until 9：30， even 10， 11， if it’s peak time like ‘Singles’ Day’，” he says， referring to the mainland’s numerically pleasing Black Friday， November 11， when people across China treat themselves to billions of dollars’ worth of discounted goods.

Liu has only worked as a courier for a year， after cycling through a variety of careers， including IT worker and salesperson.“[Kuaidi] is pretty good，” he reckons. “You get into a routine， you know the people， the places， their habits. In food delivery you earn more but there’s more downtime， which is dull， and there’s much more risk if you’re late with food.”

These “risks” can include traffic accidents， and rudeness and even violence from customers taking a late delivery. For Liu， the biggest conflict that day had been when a security guard snapped at him to move his vehicle. In April 2016， an employee of S.F. Express in Beijing was beaten up by an irate motorist after an alleged collision， an incident that provoked public debate on the profession’s lack of employee protection. In the last two months， there have been at least three reported incidents against regular kuaidi， including one in Shandong province in February where a customer gave a courier nine fractures for being five minutes late.

Fortunately Liu， has had no such encounters of his own. “As long as the packages arrive， then there are no problems， of course，” he comments wryly. Later， he admits that conflicts do happen and people aren’t always polite： “A person is not a machine， after all， and makes mistakes.” In these cases， couriers refer the customer to the company， who will check the records scanned into the system at every step of the process.

There are fines for lost or late packages， paid by the courier if the evidence shows the error was under their stewardship. Liu is cagey to discuss exact amounts， but media reports indicate fines can be hundreds of kuai for lost packages， and up to 100 RMB for a late package. Where Liu works， he says， Beijing couriers usually start with “around 5，000 RMB” in monthly base salary with a 1 RMB commission for each package delivered and 10 percent of the shipping cost of every outbound package they pick up. He doesn’t discuss additional benefits. Last November—after a local kuaidi allegedly died of exhaustion—an investigation by the Zhuzhou branch of China National Radio in Hunan province revealed that only two of 10 local firms provided accident insurance for their delivery drivers， and none offered health or pension benefits.

“In this profession， you either stay a very long time， or you’re gone quickly，” Liu says. He then lowers his voice and divulges a rumor going around the office： His colleague and mentor， Wu， is one of those who stuck it out， and is finally seeing some results. “He gets to take some time off on the weekend now，” Liu whispers. “Almost every weekend.”

THE FAST AND THE FURIOUS

Male bonding and machismo help grease the wheels of a billion-dollar food fight

D

river Zhang cuts an impressive figure online. His rating on Ele.me （meaning “Hungry？”）， a food-delivery app， is 91， meaning almost all his 1，511 fast-food deliveries were made on time—no mean feat given Beijing’s often-maddening traffic， relentless construction （and demolition）， and often convoluted building-numbering systems. His average delivery takes half an hour， from order to arrival. These along with other statistics are prominently displayed on the deliveryman’s Uber-style profile， a potent status of both Zhang’s success and his precarious position.

From down-votes to disagreements， every one of Zhang’s customers wields a degree of power over his job. It’s worth remembering this when a driver， running late， calls to ask to be registered as having arrived， even when the map shows him still lost， three blocks away. Tardiness comes with consequences， including fines and bad feedback， impacting a driver’s overall rating.

Zhang works for Fengniao （“Hummingbird”）， the patented delivery system developed by online takeout platform Ele.me. With blue uniforms and branded scooters—in contrast to rival firm Meituan delivery’s black-yellow livery—Ele.me’s drivers can be spotted in their thousands in cities across China， like the vanguard of some moped army. The red-jacketed ranks of search giant Baidu’s delivery arm are called “Baidu Knights，” and their profiles decorated with medals， such as “gold knight，” for service in the line of duty.

“These deliverymen are young and hot-blooded， many not well educated， and dressed in different uniforms， so it’s easy for them to feel aversion towards their counterparts，” industry observer Liu Peng told Caixin in February.

This antagonism is further enabled by a plethora of economic and social forces—caught between unforgiving managers and impatient customers， the migrant men who make up China’s delivery workforce can form a strong kinship with their fellow “knights” and “riders，” particularly other migrants from the same region.

Joining a company is like being part of a gang， Liu told TWOC. “You have your own emblem. If you join Ele.me， you’re part of Ele.me...their suzhi [quality] level is not very high， so there are fights，” says Liu. “And the more you fight with others， the more your own people are united.”

Companies are engaged in fierce competition to deliver food fastest， cheapest. Stress levels are high， and enmity can brew between rival riders who have to share routes， roads， often even the same elevators. Spats easily arise—usually over turf， or tit-for-tat disputes––as depicted in one viral video from Zhangpu， in southeast Fujian province. The film， shot in February， shows drivers from Ele.me and Meituan slugging it out with poles， after a platoon of Ele.me staff attempted to storm Meituan’s headquarters over “the right to deliver in this territory，” as one brawler yells in the video.

Millions of netizens viewed the brawl in fascination； for many， it was a first glimpse of the intense dynamics behind their lunch orders. After a police investigation， the two sides met to conciliate and agree not to use “unsavory violent methods to capture the market” and create a “more positive environment for competition，” according to a statement by Meituan.

Certainly， delivery companies are hoping for a positive environment to make money—and it’s big money. Last year， the food delivery industry as a whole raked in 176 billion RMB， according to estimates by a market research company cited by the People’s Daily Online， a 361 percent increase over a year earlier. While they specialize in food—anything from sushi to Sichuan cuisine—the bigger apps offer other ingredients for a good night in， from cigarettes and alcohol to sex toys and morning-after pills.

Market leader Ele.me holds 34.6 percent of the market share， with Meituan and Baidu delivery at 33.6 percent and 18.5 percent respectively. Together， the trio dominates the market and their scrappy competitors.

According to some on the front lines， though， these numbers mask a business fraught with setbacks and loss. “Money？” asks Wang， a deliveryman for one of the big three， discussing the state of the industry with colleagues. “The company is about to collapse！ There are no more orders. You start at 10 a.m. and work until midnight and you might earn 100 RMB in a day. There’s no base salary.”

When business is good—usually if a driver takes around 1，000 orders a month—it’s possible to make as much as 10，000 RMB but， as China Daily reported， these kinds of salaries are far from representative. Around half of China’s deliverymen earn between 2，000 and 4，000 RMB， 28 percent earn up to 6，000 RMB， with a tiny minority making upwards of 8，000 RMB， according to the newspaper （the average salary is 6，070 RMB a month， rising to 9，227 RMB in Beijing， according to a nationwide 2016 survey by zhaopin.com， a jobs website）.

Fengniao offers its employees insurance， deducting the cost from their wages at 2 RMB a delivery day， but no residency permit or hukou， so workers usually leave their children to be raised and educated in their home provinces. Almost all drivers lack legal awareness of their rights and responsibilities in case of a dispute—or worse.

Last December， the Beijing News cited traffic accidents as the biggest danger of the job； one driver claimed at least four of his colleagues had been killed on the road over the past year. Beyond the risk of injury， there’s also the possibility of hitting a car or pedestrian and becoming indebted indefinitely. Cases like these have periodically made waves in media， generally accompanied with a tragic backstory， though CNN reported in February that one guilt-ridden 17-year-old who voluntarily confessed to scratching a BMW in Zhengzhou， Henan province， was rewarded 10，000 RMB cash by the driver for his honesty.

“All crows under heaven are black，” driver Wang says： Despite the industry’s hyper-competitiveness， there’s little point trying to look elsewhere. Wang feels no great kinship with his colleagues； even if his peers don’t help out， he says， that’s fine as long as they don’t cheat each other.

Some of Wang’s colleagues are more sanguine， if equally pessimistic about the future. “It’s a job you can do without a lot of skills，” Lin， in his 30s， remarks. “Of all these kinds of jobs， your only other option is to dagong”—referring to low-skilled manual labor， factory work or service jobs. “When you dagong， you work 12 hours and you have to take orders from someone. When you deliver food， you get to be on the move， and work when you take a [food] order； you earn more if you take more， less if you take less.”

Still， Lin plans to change jobs. “The company is not doing well this year，” he says. “I think it’s time for me to move to a different field...they don’t cover food or lodging， so after you pay your rent and feed yourself， there’s not much left anymore.”

Last year， not for the first time， both Ele.me and Meituan were criticized by state broadcaster CCTV for allowing illegal restaurants to use their platform to sell meals， prompting an investigation by food inspectors in Beijing， Shanghai， and Chengdu， followed by an apology from Ele.me. Blacklisted restaurants are often able to relist under a different name， however， and with a sustained crackdown in Beijing on illegal food vendors， the idea of operating incognito online is an attractive one for unlicensed businesses.

Both Lin the driver and Liu the analyst believe there are labor troubles brewing， as a sector swelled by promotions and marketing adjusts to the market. “It’s a demand created by subsidies，” says Liu. “But since the end of last year， the market is contracting； it’s stabilizing itself， so now there’s internal competition for orders.” Driver Lin has seen it first hand： “Last year， everybody was switching over to food delivery from other jobs. Our company was doing very well， giving all these discounts，” he says， taking a break outside. “Take a look at the streets there—everyone’s a food delivery guy. It’s gotten to the point now there are more deliverymen than orders being placed.”

If what they say is true， mergers， refinancing and takeovers are likely to occur， along with possible layoffs. Yet the industry is sure to continue its expansion， while it is these employees， constantly striving to improve their speed， who may well be left behind.

The names of drivers have been changed to protect their identities