共享單車?yán)顺弊寕€(gè)體修車攤難以為繼
兩年前從倫敦搬到北京時(shí)，我驚喜地發(fā)現(xiàn)，在這里騎車上班要容易得多。這個(gè)交通擁堵得出名的城市修建了寬闊的自行車道，使我經(jīng)常如入無人之境。
Last spring, however, I noticed I was suddenly sharing the bike lane with hordes of wobbly beginners. These newcomers had been tempted on to the roads by a clutch of start-ups whose shared bikes can be unlocked using a smartphone — and parked anywhere.
然而，去年春天我注意到，我突然要與許多搖搖晃晃的初學(xué)騎行者共享自行車道。吸引這些初學(xué)者騎車上路的是一大批初創(chuàng)公司，它們推出的共享單車可以用智能手機(jī)開鎖——而且可以隨處停放。
Over the past two years, Ofo and Mobike, the industry leaders, have created 19 million new bicycles, becoming one of China’s most visible tech exports. Their bikes can be seen on the streets of London, Paris and more than 200 other cities around the world. The convenience they offer has brought millions in China on to two wheels for the first time. But they have not been welcomed by everyone.
過去兩年里，作為行業(yè)領(lǐng)頭羊的ofo和摩拜(Mobike)投放了1900萬輛新自行車，使自行車成為中國最引人注目的科技出口產(chǎn)品之一。它們的自行車在倫敦、巴黎和世界各地另外200多個(gè)城市的街頭都可看到。共享單車給人們帶來便利，在中國，數(shù)以百萬計(jì)的人首次蹬上了這種兩個(gè)輪子的交通工具。然而也不是人人都?xì)g迎。
Outside China Agricultural University, I met a bike repairman named Luo. Like many others in his line of work, he had moved from the countryside to the city in the 1990s as reforms opened up a booming informal economy, setting up his own repair business out of a silver tuk-tuk. Luo told me that of nine repairmen on campus two years ago, only he remained. He had lost four-fifths of his business, he said, because of bike sharing.
在中國農(nóng)業(yè)大學(xué)外面，我遇到了一位修自行車的師傅，姓羅(音譯)。跟許多同行一樣，他在上世紀(jì)90年代——當(dāng)時(shí)，改革使“非正式”的經(jīng)濟(jì)產(chǎn)業(yè)煥發(fā)出勃勃生機(jī)——從農(nóng)村來到城市，用一輛銀灰色的三輪車干起了修車這個(gè)行當(dāng)。羅師傅告訴我，兩年前在農(nóng)大這一帶有九個(gè)修自行車的，現(xiàn)在只剩下他了。他說，由于受到共享單車的影響，他如今接的活大概只有以前的五分之一了。
The same thing is happening in China’s southern tech metropolis of Shenzhen. A friend’s relative, Kuang, had run a bike-repair stall there for 21 years, but saw his business dry up last year.
在中國南方科技大都市深圳，同樣的故事也在上演著。一位朋友的親戚，匡(音譯)師傅，在那里經(jīng)營(yíng)著一個(gè)自行車修理鋪，已經(jīng)有21年了，但是去年到他那里修車的人已經(jīng)快絕跡了。
Why not join the bike-sharing platforms, who were recruiting mechanics? After all, the advertised pay for Mobike, about Rmb4,000 (£456) a month, is less than the pair earned before the advent of bike sharing — but more than they were earning last year. Yet for them, money was not the main concern. Unlike young workers in the gig economy, they protest not about the casualisation of their work, but about the formalisation of it — their jobs have been industrialised.
何不干脆加入共享單車平臺(tái)?這些平臺(tái)都在招維修工，摩拜招工廣告上開出的工資是一個(gè)月4000元人民幣左右(約456美元)，這比共享單車出現(xiàn)前兩位師傅的收入要少，但比他們?nèi)ツ陹甑亩唷Ｈ欢鴮?duì)他們來說，錢不是最主要的。與年輕的“零工經(jīng)濟(jì)”從業(yè)者不同，他們抗議的不是工作“零工化”，而是工作“正式化”——他們從事的工作已經(jīng)被“產(chǎn)業(yè)化”了。
“I want freedom,” Kuang told me over the phone, “I’ve been my own boss for so long, I can’t get used to working for someone else.” He told me he had already rejected an offer from Mobike.
“我要的是自由，”匡師傅在電話里告訴我，“我自己干了這么多年了，不習(xí)慣給別人干活。”他跟我說，摩拜想招他，他已經(jīng)拒絕了。
Luo, meanwhile, wanted to keep his flexible hours. He pointed to his grandson, a sixth-grader playing on his phone on the bench near us. “I take him to school every day, as well as my two younger grandchildren.”
羅師傅則要保持靈活的工作時(shí)間。他指了指他的孫子，這個(gè)六年級(jí)的小學(xué)生正坐在旁邊一張長(zhǎng)凳上玩著他的手機(jī)。“我每天要送他上學(xué)，還有另外兩個(gè)更小的孫子。”
Their concerns about losing flexibility seem well founded. I spoke to an Ofo worker who told me he worked from 7am to 6pm, with two hours for lunch. He pointed me towards a repair depot. On the way, I encountered a grisly trail of bike parts, with dismembered yellow cycles on either side. A pair of locked gates prevented me exploring further. As I tried to make my way out, I met a worker for Bluegogo, another bike-sharing company, who told me the stretch of pavement I was on was a “bike dumping ground”.
他們擔(dān)心失去工作靈活性看來是非常有道理的。我和一位ofo的工作人員聊了聊，他告訴我，他從早上7點(diǎn)上班，下午6點(diǎn)下班，中午有兩個(gè)小時(shí)的午飯休息時(shí)間。他為我指點(diǎn)了去一個(gè)維修點(diǎn)的路。一路上，我目睹了到處都是自行車零部件的可怕景象，解體的黃色自行車堆放在道路兩邊。兩扇大門緊鎖，讓我不能進(jìn)一步探索。正當(dāng)我想離開時(shí)，我遇到了另一家共享單車公司小藍(lán)單車(Bluegogo)的一個(gè)員工，他告訴我，我所處的這段路就是一個(gè)“自行車?yán)鴪?chǎng)”。
For Kuang, the idea of life behind these locked gates would mean being alienated from his clients. In the past, “I’d fix a bike and chat with the customer, so the day would go quickly,” he said. He has served so many customers that every two bus trips, he’ll recognise at least one person, he said. Luo has served the university since 1993. While I was talking to him at his repair stall, a family walked past and asked if he had been away recently.
對(duì)匡師傅來說，在這些緊鎖的大門內(nèi)工作就等于要遠(yuǎn)離他的顧客。在過去，“我會(huì)邊修車，邊和顧客聊天，一天很快就過去了，”他說。他表示，他給很多人修過車，以至于平均每搭兩趟公交車，就至少會(huì)遇到一個(gè)他認(rèn)識(shí)的人。羅師傅從1993年起就在農(nóng)大這里修車了，我在他的修車攤和他聊天時(shí)，有一家人走過，問他最近是不是沒來。
Those working at shared-bike depots, by contrast, have fewer people to speak to — including journalists. Last year, a wave of sensational photographs from the companies’ “bike graveyards” resulted in some depots being moved and workers being ordered not to speak to reporters.
相比之下，那些在共享單車維修點(diǎn)上班的人，就沒有多少人可交談了——包括記者。去年，一波“單車墳場(chǎng)”的照片曝光，引起一片嘩然，導(dǎo)致一些維修點(diǎn)搬遷，工人們被要求不能和記者說話。
Kuang and Luo are, in some ways, lucky. Part of the first wave of informal business owners in China, they made it in the city and now have university-educated children to support them. This means they have a choice as to whether to work or not. Still, if they decide to pack up their repair kits, a little piece of Chinese city life will go with them.
從某些方面來說，匡師傅和羅師傅是幸運(yùn)的。作為中國非正式產(chǎn)業(yè)中的第一批經(jīng)營(yíng)者，他們?cè)诔抢镎咀×四_，往后也有上過大學(xué)的子女可以依靠。這意味著他們可以選擇工作或不工作。話雖如此，如果這些修車師傅決定收拾起他們的工具，不干了，那么中國城市生活中的一小幅場(chǎng)景也將隨著他們消逝。
