Wood, wheels, workhorse: the chikudu story

The scooters are an expression of self-reliance, a sophisticated solution to the small-scale farmer’s needs. The body is made from eucalyptus wood chopped down in the village. The wheels are sculpted from a hard wood locals call mumba, found in the nearby Virunga forest; craftsmen use machetes and makeshift chisels to turn the logs into round wheels. Then they wrap the wheels in tread cut from old tires.

A plank connects the front and back wheels; a shaft, supported by a wooden frame, rises from the front wheel and fits into the handlebars. A tire-tread or abandoned flip-flop nailed to the plank does kneepad duty. The makers brag that the largest chikudus can carry up to 800 kilograms, or 1,760 pounds. Unvarnished and driven hard, they last two or three years.

For all their idiosyncracy, chikudus imitate more modern modes of transport. Most of them, for instance, have shocks made of several springs or, where spare parts are wanting, ribbons of tire treads suspended between the frame and the shaft. They have ball bearings on both wheels, which craftsmen added to compensate for the chikudus’ biggest design flaw: Wooden wheels whirring on wooden axles generated so much friction that they frequently caught fire.

Speed leads to another challenge: stopping. Though some Congolese boys can stop chikudus the way American kids skid to a halt on skateboards or in rollerblades, most drivers need the rear brake, a piece of tire in the back nailed to the footboard, curving above the rear wheel. Stopping a fully loaded chikudu by holding a foot against that small piece of tire requires serious physical power, but it’s safer than the hand brake. Pull that one too fast, and you might fly over the handlebars.

“The hand brake is very bad,” concedes Eugere Bagaruka, who’s been building chikudus since the 1970s. “It could kill someone.”

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It’s perhaps evidence of eastern Congo’s isolation that chikudus aren’t more widespread. Buke says he built 35 for people from other provinces last year and one for a Kenyan. He says he even received an order from a Chinese businessman who wanted to see if chikudus could transport luggage.

Yet for all the chikudus’ success, their makers don’t see a path to riches. One chikudu sells for $100, but the building materials cost nearly $60. Bagaruka says chikudus weren’t born out of a hope that anyone would get rich – just a little less poor. “This was created because of the problem we got, to help us make transport,” he says. “We’re farmers. We’re digging. So we think, how can we take some food from these hills to come to the market?”

The risk involved in harvesting mumba for the wheels also eats into the profits. The wood can only be found in a national park, where logging by locals – and rebel groups – has become a problem. Park rangers on patrol arrest mumba harvesters, who pay fines or bribes ranging from $50 to $100 to get out of jail.

And then there’s the risk of just living in eastern Congo, where ongoing conflict has displaced tens of thousands from their homes. This spring, a camp for the newest of the displaced popped up just a few kilometers from Buke and Nahubusa’s workshops.

Still, neither man worries much about war. Nahubusa has a wife and a 9-month-old baby to consider, while Buke has already learned how to rebuild. His home was destroyed when the volcano erupted six years ago. Some of his neighbors fled to and stayed in Rwanda; some moved further north in Congo.

But after a few years, Buke came back. He rebuilt his house and his workshop, and he scrounged the money he needed for his tools. He has a trade, which, in this part of the world, means he’s fortunate.

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