A Canadian town is paying Uber to give its citizens lifts because it can't be bothered to sort out a bus route

This is Uber, but you probably knew that already, you metropolitan elitist lizard, you. Image: Freestocks.org

Uber is the gig economy’s very own Marmite.

For some, no salacious news item nor shocking anecdotal tale can shake their allegiance to its teasing ease-of-use, basement bargain prices, and door-to-door comfort. For those of us on the moral high ground, meanwhile, its ruthless, scientifically engineered manipulation of its exploited workers is sickening; the reports of its medieval, misogynist office culture are beyond belief; and the way it would leech us off public transport into vehicles clogging the streets with dangerously overworked drivers is disturbing.

So, yeah. Uber is a bit like Marmite.

But even its most ardent fans are out-paced by one town in Canada, which has taken its Uber addiction to the next level. Innisfil, a small town near Toronto, has hired Uber as an alternative to developing a public transport network of its own.

Fun-looking place, isn't it? Image: P199.

In a trial programme, the town put aside around £60,000 to subsidise Uber rides for the town’s 36,000 locals instead of forking out what it claimed would be hundreds of thousands to set up bus routes.

The scheme works as follows. Providing your journey confirms to certain limits (set locations and so forth), your ride in an Innisfil-sponsored Uber car will cost you a fixed rate of between £1.79 and £2.98; the town then steps in and pays the difference between that set rate and what the ride would actually have cost at full fare. If your journey goes beyond these limits, you pay whatever the total comes to, minus a standardised discount of £2.98 from the town on whatever your journey ends up costing.

Surprisingly, the plan does actually make allowances for those who don’t use smartphones, or credit and debit cards. You can send a simple SMS text message instead of using the app. Theoretically, you’ll be able to pay in cash soon too, if the town’s authorities can knock their heads together in a convincing way to come up with a solution to that particular thorny issue.

Understandably, local taxi firms are decidedly unimpressed. But the city has promised to refund levies it charges to local companies to cover the first year of the Uber scheme.

A nicely car-ridden road into Innisfil. Image: Michael Gil.

It has also legislated to allow these local taxi firms to charge lower fares so that they can be competitive with Uber – though how you can truly, genuinely compete against a state-sponsored monopoly is, I have to admit, beyond me.

One advantage, though, is that the plan doesn’t seem like it’ll end up being permanent.

Once the £60,000 pilot fund is burnt through, data collected throughout the scheme will be analysed in detail to see if a strategically designed bus route could be devised to sort out the key arteries across the town where demand is at its highest. If such a public transit system is not possible, the scheme will be reconsidered – and potentially even put out to tender – to ensure the thing is properly thought-through before becoming a permanent feature of Innisfil life.

It’s also not the first time Uber has got caught up in such schemes – but it is noteworthy that this is the first such scheme that has acted as a total replacement for public transit, rather than as a supplement to plug gaps in an existing transport network.

The success of Innisfil’s scheme – and whether the idea of doing something so barmy is taken up by other similarly transit-bereft towns – will be an important watershed in the roaring fight about the so-called gig economy. The question is clear: do we really accept that the ‘new economy’ is basically the same as the old economy, but using smartphones, low wages, and stripping workers of any of their most useful and fundamental labour rights?

If Innisfil’s scheme works, and is continued and copied – the sad answer is yes. Those decidedly un-lovely people in Uber HQ will slowly take over our public transport networks, and total hegemony will be achieved.

Let’s hope not, eh?  

Jack May is a regular contributor to CityMetric and tweets as @JackO_May.

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In South Africa's cities, evictions are happening despite a national ban

An aerial view shows a destroyed house in Lawley, south of Johannesburg, on April 20, 2020. The city has been demolishing informal structures on vacant land despite a moratorium on evictions. (Marco Longari/AFP via Getty Images)

On the morning of 15 July, a South African High Court judge ruled that the city of Cape Town’s Anti-Land Invasion Unit had illegally evicted a man when it destroyed the shack where he was living.

That afternoon, the Anti-Land Invasion Unit was out again, removing shacks in another informal settlement.

Evictions were banned in South Africa for nine weeks, after the national government placed the country under a strict Covid-19 lockdown in late March. At present, eviction orders are automatically suspended until the country moves to a lower “alert level” and can only be carried out with a special order from a judge.

Yet major cities including Cape Town, Johannesburg and eThekwini (created through the merger of Durban with several surrounding communities), have continued to use municipal law enforcement agencies and private security companies to remove people from informal housing. In many cases those operations have been conducted without a court order – something required under regular South African law.

Around 900 people were evicted from three informal settlements in eThekwini during the eviction ban, according to the Church Land Programme, a local NGO. Its director, Graham Philpott, says it’s also aware of evictions in other informal settlements.

While evictions aren’t a “new experience” in these communities, the NGO released a report on lockdown evictions because they were “so explicitly illegal”. “There was a moratorium in place,” Philpott says, “and the local municipality acted quite flagrantly against it. There’s no confusion, there’s no doubt whatsoever, it is illegal. But it is part of a trend where the eThekwini municipality has acted illegally in evicting the poor from informal settlements.”

Evictions also took place in Cape Town and Johannesburg during so-called “hard lockdown” according to local activists. In eThekwini and other municipalities, the evictions have continued despite restrictions. In Cape Town, authorities pulled a naked man, Bulelani Qholani, from his shack. That incident, which was captured on video, drew condemnation from the national government and four members of the Anti-Land Invasion unit were suspended. 

The cities say they’re fighting “land invasions” – illegal occupations without permission from the land owner.

“Land invasions derail housing and service projects, lead to the pollution of waterways, severely prejudice deserving housing beneficiaries and cause property owners to lose their investments over night,” Cape Town’s executive mayor, Dan Plato said in a statement. (Plato has also claimed that Qholani did not live in the shack he was pulled from and that he disrobed when municipal authorities arrived.)

South African municipalities often claim that the shacks they destroy are unoccupied. 

If they were occupied, says Msawakhe Mayisela, a spokesman for the eThekwini municipality, the city would get a court order before conducting an eviction. “Everything we’re doing is within the ambit of the law,” Mayisela says. But “rogue elements” are taking advantage of Covid-19, he added.

“We fully understand that people are desperately in need of land, but the number of people that are flocking to the cities is too much, the city won’t be able to provide housing or accommodation for everyone overnight,” he says. 

While eThekwini claims to be a caring city, local activists say the evictions show otherwise.

In one case, 29 women were evicted from shacks during the hard lockdown. With nowhere to go, they slept in an open field and were arrested by the South African Police Service for violating the lockdown, Philpott says.

“These evictions are dehumanizing people whose dignity is already compromised in many ways,” says S’bu Zikode, the president of Abahlali baseMjondolo, a community organization whose Zulu name translates to “the people of the shacks”. 

“It has reminded us that we are the people that do not count in our society.”

Municipal law enforcement and private security contractors hired by cities regularly fire rubber bullets, or even live ammunition, at residents during evictions. Some 18 Abahlali baseMjondolo activists have been killed since the organization was founded in 2005, Zikode says, most by the eThekwini Land Invasion Unit and Metro Police.

(Mayisela says that if city employees have broken the law, Abahlali baseMjondolo can file a complaint with the police. “There is no conclusive evidence to the effect that our members have killed them,”  he says.)

Other Abahlali baseMjondolo activists have been killed by what Zikode calls “izinkabi,” hitmen hired by politicians. Two eThekwini city councillors were sentenced to life in prison 2016 after they organized the killing of Thuli Ndlovu, an Abahlali baseMjondolo organizer. A member of the Land Invasion Unit who is currently facing a charge of attempted murder after severely injuring a person during an eviction remains on the job, Zikode says.

South Africa’s 1996 constitution is intended to protect the public from arbitrary state violence and guarantees a right to housing, as well as due process in evictions. But for Zikode, the South African constitution is a “beautiful document on a shelf”.

“For the working class and the poor, it’s still difficult to have access to court. You’ve got to have money to get to court,” he says. 

The actions by municipal law enforcement are breaking down social trust, says Buhle Booi, a member of the Khayelitsha Community Action Network, a community group in the largest township in Cape Town.

“There’s a lack of police resources and those very few police resources that they have, they use to destroy people’s homes, to destroy people’s peace, rather than fighting crime, real criminal elements that we see in our society,” Booi says.

For him, it’s a continuation of the practices of the colonial and apartheid governments, pushing poor people, most of whom are Black, to the periphery of cities.

Around one-fifth of South Africa’s urban population live in shacks or informal dwellings, according to a 2018 report by SERI. Many more live in substandard housing. City governments maintain that the shacks destroyed during anti-land invasion operations are unfinished and unoccupied. But Edward Molopi, a research and advocacy officer at SERI, says that this claim is an attempt to escape their legal obligations to get a court order and to find alternative accommodation for affected people. 

The roots of the current eviction crisis go back to apartheid, which barred non-white people from living in cities. Between the 1940s and 1970s, tens of thousands of people were forcibly relocated from neighbourhoods like Johannesburg’s Sophiatown and Cape Town’s District Six to remote townships.

In the 26 years following the end of apartheid, deepening economic inequality and rampant unemployment have limited access to formal housing for millions of South Africans. Government housing programs have mostly focused on building small stand-alone homes, often on the peripheries of cities far from jobs and amenities.

While these well-intentioned projects have built millions of homes, they’ve failed to keep up with demand, says Marie Huchzermeyer, a professor at the Centre for Urbanism & Built Environment Studies at the University of the Witwatersrand in Johannesburg. Government-funded housing projects “will never on it’s own be enough,” she says. “It has to be accompanied by land release.”

Government policies call for the “upgrading” of informal settlements and the formalization of residents’ occupation. But “there are still very, very, very few projects” of that nature in South Africa, Huchzermeyer says. “Even if it’s an informal settlement that’s been around for 20 years, there still seems to be a political wish to punish people for having done that.” The government wants people to go through the formal process of being given a house, she says – and for them to be thankful to the government for providing it.

At the municipal level, change will require “real leadership around informal settlement upgrading and around ensuring that land is available for people to occupy,” she says. 

Despite the end of enforced racial segregation, spacial apartheid remains a factor in South Africa. There are few mixed-income neighbourhoods. Those who can afford to often live behind walls in sprawling low-density suburbs, while the poor live in overcrowded slums and apartment buildings.

The creation of the apartheid city “didn't happen by chance,” says Amira Osman, a professor of architecture at the Tshwane University of Technology. “It was a deliberate, structured approach to the design of the city. We need a deliberate, structured approach that will undo that.”

Since last fall, Johannesburg’s Inclusionary Housing Policy has required developments of 20 or more units to set aside 30% of those units for low-income housing.

The policy, which faced significant opposition from private developers, won’t lead to dramatic change, says Sarah Charlton, a professor at the Centre for Urbanism and Built Environment Studies, but it is “an important and significant step.”

Zikode isn’t optimistic that change will come for shack dwellers, however.

“People in the high positions of authority pretend that everything is normal,” he says. “They pretend that everyone is treated justly, they pretend that everyone has homes with running water, that everyone has a piece of land – and hide the truth and the lies of our democracy.”

Jacob Serebrin is a freelance journalist currently based in Johannesburg. Follow him on Twitter.