Tale of the hard working Indian-made 'bajaj'

By Alex Abraham

JAKARTA (JP): It looks like an unsuccessful cross between a kitchen cupboard and a tricycle, sounds like stones rolling on a tin roof and smokes like a battalion of kretek (clove cigarettes) addicts. Yet, after years of yeoman service, this intrepid survivor of Jakarta's crowded arteries chugs on, defying time, technology, restrictions and sheer age. This saga of survival is indeed a tale of flexibility, adaptation, innovation and renewal.

The bajaj (three-wheeled motorized vehicle) made its first appearance in Indonesia 29 years ago from distant India. In over two years, 9,000 bajaj were imported into the country. Its considerable popularity and immediate adoption as a popular means of "private" transport -- as one moved upmarket from the public buses -- was attributed to its very attractive economics. The other strengths of the bajaj evolved over time.

Powered by a simple 150 cc single-cylinder low-speed two- stroke engine, the bajaj is the offspring of the marriage of the Italian Vespa and Indian need driven relevant technological innovation. The vehicle is named after its Indian collaborator, Mr. Bajaj (of Gujerati origin). He was a close friend, helper and confidant of Mahatma Gandhi. From very small beginnings in the 1950s in Pimpri, a suburb of Poona, Bajaj can now proudly claim to be the biggest scooter manufacturer in the world!

From a two wheeler to a three wheeler was a logical evolution. An extra wheel, a base plate, a sofa-like seat for two (although 16 souls have claimed a Guinness record carrying capacity), with a part cover of tin and canvass that would be the envy of an aging tortoise, the bajaj was born. Here, then, was real competition to the established taxi trade at lower capital cost, lower revenue cost, lower maintenance and space costs! And to the customer, it provided an economic means to get from point A to Point B.

The elementary simplicity of the technology ensured the longevity. The engine, transmission, chassis, steering and lights are all the very essence of basics. Young, deft-fingered, skillful self-taught mechanics rip apart and put together, with affection, these aging workhorses. Most parts lend themselves to local "manufacture" of sorts, normally achieved through cutting, grinding, drilling, shaping and riveting. The starter is no modern day electronic gizmo, just a three-foot galvanized iron pipe. The benzene tank? A reconditioned oilcan of five liters to seven liters capacity, welded to the front right of the driver. The single foot pedal on the floorboard connects to the two rear brakes, and the rudimentary engine sits directly beneath the driver's seat.

Tatok, a seasoned and wiry veteran of 15 years of bajaj experience, said: "It is this stark simplicity that makes for the low operating costs. We can reweld chains, grind a crankshaft and even do our own wheel balancing. But for this, it would have been impossible for us to survive at the low prices we charge."

Have you seen a bajaj full of krupuk (crackers), bulging out both sides like blown up jowls, make morning deliveries to shops around the town? Or stagger under a Herculean load of potted palms and plants en route to set up a roadside nursery stall? Carry 10 children from a kampong to a nearby school? Or watched it move a whole family early in the morning from Gambir Station with their three boxes, two baskets and six bags, all the way to Glodok? Then you begin to comprehend the capacity, the versatility and the very essentiality of the bajaj!

And it does all this at a quarter of the cost of a taxi. Many vehicles are provided with a tiny three-volt battery that serves to activate blinking colored sidelights. Some even sport a first aid box, securely locked, with medicine to help the passenger in case of an unwelcome emergency. Each vehicle is officially registered to carry 20 kg of goods and three people, although a keen observer will conclude that this is a regulation often interpreted very liberally.

A question often raised is why the authorities decree a dull orange color for all bajaj? Given freedom, the eclectically brilliant artistry of the people would certainly have found colorful expression in our bajaj outshining the Jeepney of Manila.

Most of the machines belong to fleet owners. The lot of a bajaj driver is not an easy one. Hiring the vehicle from the owner at Rp 50,000 per day, teams of two drivers break the day into two long shifts.

"On a good day we can make Rp 30,000 to Rp 40,000," said Agung, quickly added "but sometimes in the rain, when there is trouble, or on holidays, we are lucky to get Rp 10,000."

In the old days, an occasional tourist took a novelty ride and that could mean some generous money. But now, even that opportunity is gone with the tourists no longer pouring into Jakarta, he said.

A majority of these drivers come from Cirebon, Indramayu, Tegal and other parts of Central Java.

"The cost of spares is skyrocketing," moaned Teguh as he cleaned and oiled the engine under his seat. "Even the light bulbs and spark plugs are becoming near impossible to replace."

Each day, they have to contend with the heat, the dust, the rain and the pollution. Grudging customers, who would bargain with them down to the last Rp 50 on a ride, do not help to make their day any easier.

Mudi observed with native perception, "People seem to think we are better off just because we drive a bajaj. On a blazing sunny day, the heat of the engine adds to the heat of the day, adding to our torture. On rainy days, the agony of avoiding big water- filled portholes in the kampong alleys is nerve-racking.

"There is no suspension, like in cars, and many of us are prone to bad back pains. I wish they'd pause to think that we, too, are trying to eke out a living in these difficult times and that we have so many costs and so many problems."

Joko interjected on a more philosophical plane, "Mudi, complaining is a part of human nature. Don't expect sympathy. Each one has to adjust to survive!"

And still the bajaj chugs bravely on, serving thousands across the land.