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“Do you want to manage your own time and make a profit?” “Connect whenever you want.” “The city is yours.” “It creates incredible experiences!” Proposals of this type displayed on digital delivery platforms caught the attention of Juan (not his real name) when he arrived in Uruguay from Venezuela in 2019. He did not give it much thought. Shortly after settling in the South American country, he requested a loan, bought a motorcycle and embarked on the promising experience of being his own boss and managing his time as it suited him. “I am a businessman, but a ghost businessman,” he tells EL PAIS four years and many kilometers later, tours for multinationals in the sector such as Rappi, Glovo or PedidosYa.
In the beginning, when the pandemic seemed eternal, this 40-year-old delivery driver worked an average of 80 hours a week, like many of his Venezuelan, Cuban or Dominican rider peers. “But there is no body that can hold it,” explains Juan, who prefers not to appear under his real name. He currently distributes food and other products for 60 hours a week, from Monday to Sunday, without a day off. And that pace cannot be lowered, he assures, to be able to assume family expenses and the costs derived from vehicle maintenance, gasoline consumption, the telephone plan, as well as the sole proprietorship that PedidosYa requires him to have open for billing.
Being a delivery person, Juan maintains, has its positive side. “You are outdoors and there is no direct boss,” he notes. However, he qualifies that of being his own boss. “I'm a ghost businessman,” he says in a joking tone, which disappears when he talks about the working conditions unilaterally set by the multinational. He explains them with two specific examples: the price per trip is established by the company and the freedom to choose the schedules is relative, because PedidosYa classifies the delivery people in a ranking from 1 to 5. The position they occupy, Juan details, will depend on their ability to choose shifts and, therefore, their income. “If I am a company, your service provider, why don't I have a voice to negotiate?” he asks.
In Uruguay, little or nothing was known about the workers like this Venezuelan who are part of the urban landscape, especially since the covid-19 pandemic. The Single Union of Delivery Workers estimates that there are about 5,000 deliveries for applications in the country, but there is still no formal survey. What conditions are they in? Is your work autonomous or subordinate? What about companies? “This process has occurred very quickly and there has been very little control by the State,” Nicolás Marrero, sociologist and researcher at the University of the Republic, coordinator of the book Entrepreneurs Now, tells EL PAIS. Platform capitalism in Uruguay, which tries to answer the questions raised.
This research, the first in the country on this sector, reveals that almost 90% of the delivery drivers are men and that 60% come from abroad, especially from Cuba, Venezuela and the Dominican Republic. On average they work 58 hours a week, although 46% distribute food and other products for more than 60 hours a week (the maximum allowed by law is 44), according to this study that began in the middle of the pandemic and led to a book that collects surveys, interviews and analysis. “Companies maintain that it is extra work or work for a few hours,” says the text presented days ago, “however, the evidence indicates that delivery work is a main source of income.”
No human contact
That is the case of Juan, who misses being able to negotiate the substantial aspects of his task with a human intermediary from the company. “Everything that happens is in the application. Nobody calls me, nobody asks me, nobody does anything,” he remarks. The digital application, its algorithms and automatic responses, govern his work: Through this means he receives orders, is monitored and also sanctioned. “If I get a flat tire or have an accident, the app gives me a break,” he exemplifies, “but that can have consequences.” The most common is that the algorithm downgrades him, he says, so he will have fewer chances to choose shifts. That is, he will have fewer delivery hours and his income will decrease. “This translates into stress that at some point can explode,” he adds.
Another report from the Catholic University of Uruguay also deals with these technology-mediated labor practices, as part of the Fairwork project, from the University of Oxford. The study presented at the end of February evaluates the behavior of the digital platforms present in the country, based on five principles: payment, working conditions, contracts, fair management and representation. According to this analysis, carried out in 2023, the delivery company SoyDelivery complies with 7 of the 10 points evaluated; Rappi and Cabify with 1 out of 10, while Uber and PedidosYa do not comply with any. (As a result of these investigations, this newspaper tried to contact representatives of PedidosYa, the main one in the sector, but did not receive a response).
The report from the Catholic University indicates that workers in these companies face low salaries taking into account the cost of living in Montevideo, where the majority reside. Our Venezuelan interlocutor, who works for PedidosYa, is the typical average case included in this study: After deducting the expenses linked to the sole proprietorship, vehicle maintenance, gasoline and cell phone, he receives around 30,000 Uruguayan pesos per month (785 dollars), for 60 hours per week of delivery. The study indicates that the rent for a home in Montevideo, for example, is around 19,000 pesos (almost 500 dollars).
“The central issue is that the work of the delivery person has to be framed in the protective labor legislation that companies have evaded,” says sociologist Marrero. Likewise, he emphasizes that behind the apparent “neutrality” of algorithmic management, which controls, sanctions or fires, “there are human decisions and a labor policy.” In that sense, he emphasizes that platforms encourage competition among hourly workers, because the business model requires them to be atomized. “An individualized, non-unionized worker is part of this business model,” he says.
According to Marrero, the most recent example of this was the dismissal of 250 workers from the PedidosYa service center, which occurred in Montevideo last January, among whom were all the members of the company's union. The company assured that it was a “business decision” to improve “user service and customer service.” This massive dismissal, which occurred by videoconference, motivated the Minister of Labor, Pablo Mieres, to attend Parliament to give details of the workers' situation. In that instance, the leader took the opportunity to request the approval of the bill sent by his ministry in 2022 to “regulate and protect the labor rights of those who work in the applications,” as he wrote in X.
But Marrero warns that the Government project does not aim to regulate the nature of the employment relationship that workers establish with digital platform companies. And by not doing so, the sociologist continues, he would consolidate the model of the “false self-employed worker” that predominates in the sector. The researcher understands that another bill currently being studied by the Frente Amplio (opposition) is more in tune with what happened in Spain and its pioneering “rider law.” This law establishes the presumption of dependency, when the company exercises its powers of organization, direction and control through algorithmic management. “The employment relationship must be discussed,” insists Marrero.