On a bustling morning in Shanghai’s financial district this April, a DiDi ride-hailing driver weaved through traffic, ferrying passengers in one of China’s sleek new electric vehicles. For many travelers and locals alike, the convenience of ride-hailing apps in China is nothing short of impressive—efficient, quick, and increasingly high-tech. But beneath the smooth surface, a host of challenges are simmering, affecting both drivers and riders in ways that few might suspect at first glance.
One issue, in particular, has both sides wrinkling their noses: the problem of car odors. As ride-hailing has become a lifeline for millions of Chinese—especially in the wake of economic downturns and the aftershocks of the coronavirus pandemic—the industry is grappling with a surge of complaints about smelly vehicles. And for drivers, especially those struggling to make ends meet, it’s more than just a matter of air fresheners and window vents.
“Most taxi drivers whose cars smell bad actually live in their cars,” explains Shao Wei, a 36-year-old ride-hailing driver in Beijing, in an interview with NPR. He’s quick to add, “I can understand them. They just want to save some money to help their families live a little better.” Shao’s own story is emblematic of many who have turned to the gig economy in recent years. After his business in northeastern China failed and his marriage ended, he found himself deep in debt. Last year, he returned to Beijing and took up driving with DiDi Chuxing, China’s largest ride-hailing company, determined to pay off his debts within 600 days. He rents his car and cleans it daily to avoid complaints, but he sympathizes with colleagues who aren’t as fortunate.
“I think the drivers whose cars smell bad are heroes who bravely face life,” Shao says. “And I hope passengers will give them some understanding.” But as China’s middle class grows and consumer expectations rise, passengers are increasingly demanding a more pleasant ride for their money. That means cleanliness—and, crucially, a fresh-smelling car—are now non-negotiable for many.
In response to mounting complaints, DiDi Chuxing rolled out a new policy last year. If a driver receives too much negative feedback about their car’s smell, they can be temporarily suspended until they complete training on keeping their vehicles clean. According to DiDi’s own earnings report, the number of registered car owners on the platform soared by more than 20% last year, reaching nearly 19 million. Yet, paradoxically, the number of ride orders actually shrank by 8% as China’s economic growth slowed and consumers cut back on discretionary trips. The upshot? More drivers are competing for fewer fares, and many spend long hours—sometimes up to 15 a day—just waiting for their next passenger.
For drivers like Shao Wei, the pressure is relentless. “Like many drivers, I have to work up to 15 hours a day just to get enough fares,” he told NPR. With little time to rest, let alone find alternative accommodation, some drivers simply sleep in their cars. The result is a vicious cycle: long hours and tight finances lead to living in one’s vehicle, which can cause odors, which in turn lead to negative ratings and the threat of suspension.
But is the odor policy really fair? Yang Guangdong, another veteran driver with a decade of experience in Beijing, doesn’t think so. He doesn’t sleep in his car, but he’s still received his share of complaints about unpleasant smells. “For example, let’s say you like the smell of apples, and your passenger likes jasmine,” Yang points out. “You don’t like each other’s scents, in which case, he’s sure to say your car stinks.” His advice to fellow drivers: skip the air fresheners and perfumes—they can easily backfire when scent preferences collide.
Critics argue that the policy is more about public relations than real solutions. Julie Yujie Chen, an associate professor at the University of Toronto who studies labor and technology, told NPR, “I’m not sure this measure will solve the problem, except adding more surveillance on the workers. I feel it’s more for public relations—to kind of, like, appease the passengers.” She points out that the fundamental issues are rooted in overwork and underemployment, not just cleanliness. “I don’t think this can be fixed by platforms alone.”
Indeed, the ride-hailing business model in China, dominated by digital giants like DiDi Chuxing and Meituan, is built around squeezing costs wherever possible. These platforms take a cut of every transaction, and their reliance on big data, customer ratings, and algorithms means that drivers are under constant pressure to maintain high scores, even as their earnings are squeezed by competition and falling demand.
Government regulation, meanwhile, has been inconsistent. At times, authorities encourage laid-off workers to join the ride-hailing ranks as a way to absorb unemployment; at others, they halt the issuance of new licenses to control the oversupply of drivers. Enforcement of rules, experts say, is patchy at best.
The net result is a gig economy that’s both a safety net and a source of frustration. Many drivers, like Shao and Yang, are grateful for the work but feel caught between the demands of passengers, the policies of the platforms, and the realities of a slowing economy. “I’m glad to have a job, and I don’t like to complain,” Shao admits. He also notes that tolerance should go both ways: “Sometimes on the late shift, I meet riders who have just eaten or have bad breath. And they’re very willing to communicate with me.” He laughs that sometimes, a good conversation can make even a long journey fly by.
As China’s ride-hailing industry continues to evolve, the debate over cleanliness, fairness, and the future of gig work is far from over. Passengers may get their fresh rides, but for drivers facing mounting pressures, the road ahead is anything but straightforward.
