In the sun-baked, dust-choked markets of Wau, a rhythmic scrape and slice cuts through the din of commerce.
It is the sound of survival, fashioned from the very refuse of modern life.
Here, under the makeshift shade of a tarpaulin, Emmanuel Achuil wields a blade with practiced precision, transforming discarded rubber tires into the most essential of commodities: shoes.
In South Sudan, where the economy has buckled under the weight of political instability and dwindling oil revenues, this isn’t just a craft.
It’s a defiant act of resilience, a poignant answer to a crisis that has pushed an entire nation to the brink.
South Sudan, a country born of immense hope, now finds itself gripped by a severe economic contraction.
The government, heavily reliant on oil exports for 90% of its budget, has seen its coffers dwindle, exacerbated by disruptions to pipelines through war-torn Sudan.
For months, civil servants – from soldiers on the front lines to teachers in struggling schools – have gone unpaid, their salaries swallowed by the void of a bankrupt state.
This ripple effect of destitution touches every corner of society, forcing millions to confront the stark reality of hyperinflation, rampant unemployment, and widespread food insecurity. The World Bank paints a grim picture: nearly 80% of South Sudan’s 11 million people live below the poverty line, struggling to put food on the table, let alone shoes on their feet. [World Bank Report]
It is into this chasm of need that the tire-soled sandal steps in, not as a fashion statement, but as a lifeline.
Across the country, from the bustling capital of Juba to the remote cattle camps, these rough-hewn creations are ubiquitous, a testament to human ingenuity in the face of systemic failure. Emmanuel Achuil, his hands stained black from the rubber, is one of the quiet heroes of this economic struggle.
He carves, cuts, and stitches, assembling five to ten pairs of these hardy sandals each week.
His workshop, a simple spot in the market, is a beacon of enterprise in a landscape of scarcity.
Achuil’s experience mirrors the escalating crisis.
Just two years ago, he served perhaps five to seven customers a month.
Today, that number has quadrupled to twenty, a direct reflection of the rising cost of living that has rendered traditional footwear an unaffordable luxury.
A pair of Achuil’s sandals fetches up to 15,000 South Sudanese pounds, approximately $4, a price point that makes them accessible in a country where every penny counts.
But affordability is only part of their appeal.
Their durability is legendary.
“Tire soles last longer,” attests Deng Akol Athuai, a long-time customer.
“I buy one pair, and it lasts me a year or more. They’re strong, especially for walking on rough roads.”
For those like Akol Majok Ring, a cattle keeper from Warrap state, these sandals are more than just footwear; they are an essential tool for their livelihoods.
“When you’re moving with the cattle all day, these sandals are perfect,” he explains, highlighting their resilience against the harsh terrain.
Achuil himself understands this fundamental human need.
“Even when things get bad — no food, no jobs — this work doesn’t fail me,” he says with a quiet determination.
“People always need shoes, especially cheap ones.” It is a profound statement on the basic requirements of existence, a stark contrast to the political machinations that have brought the nation to its knees.
Achuil’s skill is self-taught, honed since 1996 by observing other shoemakers as a grade-schooler. His journey reflects the organic development of a solution born from necessity.
Yet, even this grassroots industry faces its own challenges.
As more people turn to tire-shoemaking for survival, competition for the raw material – discarded tires – has intensified. What was once readily available from garages or as rubbish is now a contested resource.
Furthermore, artisans like Achuil operate without formal support, lacking access to better tools or the capital to expand. Gabriel Bataku, a 26-year-old unemployed man in Wau, articulates the broader sentiment: shoemakers like Achuil “are solving real problems. They just need recognition and support.” [AP News]
Despite the arduous conditions and the lack of external assistance, Achuil harbors dreams that extend beyond his tarpaulin workshop.
He envisions a proper space, a place where he could train the idle youth of Wau, imparting a skill that could help them survive.
He dreams of expanding his business to other towns, spreading this vital form of self-reliance. “If I had better cutting tools, and a way to expand, I could train young people,” he muses. His ambition is not about personal wealth, but about empowering his community, a testament to the enduring spirit of human enterprise in the face of overwhelming adversity.
In a nation grappling with its very foundation, the humble tire sandal stands as a potent symbol of resilience, a quiet revolution against the odds, crafted one resilient sole at a time.
