Let there be vests

One day in February, Kampala went from being overrun with bobbing, weaving boda-bodas to being overrun with bobbing, weaving boda-bodas with reflective vests and helmets.

At the whim of someone somewhere, the Ugandan police suddenly began enforcing the requirements that boda drivers have a Class 'A' driving permit, a Public Service Vehicle (PSV) license, third party insurance, a reflective jacket, and two helmets - one for the driver, and one for the passenger.

With bike seizure as the hefty penalty and the backing of Museveni despite complaints from bodas about harassment from the police, the change was immediate and the prevalence of bright yellow vests in the city went from zero to pervasive. You might be able to see us from space.

As a public health professional, I warmly welcome the enforcement, and do my part to reward positive preventive behavior by giving my business to abiding bodas whenever there's a choice.

There are, however, some glitches in the system.

Lice, for one.

Riders are reluctant to envelop their scalp in a piece of headwear that's been before strapped on by scores of others, lest they lower their hygiene or untidy their hair (note: guilty). It is not uncommon to see a boda carrying a bare-headed passenger, while the spare helmet rides buckled to the handlebars, unemployed.

I use the terms "strap" and "buckle" loosely. Literally. More often than not, I find myself attempting to MacGyver the thing to my head, in hopes that is doesn't fly off at first acceleration.

While a major step for prevention and protection, the new crack-down, does not, however, prevent the boda-bodas from running out of fuel, which I seem to be experiencing with increasing regularity (today, my 4th time in 2 months).

Sometimes, all it takes is a dual dismount followed by a 90 degree bike tilt and some strategic shaking in order to perfectly position that remaining droplet of gas, and, voila, and you've got enough to hold you over until you reach the nearest petrol station and get that millisquirt needed to take you to your final destination.

Other times, even the tilt/shake combo isn't enough, and you instead come puttering to a stop on the side of the road just before the Mukwano roundabout at prime traffic time 2/3 of the way to your target and have to hop another boda as your gasless driver begins pushing his bike to the nearest source of petrol.

Compensation in this scenario is always thorny, as the driver believes he should be paid 2/3 of the fare, whereas the rider, stubborn as she is, holds firm to her conviction that, since he did not uphold his end of the bargain in their implicit contract, he should get only a portion of this portion.

The lengths I'll go to for 25 cents.