This is the only ambulance operating in the district. There is no telephone reception and villagers need to run to the clinic to come and fetch the ambulance. This is only done when all the traditional medicine has failed. It took us a good 20 minutes of off roading to get to the house.
Inside a dark and poorly ventilated room lies a very weak woman. She's been having diarrhea and is now severely dehydrated. Because she will need to sleep over, the clinic at the mission station cannot help and she needs to go to the next town. Three men carry her into the ambulance. Her sister, brother-in-law and daughter gets in as well.
It is a long and bumpy road. Her daughter (around 4) stares in front of her, uncertain of what is going to happen. Woman in this society does not have much say, and this lady comes from another village. Had she been one of their own, they would have called us earlier. Still the Maasai takes good care of orphans and there is no need for orphanages here.
Just after passing the clinic en route to the hospital in the town, the man calls for us to stop. There are question marks on his face. Hennie stops, turns around and touches the patient. There is no pulse. "She is cold"
Most times the Maasai would take the body home. There they will slaughter a sheep, spread the body with the fat of the sheep and put it out for the Hyenas to eat. This practice is now illegal in Kenya, but still very practical. Traditionally they don't believe in burial.
We are told the deceased's husband is a policeman in town, and they want to continue.
Men in this culture show no pain or emotion -if they flinch during circumcision they are called a coward. The lady's sister however let's out an African wail. Her husband hands me the daughter so that he can comfort her. On the lap of a "Mzungu", at the front of a vehicle (probably for the first time), this freshly orphaned girl shows no response. She neither fights nor embraces a hug. Soon after she gets sick. Whether it was the motion of the vehicle or shock is uncertain. She had a good helping of sour milk for breakfast - which is now all over me and her and the gears stick. We stop to rinse off the worst.
As we reach the police station, the usual ambulance driver arrives on a motorbike and guides us through the protocol. The widower shows no emotion and tends to the practical arrangements immediately. The sister and daughter gets off at the police station. We take the body to the mortuary. There is no refrigeration available, so the stack coal under an open shower to let off cool air. I walk around the corner to wash my pants. The lifeless body is put on a stretcher and carried into the cooling room. Tomorrow there will be a burial in her own village. Her name will never again be named. If her child had the same name, that will probably be changed.
Hennie and I get back into the vehicle and drive home. This was an unexpected turn of events. A normal day has turned wrong. Yet, life goes on - or does it?
She was as old as I am. What were her dreams? Did she have the luxury of dreaming?
There is no significant reason why my life is different - none besides Grace. By Grace I was born into a life of privilege. By Grace I can afford medical care. By Grace I know the Saviour and even when I die I am saved. By Grace I can live for Him, serving people like her...
