Sunday drives are typically leisurely outings with the windows-down on a winding country road or through a well manicured neighborhood. The sun light and fresh air initiate feelings of freedom and independence making the soul just feel good. Last Sunday’s drive was everything but that.

Priscila and I met in the hospital foyer at 4:45am. Despite the rain, we quickly walked to the bus station, fought our way through ticketless petitioners at the bus door, and found seats in the back together. We sat down, adjusted our backpacks, took motion sickness meds, and prayed.

By 6 our bus was pulling out of Gimbie town. My damp overstuffed REI daypack functioned as a pillow in my lap. I slept shallowly, in and out of awareness, for four hours. Then, the bus stopped. One by one people became tired of waiting inside and soon all passengers had opted for space in the shade along the road. We waited; 15 minutes, 50 minutes, an hour and a half.

While sitting on a tree stump a few meters from the road, we vacillated between the options of waiting for the bus to become fixed and hailing a ride. We were going to Addis to renew Priscila’s visa which expired in three days and it took two days to process. We prayed for guidance.

As we were getting up from the stump, I saw an empty land cruiser. I stuck my hand straight out, signaling we need a ride. It pulled over in front of the bus. Others saw it and started to run toward it. I did to. Somehow I got there first. I opened the passenger side door and asked “Addis?” He nodded.
“Birri mecca?” (how much?) I inquired.
He didn’t say anything.
“Two farenjis” I said while holding up two fingers. “Lama farenji” (two foreigners).
He nodded.
“Vamos” I said to Priscila and we ran to the bus to get our bags.
I climbed into the bus and passed her my backpack, our water bottles and jacket. She ran to the cruiser while I unwedged her bag from under the seat.

Desperate passengers were swarming the cruiser when I arrived; the back seat already full with two men and Priscila. The driver was defending the front seat declaring “Farenji! Farenji!” I jumped in, closed the door and we were off!

The comfort, the speed, the seatbelt! It was so good. “Galaatomma” “Fayata” “Thank you” Priscila and I uttered again and again to our driver and to our God. Talk radio was on, something about the economy and the US dollar. I wondered what was being said about our currency. I wondered who was driving us, why he had such a nice car, why he stopped, and why he saved the seat for me. We traveled in silence since our driver did not know English or Oromifa.

With only two hours until Addis, we made a quick stop in Ambo to stretch our legs and grab a drink and we were back on the road again. Ten minutes past Ambo, there was a large Izuzu truck blocking the other lane. The road was straight and we could see for miles in front of us; no one was coming. Then, the passenger door of the truck opened into our lane and a man stepped out. He started to cross the road. We beeped. We breaked. He looked the other way and proceeded to cross. We beeped again and started to swerve to the right, away from the man and the truck. Simultaneously, he saw us. With wide eyes and an aghast expression on his face he tried to run across the street in the same direction that we were swerving.

We hit him—causing his body to spin vertically.
He hit us—leaving a mark on the driver’s side of the cruiser.

We quickly pulled to the side of the road and hopped out. His friend from the Izuzu truck had run to his side. “Malo! Malo!” (Please! Please!) he screamed. “Malo!” It was all he could utter. His twisted legs, exposed bone, and bloody clothes confirmed what we just saw. Priscila, a doctor from Argentina, was giving commands in Spanish. My job as translator has never been so stressful.

One of the guys from our car understood English. I communicated that Priscila was a doctor. “We shouldn’t move him” I translated but it was too late. Someone had sat him up. We had no stretcher, no medical supplies, no concrete form of communication, but shock and chaos were plentiful. One of the two doors was unable to be opened. Leaving a painful mystery of how they maneuvered to get him in.

The ten minute ride back to Ambo felt like an hour. We got to the hospital. Priscila went with the patient and I stayed with the vehicle and tried to call Paul, the hospital administrator and friend. A bit later Priscila came out and we met up with the others from our car and headed to the police station to report the accident. We gave our names and phone number incase witnesses were necessary.

We waited in front of the police station as a storm blew in. Priscila and I again listed the options: stay at a hotel in Ambo, contact Adventist orphanage just outside town and stay there, call Seyoum to see if he could pick us up, or continue in with our driver; we knew that the man would be transferred to a hospital in Addis and since the hospital didn’t have an ambulance we figured our driver would have to take him in. We prayed for guidance.

Finally, the driver told us we needed to find another ride to take us the rest of the way to Addis. In the rain we paid, thanked him for helping us, and wished him the best. Just then he pointed to a bus and said “Addis.” We saw the other two guys boarding so we ran and jumped on.