Ranveig Wormstrand – 1948-2025
We marked my parents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary by scattering my mother’s ashes from the Ngong Hills. Facing the Rift Valley, we let the morning winds at sunrise carry what was left of her over the valley where humanity began, exactly as she had wished.
A Tale of Two Young Adventurers
Exactly fifty years ago, on December 19th, 1975, two young and adventurous Norwegians tied the knot at the Norwegian Embassy in Nairobi. Hardly routine work for Norway’s mission to Kenya, but they were not a regular couple either.
With a hired 4WD, a tent packed away, and instructions to keep left when driving, there was no need for a tour operator. They went on a honeymoon that most visitors would find adventurous even today.
And this was 1975.
She had met my father earlier that same year at the University of Oslo, where they were both studying. Out of Africa was one of her favourite books, and she was fascinated that he had already been to Kenya the year before. Far beyond that fascination, they clicked, and decided to escape the Norwegian December weather and get married in Kenya. Following tradition was never their thing.
In 1976 my dad got an exciting job in the US, and they moved there. A year later, with a baby boy on the way, they were back in Norway.
That is where I entered the stage.
She started teaching at Orkdal High School, and my father found a job nearby, so they settled in Orkanger for a decade.
Always in search of destinations off the beaten track, the Iron Curtain was the least of their obstacles. My earliest childhood travel memories are from West and East Berlin, and long summer drives to places like Hungary, Bulgaria, and the beaches of the beautiful former country of Yugoslavia. In the 1980s, these were places you would not find in a travel brochure, and that is what we were always looking for.
Europe at Her Feet
In 1988, my dad got an even more exciting opportunity in Brussels. He helped drive the development of European standards work through a joint EU–EFTA project. That she was excited about it would be an understatement. We were living in the heart of Europe, with everything just a road trip away.
And road trips we made.
When the Berlin Wall fell, we went over just weeks later. Most vacations were measured in days on the road, with overnight stopovers in unplanned but beautiful small towns, ending up in places like France, Spain, or Czechoslovakia (notably in the last weeks of that country’s existence).
As a diplomat wife, she leaned into her passion for languages, studying French and giving Norwegian lessons to the small handful of people with that rather exotic interest.
When we moved back to Norway in 1993, she went back to teaching at Nesodden High School for a few months before landing a job at the EU Commission office in Oslo, as Norway prepared to join the EU together with Sweden and Finland. Unfortunately, after a heated campaign where emotions came first and facts last, a narrow majority voted No. Norway stayed on the outside while our Scandinavian neighbours joined. Until her last day, she felt nothing but contempt for the No movement and the forces behind them.
When I moved to Kenya in 2002, first for an internship after college, her attachment to the country deepened further. Kenya had just shaken off 23 years of dictatorship and stagnation under Daniel arap Moi, and was stepping into a democratic renaissance and economic revival under Mwai Kibaki. She was thrilled to return and rediscover it.
Curiosity, Class, and Compassion
She was an avid learner of languages. She taught Norwegian and German at high school level, and was nearly fluent in French (and obviously in English too). Later in life, she learned Spanish to an advanced level.
She could not care less about fashion, but her unique style defined her. She kept it until her last day, with a timeless elegance that people two generations younger still admired.
Unlike most of her agemates, she was highly technologically literate and almost always online. Her smartphone and tablet were never far away.
Writing mattered to her as much as reading, and she was a frequent contributor of op-eds and opinion pieces to key Norwegian publications like Aftenposten and Klassekampen. Sporadically, she would also post on her blog, Wormstrand.com.
While impressive in so many ways, she never sought people’s attention. On the contrary, she did her best to avoid it. She could come across as shy, or a bit reserved, but no trait in her was stronger than her kindness and compassion. Her altruism could at times seem excessive, even toward people she did not know. For those close to her, it could be hard to find words that felt like enough.
During the many family Christmases in Spain, we would usually rent an apartment next to my parents’. On arrival, we would find ours thoroughly prepared, with the fridge packed with food, including foie gras, champagne, and more of the finer things in life. The time and effort that went into planning what she did for others could seem hard to believe to anyone who did not know her.
And for those of us who did, that was simply who my mother was.
Goodbye to Work – Hello to Life!
As she planned her retirement, she spotted a window of opportunity in the Norwegian pension system. A recent reform meant she could retire at 62 and still secure a better pension than by staying on until 67. That window was about to close, so she made a quick, but wise decision. My ever-hardworking father followed suit, and in December 2010 they both said thanks and goodbye to professional life, and hello to retirement.
They never looked back.
The World Was Their Oyster
They started their retirement with three months in their beloved Kenya, then carried on to Rwanda, Uganda, Tunisia, Egypt, India, Sri Lanka, and the Emirates. They once had a vision of living in the Karen area of Nairobi in their retirement, but that first long return to Kenya fanned the travel flame already burning in their hearts.
They sold their fairly spacious house at Nesodden in Norway and moved to a cosy (still spacious) house in Hunnebostrand, a tiny and serene coastal town in Sweden. The Norwegian retirees turned Swedish residents had no intention of staying in Scandinavia beyond the four summer months, with Nerja in Spain as their winter base.
Every August, they would meander through Europe on a totally random trajectory for a month, heading east, west, or south, before arriving at their winter destination. In April, they would follow an equally casual route back.
Some years, we would join them in Nerja for Christmas. Other years, they would go country hopping in Asia, Africa, the Middle East, and occasionally the Caribbean, but we would always plan Christmas together, whether in Kenya, Zanzibar, Oman, or Sri Lanka.
Or somewhere completely different.
The Grand Anniversary That Was Meant to Be
Kenya held a special place in their hearts, and the Ngong Hills were one of my mother’s favourite places on Earth. She walked them at least a dozen times, and she was clear that this was where she wanted her final farewell.
This year, there was not much question about where to meet for Christmas. With their 50th anniversary coming up, we were already planning for the big day on December 19th, and the ensuing family Christmas trip somewhere in East Africa. Ideas about off-the-beaten-track itineraries in the region were flying.
On her birthday, on November 2nd, they had gone on a two-day road trip to a charming boutique hotel in Western Spain. The dinner at a fine-dining restaurant was my birthday treat. A creatively crafted Happy Birthday video with my daughters was part of the annual routine, and one of the guaranteed highlights.
It was heartbreaking when a sudden stomach discomfort ruined the exquisite dinner that my father and I had planned for her, while doing our best to keep the surprise momentum.
The next day, we spoke on the phone on their way home. She sounded so disappointed that her sensitive stomach had come back to mess up things. After all, it had been a long time since it happened last, so that was just the worst possible timing.
If only I had known that was to be our last conversation.
The day after, she went to see a doctor, got a prescription, and called it a night early, optimistic that things would improve. Läkare International in Nerja has a great reputation among international retirees living there. But do they offer quality with their superficial consultations, rushed prescriptions, and hefty fees? In hindsight, I keep wondering whether a more competent doctor might have changed the outcome, but I have to accept that I will never know.
The next morning, on November 5th, she was rushed to the ICU in an ambulance for an emergency surgery. We were shocked, but relieved that the surgery had gone well. While waiting for her to wake up, my father and I drifted back to the Christmas plans, as this meant this year’s Christmas would have to be in Spain.
Then, on the morning of Friday, November 7th, came the unthinkable message.
My mother, Ranveig Wormstrand, died at 11:55 CET at Hospital Comarcal de la Axarquia in Velez-Malaga, Spain.
Beatrice and I jumped on a plane immediately to be with my father through the terrible days after the tragedy. Being together does not alleviate the shock and grief, but it makes it easier to bear. The three of us spent a week and a half in Nerja and the surrounding areas, handling the practicalities and otherwise leaving the world behind. We went to places she loved, walked streets she knew, and kept noticing the absence of the infinitely kind and lovable person who should have been right there with us.
As in Life, So in Death
As we traveled back to Kenya, my father started the journey back to Hunnebostrand in Sweden, but it was winter, and my mother was in an urn.
After her death, her ashes traveled by road through Spain, France, Germany, Denmark, and Sweden. Then, after a few days at home, on to Kenya with a connection in Qatar.
Even in death, she traversed seven countries before returning to the cradle of mankind.
Back to the Roots of Mankind
It was Beatrice’s idea to also plant a memorial tree on the site where we scattered the ashes, and we all immediately loved it.
Kenya Forest Service was extremely supportive throughout the process of obtaining the permits, and when the commander of the Ngong Hills Station offered a mugumo tree (African fig tree) seedling that he had in store, we immediately knew that was the right choice. My nature-loving mother was deeply fascinated by these giants that live for centuries, and are held sacred by numerous cultures across Africa.
On December 17th, we had a site and a final go-ahead.
This morning at sunrise, 50 years after their wedding here in Nairobi, my father and I gave her ashes to the wind, carrying her back to the valley where the common ancestors of all humans walked tens of thousands of years ago.
The mugumo tree may stand for 500 years or more. We will never see it fall, but we will have a place to return to, and remember where she was carried.
Rest in peace, mom!
