1124hrs Tuesday 1st March.
F*ck.
That hurt. I slip from the patrol vehicle less than 2 seconds later I find myself face down in the desert and going nowhere.
Broken.
I do a quick top to toe (as best I can) and come to realise that my pelvis - at least, is shot to pieces, and maybe a rib or two. Onto the groin area then;- great. - I'm not bleeding and I havent pissed myself. The truck stops and the rest of the guys run across to my aid.
"That was a heavy landing. I'm not going anywhere - you're going to have to get an ambulance" says I.
"No Steve..." says Ange. "...we ran over you. We felt the bump".
Bleeding.
They can see my back of course. Their gasps are enough. A gravel rash that any biker would normally be proud of.
The nurses will be picking bits of Damaraland out of my back for days.
Crap. I'm supposed to be in charge. Some of them are already going into shock. The adrenaline is doing a great job on me so I'm relatively pain free at the moment. "I'm going to try and pull my legs together,...straighten the right one for me....gently...no no, stop."
I come to realise that if I cant get my legs moved whilst the adrenaline is pumping, there'll be no chance once its worn off. "Right. Start unpacking the kit from the truck. Get the water, the food, and the tarpaulin. Bring the table and something for some shade - we're going to be here a while"
I try to busy some of the guys. There in a right state, well, some, and understandably. After all they've just felt the bone crunching jolt of a three and a half ton truck doing its best to bury me in the sand.
"Start making a stretcher. Use the tarp and the poles from the kitchen tent".
It was pointless of course. There was no way I was going to let them roll me over, or try to get me onto the stretcher. They're doing well though. The trailer is unhitched. (Thank f*ck that didn't clip me. Its full of 15 bags of cement and all the building equipment for the project site) and the vehicle is sent back to Camp. We need to raise help via the sat phone and typically, my GPS is back there too. Didn't think I'd need it for Build Week.
Jo and Rachel are back at the camp, but its probably a 90 minute round trip to get them here. They arrive to find things pretty well sorted. The guys have done a great job getting some shade up and sorting out some lunch for themselves. We try and keep thing fairly jovial. "I hope my dick still works" I say.
Aled is on the phone. His mum is a doctor in the UK and she's asking some questions;
"Is he bleeding? Has he pissed himself?"
We laugh. Great minds and all that. At least we're on the right track.
Jo's training and experience kicks in of course, and as he arrives he goes quickly through the "history, diagnosis, immediate action drills" etc. We've all done it before.
"Are you sure we ran him over" was a question bandied briefly.
"Of course you f*cking ran him over - you can see the tyre tracks on his back!"
So the ambulance has been called. Rachel sees to that. "Location?" Asks the hospital.
Ah, that's a bit tricky.
We're out in the bush. Actually - its 286km of dirt road from the hospital.
Sat phone puts us at around 20 deg 56.58 S, 14 deg 52.42 E. Go Google it. Yep, thats roughly it.
http://maps.google.com/maps?ll=-20.952682,14.868878&z=12&t=h&hl=en
Pretty much the middle of freaking nowhere.
Its a private ambulance of course, and they're already concerned about payment. Despite directions, and the co-ordinates, Jo decided (he was right) it was best to run down to the nearest habitation and direct the ambulance to our position himself from there.
Five and a half hours in the sand later.....
Joy as the ambulance arrives. A 4x4 Toyota Landcruiser. Brendan is the driver. Ex South African Presidential Guard, so he's not one of these "I'm going to make it all better" soft and fluffy types. He gives me a shot of morphine, and as I'm scraping a hole in the sand by my chin - he gives me something to stop it making me throw up. He saw that coming too.
It doesn't do shit. - The morphine that is. There's a good deal of poking and prodding and "yes, my pelvis is broken", and "...yes, it does fucking hurt when you do that." My lower back muscles are also in spasm. The good news is - my ribs aren't broken.
So, right down to business. He doesn't pull any punches. "Steve, We're going to have to roll you over. I'm not going to lie to you - your'e going to scream like a whore".
He's right.
Between my belly button and my balls - I'm pretty much roadkill.
Needless to say. Apologies all round for my bad language. Understandable under the circumstances everyone says.
So its part over. I'm on the backboard. Here comes the transfer. On to the stretcher and then the strapping down for the 286km dirt road trip back to Swakopmund.
I know this road. I know it well. I'm not looking forward to it.
I drive it in the bakkie once a fortnight and it usually involves punctures to the trailer or numerous other breakdowns due to the condition of the surface and the relentless battering the vehicles get.
The journey goes unusually well. Thanks to the velcro.
Its straight into X Ray.
Confirmed;
Right acetabulem broken. Suspect R femur broken. Possible signs of fracture to L &R Inferior Pubic Ramus, and so it goes on. The x-rays aren't entirely conclusive, so its in for a CT scan too. The internal bleeding doesn't help. The doctor thinks there might be up to a litre of fluid under my skin, mostly blood.
Thats a lot I think.
Its now around 2100hrs.
Just for shits and giggles - the CT scan confirms the above, adds L Sup Ramus, and that my sacrum has split from the iliac wing. Joy of joys however - the femur is intact.
What a day.
