Prisoner: Broken Bones & Shattered Souls

By White David Steven

During a routine trip in Ecuador, Steven White, a 33-year old

wildlife fanatic and adventure tour leader was involved in a

fatal and tragic accident while driving a tourist vehicle.

 

Critically injured, clouded with grief and mixed emotions

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stevie White's World
• Release date: May 14, 2018
• ISBN: 9781999582210

White David Steven

One time electrician turned tour guide. Steve was involved in a tragic accident while driving a tour vehicle, affected by life changing injuries Steve decided to write down his experiences to help overcome the anguish he suffered from. Time will tell if it worked. Currently living in the garage at the bottom of his mothers garden, while waiting to get his leg fixed he dreams of new adventures.

Book preview

Introduction: A Sense of Wonder

I can trace the route of my problems back to an innocuous game of campsite cricket in Zambia. As a tour leader, it was a game I often played with groups at the start of a trip to make them more relaxed around each other. An Aussie lad who was batting, slogged the ball into a disused barn, and I went to fetch, but as I reached down to pick up the tennis ball my left knee twisted and I crumpled into a heap on the dirt. Up until that point I’d never felt that kind of pain in my life. My knee ballooned up and as there was no ice available, we applied the coldest bottle of beer to try and help the swelling go down, but the damage was done. I’ll come back to that later, after I’ve told you how I came to be leading tours in the first place.

When I backpacked around Australia and New Zealand, I was only twenty-two, but I felt like a latecomer, having recently finished my electrical apprenticeship. I travelled with friends and we met similar people, taking time out their lives to travel up the east coast of Australia, getting drunk on cheap bags of wine every night. I followed the herd. New Zealand was different, touring with my pal, Ginge, in our hired campervan in the crisp fresh air was the freedom I’d been looking for.

Two years later, I travelled to India to watch England play cricket. It was an organised tour, and over far too quickly, but what I’d seen had opened my eyes to a different world. Later that year I went to South Africa.

My mates were often bored on our game drives but I couldn’t get enough. The wildlife blew my mind. During the day we watched small bucks chasing each other, and my heart thumped while my butt muscles tightened when a huge elephant trumpeted and charged at our vehicle. It held its ground as we gingerly backed away. Our evening drives were amazing too; although, at the time I didn’t realise how lucky we were to have sightings of a female leopard and a serval. While back in the campsite a greedy little civet was scavenging around the bins looking for scraps of food. The serval and civet were creatures I never knew existed before that trip, and I didn’t want to be caught out again.

At night, when we were sitting around the campfire drinking warm beers, it seemed we were surrounded by lions and hyenas. The noises they were making made the hairs on my neck stand on end. I was so excited, I found it hard to sleep. It was talking to other travellers on trip that I learned that you didn’t have to be royalty or rich to travel in Africa, normal people were travelling there all the time, and it was safe. I’ll admit I was naïve, but all I’d ever seen on the news were reports on disasters, war, and famine.

I returned to the UK and went back to working as an electrician on building sites, but I made a plan for a backpacking trip from Cape Town, South Africa to Kampala, Uganda.

It wasn’t only about seeing the animals and ticking them off, I wanted to experience all what Africa had to offer. Two years later I’d researched my trip in fine detail. I knew exactly what parks I was going to visit and what animals I was hoping to see in each of them. I don’t think there was a mammal I couldn’t identify, and I’d become pretty good at identifying most birds, too. I wasn’t an expert, but I was a keen amateur. I’d decided to start the trip in Cape Town before moving north to Namibia and beyond. The more money I saved on travel and accommodation, the more money I had to spend on game drives, so I travelled on local buses and stayed in basic guest houses in rural towns that cost me only one or two dollars a night. I ate local food: ugali and cabbage, and I found a few coins for a cold beer in local bars when the Arsenal were on TV.

I only came across other western travellers when I was in national parks or game reserves, so if there were no talkative locals travelling on the buses, then I immersed myself in books about the history of Africa and its wildlife. When my trip was over, I wanted to experience more. I’d never smiled so much in my life.

For the first time I began to believe I could have a life away from the mundane drama of the building site. There was so much to see and do out there, but by sticking to the daily slog and fourteen-hour work days, I felt like I was selling my soul. The passion I’d had for wildlife as a child had been reawakened and I didn’t want to waste any more time thinking about it. I’d made my mind up: I was going to throw away my work boots and slip on a pair of flip flops. But first, I needed to work out what I was going to do. I had my sights set on becoming a safari guide, but I wasn’t ready to settle in one place and wanted to explore as much of the world as I could.

While searching for jobs in the travel industry, I stumbled upon ‘overlanding’. Groups of tourists travel around taking in the sights on modified trucks. It sounded strange at first as it was the complete opposite of what I’d experienced while travelling. It didn’t appear that I needed any specific qualifications to apply for a tour leading job. I contacted five different companies, and even though I had zero experience in tourism, I was offered work by all of them but one. Instead, that company, who were based in the UK, asked me to come in for an interview. I had a few months to wait, which gave me time to research them and it turned out they were well-respected and one of the oldest companies around.

After the original interview, I was invited back to attend a three-day training workshop, which was an extended interview where our attitudes were constantly being assessed to see whether we were in the workshop or the pub. After, the big boss invited me back to take part in a ten-week training programme. In the meantime, I passed the driving qualifications which allowed me to drive their modified vehicles along with regular buses, I updated my first aid knowledge and read up on diesel engines. It was a huge change, my family and friends thought I was crazy, but I couldn’t wait for the opportunity to start the adventure.

During the ten-week training programme, we were taught how to do basic and technical mechanical jobs: servicing the brakes and changing the suspension springs, but if we encountered a serious problem (anything to do with the engine), we were told to find a diesel mechanic. There were seven of us in the training group, all from different backgrounds, some were clearly out of their depth but that didn’t matter, the company had a high turnover of staff and they needed crew on the road, and soon enough we were thrown into the deep end with the paying clients. I was sent to the trainee graveyard of West Africa on an eight-month contract. I’d never worked as hard as I did on that truck. After that, I was sent out to work in South America and I soon wondered what I’d let myself in for. Fifteen months later I’d had my love of travelling beaten out of me by a conveyor belt of miserable clients. But then, I picked up a contract for Africa, I was going where I wanted to be.

I had many amazing wildlife encounters and experiences, and met some fantastic people. I got to talk about wildlife and conservation all day, every day. It was everything I dreamt it would be. I couldn’t believe I was getting paid to do something I loved. I was learning all the time, a fascination with the bushman and the early African migrations was growing, and every trip we did as a team was an improvement on the last. The office extended my contract, and I had no reason to leave, I was having the time of my life. Not long after that I tore my knee ligaments. After struggling with it for months I conceded defeat and flew home to have my knee examined by a specialist. I was waiting for an MRI scan when I received an email from the office asking if I could take an eight-week contract in South America, because they were desperately short of crew. I was bored milling around at home (if only I’d known what was coming). I wasn’t keen to return to South America, but my friends in the office persuaded me to take the contract. I flew into Buenos Aires, gorged on the best steak in the world, and enjoyed the delicious wines for a few days.

We set off on the trip, I did nearly all the driving, I was much happier steering than being bored in the passenger seat. I took pride in keeping the truck healthy with the routine maintenance and check-ups, I liked rolling around under the truck and loved getting dirty, and so did some of the girls. We drove across the imposing altiplano and into Bolivia, and then past Lake Titicaca and into Peru.

I received an email, I had a new twelve-month contract to continue tour leading in Africa, when I was ready. I had my passport stamped as we crossed the final border of our trip into Ecuador for what I expected to be a sixteen day stay in my favourite South American country. I was happy and living the dream . . .

Chapter 1: 'The Day the Clocks Stopped'

23rd May 2014

I was in the jungle town of Coca in Ecuador. My tour leader and I had returned with our tour group from an excursion in the Amazon rainforest which was good fun. That morning, I woke up at six am and stumbled into the bathroom, I turned the rusty tap to wash my face with the warm brownish water, I brushed my teeth and got dressed into my uniform: Adidas shorts, a faded blue t-shirt, and flip flops.

Even with an archaic fan regurgitating the air, it had been a hot and sweaty night in the room, so I was hoping for a breeze when I stepped out into the quiet street, but there was no chance of that, even that early in the morning it was already humid. While I waited for the hotel manager to pull her car around to collect me, I swatted away dozens of greedy flies that were trying to suck the fluid from my moist skin and eyeballs.

An old brown car stopped, and the manager called for me to get in. She manually wound down her window, and began chain smoking. I wound mine down, too. I hate smoke. After a few minutes, we turned off the main paved roads and onto a ramshackle dirt road, until we made it to the compound where I’d parked our overland truck. I continually had to wipe the sweat from my brow as I carried out the daily safety checks: water, oil, and other fluid levels, indicators and lights, window wipers, mirrors, wheel nuts and tires, and I checked the undercarriage in case any locals had helped themselves to our parts. After firing up the engine I waited for the air pressure to build up in the air tanks. It was always part of the daily checks, but as it was humid and the truck had been parked up for four days, I knew that moisture would have built up inside the tanks. I crawled under the side and reached for the bleed nipples on the air tanks, and pressed them in until I’d drained all the watery spray from the tanks. I tested the brakes and checked my air gauge. I was satisfied with all the checks and drove back to the run-down hotel.

I scoffed a couple bananas and a chocolate bar for breakfast and set up my favourite playlist on my iPod. The passengers had their own speakers in the back so I could listen to as much Oasis as I wanted. We left the town behind us and made our way through the windy jungle roads, and past the remnants of rubble from the latest landslides. A few hours later, we were out the jungle and if it hadn’t been covered in mist, there would have been a stunning view over the cloud forest. I loved that drive.

We stopped for lunch in the small Andean town of Baeza. I ordered a fresh chicken from a local restaurant. I ate my fill in the cab and saved the rest for later. I checked our maps, driving notes, and the directions for driving in Quito—it had been two years since I’d last been there. I then wandered around the truck; it was a habit of mine whenever we stopped to check that parts weren’t falling off and that there was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was in order, so my colleague decided she wanted to join in with a quiz that the passengers planned to play and she sat in the back. I didn’t feel like listening to music that afternoon, so I left my iPod alone and we set off.

We’d started the day in Coca, which was only three-hundred metres above sea level. After lunch, we continued climbing the mountain roads for two hours until we plateaued at four-thousand metres.

One of our passengers came forward and asked me one of the quiz questions. ‘Can you name ten countries that only have four letters in their names?’

‘Yeah, Peru! Togo, Mali, Chad. Er . . . Cuba. Iran, Iraq. Fiji . . . Laos. How many’s that?’ I asked.

‘Nine!’

‘Hmm,’ I thought about it for a minute. ‘Did I say Chad?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Oooh! Oman!’ I surprised myself.

‘Ok, thanks!" And she made her way back to the others with her answers. I picked up my water bottle and took a couple mouthfuls. A short while later we approached a bend in the road and I knew there was a steep descent coming immediately after. I was about to slow us down the way I always did, by using the gears and brakes, but something wasn’t right. The brakes weren’t working.

I couldn’t slow us down enough. I couldn’t risk grinding us into a lower gear. Out of fear of stalling the engine and losing power, steering, and control at a critical moment that would have surely sent us sailing off the edge of the mountain. Before I knew it, we’d reached the bend in the road and had started to descend. I remembered the road well so I wasn't surprised by the breath-taking views of the tarmac cutting through the side of the mountain to the valley below. But this time, I couldn’t enjoy the sight. I felt sheer terror. Whenever I tapped the brakes with my right foot the pressure in the air tanks dropped. With the pressure low, there wasn’t enough air in the system to work the brakes. If the air pressure dropped too low then the handbrake would’ve started to come on. Actually, I thought it already had.

On one side of the road was the mountain: a wall of solid rock. On the other side was the edge of the cliff and thin air: a thousand metre drop to the valley floor. I only had one option and that was to keep the truck on the road for as long as I could, hoping to see somewhere safe to crash.

As the road became steeper our speed picked up and the engine started screeching. The hairpin bends became tighter and I was fighting physics to keep our truck on the road. I tried to pump the brake pedal harder out of pure desperation, but the air pressure was still too low. We came around a tight bend and my eyes nearly popped out of my head. I had two thoughts: it was game over and my mum. I gripped the steering wheel to brace myself as the driver’s side of the cab smashed into a petrol tanker that was crawling up the mountain.

My bones felt the full force of the impact. My body jerked around like a rag doll. The windscreen shattered over me and the cab filled with dust. I couldn't believe I was alive, let alone conscious, but we were still rolling down the hill. My arm was shaking as I reached out to pull up the handbrake and we came to a shuddering stop in a rain gully that ran alongside the road, not because of the handbrake, but because the front left wheel had come off and the axel had grinded into the tarmac.

It was hard to see from all the glass and dust in my eyes, but the side and roof of the cab were crushed in. Thanks to my seat belt, I was still in my seat and I turned to check if everyone in the back was ok, but I felt an unbearable pain in my left hip and had to turn back. I felt dizzy.

The engine was still rumbling. I tried to use the air brake on the floor which would have cut it off, but I couldn’t feel the pedal, or the lower part of my leg. I looked down and my whole body was shaking, my left leg was completely mangled, and the floor of the cab had been ripped out. I grabbed the gear stick to stall the engine but it was jammed. I unclipped my seatbelt and tumbled out the cab. I found myself in a heap on the dry powdery earth and began crawling away from the wreckage. I didn’t get very far before I was snagged by some barbed wire fencing which ripped open the flesh above my knee and the left side of my chest as I scrambled over it.

I was in agony, I thought I’d broken my femur. My throat was dry, I needed water. I don’t remember if I got it. I heard someone tell me not to move and I rolled onto my back. I couldn’t breathe. I closed my eyes, but a voice kept on encouraging me, Open your eyes, don’t go to sleep. I remember the clear blue sky and dust, so much dust. I wanted to sleep. I heard the sirens. An ambulance, the paramedics struggled to lift the stretcher with me on it, I was a big lump. And they slid me inside their small emergency van.

At the hospital, they put me on a cold table in a medical waiting room, the pain was unbearable and I begged for morphine. I heard a sweet voice ask if I was ok and tried to tilt my head to look in the direction of where it came from, but it was too painful. I knew who it was, it was the girl who’d asked the quiz question earlier. She’d been on the trip with us since Buenos Aires, almost eight weeks ago, and the pair of us had become friends. I wanted to see her, but I couldn’t. I reached out to hold her hand but couldn’t reach. There had been nine of us in