# 004 – Saudi Arabia, 1984 – "The Desert Doesn’t Forgive: A Journey of Survival and Loss"

Ah, Saudi Arabia in July 1984—a place where the sun tries to kill you before you even have breakfast. And what better time to do a steel plant turnaround than in the hottest month of the year? Naturally, we found ourselves assigned to the Hadeed Steel Plant in Al Jubail, a mere 500 km drive from Riyadh, straight through the desert. What could possibly go wrong?

The main contractor was Austrian, which meant we had to rely on our Vienna operation in Riyadh for support. First mistake. But to even work in Saudi Arabia as a foreign entity, you needed a local sponsor. Ours was a prince. Not the kind that rescues princesses—more like the kind that collects commissions. But hey, it was a necessary arrangement, like paying for an insurance hoping you never need it.

So, off we went—four bright-eyed engineers, fresh from Frankfurt, meeting up with our Austrian colleagues in Riyadh. We were handed a Toyota Land Cruiser, a fine machine that had probably seen better days, but it had wheels (for now). Not wanting to waste time, we chose to drive during the blistering heat of the day. Mistake number two.

Now, let me set the scene for this exhilarating journey: a straight asphalt road, nothing but sand on both sides, and the kind of boredom that makes counting grains of sand seem like an exciting pastime. That is, until Kilometer 390.

At around 140 km/h, Sister Fate decided we needed some action. A loud crack echoed through the car—never a good sign when moving at high speed. The left front wheel had its own plans, abruptly turning inward. With zero steering control, physics took over, and before I could say, "Well, this is unfortunate," the car flipped.

Remember when I said the roof was just a tarp? Yeah. Not helpful.

Somewhere in mid-air, my two colleagues in the back seat exited the vehicle involuntarily, while my teammate in the front seat was already crawling out before we even came to a stop. Meanwhile, I was taking inventory of my limbs. Right hand? Check. Left hand? Well… under the steering wheel. Not moving. Right leg? Stuck between the pedals. And then I heard the magic words:

"He's bleeding!"

Ah, yes. That would explain the sudden wet feeling around my upper torso.

Then came the phrase that truly motivated me:

"Gasoline is leaking!"

At that moment, I had two choices: (A) The cleansing by fire, or (B) Rip myself free at any cost. Instincts took over. With my right hand, I yanked my left hand out. Something tore. Not sure what, but we’d figure that out later. Next, my right leg—pulled it free with sheer willpower.

I crawled out of the wreck, expecting to see a missing finger or two. Surprisingly, they were all still there. A small victory. Then I attempted to stand—dizzy, vision blurry, and oh, my T-shirt was now completely red. A concerned voice nearby yelled, "Do something, your friend is bleeding!" To which I wanted to reply, "I need to sit for a moment."

Then, suddenly, an Arabic face appeared, and someone started wrapping something around my head. The smell of engine oil immediately filled my nose. Fantastic. They had found the least sanitary rag in all of Saudi Arabia for this emergency.

As if things weren’t interesting enough, my rescuers—some well-meaning Nepali workers—decided to rush me to a hospital. A noble effort, except for one tiny detail: they drove in the wrong direction. Instead of the fully equipped King Fahad University Hospital just 40 km away, we embarked on a delightful 65 km detour to a tiny plantation village. Because that was the way they were going.

Not all angels have wings. Some drive vans in the opposite direction.

After what felt like a scenic desert tour in the back of a van, I arrived at a small plantation clinic—an establishment that looked like it hadn’t seen a patient since the camel flu outbreak of '72. I was immediately rushed to the ER, where I met the Pakistani version of Dr. Jack Kevorkian, who seemed both delighted and slightly puzzled to have an actual patient.

He took one look at my head wound and, with a bit too much enthusiasm, whipped out a syringe roughly the size of a fuel pump. “Anesthesia,” he declared.

I, having some concerns about having a harpoon injected into my skull, politely declined. His response? A shrug and a simple, “Okay, tough guy, then I stitch you up without anesthetic.”

And so, we began. The first two stitches hurt like hell. The other eleven? Not so much—either because of adrenaline or because my nerve endings had simply given up.

Stitched up and looking like a discount Frankenstein, I was moved to a bed. No shirt anymore—they had cut it off. Instead, I got one of those classic hospital gowns, which I’m pretty sure was designed for maximum discomfort and public humiliation. But lying down for the first time after the ordeal? Fantastic.

Then entered the Korean nurse. She took one glance at me, I looked back at her and said, “My shoulder is broken.” She nodded, as if mentally filing that under things to ignore.

Next Entry was Dr. Kevorkian again. He grabbed my left arm and lifted it—immediately sending a shockwave of pain straight to my skull. “See? Not broken,” he declared triumphantly. The nurse nodded again. I was starting to suspect this was all some sort of performance art.

Just as I was about to finally rest, two Saudi police officers arrived. Apparently, in those days, it was standard procedure to make sure I didn’t flee the country before settling any potential diya (blood money) obligations. In Saudi Arabia, diya is a financial compensation paid in case of accidental death or injury. Given that no one else had been involved in the accident, this seemed a bit excessive, but hey—rules are rules.

At last, it was time to call in the cavalry: our sponsor. I reached his office, and to my surprise, they already knew about the accident. One of my colleagues, still worried because no one knew where I’d been taken, had raised the alarm. The police officer explained my location, and within minutes, the station chief of Al Khobar traffic police called in. Suddenly, my desert detention turned into a VIP police escort to Al Khobar.

On the way, I was eager to see the car wreck—after all, it had been my near-death experience on wheels. But when we passed the crash site, there was nothing. No wreckage. No debris. Not even a skid mark. It was as if the whole thing had never happened.

Upon arrival at the Al Khobar police station, I was led to a large office where a very official-looking man sat behind an imposing mahogany desk. He slid some documents toward me. “Sign these,” he said.

“What am I signing?”

“You confirm that you have no claim against the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”

Ah. The standard paperwork for miraculously making an accident disappear.

I signed. Then, naturally, I asked about the car wreck.

“What car?”

“The one from the accident.”

“What accident?”

“My friend,” he said with a knowing smile, “you have to understand—no accident, no car, no report… no problem.”

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It turned out that our sponsor’s brother was a Colonel in the King’s Guard. A few well-placed phone calls later, and my entire brush with death had been administratively erased. At least, for now.

The police then asked if I had any requests.

“Yes. A good hospital.”

And so, with sirens blaring, I received a high-speed police escort to King Fahad University Hospital—because if you’re going to be injured in Saudi Arabia, you might as well get the royal treatment.

There, American doctors did a full check-up, including X-rays, and finally, I could rest in a proper bed. The results?

13 stitches in the head

Left shoulder actually broken (take that, Dr. Kevorkian)

Three fingers on my left hand—ligaments and nerves torn

Right ankle sprained

Right thigh muscle torn

Three broken ribs on my right side

Various cuts and bruises on my face, arms, and hands

After everything, I finally had proper medical care, a comfortable bed, and the peace of knowing that, officially, none of this had ever happened

That evening, one of my colleagues came by to get me discharged from the hospital. Simple task, right? Not quite.

Since I had entered the hospital as a car accident patient, official policy required a police report for discharge. No report? No discharge. However, thanks to some well-placed royal phone calls, my accident had officially never happened—which meant there was no report. And since there was no report, I was now trapped in a bureaucratic loop worthy of Kafka himself.

My colleague, after some back-and-forth with hospital staff, was getting visibly frustrated. I told him, “Just get the car outside.”

Then I made my move.

I politely requested a cigarette break, hobbled my way outside—head bandaged, arm in a sling, still dressed in my fashionable hospital gown—and executed what was probably the slowest, most ungraceful hospital escape in history. Forget "running"—it was more of a determined shuffle.

But hey, it worked. I was discharged.

When we arrived at the Al Khobar Palace Hotel, the Filipino reception staff looked at me as if they had just walked onto a Hollywood movie set. Bloodstained, bandaged, and barely standing, I must have been quite the sight.

Then, my colleague—never one to miss an opportunity for comedy—casually turned to them and said:

“This is our head of security; he needs a room.”

They didn’t know whether to laugh or scrutinize me further. Obviously, my comment, “yes it has been a tough day and I need a shower” did not help to erase that suspicion. Finally, in my room, I took what was probably the longest shower of my life, got dressed, and collapsed into bed.

As for my colleagues, apart from some minor cuts and bruises, they escaped the wreck without serious injury. While I was busy getting stitched up and escorted around Saudi Arabia by the police, they continued their journey to Al Jubail, reached the Hadeed Steel Plant, and completed the turnaround as planned—without me.

The next day, I somehow dragged myself to Dammam, boarded a flight to Germany, and endured what I can only describe as a long-haul ordeal that I will spare you the details of. Let’s just say that broken ribs and economy class are a match made in hell. Back in Germany, I had to report to a specialist since the whole thing was classified as a work accident. A series of X-rays followed, with particular focus on my neck, spine, and back.

After a while, the head doctor walked in, looked at the scans, and asked:

“When did this happen?”

“July 18th,” I replied.

He nodded. “Remember that date. It’s probably one of the luckiest days of your life.”

He then showed me the X-ray. The vertebrae where the upper spine connects to the skull had been slightly shifted. Then he added:

“One more millimeter… and it would have been fatal. No question.”

So, with that rather sobering news, I went home—to celebrate being one millimeter away from never telling this story.

A few months later, a letter from our Vienna office arrived. Inside was a neatly prepared invoice—for the car.

My boss took one look at it, grabbed a pen, and scribbled a response:

“Upon receipt of the accident report, we will process payment.”

Considering the accident never officially happened, I assume that payment is still pending today.

For me personally, recovery was a challenge. For weeks, I slept sitting in a chair—lying on my back was impossible because of the head wound, my left side was out of the question due to the broken shoulder, and lying on my right or stomach was no better with broken ribs. But in that time, forced into stillness, I had plenty of moments to reflect. Life can change in an instant, and that realization stayed with me. No matter the situation, you have to make the most of it—no exceptions.

This story wouldn’t be complete without mentioning a tragic loss. From our remaining team, our colleague Gerd Engelhardt, just 23 years old, never made it home. He passed away on the project site—found in the morning after the night shift, lying on top of a flue gas duct. Heart attack. A great personality, gone too soon. One day, I will write his story.

Gone, but never forgotten.

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