Climbing Trail
The Andes tragedy Part 6
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We all prayed every night, asking the Lord to hasten the coming of the savior. I was still waiting for the sound of the helicopter approaching. I nodded in agreement as Marcelo encouraged us to remain confident. But still, my doubts never stopped, and with each silent second, my mind drifted westward, toward the giant slopes that bound us. The questions ran out of my brain.
What happens if we have to climb there? Will I survive the journey? How steep is the slope? How cold is the night? Is the ground stable? Which path should I take? What happens if I fall? What is behind that mountain?
After Susy's death, twenty-seven survivors remained. Most of us were bruised and torn. Roberto and Gustavo are only minor injuries. While others are heavier, such as: Liliana, Javier, Pedro Algorta, Moncho Sabella, Daniel Shaw, Bobby Francois and Juan Carlos Mendendez. Del Gado and Alvaro Mangino are being treated. Antonio Vizintin, who had nearly bled to death, quickly recovered his strength.
There were only two people who were seriously injured: Antonio Nogueira, whose legs were broken, and Rafael Echavarren, whose calf muscles had been torn from his bones. Both of them continue to feel intense pain. Seeing them suffer is a horror to me.
At first Rafael and Arturo shared the agony of sleeping on the floor like the rest of us. But just a little bit of us shifting or pushing will cause them tremendous pain. Then Roberto made them some kind of hammock. In the hammock, they could not share the warmth of the other bodies and they suffered more from the cold. But for them the cold was a misery milder than the pain.
After Susy died, Liliana became the only woman to survive. At first he was treated differently, we asked him to sleep with the injured in a warmer luggage room. He did it a few nights, after which he did not want to get special treatment. She was worried about her young children at home. Here, she became a mother to all of us.
I started to get to know my friends more than ever. Coche Inciarte with his slovenly jokes and warm smile. Pedro Algorta is a brilliant thinker. Fito Strauch, a quiet but mentally stable man among us. Arturo, who is always clumsy and anti-religious but always solemn when praying. Enrique, whose stomach was pierced by iron, was always worried about the circumstances of others. Coco, which always makes people laugh. And then there's Bobby Francois who no longer wants to survive. If at night his blanket blurted, he would not attempt to cover his body again. So we all looked after him and looked after him.
It was winter in the Andes, storms raged all the time, leaving us stuck in planes. But on sunny days, we dragged some chairs out and styled them like recliners for sunbathing.
But before long the sun would descend on the western slopes, the air froze again, and we re-entered the plane, preparing for the misery of the night.
The cold air at high altitude is really evil and aggressive. The airframe protected us from the wind that was about to kill us, but still the air inside was extremely cold and cruel. We have matches, but very few things can be burned here.
We've burned all the papers we've got. But when the fire goes out, the cold gets worse. Our best defense against the cold is to huddle together and pull a thin blanket over our bodies.
I always sleep with a blanket over my head to shut the warmth of my breath. Sometimes I lie with my head close to my face
someone next to me, to get a little breath, a little warmth, from him.
One night we had a conversation, but it was very difficult, our teeth were grinding and our jaws were shivering in the cold. Many times I try to divert myself from this misery by praying, or by imagining my father at home, but this coldness cannot be ignored for a long time. Sometimes there is nothing to do but give in to suffering and count the seconds until morning comes. Many times, in those moments of helplessness, I would go crazy.
In the early days of this ordeal, hunger was no big deal for us. The cold and the mental stress we endure, along with depression and fear, have left us unafraid to eat. And since we
assured that rescuers would soon arrive here, we were quite content to get a little ration of food sparingly divided by Marcelo. But help did not appear.
One morning towards the end of that first week in the mountains, I was standing outside the plane, staring at a bean
chocolate in my palm. Our supplies had run out, this was the last meal given to me, and I desperately decided to make these beans last. On the first day after that, I slowly
sucked the chocolate until I saw only the nuts, then I put the beans in my pants pocket. On the second day with
I carefully divided the beans into two parts, put one part in my pocket again and put the other half in my mouth. I sucked the beans slowly for hours, and only allowed myself to bite bit by bit. I did the same thing on the third day, and finally when I bit the bean to the point of no end, there was no food left.
I spent time rummaging through my brain trying to think of a possible food source. There may be plants living somewhere, or insects under new. Maybe our pilot keeps a little meal in the cockpit. Maybe there was food that fell when we dragged the chair out? I have to check the pile of junk again. Did we check all the pockets of the dead before they were buried?
Again and again I came to the same conclusion: unless we wanted to eat the clothes we were wearing, there was nothing here but aluminum, plastic, ice and stone.
It was almost afternoon and we were lying on the plane preparing for the night. My gaze was fixed on the wound on the arm of a friend lying near me. The middle of the wound was wet and peeling and there was a crust of blood drying at the edges. I couldn't stop staring at that blood crust, I felt my appetite popping up.
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