Suddenly I heard a stampede of horses. Then I thought: Snow has buried the plane.
We hit each other all night, stomping on bellies, legs. Hitting was the best way to show you cared. It made the blood flow.
I was pulled back from that terribly alluring point. I had already given in . I wanted to go there. Then I was back in the hell of the mountains. I felt such despair.
With the glass and the penknife we took out some shreds of muscle.
Others saw it as a holy communion. OK, that's fine. I wanted to see my father, to live.
How could He kill them all, make them eat their friends and then kill them? That God didn't exist.
Our dessert was toothpaste.
Imagine this whole valley: pure white everywhere. I felt privileged to be here. No one else but me was able to see this . The wind died, the moonlight was beautiful. Horribly cold. And I felt close to God.
I wrote a very simple message: "I'm from the plane that crashed. I'm Uruguayan."