As I walked to the plane, I could see my fiancee, Soledad, waving from the airport balcony. It was 12 October 1972 and I was flying from our home in Uruguay to Chile for four days, where some of my friends were playing rugby against an old boys’ school team. I had been invited along by my best friend, Gastón, to make up numbers.
There was a party atmosphere on board. I went to sit next to Gastón, but someone beat me to it so I took a seat further forward. About 90 minutes into the flight, we hit an air pocket. I heard the pilot shouting, “Give me power!” The plane was heading straight towards a mountain. There was a huge crash as the wing hit the rocks. I put my head between my legs and closed my eyes. I was convinced I was going to die at 24.
Air and snow whipped past me as the plane slid down the mountain. As it stopped, there was a moment of absolute silence, followed by shouts for help. In front of me, I saw a pile of bodies, but behind me there was nothing. The back of the plane was gone. Mine was the last row left.
We jumped out into the snow, but it was so deep we immediately sank to our waists. I scrambled back into the fuselage, where we all tended to the injured. There were 27 of us alive, with 24 unharmed. I had just a tiny wound on my knee. Night fell quickly. In the darkness I felt the body heat of another man, 19-year-old Roberto Canessa. We spent the night huddled together, trying to keep one another awake; that human contact kept us alive.
The following morning we built a wall with suitcases to keep out the worst of the cold and listened to a radio we’d found, waiting for news of our rescue. We melted snow in the sun to make water, and shared the meagre rations of food between us.
After 10 days we heard the devastating news that the search had been called off. Knowing we had no food left, we began discussing the unthinkable – eating the frozen flesh of our dead friends. Then something incredible happened: men started saying that if they died they’d willingly give their bodies to their friends.
Faced with death, we all made a pact of love. But eating human flesh isn’t easy. My mouth wouldn’t open, and I couldn’t bring myself to swallow. But eventually, your survival instinct prevails.
Sixteen days after the crash, we heard a sound like 300 horses galloping towards us. As I tried to stand up, everything imploded. An avalanche buried us under metres of compacted snow. All the oxygen was sucked out of the plane. My friend Fito’s foot was over my face, creating an air pocket, but with so little oxygen I felt my body surrender to death. Then Fito was lifted out of the snow by some of the others who had escaped the avalanche. My lungs filled with air. We dug like animals to rescue the others, but eight of them died.
On 12 December, three men set off to walk to Chile to find help. One returned, but miraculously two of them, Roberto and Nando, crossed the Andes on foot in 10 days. Their story was told in a book and later a film staring Ethan Hawke; but less has been said about the men waiting behind with no idea if they’d make it.
A week passed and I decided that if help didn’t come by 24 December, I’d allow myself to die. Gangrene had developed in my right leg, and I was in too much pain to move and could barely eat. I had lost 45 kilos.
Two days before I was ready to surrender to death, we heard on the radio that help was coming. After 72 days, the sound of helicopters was the most beautiful music. I ended up spending 24 December drinking champagne, reunited with my family.
On the mountain I kept a notebook. I wrote that if I survived I’d marry Soledad and have a family of my own. When I returned I put my energies into our family and running a dairy farm. Although 16 of us survived, families from our neighbourhood were mourning loved ones who died in the tragedy, so I waited a long time before I felt able to talk.
But when I retired I felt ready to revisit what had happened. I began writing about the brave friends I lost. They didn’t get to live their lives, whereas I was lucky. I’ve enjoyed a long life with my family; now it’s time to reflect on the sacrifices others made for us.
• As told to Natasha Holt
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