I ended up in South America quite by chance. Having left school in High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, in 1993, thinking I might like to go into teaching, I took a gap year under the stewardship of an educational charity called Project Trust, which organises international volunteering. As far as I’m aware, Chile was selected for me at random – I had no real knowledge of the area and didn’t speak Spanish. I arrived in the capital, Santiago, with two other students, where we taught English at local schools.
It was a potent time in Chile – Pinochet’s military dictatorship had ended only three years before and it felt exciting to be witnessing the transition to a democracy. It could be dangerous, too. One afternoon, the three of us were on the way back from the market in the centre of Santiago, where we’d been buying supplies for a camping trip. It was 11 September – the 20th anniversary of the military coup – and we walked straight into the middle of a protest about the legacy of the dictatorship. The police were using water cannon and we found ourselves caught up in the chaos, fleeing with the crowd along the city’s main avenue, La Alameda. Little did I realise I’d soon find myself in an even more perilous situation.
Sign up to our Inside Saturday newsletter for an exclusive behind-the-scenes look at the making of the magazine’s biggest features, as well as a curated list of our weekly highlights.
That same afternoon, we set off for the Cajón del Maipo, a wildlife-rich canyon in the mountains to the south of Santiago. We camped overnight, and started back the following afternoon along a narrow path at the top of the canyon, where condors circled overhead. At the side of the track, the ground fell perilously away towards the Maipo River about 130 metres below. The three of us were walking single file, with me at the back carrying my tent, camping stove and clothing in a heavy rucksack. I remember noticing some rocks at the edge of the drop shift slightly as my companions walked over them. As I was processing this, the ground beneath my hiking boots gave way.
The slope wasn’t sheer but it was steep and hard, and there was nothing to grab on to. I started to roll downhill, rapidly picking up speed. I was only 18, but felt resigned to my fate – there seemed to be no chance of my fall being arrested until I reached the rock-strewn river, hundreds of feet below. “This is it,” I thought, seconds before I slammed into something unyielding,…
Click Here to Read the Full Original Article at Travel | The Guardian…