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When I was 26, someone cut me with a machete in the jungles of Panama. That person was me. It was a self-inflicted wound because I was a complete moron. It was pretty much my first time ever in something resembling a wilderness. I was with an aid group hiking to a remote mountain village, so we were surrounded by nature, many hours away from the closest hospital. I had recently bought a cheap machete and I was very proud of that machete because it was like I had a sword. And even though I technically didn't need it, I was happily slashing away at any branch or leaf which was in my path. At one point we had to cross a stream, and like a doofus I kept my machete out. As I was crossing with my heavy pack I slipped on a loose rock and started going down. The whole time I was falling I thought, "Is this how I die? Stabbed to death by my own machete?" I tried to keep the blade as far away from me as possible but when I hit the stream, my hand bounced back and I sliced ope