Finding Pisco Sours, Stars, and Bravery In the Atacama Desert

Finding Pisco Sours, Stars, and Bravery

In the Atacama Desert

“He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly."

- Pablo Neruda

Deep in the arid Chilean desert, on a frigid July night, the wild animals gathered around a roaring fire, festive cocktails in hand, dancing with a joyful commotion to 70’s disco beats under the starry night sky. A timid llama moved closer to the exuberant crowd, holding hands with her partner, a dog. The llama felt emboldened by taking part in the animal ritual of howling at a new moon rising after the total solar eclipse. They all let out their innermost howls, trying to reach to the vast outer edges of space and time they had just witnessed - together.

My partner, Ron, and I decided to travel 6,000 miles to witness a total solar eclipse in the most remote part of Chile - the Atacama desert. We traveled with a group of fellow stargazers, some of whom were squarely in the “I've-seen-every-eclipse-since-1950” category. Meanwhile, I was completely new to the eclipse-chaser scene, having only heard about them. I also didn’t quite “get” the appeal. Lasting only two minutes - was it really worth it to travel this far? Or could we watch it on the internet from the comforts of home?

Onward we traveled, Ron armed with a giant telescope and several telephoto cameras, and me with my emergency kit full of medicine, band-aids, bug repellent and the like. I had read there were bats teeming in the Atacama desert. They wouldn’t pose a problem if you stayed in the populated areas; however, the hosting team had constructed the eclipse viewing stage purposely as far away from ambient light as possible - just how the bats like it.

On our first evening in Chile, we were placed on charter buses to travel up the winding mountainous hills towards the Observatorio Astronómico Andine. While I had my fears focused squarely on the rabid bats in the desert, I had to make room for the newfound danger we found ourselves in. With torrential rains pouring down, our decrepit bus missed the turn off to the observatory altogether and spent 20 minutes groaning up a one-way steep muddy road, with over 30 switchbacks, adjacent to a 400-foot cliff. Only after the other bus driver called and alerted our driver that we were indeed on the wrong road did he make a terrifying 50-point u-turn, as I distinctly remember thinking - well, this certainly would be a weird way to go.

We did make it to the observatory just as the sky cleared and a magnificent bright red sunset greeted us - a true God-like welcome after being snatched from the jaws of death. With Chilean wine in hand, we learned that the country is known to possess almost 50% of the world’s astronomical infrastructure, given its position on the earth and low ambient light pollution. We enjoyed all the local fare, capping off the evening with nine separate cakes, each depicting the phases of the pending solar eclipse. The bus ride down was much less eventful, and we fell asleep that night, dreaming of the stars - albeit now in the Southern Hemisphere night skies, which means the constellations familiar to us were now “upside down”.

We flew into Calama the next day - the gateway to our Atacama desert adventure, located roughly 1,000 miles north of Santiago. We traveled by a bumpy bus ride to San Pedro de Atacama, a charming adobe town with a population of 4,969. We stopped along the way to our “rustic” hotel to visit the phenomenal Valle de la Luna. Reminiscent of a moonscape, we arrived just in time for a glorious purple and orange-hued sunset set against otherworldly sand dunes, with the Andes mountains in the distance. I sometimes have anxiety when met with vastness, and this was a true test. Sand dunes for miles all around, literal WALLS of red and yellow fine grains. The wind started to kick up, and we felt a bit like Laurence of Arabia making our way back to the bus. I found my comfort in being with people who were unafraid. I could experience the vastness with the awe in which the others met the endless sand dunes.

While I thought the Valle de la Luna would cap the awe factor for this part of the desert, I was proven ENTIRELY wrong. The next day found us experiencing the snow-laden lagoons of the Altiplano, descending down into the Gran Salar de Atacama - a giant salt flat, populated with three types of bright pink flamingos. I did not want to travel, again, by bus up a very windy one-way road. I’d had enough of that trauma. But, the only way to get to the snowy mountain was to take the bus up 13,000 feet on a twisting dirt road. I thought - when am I EVER going to be in this part of the world again, with a chance to see these unique sites? Ron and I got situated in the back of the bus so I could snuggle up with him, giving me the necessary fortitude to endure yet another treacherous bus ride. I was met with jaw-dropping scenery, after rumbling through charming adobe-dotted villages. The greens and blues of the grasses poked through the pristine white snow, all set off against a deep blue lagoon.

It was FREEZING at the top of the mountain, and we all donned our newly-purchased wool scarves and hats and mittens from a local shop along the way. Of course, all my gear had embroidered llamas. The artisans sold their woolen items adjacent to the local “eatery” along the route. This was not a typical restaurant. It looked more like a multipurpose room with an occasionally-used stove and sink veiled behind a blue curtain - kind of like that which separates first class passengers from economy. The four-course luncheon was served family-style, with 10 people to each table. The matriarch of the family, the grandmother, was serving us right alongside her grandchildren - a family effort. There was something so precious about the kind care in which the embroidered linens, obviously ironed to a crisp state, were laden with piping hot soups served from brightly decorated ceramic bowls. Feeling more of a guest in someone’s home than a restaurant patron added to that growing sense of bravery I felt. They LIVED here. It wasn’t just some vast desert. This was someone’s home. And anywhere that is someone’s home conveys to me a sense of security and solace.

That night, we made our way into the small town in search of a bar that someone had told us about where we could watch the COPA América soccer finals. Chile was playing against Colombia. I was not too keen on venturing out in the dark to an unknown bar during a rowdy soccer season. Ron was convincing, putting my mind at ease that we would be with a big group, and we would be perfectly safe. Our group of 10 settled into a booth, with beers all around, and set about painting each other’s faces with the colors of the Chilean flag to show our temporary patriotism to the home team.

We were flush with memories of snowy lagoons and flamingos, when, in the midst of a blissful beer-induced buzz, we noticed a growing excitement in the bar, as the last of the penalty kicks would determine the winner. We sat riveted as the Chilean-kicked ball soared over the outstretched hands of the Columbian goalie and into the net. Ron had been right. We not only were totally safe - but - we were THERE, a unique moment in that bar, truly sewn into the fabric of the community. We sat in a cramped, lively bar in the middle of the Atacama desert, beers in hand, faces hastily adorned with the Chilean flag, surrounded by victorious chants of “CHI! CHI! CHI! LE! LE! LE! VIVA CHILE!!!”. I felt a sense of smug joy being at the right place at the right moment in time.

We hopped aboard our next flight in the morning to arrive at our viewing grounds for the eclipse, traveling farther into the desert from Calama to La Serena, which fittingly translates to “the serene”. As we drove up to the campsite, we were greeted by local Chileans, with lively flute-based music ringing into the desert hills, with women in festive red dresses and men adorned in traditional celebratory garb. Chilean wine was poured, and us weary travelers hopped right into the scene, grabbing dance partners. One local gentleman who twirled me around the dirt-based makeshift dance floor offered me a charming white kerchief, with a beautiful embroidery of local flowers and vineyards. He insisted I keep it, which I still have in my drawer to this day. A memento of the generous hospitality endemic in Chile. And a cause of another fear of mine on this trip. The STARK contrast of the wealthy tourists descending into a specially constructed site, when I am certain the living wages of most of the staff employed is paltry at best. I do live within that conflict of grateful for opportunities, yet, acutely aware of privilege in traveling to other parts of the world.

The group we were traveling with was made up of “future astronauts”, people who had purchased a ticket to fly into space with Virgin Galactic, a commercial space company. We were not exactly roughing it with large huts, complete with individual bathrooms and showers within the tents. Our queen size bed had a real mattress and fluffy down comforter, cozily ensconced in a peach-hued mosquito net. The faux zebra rugs made for a real Ralph Lauren-level camping experience. There was a “mess tent” where gourmet meals were delivered to us daily, while we would listen to guest lectures detailing the history of eclipse watching, what and how to look at an eclipse, and information about viewing stars from the southern night skies. Our temporary village had been erected over the past six months to lie almost exactly in the line of totality to witness the eclipse.

The day before the eclipse, we arose and did sunrise yoga, offering sun salutations in the midst of the hilly desert dunes of the “South American Tibet”, Elqui Valley. There was something extra peaceful and magical about this land renowned for its mystics, gurus, and healers - an energy vortex that blended the heavens and Earth. This wine region is also fast becoming the world’s leading astronomy and astro-tourism destination, given its pure skies, high altitude, low population density and non-existent cloud cover. After a grounding yoga session, we visited the local pisco distillery to imbibe the grape-colored treasure of Chile. My fear of being in this vastness was giving way to wonderment, bathed in the mix of wine, sunshine, and energy fields.

The night fell over Elqui Valley, summoning us home to our camp under the brilliant skies. There were several NASA-grade telescopes lined up for viewing. My partner Ron set his giant telescope up just so and called me over, looking smugly at the eyepiece. “Babe, you’re going to want to see this.” And as I bent over to place my eye on the viewing lens, I gasped. Here I was in Chile, looking up at the “backwards” night sky, and I actually saw the rings of Saturn, clear as if looking at an illustration in a children’s book. I stumbled back and looked up to see what my bare eye could see, then dove back onto the viewing lens to gaze upon the celestial beauty. It was magnificent.

Going to bed that night, I lie awake feeling the enormity of the next day. Here we were, Day 6 of our trip, and on the seventh day, we would rest and see the eclipse. We had traveled on four planes and several buses over six days to arrive at this point. I knew I had to dig deep, armed with the information we had learned, to look at that eclipse with all the awareness I could muster. I snuggled in closer to Ron beneath the mosquito tent and we whispered in hushed voices about how the next day would unfold. He was not only a guest on the trip, but he would be giving a photography lesson about how to shoot the eclipse with iPhones and more complicated cameras. We made a pact that no matter where he was in the process, we would be together, holding each other, when the actual eclipse occurred.

Thankfully, the day started easily as each day had - with a group of friendly fellow observers who were slowly developing acquaintances into friendships over meals and activities. We snacked on local tangy goat cheese, briny olives, and wine the color of red roses. This was the day! The eclipse event would begin at 3:00 pm, with totality occurring at 4:38 pm for two minutes and 15 seconds. Everyone set up their cameras and telescopes in a line, and there were couches arranged facing the horizon. I didn’t know quite what to do with myself. Should I sit? Or stand? Or look into the telescope? Or look through the eclipse glasses? So many decisions - and in such a short amount of time! I decided to switch off looking through my special glasses and through the telescope. The telescopes are rigged with special lenses to make it safe to look into the sun. (Obviously, never do this without that protective lens!)

The crowd gathered. We started out with the “foreplay” of the event, as the sun gradually became obscured, you could hold up a cheese grater and the partially eclipsed sun would create a design on your face. We laughed and delighted in the growing obscurity. Then, exactly as foretold, at 4:38, the sun was indeed eclipsed from sight. You could still make out a bright ring around the blacked out sun, which surprised me. I thought the sun would be completely eclipsed. I learned from the British astronomy expert Nigel Henbest, that the bright ring is known as the solar corona - the beautiful rays and structure of blown out particles that you see surrounding the eclipsed sun. During the darkness, all the chirping birds were silenced as if nighttime, as the bats came alive, thinking they had missed their chance to catch bugs at sundown. There is a precipitous drop in temperature that descends as the sun is blocked. I stood, shivering, holding on to Ron’s hand, as a hush fell over the normally rowdy crowd. Mouths gaped at the timeless phenomenon we bore witness to.

I felt the essence of existence right then - as if everything in time had brought me to this place to see this sight. You don’t just see an eclipse, you feel it. The sudden coldness. The eerie darkness where sunshine stood less than five seconds before. The rapidity of changes to your own bodily senses - silence all around, with a heightened sense of smell as sight is diminished. And while lasting only two minutes, during that brief time I distinctly remembered a phrase my high school English teacher, who was married to a member of the Chumash tribe, taught us about: “the eternal now”. That is how it felt. And my fear had been eclipsed by so much sensory intake. I HAD to exist in the here and now to take it all in. Awe won out over fear in that moment, and has stayed with me in the form of a newfound bravery.

That evening, the hosts had purchased onesie-type animal pajamas - called Kigurumi - for everyone to wear for our final night’s celebration. They had asked us before the trip what our favorite animal was, and voila, the full length animal costumes lie at the end of our bed in the tent after the eclipse. We donned our dog and llama costumes for dinner, joining the other animals around the campfire under the starry Southern skies to pay homage to the incredible event we had just experienced - together. And, yes, I could have watched a video of the eclipse online. But, then I would have missed the excitement of that final penalty kick for the win in a crowded Chilean bar; tasting my first tangy pisco sour at a time-tested local distillery; and, seeing the vibrant pink flamingos contrasted against the desolate gray salt flats.