“Three years … Poof. It hasn’t rained here – really rained – in ten.” Alain had a bit of a smirk when he said this. He was always making jokes, like noting that a Frenchman wouldn’t need to shower for at least a month, unlike Americans, who seem to want one everyday, or Brazilians, who are in the spray more often than they brush their teeth.
But his haciendas were built of real mud-and-straw adobe. Practical if that’s all you are surrounded by, dust and dead plants, but a bit of a hassle when wet. Adobe tends to disintegrate if it gets soaked.
The Atacama Space Lodge was another stop on Craig’s austral astral tour of private observatories his OPT had helped set up. He’d known Alain for decades it seemed; Alain had more than half a dozen scope of all sizes mounted on concrete pads just outside his house, where he hosted nightly sky tours into the dry thin air of Chile’s Atacama desert. San Pedro de Atacama is now the third most visited location in the country, and a steady stream of tourists innundated the pueblo-esque village, with nothing to do in town except walk down mud streets, look at other tourists, eat, and sign up for bus tours to the local sights. He had an office in town, and had been pulling them in for ten years. It’s a year-round operation, except for nights of the full moon.
After a few years of playing ‘scope host, he got the idea to build a set of three adobe duplexes. Each is lovingly designed in the classic style; they could have been lifted right out of Santa Fe. They feature a back yard view of the local volcanic cones and Andean peaks, rising over 20,000 feet from the valley floor’s 8000. And in the front yard sits a whole squadron of telescopes. Some are covered by traditional domes. These he rents to professional astronomers, some of whom work on site. But most are operated remotely, swinging ghost like with no one in sight at the controls.
And then there are money-makers – his cadre of smaller scopes, each of which can be focussed on oneparticular celestial marvel. So he can have, say, three shifts of 12 tourists, each of whom will only have to wait for one other person to look before moving on to the next spectacle. All the while Alain is moving amongst them, answering questions, reminding them what they are looking at, and generally keeping the show going.
We arrived on Friday night. Terry and Anne had been in Atacama since Tuesday, and reported they were greeted that evening with a short, intense gully washer.
“You should have seen it – in less than five minutes, those big fat drops had turned the streets to lakes, or raging canyons. We were told that’s highly unusual,” Terry gushed. “I hope it clears up tonight, so I can get some shooting in. I may wake up at 3 or 4, just to get the darkest, brightest Milky Way.”
It was cloudy at 8:30, and Alain had canceled the evening’s tours. This made him grouchy. “This shitty sky,” he kept mumbling. But by 9:30, nearly 90% of the heavens were visible, and it looked like the clouds would fully dissipate to the Southwest within another 15 minutes. We trooped up to his gallery to check out the skies. Alain then led us on a personal tour of the usual suspects: Jupiter, the Nebulas, Ekaterina, and all the others we’d seen three nights before in Vicuña. He was a gracious host, even giving Cheryl his own fluffy jacket when she complained of a little chill.
Next day, we toured Tatio geyser basin, returning about 5 PM to darkening skies. After an hour for recuperation, we gathered under the palapa behind Leigh’s unit. Wine appeared, as did an electrical light show to the west, just under the volcanos. A long black cloud extended east, and wispy curtains of rain, barely reaching ground, waved onto the gravel desert floor.
“I hope this doesn’t mean Alain has to cancel again this evening,” Craig observed. “He said he needs the money.”
“And I was hoping to set up my star tracker up on the concrete pads, and get some really good night sky shots.” Terry has a long history of astral photography. Back home in Gig Harbor, he even has built a small observatory near his home. But the low elevation and maritime climate doesn’t make for the sharpest pictures. Still, his photos are impressive. “And if it sprinkles just a little bit, that’s actually better…it pulls the small dust particles out of the air.”
As they talked, the lightning moved closer, and we started to hear the associated thunder – maybe 3-5 miles away. One particular spot seemed to be getting all the action. Every ten seconds or so, a bolt flashed down across the valley. As we commented on the persistence and regularity, it moved even closer, clap following flash in 2-3 seconds. Loud enough to make us jump and murmur. Craig noticed a spray of dust rising from the ground, about 500 meters away.
“Is that dust, or smoke,” I wondered. “Some of those trees looked pretty dry.” Alain’s property sits about half a mile in from the main highway, off a dirt and gravel track bulldozed across what looked like a dry lake bed or river course. A few Algorobbo trees were struggling out of the brownish red clay pan. I walked through the house to the driveway, and next door to grab a jacket.
As I came back in, another flash zapped, seemingly directly overhead. I started counting, but didn’t make it to “1”. The loudest thunderjolt I’ve ever heard jumped me a good foot in the air with concussion and fear. My heart may have literally skipped a beat, and I’m sure I missed a breath.
Returning to the others, they too were all abuzz, like survivors of a river raft which barely avoided capsizing in a Class IV rapid. As we reassured ourselves that, yes, we were all still there, the sky dropped rain. Drops the size of a thumb, making 6 inch wide spaltters as they hit. WIthin minutes, the dessicated lake bed around us turned liquid. Gravel underfoot became squishy, and sounds on the metal roof turned from scattershot to constant tinny drumming. We scattered to our rooms.
Cheryl and I returned to find the floor glistening, and water seeping in from the outside patio. We deployed a few pots strategically under drips, placed towels in lieu of sandbags, and felt a little trepidation should this continue.
I walked next door. The thatch covered carport roof was no match for the onslaught. Inside Leigh’s digs, they were dealing with a sloppy mess. In one corner, the roof had failed to channel all the water from the roof out over the walls – part of it was leaking into the adobe wall, which was disintegrating before out eyes. No amount of drip catching or towel placement was going to fix this. We just had to wait it out.
Leigh grew increasingly restive and disgruntled. It was obvious nothing could be done until the downpour ceased, and we’d just have to deal with the consequences, whatever they might be. Within half an hour, the rain did die down, and sun breaks appeared to the north over town. We caucused, and determined to give a try at finding dinner in town. Alain appeared, to check on the damage. Leigh received a long-handled squeegee, which she deployed at the worst of the mess, guiding dirt and water out the front door.
“What do you think, Alain, should we give it a try on town for dinner?” Leigh asked as she contined her hydrologic repairs.
“Well, sure, you can get into town – this won’t bother them, the restaurants will be open, no problem. But getting out of here might be tough. You have four wheel? Good. I’ll just guide you on the alternate route – the main road can turn into a lake. The commune (a county in Chile) is supposed to maintain this road, it belongs to them, but whenever I ask, they just say, ‘You can take care of it, can’t you?’ Hmmpf! They see rich white European, think I can afford it. You just follow my truck, OK?”
Now, I’ve driven a lot on snow, but have never really been a big four-wheeler, the kind of guy who seeks out mud and ruts just to slide around it. But this was worse than any blizzard. The truck, even in 4 wheels, still fishtailed, slid, and repeatedly failed to grip as we jousted with the supersaturated sand.
After five minutes or so of this fun, with four adults slammed into the rear seat, all grabbing the inside roll bar out of mortal fear, we made it to the highway. Once in town, the road turns to dirt right at the customs office. The routes to Bolivia and Argentina – both about 50-100 miles away with no intervening civilization – leave from there, at the edge of San Pedro. We parked at the central maket lot, and picked our way around the swamped and muddy track towards the central plaza.
Terry checked out the restaurant where he’d made “reservations.” Dark. Staff at the front announced, “Closed; no ice.” Forget electricity to cook with; keeping the ingrediants cool was a higher priority, it seemed.
We turned around and found a hostal with a generator. The French desk clerk told us, “We have only one cook and one waiter, so you can come in and eat, but it may be a while. And maybe all we can serve you are drinks and a cheese plate.”
90 minutes later, after 5 Pisco sours and a cheese plate, the bill appeared. 12,000 pesos – about US$18 – it read, with no mention of the drinks, 3500 pesos each. The harried waiter was sent back to readjust when we reminded him about the drinks. But he had 20 other tables waiting for him, and seemed unable to get the changes made. So, we sought the French clerk. He agreed to give it a try. Ten minutes later, after struggling with a pen, paper, and his meagre math skills, he produced a bill for 22,500 pesos – which apparently included 3 pisco sours. Frustrated by this unsuccessful outcome after apparently negotiating with myself, we paid up and agreed to call it good walking out under cloudless, moonless skies. Terry at least would be pleased with the ultimate outcome of the evening in this, the driest place on earth.