In Awe of the Atlas

The van—white, streaked with dirt—arrives just as dusk is slanting across La Serena. The town is quietest at this time of day, the panadérias asleep behind their grates, the shell-strewn beaches deserted without a scintillating sun. José, my driver and celestial expert for the evening, helps me into the van like a true Chileno gentleman. We’re about to leave the ocean for the desert, the valley for the hills.

We are going, José tells me, to the stars.

Two hours east lies Mamalluca Observatory, the nesting place of one of the world’s most powerful telescopes. Chile’s Atacama Desert is world-renowned for its stargazing, a bone-dry land devoid of light pollution, with high-altitude access to the skies. As a city dweller, my experience of starlight is thwarted by industry and smog. Tonight I want more than to see the stars: I want to hold them in my hand.

José laughs when I tell him this. Como quieres, he says. As you like. We’re driving through pisco vineyards, the ruffled grapevines falling into shadow as the sun melts toward the horizon. Soon the lush green of the valley has given way to a more lunar landscape, craggy rocks and barren hollows, and I think how appropriate it feels: on our way to the stars, we cross the moon.

We stop for dinner in the village of Vicuña, where the lights of a night market tremble against the now tar-colored sky. Around us, Chilean mothers barter for maize and honeydew; children lick ice cream from jewel-toned spoons. An old Atacameña woman beckons me, and I let her run the cool pulp of a copao fruit across my sunburned cheeks. José tells me the copao has healing powers. I tell him that for me, his entire country does, too.

By the time we arrive at Mamalluca, electricity seems a thing of the past. Above us, the moon is shining so brilliantly that I can see mountains in the distance, busy ant-life at my feet. José and I climb the spiral stairway to the telescope, a mechanical cylinder the size of a bathtub, and together we look into the depths of the Milky Way, draped like purple lace across the sky.

José points to the Southern Cross, explaining that back when the Inca roamed this land, they saw toads and serpents in the stars. He is the keeper of an ancient knowledge, and for the first time in my life, I feel tethered to a cryptic past. I lift my hand, clasping the bright blade of Orion’s sword between my fingers. It’s a light load, but it contains the weight of centuries.

This is what it means to hold the stars.