Buried in the Sky

Our group of astronomers took in the naked mountains by the sea. We had flown into the La Serena airport at noon, and found a parched landscape. What sparse vegetation there was survived by drinking coastal fog. Sleeping dogs melted in the sun and dotted the sidewalks beneath knotted telephone wires. In the busy town bazaar, an ancient man stood stooped by his cargo, dripping sweat, while two wolfish dogs sat on top of his empty car, a kind of primal security system.

We drove four hours inland on a road veiled in sand to reach the Las Campanas observatory. Shanty villages lined the highway, built around whatever water sources could be found. Buses were the only other vehicles we’d see. Sometimes people would get off nowhere in particular and walk into the perfectly empty desert. Children in layers of tattered sweaters watched our gleaming van drive by, their mothers calling to them from inside scraps of metal leaned up against wooden posts: These were their homes. Others lived in rusted-out school buses on blocks, fitted with grimy curtains. As we drove higher, the villages disappeared and there was nothing save a handful of llamas wandering the verdigris-flecked hills, chewing brittle scrub brush. Las Campanas translates to “the bells,” some say because its rocks, composed of volcanic material, sing when struck.

The domes housing the telescopes were gorgeous, radiant with the setting sun. Telescopes cost tens of millions of dollars to build, and more than a million a year to maintain. The stark contrast with the villages below unsettled me. My trip to Chile was one of many I took around the world to observe astronomical events. But more than any other, it would shake my vision of what science meant to me. Within a year, I would abandon science altogether.

I loved astronomy because it allows us to look backward to our origins. Eugene Wigner spoke of the “unreasonable effectiveness” of mathematics in describing the natural world, calling it