Lunar Landscapes and Island Marvels

Chile is one of the longest and narrowest countries in the world, stretching from just south of the equator to just north of Antarctica. As a result, it is home to an astounding array of climates, from salt pans to glacial ice fields, with wine-growing regions and tropical rainforests in between. The country’s elevation ranges just as widely, from sea-level shores to the volcanic peak of Ojos del Salado, at 22,615 feet (for reference, Mount Everest’s highest point sits just over 29,000). Travelers to Chile can experience the earth’s elements at their most extreme and even savage—and they can take a peek at the other galaxies, too, under some of the darkest and clearest skies in our corner of the universe.

A classic Chile itinerary will include time to explore the leafy promenades and cultural highlights of Santiago, with visits to surrounding wineries and perhaps Valparaíso, followed by several nights in Patagonia and the Lake District. Many travelers will venture north to the Atacama—the driest non-polar desert in the world—and some will also catch a five-and-a-half-hour flight over the Pacific from Santiago to Rapa Nui, a Polynesian isle that was annexed by Chile in 1888 (and thus is better known by its western names Isla de Pascua or Easter Island).

On my recent visit to the country with Nayara Resorts—a thoughtful, privately-owned portfolio of eco-luxury properties in Central and South America, founded by Costa Rican entrepreneur and regenerative travel visionary Leo Ghitis—I instead found myself launching from one end of the elemental (and the cultural) spectrum to the other. It was an unconventional approach, to be sure. But sometimes putting two starkly opposing forces together is the best way to throw them into relief.

There are still places in this world where time stands still, and you can step out of it—and the Atacama Desert is one of them. Bordered by the Andes mountains, at the point where Chile, Peru and Bolivia meet, it is one of the harshest environments on our planet, and precious few species have managed to take root here, resulting in vast, undisturbed expanses that stretch past the mind’s limits.

The Atacama enjoys perfectly clear blue skies for 340 days out of the year, and some parts of the region do not receive rain for years on end. The landscapes seem to be pulled straight from a Dune set, in the highest definition, and mysterious creatures like vicuña and guanaco ignite the imagination as you weave through valleys with names like “Moon” and “Rainbow.” At one of the Atacama’s top attractions, the Tatio Geysers—the third-largest geothermal area in the world, after Yellowstone and Russia’s Dolina Geizerov—clouds of steam bubble and drift across a mirror of minerals that become kaleidoscopic in the morning light. On hiking trails, round, furry cacti seem to shape-shift under the beating sun into strange feline animals, golden and curled up at your feet. When the sun sets, the mountains transition through more shades of red, purple and orange than can be named. (In the Atacama, I finally understood the link between electronic music festivals and deserts. They’re a trip.) In the words of my Nayara guide Rodolfo: “Here we have an extreme life, a strange life and a beautiful life.” He said this as we were driving on the Ruta del Desierto, Atacama’s main highway that has just two lanes—one going in, and one going out.

Of course, time isn’t actually standing still here; it can’t. The Atacama Desert is also one of the planet’s most mineral-rich areas, with deep reserves of copper and lithium. Mining is the area’s principal industry, and the impact of this is becoming increasingly obvious; for instance, the desert’s famed flamingo population has declined as the pumps have drained their lagoon habitats.

The mineral reserves are controlled by the Atacama’s native Lican Antai people, one of the nine Indigenous groups that the Chilean government recognized in a 1993 concession, which included the handing back of ancestral lands containing natural resources that were at that time undiscovered. Today, both domestic and international interests lease extraction rights from the Lican Antai, many of whom continue to support this lucrative trade even as it threatens community health and the ancient traditions that managed to survive Spanish colonization and Chilean industrialization. (As my guide Joel—a professional hiker and a member of this 6,000-person population, whose family are shepherds in the tiny village of Machuga—explained: “It’s a bit of a bread for today, hunger for tomorrow complex.”)

Still, this desert and its inhabitants aren’t easily overcome—and sustainably-minded tourism poses one of the most hopeful paths into the future. “We were hidden from the world for thirty years under the Pinochet dictatorship, and people are just starting to catch on,” said Joel. (The luxury travel industry in Chile is actually relatively young, with top hotels like Nayara having only launched in the early 2000s.) Native herbs like the minty rika-rika, originally used for medicinal purposes, now appear in Nayara’s cocktails and ice creams alongside pomegranate and pear. The Lican Antai language was stomped out by the Spanish, but guides like Joel can share such words as “kamur,” which means “moon,” and “aywu,” which means “oasis,” that travelers can bring home as a new kind of souvenir. On the first day of August, locals still celebrate the Pachamama—a day to honor mother earth—with offerings at the top of the mountain, before sunrise; now, Nayara guests are able to participate in these same ceremonies and help keep them alive.

“The real church before the Spanish people is the top of the mountain,” Joel told me as we set off on one of our Moon Valley hikes. “At the highest mountain, you feel closer to the ancestors.” Our conversation trailed off as the air thinned and my breathing grew heavier, the wind whipping in my ears as we scrabbled up sandy rocks that made tinny noises when knocked from underfoot. We reached the top of our chosen mountain to discover a perfectly untouched expanse of sand cascading down from the ridge, latte-brown and so smoothly sculpted you’d think it was clay. There were too many beautiful scenes to absorb and I frantically began photographing.

The wind shifted, and it suddenly occured to me that I should set my camera down for a moment; my incessant clicking ceased. Joel’s stance softened; my breathing slowed. Sensing each other only in the periphery, we cast our eyes over the range ahead. One beat, then two, of complete and total quiet. I said a silent prayer to the universe and began to dance my way down the dune, feet sinking into the earth and the mountains ablaze in the distance.

If the Atacama Desert presents the chance to step out of time, a visit to Rapa Nui drops you straight into the pages of the history books. The island is best known for its carved rock Moai statues and the ancient mystique they evoke (it’s commonly thought that their origins are a mystery, though this is a misconception—local guides can explain them well). The Moai frame Rapa Nui’s most picturesque coves—but more so, they bear witness to its realities as a meeting point between the west and Polynesia. Here, ancestral inheritance and modern industry negotiate at every level of life; debates on colonization and anthropological theory are not confined to the past but are rather loudly woven into the goings-on of any given day.

Rapa Nui is Chilean in flag only; the island sits equally halfway between Tahiti and Santiago, and many locals keep homes on the former (up until the pandemic, direct flights ran regularly, which is now one of the many contention points between the local and national governments). Aside from the presence of Spanish, Christianity and odds-and-ends influences, the scenes you can observe on Rapa Nui are decidedly Polynesian. Tall, tanned fishermen bearing ink-black tattoos greet friends on the street—and address passersby—with the conviction of one who has descended from a people that circumnavigated the Pacific and beyond using only the stars. Tiki huts by the sea welcome large families and groups of friends to lounge with cold beers among blooming bushes of hibiscus and bougainvillea. The air is breezy and balmy, and the pace of life is both peaceful and chaotic—with surfers, rag-tag motorcycles and packs of local dogs making up the traffic rules as they go. (Guests of Nayara Hangaroa are perfectly positioned to immerse themselves in the island's rhythms and explore neighborhood boutiques and dives, as the hotel sits just a short walk along the water from town. The resort is also thoughtfully designed to provide a secluded respite, when you are ready to relax.)

The Rapa Nui are fiercely (and rightfully) protective of their island, and one of the pandemic's silver linings is that a strict, nearly three-year border closure allowed them to wrangle a rising overtourism problem before it was too late. (Previously, the Moai stood completely unprotected, and few policies were in place to address deforestation, waste management or marine life conservation, as western modernization pushed out the natural controls of the Indigenous ways of life.) Now, the island’s archaeological sites—like the Orongo Ceremonial Village and the impressive Rano Raraku quarry where the Moai were made—are protected by a parks system that is managed by the locals; guests can only enter if accompanied by a Rapa Nui guide. Slowly, the island is taking the necessary steps towards a high-quality, low-impact tourism model, while grappling with a learned mistrust of outsiders and infighting among local groups (my Nayara guide Henri commented that “every real Rapa Nui should know his clan,” noting that a karmic record is still kept of the families who complied with the missionaries). For students of history and culture, there are few places more ripe for direct learning than this island at this moment.

But perhaps more memorable are Rapa Nui’s more humble attractions: the horses and cows that range as they please, appearing suddenly around corners and on hillsides; plates heavy with luscious raw tuna and aromatic grilled shrimp drizzled with lime, or with slices of fresh pineapple, coconut and banana; volcanic beaches overlooking crystalline tide pools and turtle nesting grounds, where mossy giants laze their way around awestruck admirers; green fields dotted with wild fire flowers; an albatross floating on the currents of the sea air; and the deep blue of the waves at every viewpoint, caressing the island’s many faces endlessly.

On my last day on Rapa Nui, I woke before dawn to witness the island’s most popular attraction: sunrise at Ahu Tongariki, a striking site with a row of fifteen Moai—the largest group on the island—situated on a dramatic rocky beach. As their regal forms took shape in the fading blackness, onlookers gathered in throngs, some with coffees and blankets, some discussing the Moai, others chattering about the cocktails they’d enjoyed the evening before. The crowd thickened and the noise levels and camera flashes rose.

We’re so rarely reminded of our own unimportance, these days. We forget that mountains and oceans are measured in eons, while civilizations are lost in decades. People are forced to adapt, as the mountains and the oceans stand on. In places like Rapa Nui and the Atacama Desert, it again becomes clear that, really, we’re all just passing through.

I extracted myself from the mass in front of the Moai—a young woman whined; I’d spoiled her TikTok—to a spot by the sea where the view of the horizon was unobstructed by heads neither human nor stone, and I could hear the water roaring against the shore. Golden light filled the ether, and for a few minutes I observed the sun and the moon together, sharing the same sky.

1. A direct flight from the U.S. to Chile lasts approximately nine to 11 hours (it is 10.5 hours from New York). For a typical Chile itinerary, travelers should also be prepared to take several connecting flights within the country, ranging from one to five hours, depending on your destination. If you are traveling to Rapa Nui, you will need to submit a fairly simple online e-visa application in advance of traveling. Upon entry, you will also be given a customs slip that you will need to hold on to until returning home.

2. The area surrounding Nayara Alto Atacama sits at an altitude of approximately 2,500 meters, or 8,200 feet. Some travelers may feel the altitude upon arrival—particularly after a long journey—but the hotel is well equipped to coach you through it. Itineraries are structured to allow a day of rest upon arrival, with excursions over the following days slowly building up to higher reaches. Plenty of sleep and water—and a tea, or perhaps a pisco sour, with the in-house coca leaf infusion—will generally set you straight. Those who tend to be more severely affected should consult with their doctor for the appropriate treatment and medication regimen prior to traveling.

3. Chile is a generally casual destination, especially if your itinerary is focused on areas known for outdoor activities; you can keep your evening-wear very edited when packing. Layers are essential (the Uniqlo Ultra Light Down jacket inserts are supremely easy to squeeze in). Do not forget sunscreen, even in cooler temperatures—and if you are hoping to swim while on Rapa Nui, bring a pair of water shoes, as many of the swimming areas are rocky and attract sea urchins.

4. As an island, Rapa Nui has a more relaxed service and luxury tourism culture. Additionally, top properties often struggle to retain the staff that they need due to strict regulations on visas and work permits. Travelers should manage their expectations accordingly for the best experience on the ground.

5. Chile is a fascinating destination for wine, and like its climates, its offerings are varied (Julio Alonso, Executive Director for Wines of Chile North America, has called the country "a Jurassic park for wines.") From an unfiltered Chardonnay from the Atacama that is high in minerality and salinity to the Bordeaux transplant Carménère that grows in the Colchagua and Maipo valleys, there are many varietals to taste. The Nayara resorts serve primarily Chilean wines, and I encourage those travelers who are interested to seize the opportunity to drink local. (Chile is also the only major wine-producing country that is free of phylloxera.)