Darwin Slept Here - Eric N. Simons [69]
Coquimbo and Chiloé are both 400 miles from Concepción, which means the scale of the quake was mind-boggling. Imagine an earthquake centered in San Francisco that’s felt along the entire California coast, or a quake in New York City shaking Montreal, Canada, and Richmond, Virginia. Various experts estimate the magnitude of La Ruina at 8.5 on the Richter scale, which would make it easily one of the top ten largest quakes in human history. One of the reasons the Richter scale is no longer in official use—at least in the United States—is that it’s fairly useless beyond a magnitude of about six, so who knows, really, what 8.5 means exactly. Since earthquake measurement didn’t start until the early twentieth century, a more exact magnitude wasn’t recorded. But that 8.5 estimate explains why Darwin was so fascinated, and why he struggled with feeling lucky to have been present. He had felt an earthquake so large as to be almost unimaginable. Most European geologists would have given their careers to witness such an event. And yet he also saw men crawling over ruins and entire families made homeless and hungry.
As we pondered the Playmobil-style men in the dior ama, a museum guard approached and indicated that we could see the director now. He led us upstairs to a small corner office where a very large man and a smaller, Smithers-like man sat facing a computer. It was easy to tell who was who.
Without looking up or facing us, the director asked us to wait a few minutes, while he and Smithers scanned photos of Concepción from the 1940s. Proportionally, the museum director put Santa Claus in mind, though he sported a nicely trimmed gray beard and the standard professor costume of vest and bowtie. A golden breastplate and sword hung on the wall, and I asked his back if they belonged to him. Without turning, he said yes, “They’re only replicas.”
“For wearing to parties?” I inquired. Smithers smiled, but the director didn’t turn.
Finally, the last photo appeared on his computer screen. He swiveled in his desk chair and looked us up and down and asked where we were from. “I’m from California,” I said. “And he’s from New York.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I can see that by how white he is.”
He paused and chuckled. “And you’ve got dark skin. You’re from the California sun.”
“Mediterranean,” I explained. “My mom’s family is Greek.”
“Ah,” he said. “Excellent. I’m European myself. Alejandro Mihovilovich Gratz.”
He whipped out a business card and I wrote down the name.
“So,” I said, by way of introduction. “What can you tell us about earthquakes?”
“What we have here, in Concepción, more than anything else, is earthquakes,” he replied. “This is a city of earthquakes.”
“The town has been destroyed seven times in the last 500 years,” I said. “Is there anything you can do to prepare?”
“I don’t worry,” he said. “You’re never prepared for an earthquake. If there’s another nine or ten, there’s nothing you can do.”
I tried again. Surely the town must have done something for seismic safety.
“How have people changed with so many earthquakes?”
He pulled out his coffee mug and set it on the edge of the desk. “They don’t put their things here,” he said. “They put them here.” And he moved