Namibia - Nebuloso!

My second night at SML was spent on a cot in the observatory staring at the Milky Way’s center overhead, the rising Small and Large Magellanic Clouds to the south, and Alpha and Beta Centauri riding the Southern Cross setting in the west; the three major astronomical reasons to visit the southern hemisphere. I never get tired looking at the night sky, but here below the equator, the grandeur of our galaxy and surrounding universe is striking, inspirational and above all, humbling.
The observatory is not in a common sense a white dome, but an enclosed round deck above the lodge and villas. The stone wall rises just high enough to shield stray light, but low enough for the telescope, a 12-inch Meade Schmidt-Cassagrain, to view most anything rising over the horizon. Attached to the observing deck is the resident astronomer’s office: a small room of basic observing books and atlases, posters and portraits, and telescope accessories.
I find guests’ reactions to the night sky both appreciative and saddening, especially when a number of them—more than I would expect—rank the experience near the top of their trip’s highlights. Appreciative in that I’m very happy to bestow the wonder on those unfamiliar with the heavens, but it’s that unfamiliarity that is saddening. For many, they have traveled thousands of miles to see something—southern hemisphere skies aside—that should be accessible any where in the world. But as population booms and cities expand, light pollution is endemic for everyone in those areas.
“What is that? Is that a cloud?” One lady asked pointing overhead.
“That is the Milky Way, and in fact that ‘cloud’ is actually made up of billions of stars.”
“Oh my God, I’ve never seen that before.”
One could laugh at her naivety, but it’s not her fault per se she’s lived her life sheltered under a light dome. Then fires a shooting star and the excitement rises.
“Oh, a shooting star. Make a wish.” Minutes later another one followed by another. “Wow, is this normal?”
“Typically from a dark location you should see anywhere from three to five meteors an hour,” I answer on a nightly basis, but let them wish a way, though. God only knows my wishes should have came true several thousands (yes, thousands) shooting stars ago.
I run each observing sessions with a lesson on stellar evolution, beginning with nebulae (clouds of mostly hydrogen gas), to open star clusters (the result of those nebulae), to binary stars, planets, then stellar death in the form of planetary nebulae and supernovae remnants, sporadically jumping into tangents.
After a couple weeks of doing the same “dog and pony show”, one would imagine I should be getting tired of it, but the truth is a number of the visitors take a keen interest, which only fuels my passion.

The Linke family is from San Francisco, and the first American family visiting the lodge during my stay. They arrived to the same warm welcome every guest receives. The staff and managers congregate at the entrance and shake the hands of each party’s member. They are ushered to the panoramic bar/lounge area overlooking the valley plains and nearby sand dunes where lemonade is served and lunch if desired.
Trey, 14, in his Abercrombie apparel and sporting aviator sunglasses struck me as the typical stuck-up kid. Tonight will be an easy night, I thought.
I arrive at the observatory about an hour past sunset, just as the sky turns to astronomical twilight, but just before Saturn and Venus set in the west. I uncover the telescope, target my two alignment stars and casually observe until guests arrive. Before completing the scope’s alignment, though, a flashlight reflects off the observatory’s entrance and Trey pops up from around the corner.
We exchange “hellos” and I ask where is the rest of his family.
“They’re not coming. I’m the only one who has interest in this.”
I should know better not to judge a book by its cover.
Trey and I spent an hour cruising through the sky before his Mom ordered him to come to dinner.
“He would stay here all night with you if I let him,” she would tell me after dinner. I laughed and the next night found myself at the eyepiece with Trey, his little cousin and family friend awake at three-in-the-morning on one of our coldest nights (just above freezing).
The moon was quickly approaching full and its reflected light severely hinders any decent observing with the exception of planets and bright star clusters, but at this phase sets in wee hours of the morning—motivation for early observing, and unlike other observing sessions, this wasn’t the same “dog and pony show”, but a real observing session complete with faint deep sky objects.
Not more than a couple nights later, I would have another surprise.

Although English is the predominant language of Namibia, not every guest speaks the language.
I had just arrived from a game drive late that afternoon and the sun had already set by the time we pulled up to the lodge. Brechnef, the day butler/bartender met me by the doors.
“Frank, you have guests going to the observatory. They are walking up right now.”
Shit. I scaled the mountain bypassing the path to meet an Italian family sitting patiently beside the telescope, except for young Camilla blazing her torch (flashlight) under her face. She stood at the entrance waiting for me and later would follow everywhere I went.
“Her Grandfather was here three years ago and he wants Camilla to see the stars,” the Mom explained to me in broken English. The Grandfather, for the most part, sat in the corner and watched his family at the eyepiece, occasionally sneaking a look for himself.
Everything from telescope operation to astrophysics was translated to the family through the Mother. I couldn’t understand exactly every word used, but just from the terminology, I knew my explanations were being translated near verbatim, even to six year-old Camilla. I would try to pick-up a few words and directly communicate with some success, but the view through the eyepiece was enough description.
The following night, only Camilla and her Grandfather joined me in the observatory.
“Jupiter and nebuloso,” Camilla politely requested, dragging with short strides the step stool to the telescope.
“Saturno and Venus?” I asked, lifting one end and helping.
“Yes … Saturno.”
I smiled, “What about star clusters?”
Camilla looked at her Grandfather. “Cluster luminoso.”
“Yes, cluster luminoso,” Camilla affirmed, but nebulae appealed greater.
I skipped a lot of the lecture and just jumped objects—the Swan, Lagoon, Trifid, Eta Carina, and then Centaurus A...
“Poco nebuloso,” she said of the small faint fuzzy.
“No. Galaxia.”
She gave me a blank expression. With the laser pointer, I outlined the Milky Way. “Grande galaxia.” Pointed to the telescope, “Poco galaxia.”
“Oh, se!” She explained it to her Grandfather, but I have no idea what came across in the comparison.
At dinner, Camilla’s mother thanked me and said Camilla must decide if she wants a horse or a telescope, but thinks she’s too young for a telescope yet.
“I was eight when I used my Dad’s old refractor, and ten when I joined an astronomy club. Camilla can have a telescope.”