CHILE: Worst Shake

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Precariously perched between the towering Andes and the Pacific, the elongated Republic of Chile runs like a rind along the western coast of South America from the tropics to Cape Horn. Averaging only about 125 miles in width, the country is so long (2,661 miles) that, if draped across Europe, it would stretch from Moscow to Madrid. To compensate for its unwieldy shape, nature has given it a variety of riches: underneath its parched yellow soil in the desolate northern region lie the world's most valuable deposits of nitrate and the second largest known deposits of copper; its pleasant, well-watered, fertile central area, where most of its people live, supplies more wheat, cattle and wine than Chile can use; and its rain-sodden southern provinces are rich in lumber, much of them still virgin territory and inhabited by half-savage Indians.

In return for these riches, mountainous Chile pays a steep price. Situated at one end of the great Pacific earthquake arc* that sweeps around from Borneo and the Philippines, through Japan, Alaska, the U. S. Pacific Coast and down through central and western South America to the Cape, Chile shares honors with Japan as the shakiest region on earth. Of 9,000 big & little quakes & tremors recorded every year, fully 21% occur in Chile. Seismic observers estimate that during the past three centuries Chile has had on the average a serious quake every three years. Last week she was hit again.

Some 250 miles south of the capital, Santiago, lies the historic city of Chillán, founded in 1594 by Spanish Conquistadors and named after a brave chieftain of the fierce and never wholly conquered Araucanian Indians. The town is revered by Chileans because it is the birthplace of their George Washington, Bernardo O'Higgins.* Destroyed by a quake in 1853, it was rebuilt and until last week had a thriving population of 40,000.

Shortly before the stroke of twelve one night last week 300 people were enjoying a movie in Chillán's National Theatre. Suddenly, above the screen voices, came an ominous, familiar rumble. Everyone knew what it meant but before anyone could get to the street, the walls buckled and the roof crashed. Outside in the heaving plaza, heavy brick-walled buildings toppled into the street. The massive front of the Governor's Palace swayed forward, and fell in a cascade on several passing cars. Thousands of rotos and their families, caught in their beds, had no chance to move before their adobe homes fell on them. Thousands more got into the streets only to be buried beneath falling buildings.

In less than three terrible minutes the upheavals had ended. But weakened structures continued to collapse and fires broke out. One heroic youngster, a night watchman at the main power plant, realizing that fallen live wires would electrocute many, rushed into the tottering building, jerked off the switch just as the roof smashed down on top of him.

Broken communication lines, uprooted roads and rail tracks cut the area off from the rest of Chile. Not until amateur radio operators sent out terse pleas for help, did Santiago, where only slight tremors were felt, learn of the damage. At dawn a Government plane headed south to survey the stricken city. What the observers saw sent them speeding back to Santiago.