This Aintarctica

Things Don't Bump in the Dark

It’s just something I haven’t thought about. There are times that I have been asked to clean some nooks and crannies of the Galley that have not seen the light of day or a disinfectant since Sir Robert Scott threw away his food waste of pemmican and penguin.

Beneath the rim of trash cans in the front of the Galley or in the far corners of the pot room there are layers of Mesozoic era waste. On my back or down on my knees with size 10 rubber gloves and a blend of Clorox and nuclear isotopes, I scrub away what looks like the building blocks of primordial sludge. I wipe past the debris caused by the Chicxulub meteor that caused the extinction of dinosaurs, unearth the genes of the first Acanthostega and then finally reach the tile or the steel of the Galley floor or the food waste bins.

But, here’s the thing, if I had to do this type of deep cleaning in my past apartment or future house, I would be mindful of spiders, cockroaches and mice. In Antarctica, the nearest single-celled or multi-legged venomous creature is sequestered far away in a city called Denver.

There is a certain freedom to living in a bug free environment that I just don’t think about, until I’m reaching behind the sink to retrieve a dropped spoon or crawling under my bed to find a missing glove or boot.

This morning as I was getting ready for work, one of my non-slip Galley shoes had slipped away from its usual resting place. Even though my commute to work is less than three minutes away, this missing shoe was causing a bit of a delay.

After getting down on my hands and knees, I saw the shoe had been kicked below my dormitory bed. Imagine if you had to reach beneath a bed at a motel that was constructed in the 1970s. The dust bunnies hanging from the mattress, the random bits of human skin-dust dangling from cotton strings that form the bottom of a box spring mattress and, no doubt, spiders, mites, roaches and other bugs that have yet to be phenotyped.

If this shoe had been lost in such a motel, I would have left it were it lay and gone to work with one shoe and asked the staff to call me a new nickname like “Lefty,” “One-Shoey” or “Heather Mills.”

Instead, I said out loud to my brain, “You’re in Antarctica. There aren’t any bugs.”

It’s just something I haven’t thought about: The ability to clean without fear of unearthing the Hantavirus. In seven months, I have not heard an eeek or a shrill or a cry to come kill a bug. It’s like the opposite of a nuclear bomb has detonated, and instead of unleashing a holy hell of fire that kills everything except cockroaches, hell has frozen over, the cockroaches are dead and I call this home.

If you have claustrophobia, agoraphobia or Spheniscidaeaphobia, then Antarctica is probably not your continent. However, if you suffer from arachnophobia, then you might also want to consider this home-sweet-bug-free-home.

Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle

Relationships will be ruined. Friendships will be formed. Someone may go crazy and soon we will be considering the theorem by Luther Vandross, “If you can’t be with the one you love, it’s alright, go ahead and love the one you’re with.”

Weather permitting tomorrow the last plane will leave McMurdo Station, leaving us, the 55th Winter Over group to keep the home fires stoked in McMurdo Bay. And if the past is any indication of our future, we’re in for one hell of a Winter.

We are a group of people who have left our friends, family and homes for an adventure and job on a frozen continent. Some people are down here with their lovers, but the majority of us are single or have left our significant others to wonder, “How can I compete with a continent?”

Like American Indians who share stories through word of mouth about their history, Antarcticans speak about the past Winter Overs as though they are peering into our future. The year one guy died or the time another was hit in the head with a hammer. People quit their job and sit in their room. One guy waited for Aliens to whisk him away. People who start the Winter in one relationship and end the Winter committed to another. By the end of this Winter ex-lovers will roam the night when the cold win wails as though they are the woman in the long black veil.

This frozen Petri dish of human emotions will soon be tested. How do you react to seeing your girlfriend with her new boyfriend—the mechanic? It’s not like you can change the places where you eat, recreate or the people you associate with, because we are now all one. Will those phone calls home to your wife seem more distant when you break your vows? What happens in Antarctica might not stay in Antarctica. What happens if you tell your wife, will you hear her screams through the X, Y and Z axis of the earth?

Personality and psychological tests have all been passed, but now we have to pass the reality of living with a small group of people who have no means to escape, quit or get a care package from home. If we don’t have it now, we won’t get it until the end of August.

We are told to play games to keep our minds active. As though Will Shortz is our savior, but what will one of us do when we get an email from home that says, “XXXXX has died. Please call.” Will a Will Shortz-like quiz really help someone wrap their brain around the fact their father has died and there is no escaping their living conditions. “Question: Informally his name can be a palindrome. Answer: Your dad has died.”

This is a question we’ve all had to consider when we signed the consent forms to Winter in Antarctica. And the reason we are here is heard down the main thoroughfare of Highway One each and every day, “Living the Dream.”

She is a cold and unforgiving bitch, but we have all fallen in love with a continent.

An 8.8 Effect

President Obama held a 7-hour televised health care summit and in McMurdo the Galley is now on Winter hours. This means dinner is no longer served past 7:00 p.m. Guess which story was more important to an Antarctican?

Desiree Rogers is no longer the social secretary for the White House.

After spending one week in New Zealand, a fellow Winter Over tried to sneak aboard his return flight to McMurdo—three-sheets to the wind with the previous night’s partying still coursing through his veins. Unlike the Salahis at the White House, this guy got caught and was fired on the spot. Guess which story was more important to an Antarctican?

The Chinese have a saying, “Kill one; warn one hundred.” Well, with two hundred people getting ready to Winter Over, the message was received loud and clear—mind your drinking until the last plane leaves McMurdo. Antarctica is so much more efficient than China. Antarctica was able to warn two hundred people with the sobering news that killed one person’s job.

At the bottom of the world, the news that rivets American’s to their television sets, is different than the news we care about. Just like you may not care that we have less time to eat dinner, we don’t care about your snowstorms on the East Coast.

And then something so monumental happens in the world, we find ourselves on the outskirts of your news. This week, the earthquake in Chile was that thing.

When the earthquake happened in Haiti, a few people donated money and we were able to talk about the effects of that devastation until 7:30 p.m. in the Galley. But, when we awoke to the news of the 8.8 magnitude earthquake in Chile, we felt apart of that news.

No. It wasn’t because the Galley closed early because—in an act of cooking solidarity—they ran out of chili, it was because we fell into the category of Tsunami Warning or Tsunami warning, but definitely not tsunami warning.

At 5:53 a.m. our National Science Foundation (NSF) station manager alerted us that McMurdo Station would take precautions because the Tsunami Warning was in Effect. Because the words Tsunami, Warning and Effect were all capitalized, I knew we were either in serious danger, or the station manager left his Strunk and White “Elements of Style” guidebook back in the states.

Living in McMurdo is kind of like living in the office building where you work. Even though we have free will and the run of McMurdo (save for the occasional Tsunami) every action and reaction is monitored through a layer of bosses. I have three or four bosses I could directly report to, and then just over 200 bosses who say, “Get me coffee” or “I don’t want a knife; I want a steak/butter/ or butcher knife” or “Don’t you have a fork with only three tines?”

However, there are really two main bosses on station during the Winter. The NSF station manager and the Raytheon Site Manager (RPSC). The difference is kind of like the NSF manager is the principal and the RPSC manager is the kindergarten teacher. The only time I’d talk to the NSF manager would be if I was caught molesting a penguin, but I could get sent to the RPSC’s office if eat I too much glue (if glue is alcohol).

This is why I thought it was interesting when at 3:11 p.m. the RPSC manager sent out the all clear message that said the Tsunami warning was over and “regular winter rules are now in effect.”

It was like the principal had to put the fear of god into us and then we were told everything was okay by our teacher.

In the future, though, as they battle each other in their power share of McMurdo, I would hope they can agree that words like Tsunami, Effect and Warning should all be lowercase and the word Winter should always be uppercased. Because as we delve into the darkness, I want Winter to have proper respect.

We should save miscapitalizing our words only when we have T-3 to blame. Because right now, seeing the misuse of capitalization makes me want to pull a penguin’s ponytail. And if I did this, I’d be sent to the NSF’s office and he might unleash a Tsunami like Warning saying my job was no longer in Effect.

On Watch

Sometimes the suicide tables were the only place to sit. There are round, square and rectangular tables in the Galley. There’s an upper, lower and backroom, too. During the summer finding your place to eat was like fitting a square peg into a round hole. You may have the personality of a round table, but if those tables are full, you have to sit with the rectangular folks.

The round tables fit the most people and the social cliques preferred the rectangular tables. The janitors sat against the wall and the plumbers, painters and metal workers sat in the lower level. I don’t know who ate in the backroom, because I never did.

And then, lining the lower level, there are the small tables built for two, and those are called the suicide tables. The suicide tables could have been called the Lover’s Tables, but people in relationships have friends, so these tables built for two, usually only sit one.

At meal times, when there were over one thousand people on station, if you didn’t have a friend who saved you a seat—be it round, rectangular or next to someone who smelled like their job (which could be shit, paint, gas or management)—you ended up on suicide watch. Sitting by yourself, possibly happy, but semi-self-conscious that even your friends could be wondering, “Is she okay?”

A quick look around the Galley and anyone would notice there just wasn’t any room at the Inn. But when your friends would walk by to get a second helping of dessert or a third portion of flank steak, they would say, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I’d say. “There’s no room.” Sometimes even Jesus didn’t get preferential treatment.

They always say, “We could have made room.”

Then they’d walk away and I’d wonder, “Am I okay?”

It’s an interesting place, this Aintarctica. In order to stay the Winter you have to pass a mental competency test. One of the questions they ask is, “Do you like being alone?” On one hand, knowing I would soon be isolated at the bottom of the world with only 200 people, I wanted to say, “Yes, I love being alone.”

Then the other hand came into play. I didn’t want to sound like being isolated at the bottom of the world was akin to living in a shack in the woods of Montana. Even though it is. But colder. It’s possible that my lengthy answer to justify my thoughts on being alone sounded similar to a “Manifesto of Aloneness,” yet, I was deemed certifiably sane.

Now, with only one more flight to get rid of the fuelies (the people who smell like gas), the Galley is empty. The backroom is closed and the suicide tables are mostly vacant. Sitting at these single tables is now a choice.

During the Winter if someone is sitting at these tables every night, during the Winter if I’m sitting at these tables every night, I wonder what will happen if someone walks by and asks, “Are you okay?” And the answer is “No.”

Questions?

Do you live in an igloo? Have you seen any bears? Have you lost a finger and/or toe to frostbite? Is it cold? Are there UFOs? When you walk, does it feel like you’re upside down? Can you take a picture of my Flat Stanley? Is it cold? Is it cold? My dad shoveled our driveway today.

The kids from my nephew’s second grade class sent me a list of questions about what it is like to live in Antarctica. Regardless of the quality of their questions, my nephew is not retarded. In fact, before I came to Antarctica, I also worried about frostbite and walking upside down at the bottom of the world. But, what I have since learned about Antarctica, I haven’t learned by living in Antarctica, I’ve had to read books about Antarctica to learn about Antarctica. Even though I live in Antarctica, all I’ve really learned is how to wash dishes in an industrial sized kitchen.

Since these kids asked me general questions about Antarctica, questions that could be learned in any I-can-read-book full of pictures (none of which would have a bear) about Antarctica, I decided to submit the answers to the questions about what it’s like to live in Antarctica from my perspective as a dishwasher.

As dishwashers, we kept a daily log throughout the summer to keep the different shifts informed about what was, what needs to be, and what was not cleaned during the previous shift.

So I wrote back to the Second Graders:

Thank you for your questions about living in Antarctica. None of these answers pertain to your questions. These are the answers to the questions I deal with in my day-to-day life. I think you’d best understand what it’s like to live in Antarctica, by seeing the actual questions, complaints and duties I undertake every day.

Dishwasher Paul said: Whoever keeps putting the bug juice machine together with the spinning piece upside down should never be allowed near these machines again, Also, this pen is almost out of ink. Where do we get new ……

Good Question Paul: Pens in Antarctica are as rare as cigarettes in prison. It’s not like we have an Office Depot where we can shop. If you find a pen, I’ll trade you three beers and a stack of 1980s porn.

Tracey asked: There’s a new sound in the pot room. What is it?

“Dishwasher” Tracey: Ever since you arrived in McMurdo it seems your only goal is to sleep with as many firemen as possible. When you were in the pot room were you working? Maybe that sound you heard was the actual sound of progress without your legs spread wide open.

Mark can’t figure out a condiment problem: What the f-bomb is up with empte katchep bottles? Not to be harsh, but we need to create a protocal?

Kids, I think this is a good time for me to reiterate, read a fucking book, learn to spell and stay in school. If you have so many goddamn questions about Antarctica, become a scientist or a mid-level manager (good grades are not a prerequisite to be a boss), learn to spell and don’t come to Antarctica as a dishwasher.

'Tis the Reason

And then there was the cold. Was this the reason I came to Antarctica? Or was it the remoteness? I knew it wasn’t the job, but according to Raytheon and the National Science Foundation, this is my lot. I’m not living in Antarctica for discovery or Mt. Discovery. I’m in Antarctica because dishes get dirty and I clean them.

Every day I look at my hands. Chapped, chaffing, carpal tunnel ridden hands. Each night before I go to bed, I take a handful of Ibuprofen and with my coffee in the morning, I take several more orange pills. Before I came to Antarctica, I worked at a desk and my hands could have been used in an advertisement. Palm readers have looked at my hands and said, “Long life and good fortune.” A manicurist once held my fingers above paraffin wax and said, “Go home. This would be like using a hacksaw to perfect Michelangelo’s David.”

Now, working in a desert cleaning strawberry shortcake desserts and cement-like mashed potatoes from pans, my hands look like a lumberjack. Continual washing to prevent the spread of germs, constant dipping in concentrated dishwashing liquid and occasional nicks, pokes or cuts from forks that were recently in someone elses’ mouth has left these hands looking like they too could be in an advertisement, but only as the “before” photo.

These hands were the vehicle that brought me to Antarctica, but it was the cold and remoteness that was the reason. It wasn’t until I arrived here that I realized I would stay here because of the people.

Apsley Cherry-Garrard said it best in “The Worst Journey in the World.” He said it the best about all of Antarctica, even predicting “Ross Island is not a place for a settlement: it is a place for an elaborately equipped scientific station.” And he also said it best when he said, “Both sexually and socially the polar explorer must make up his mind to be starved.” But he truly nailed it when he talked about the people who come to Antarctica. He said, “you will sledge nearly alone, but those with whom you sledge will not be shopkeepers: that is worth a good deal.”

Waiting at the LAX airport to first fly to Antarctica, this was the first time I met people who wanted to sledge to this continent. Friendships were made before the plane even left America that will last a lifetime. First timers or FNGs (Fucking New Guys) all acted like we had won the lottery—we were going to Antarctica. People who were returning to “The Ice,” called it “The Ice” like you would call your house your home.

Now, as planes leave with these friends a new adventure begins. By March 5 (weather permitting), regardless of what the calendar says, Winter begins in Antarctica. People who I’ve known for a lifetime, even if the calendar says it’s only been six months, are sledging to their next adventure, leaving me with a pile of dishes and five months of total darkness.

Cherry-Garrard said, “Some will tell you that you are mad, and nearly all will say, ‘What is the use?’” My reasons for coming here, I’m still not sure. My reasons for staying, are the less than 200 people I’ll be stranded with “Gilligan’s Island” style at the bottom of the world. And, “that is worth a good deal.”

Antarcticans/Canadians/Antarctican...

Watching the opening Ceremonies of the 2010 Olympics, I thought for a moment I was watching a video feed from McMurdo of people heading into the Galley. Aside from the Canadian Flags, I think the Canadians are wearing our Big Red Jackets.

I'll drink to that

The news is hitting the mainstream media, headlines across the world are describing the wondrous bounty found beneath the floorboards of the Cape Royds Hut, “Three crates of whiskey and two crates of brandy” have been found. Left by Ernest Shackleton in 1909, this alcohol may one day give the modern world a taste of what is known as the Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration.

For over 100 years this whiskey has sat in frozen conditions just out of sight and below the feet of explorers, conservationists and dishwashers. Of the three huts that are situated around McMurdo, Cape Royds is the farthest away. This means very few people get to visit the Shackleton Hut which is also smack dab in the middle of an Adelie penguin rookery.

As a worker and working tourists of Antarctica, washing dishes wasn’t the primary reason I came here. I came; I saw; I cleaned dishes. This was going to be the mantra of my experiences in Antarctica unless I could find a way to circumvent the extreme micromanagement of the “boondoggle” system.

A “boondoggle” in McMurdo is any experience that takes place outside the confining boundaries of McMurdo Station. Some people get to take a boondoggle to the South Pole, other boondoggles include flagging roads, assisting scientists on Mount Erebus, or going to Happy Camper School.

Boondoggles are given out by the amount of “Ice Time” you have earned by returning to Antarctica. This means, if this is your third or fourth time coming to Antarctica, you might go to the South Pole. However, if this is your first season washing dishes, walking across the street is considered your boondoggle.

When I first arrived in McMurdo I saw the helicopters flying back and forth from field camps and I asked the person in the Chalet who is in charge of dolling out boondoggles if I could ride on a helicopter. My naiveté was quickly squashed when they said, “The day a dishwasher rides in a helicopter, I’ll quit my job.” I took that as a “Maybe.”

The sound of the helicopters landing at the helicopter pad woke me up in the morning and kept me awake some nights. I befriended pilots and scientists. I took care of the people who could get me into the air. They had the cleanest forks and shiniest plates. But, I was told, my name could never appear on a flight manifest. In order to fly, I was constantly told, I would have to change my name, occupation and be a scientist.

It felt like a dream the day I stepped foot onto Cape Royds. I was walking on Shackleton’s hallowed grounds. This was the place where Sir Edmund Hillary said he saw the ghost of Ernest Shackleton. This was the place that members of the Aurora Party ransacked looking for any bits of food, soap or clothing after their ship was carried away in pack ice. This is the place where penguins bed down for the winter. This is Antarctica.

Now, months after I left Cape Royds, and nearly 100 years since the Aurora Expedition was rescued, what surprises me most? Not the helicopter ride, but the fact there were five cases of alcohol beneath the floorboards.

On May 6, 1915 when the Aurora was carried away in the ice, the remaining 10 people at the Cape Evans hut were left “bothered, bewitched, and bewildered” according to Ernest Joyce, that no gear, no clothing, and no food had been taken off of the ship. He said that the “worst calamity” was there was also no tobacco.

They tried to smoke their sleeping bags and penguin fur like it was a cigarette. Some of these men died without any comforts of home, all the while there was a five-case-alcohol-boondoggle right beneath their feet. Antarctica can be a cruel bitch.

Fork You

People arrive and people leave. Every day or every so often, depending on weather, flights and field camps, the population of McMurdo rises and falls. Since our sun just stays in the sky, the ebb and floe of the population is how we count our days.

As a dishwasher, I’ve become like an idiot savant of population count. Even though there are jobs whose jobs depend on counting the number of people in town, like the housing coordinator or that person who works in the Chalet whose job is counting people, this dishwasher knows when the people tide is high and when it is low just by restocking the silverware. I call it the “Fork Equation.”

Knives and spoons get used at a constant rate. If the soup is good or steaks are being served, I’ll get the expected run on spoons and knives, but everyone needs a fork. Whether they’re eating oatmeal, cereal or peas, out of habit, everyone grabs a fork. Lately, as the forks disappear from the silverware stand at a rate inconsistent with the servings of tilapia or flank steak, I can tell that McMurdo is bursting at its population seam.

When the population person comes through the dish line, they ask me how many people are on station. The number they have been crunching all afternoon from flights leaving, Winter Overs arriving or field camps breaking down is within a statistical deviation of the number I state. The Fork Equation does not lie.

The supply vessel called the American Tern has arrived which means “Ship Offload” has begun. The American Tern brings most of our supplies for the season. From potato chips to condoms our depleted shelves are getting restocked. And with the American Tern in port, this means more people are in McMurdo to help unload the ship.

The people who seem to get the short end of the offload stick are the people who will be keeping McMurdo’s home fires burning over the winter. The Winter Overs come to McMurdo to work in 24 hours of dark and they usually arrive en masse to help with the offload. The benefit of being a Winter Over is from February until August, they will get their own rooms—no roommate. The downside to being a Winter Over is that until everyone leaves town, they are housed in temporary dorms with temporary roommates.

What I’ve learned about Antarctica is that social norms are checked somewhere North of 60 degrees latitude. One Winter Over, after working his 12-hour shift, walked in on his roommate watching porn. For this roommate, porn was an interactive activity. After working an outdoor 12-hour shift, the last thing you need to see is someone working their 6-inch shaft. Another person complained that his roommate sleeps in the nude. With 24 hours of sunlight, blinds that don’t sufficiently block out the light and no sheet across the naked body, this guy said he knew what time it was by the sundial like shadow cast across his roommate’s body.

Once offload is complete, like the sun and the temperature, the population will drop dramatically. This season is almost over; Stick a fork in it.

Don't Paint the Town Red. Blue will do.

(This Photo stolen without permission from bigblueglobe.blogspot.com)

According to psychology.about.com, “Blue is one of the most popular colors, but it is one of the least appetizing. Some weight loss plans even recommend eating your food off of a blue plate. Blue rarely occurs naturally in food aside from blueberries and some plums. Also, humans are geared to avoid foods that are poisonous and blue coloring in food is often a sign of spoilage or poison.”

Antarctica has beautiful blue ice and blue skies, too. And, taking a page right off the Internet from psychology.about.com, now the Galley and my stomach are turning blue, too.

I am working with some of the most educated dishwashers in the world; People with more degrees than total pedigrees at the Westminster Dog show. We don’t use our brains to wash a 4-inch hotel pan, so the color of our Galley has not gone unnoticed as we scrape oatmeal out of pans.

McDonald’s restaurants are red and yellow and Burger King is orange and red. When you make a run for the border to Taco Bell, your food is never wrapped in blue. But, at the Galley our food is served on a tray that is the most unappetizing color of blue. It doesn’t seem coincidental, then, that the only people who are required to wear uniforms in Antarctica are the dishwashers. We wear blue.

The object is about money, weight and weight. It costs a lot of money to fly or boat food to Antarctica. So, just like when you pack your backpack before a long hike, “if you mind the ounces the pounds will take care of themselves,” in Antarctica if you mind the amount of food we eat, the bottom line will take care of itself.

The amount of money for each person fed in Antarctica is less than the cost of feeding a prisoner. How after shipping or flying all of this food to Antarctica are our artful chefs able to prepare mostly edible food for less than the price of a death row inmate? Blue.

The blue trays were the first salvo tossed to us in the Galley. Now, they are painting the Galley blue. The entire building that houses the Galley, building 155, has gone blue. The rumor is they will slowly turn our stomachs by painting the entire town blue.

Oddly enough, the Internet says “Blue is often used to decorate offices because research has shown that people are more productive in blue rooms.”

As we work outside, freezing our asses to the color red, for reasons we won’t understand we will want to work hard for the man. Productivity will rise as our weight declines. We’ll be burning calories working in frozen conditions and then as we approach the Galley, our stomachs will psychologically begin to constrict. Further constrictions will occur as we load our food onto blue trays as the speakers in the Galley continually play “Blue Christmas,” over and over again.

We would like to revolt, but our bodies are slowly atrophying. And, while it may seem bad for being one-step and five blueberries away from scurvy, our company is thrilled. Thanks to our diminished weight, it will now cost less to fly us home.