This Aintarctica

One DV at a Time

There are different ways to come to Antarctica. You can quit your job in the states to wash dishes or pay thousands of dollars to fly over Antarctica in an airplane with a group of Australians. Personally, with the history of Antarctic over-flights, I’d be a bit leery of this idea. Or, you can be a Distinguished Visitor.

Distinguished Visitors (DV) in the past have included Senator John McCain, congressmen, senators and even Sir Edmund Hillary (I think he actually belonged in Antarctica. Sending Hillary to McMurdo was kind of like giving John Glen another joy ride into outer space).

Senators who sit in Washington, D.C. on science appropriation committees, science writers from the Wall Street Journal or Ann Cury from the Today Show have all found their way to McMurdo Station. They all have their jobs to do, but they make our jobs a bit more difficult.

There has been a new batch of DV’s in McMurdo this week and I’ve had to educate them one DV at a time.

Before I came to Antarctica, I attended safety lectures and procedural meetings. Hours of power point presentations and a class on trash. As I’ve mentioned before, throwing away garbage in Antarctica is no small task. It seems this batch of DVs bought the Idiots guide to the Arctic and Antarctica, only read so far as the first few words on the cover, and arrived in McMurdo, from the perspective of the dishwasher, as idiots.

It’s easy to spot a DV when they come up to my dish window. In some cases it’s easy because I recognize them from TV, but in every case it’s because these “great minded” people who run our country are completely dumbfounded when it comes to doing anything for themselves. Remember that time when President George Bush went to a grocery store and was amazed at the scanning technology? Imagine if Bush came to Antarctica and was amazed by the cold. These DVs are that dumb.

After finishing a meal in our Galley, the process to approach my dish window is simple. Scrape your food waste into the food waste bin. Throw your napkins in with the paper and then turn around to meet your dishwasher. Your tray stacks with the other trays, sort your silverware, put your cup in the rack and place your plate in the window. Say, “thank you,” and then get out of the way because you’re holding up traffic.

Possibly your legislator came to my window after his first meal in Antarctica and he handed me his entire tray without sorting the silverware, trash or cups. As he turned to walk away, I yelled, “Hey Buddy.”

The congressman was alarmed. I could tell when he turned around he was looking to see which “Buddy” was getting my wrath.

“You. Buddy. Come here.”

He pointed to his chest as if to say, “I’m Buddy. I’ve never been called ‘Buddy’ in my entire charmed life.”

I let him know that if he turned around he’d see some trashcans. They weren’t there for decorations. Then I pointed out the stacks of trays, dishes and containers for silverware. His job was to sort his dinnerware appropriately. My job was to clean these dishes for his next meal.

“Got it Buddy?” I said, “Now say ‘Thank you’ and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The next day he came to my dish window, studied his fork and put it with the other forks. He pondered his spoon, knife and tray as though he was looking at a complex puzzle, then amazingly put all the square pegs into the proper square holes.

However, instead of saying, “Thank you” and moving on he lingered in the dish window.

“Well,” he said, “How did I do?”

“You did great Buddy,” I replied. “Now thank you and good-bye.”

Wow, if you need to be congratulated for washing your dishes than we have bigger problems in Congress than I thought. And I thought our problems were big.