I, like Antarctica, he was afraid of losing.
One of us had to pull away. I took my face out of his hands and he let me go. I moved slowly from his grip and whispered, “I'll get you down there. I promise.” He breathed heavily as I made my way to security. Looking back every few seconds, he stood there waiting. Waiting for me to leave him. And I did.
A sea of red tagged bags stood in front of me. The old and bald. The southern accents, comical mustaches, and long braided grey hair. This was my crew. The plumbers, the carpenters, the heavy equipment operators. And me: their dishwasher. I began to remember the occupational hierarchy of the ice. Beakers (scientists) stood at the top. Below them the skilled labor: electricians, welders, and engineers from back home. On the ice they were glorified. And then there were us. The young liberal arts majors: dishwashers and janitors. No skill- just an education. And on this ice world we were at the bottom.
Soon we would be herded from one plane to the next. We all knew the drill. A familiar feeling of desperation. The longing to belong- to connect. I smiled politely at these men. I reminded myself, like always, to think like an anthropologist. I am a researcher studying the behavior of those around me. To separate myself from them I proved I did not need connection. I would be OK without it.
We're soaring into the dark now, above the glacial horizon. All is quiet but the hum of the C17 in this dormant world. And suddenly with no passenger windows to determine a landing- we touch down. I look at these returning men. They are like joyous visions stepping out of a sea voyage painting. Crazed with adventure in their eyes. They come to life with grace and beauty against this parched atmosphere. I tried to imagine what their lives were like back home. The single ones with their belongings in storage and those with a family leave their understanding wives or girlfriends at home. For how long? A life on hold. A nomad's life. One turns to me and says, “I'm home.”
I follow the example of the men around me. Big reds on. They gear up leaving their dark penetrating eyes exposed. The doors open and the contrails of our breath hang in pale clouds above our heads. Windless dark now. My first Antarctic breath. My lungs are smacked with an icy hand, and like last time, I cough. We leave behind a wake of heat and I step out. This time I could not see any white shimmering snow. No shadows below. Negotiating my feelings by touch and sound through this dark nothingness. The red and blue lights of the ice runway glow fiercely against the cold and dark.
He should be here, I think.
As we proceed further and further into the cold and into the vastness of this desert the aircraft slowly empties. My memory seizes here. It's all too fast. We are herded and deposited into the shuttle that awaits. No time for photos. “Get in!” They shout. The C17's engine continues to roar. Those in cargo, those who flew down with me, are immediately put to work. As fast as they can they unload 5,000 pounds of equipment and let this plane and its air force crew return back to Christchurch.
Familiar angles start to take shape as we enter town on Ivan. McMurdo, still a dark construction valley. It's just as I left it. Nothing has changed. We walk into the galley in our moon boots and emergency weather gear on- our debriefing session begins- no time to think. The "winter-overs" lurk around us. Frank and familiar faces frowned by great drooping brows and glass rubbed eyes – they stare- annoyed of our presence.
The station manager, his hair like a mad scientist, sleepy eyed and worn out, with exhausted breath he tries to lecture us the same lecture he has been giving for years. He, like the other winter-overs, are walking zombies. Void of emotion and meaning they don't crave the flesh just their return trip home. I remember now, the slow and mundane, that familiar station life. Your only excitement are the free plastic meals that punctuated each day at regular intervals. And I see now, all these familiar faces- who had once pushed by my dish room- returning their dirty dishes to my wasting hands. Tomorrow I would re-enter this flow of an “ordinary day”. I fidgeted my way into friendships at every orientation, training, briefing, refresher course. At first I was afraid I wouldn't be able to connect with these people.
Travel, for me, is only about connection. All of this would mean nothing if I didn't find it. But I knew- soon I would. The forthcoming and lonely winter-overs and I would soon bond. Inside jokes and memorable days were just ahead. We would find a commonality between us- that brought all of us here.
This place, this Big Dead Place, is where love awaits us all and the kettle is always on the boil.
