Steve has written from the traverse: things are "boring" and for that he "is glad". Every night they shut down around 7:30 pm. After fueling the equipment for the next day and shoveling snow into the melter, for water, they enjoy each others company by warming a frozen, pre-made meal. Every morning they begin rolling before 8 a.m.. Steve eats as healthfully as he is able to; instant oatmeal packets for breakfast, left overs for lunch. In his tractor he stretches, listens to Danish lessons and does isometric exercises with a large rubber band. The convoy is now almost half way to the South Pole- having covered almost 500 miles out of the one thousand (and some odd change) they still have ahead. Steve seems to be happy or at least, has maintained his sense of humor. We miss each other much more than usual. Normally the one of us that has gone away to work misses the other but the other is then home with "the cat" living the life of a millionaire. This time we are both in the Antarctic, that is, we are both away from home and working; but while I remain behind here, in McMurdo, on Ross Island, Steve is "crossing the ocean of white"- if you will- "sailing to the Pole".
Because nobody thinks to ask about what they could never imagine life in Antarctica to be like, the things that are weird are worth mentioning: a person, walking out from a building dressed in a huge red parka eating a banana, mud puddles, getting mail order catalogs from the post office which we don't even get at home, fashionably dressed people attending thanksgiving diner in Manhattan styles; fur ruffs, dresses, suits and ties. A piper played his bag pipes- kilt and all.
An ER doc gave a disturbingly frank lecture- complete with cadaver and not yet cadaver (but looking like soon to be a cadaver) slides form the ER rooms he has served in over in Iraq. It was certainly one of those, drives the point home - types of lectures in which you walk away feeling a bit sorry for yourself that you're NOT being shot at because everyone else in the world seems to be being shot at. Then the reality strikes you and an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness swells up from inside; our life is pretty darn simple, pretty darn fantastic-and we are getting paid. It irks the be-jesus out of me to hear people complaining about things. They whine about the corporation, having their liberties taken away, or how the food doesn't suit them or they mumble non-stop about their jobs. Some simply prefer to stand around pumping at the bellows of a constant topic particularly favorable among the dramatists: chaos and dysfunction, all as if this were a society taken over by a de facto governance and not a contractual six month job one (eagerly) volunteered for.
Out of the hundreds of people down here , less than 2 dozen attended the Doctor's slide show on Iraq. I would have thought that more people were interested in hearing the story right from the horse's mouth. This Dr. (who has three children and a wife) even admitted to disliking the former president, was not shy about harboring disgust over all wars, shed tears during a recount of a particular death he witnessed in the OR and has been compassionate enough to send many many Iraqis out of Iraq to the States or to Germany for the care they had to have in order to survive.
I went up afterwards and shook his hand thanking him for the lives he has saved, for the efforts he has made spreading "light and love" as he himself exclaimed- where there has before been so much "darkness and hate".
These are the things that make this place so interesting-you never know who you are going to meet or what new idea will enter your mind. Being quite mercurial myself, I have recently taken to drawing out flow charts to better map my ideas; typically spawn from a book or an inspiring interaction, I leap into other worlds, dreaming. It is fascinating- if not in the least bit- grounding, to bring new awareness to the origins of these thoughts. Looking back over some of the charting, I can see patterns and may even be able to predict what reading a certain book might conjure up in me (currently I am reading a post doc thesis comparing aboriginal law and home-land rule in Greenland, and Nunavut. Naturally now, for instance, I want to become a lawyer for the Inuit of Greenland).
Nobody said that those of us who wander to these far flung fringes of the world are not a little bit different.
Work: fixing small lawn mower type engines that drive centrifugal diesel pumps, or peristaltic water pumps, nozzles that fuel as well as de-fuel military aircraft, gate valves, 6 inch hose fittings, large filter vessels housing four foot long fuel filters and miscellaneous broken other things: driver drill chucks, rotary hand pumps and bikes.
Food: we have been eating tons of fresh fruit and veggies this season: blood oranges and kiwis from New Zealand, cherry tomatoes and raw carrots. Why yesterday morning, during our safety meeting, someone passed around real blueberries and raspberries!
Events: there was a mild mannered game of touch rugby played down in the snow on the sea ice this past Sunday afternoon. I have volunteered to weld up a cribbage tournament trophy. The open water is 15 miles out. The barber is busy.
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