I bought a bike for $200 yesterday and I will pick it up today. I will once again be travelling with a system of bucket panniers, duct tape, and bungees.
I travel south tomorrow, in anticipation of coastal vistas, mountains, penguins, fjordlands, and in hopes of meeting up with my hero, Steve Kafka.
Not sure how long I will be here, maybe only long enough to travel about 1500 k or so, depending on whether I summon the courage to do an alpine crossing (Lewis or Arthur's pass).
I'm entering this trip with a bit of trepidation, with feelings of being a bit lost. As always, I search for my answers on the road . . .
my nostrils filled with dense, full air my skin tingled in the 70 degrees temperature the fresh air filtered through sandals the stars were breaking through the sky as the sun set over the airport . . .
an incredible feeling walk into a plane in Antarctica and walk off a plane in New Zealand
Yes, after three days of weather delay, I have arrived in New Zealand and Glory Glory Glory Glory . . .
Glory Glory
Evan is a happy boy
Soon I will be departing Christchurch and heading south via bicycle as soon as I buy a bike
Today, dreams of biking and spanish lessons in Guatamala began fermenting in my head . . .
My bags are packed . . . I'm ready to go . . . But I'm not leaving on a jet plane . . .
Planes are grounded again. My flight was scheduled for Thursday, the 21st. Today is Friday the 22nd, and we're currently in the midst of a 30 hr weather hold on all flights. The next scheduled flight leaves Christchurch on Saturday, the 23rd at 1pm, which would arrive here at around 6pm and then return to Christchurch at about 1am in the morning on the Sunday the 24th. Of course, that will not happen, weather forecasts continue to look dreary. We could leave tomorrow morning, we could leave next week. As usual, we are remaining 'flexible'.
A wise woman once told me, "It used to be that the man on top was the meanest, hardest son of a bitch in the room. Nowadays, the best survival skill is 'flexibility'". Don't ask me what that means, just know that it rings of truth.
I paced myself so that I would be exhausted and ready to go yesterday. Now, I have two more days of working and goodbye dance parties. Maybe I can catch some ZZZ's in thge loader today . . .
We were working an especially hectic afternoon at Pegasus airfield, when a co-worker of mine, Hooch, grabbed my attention and waved me towards him. I approached cautiously. He stuck his arm out for me to come in closer and told me he had something really important to show me. My experience with Hooch informs me that he was reeling me in only to assault my nostrils with one of his frequent and famously noxious farts. I backed away and went to work. Hooch was hurt. Several minutes later, a less mischevious co-worker, Sky, pointed out to me a lone, molting emperor penguin, lounging on the apron, watching the deafening planes come and go. The penguin waried of the noise after long, and began to lumber away, but not before we greeted each other.
I was overjoyed to finally see somwething 'new' this year. And how cool the emperor's are: polar opposites from the Adelie's (no pun intended) - lumbering, dignified, bulky, calm - like an overweight, weathered, wise old man.
Antarctica is cathedral-like mountain vistas, sublime whiteness, unearthly blue icebergs, and adorable penguins. That's true. Its also true that Antarctica is infested with invasive species, saturated with diesel, bureaucratic, radioactive, dirty and slutty. Most people want to believe, and most people want you to believe that Antartica is the former. Nick Johnson, veteran icer, exposes the latter perspective in "Big Dead Place", a book that I refer to as the people's history of Antarctica. I'm currently working my way through the book - its everything ridiculous, outrageous, unsavory, and hypocratic about the United States Antarctic Program and the people who inhabit this strange place. Check out some of the featured articles on Nick's website in you're interested in looking past the propaganda of the Antarctic 'experience': http://www.bigdeadplace.com/
A nasty storm has descended upon the Ross Ice Shelf, resulting in the cancellation of the C-17 from Christchurch today. Approximately 100 people will be here at least a day longer than expected. This storm is expected to last a few days, which may put my departure date of Thursday, the 21st in jeopardy.
I'm hoping this is not the case, since I have a sailing trip lined up on Friday.
Other than sailing, my plans are vague. I will see 'Ween' in Wellington on the 26th. After that, I may buy a bike and start cycling south towards Dunedin, for a hopeful reunion with my hero, Captain Steve Kafka of the expedition vessel Evohe. Throw some hikes in along the way, and it should be all gravy baby.
Well, what would any rational being do in the Antarctic, but jump in the water. Scott Base holds an annual polar plunge in a pressure ridge that opens up during the summer season. Every year, Pudgy, pasty Antarticans strip down, climb into a harness, and take the leap into the 29 degree Ross Sea.
I took three plunges in all. On the last one, I summoned the courage to dive to the bottom and grabbed some rocks from the sea bed.
The kiwi's out-did themselves this year with a hot tub for the plungers. They stuck a sea ice hole melter in a large bin of saltwater - warming it to a gorgeous 104 degrees.
So, why would one do a polar plunge? Boasting rights? A Hero shot for the blog? To feel alive?
Well, its been an incredible season. I've been STUNNED everyday by my surroundings. I've driven every sort of strange vehicle in every sort of extreme condition. I've uploaded and downloaded Hercs and C-17's. I've fallen in love twice. I got laid once. I've adventured in my mind. It's been a damn good season . . .
. . . and I'm a happy boy, but . . .
. . . the beauracracy, the isolation, the beauracracy, the dorms, the beauracracy, the food, and the beauracracy have worn me thin. Its time to go. McMurdo is an outrageous place, it is a place of extremes: The Ross Ice Shelf, famous as the most pure H2O on planet Earth, hovers above McMurdo Bay, famous for it's toxic levels of mercury, petrol, and waste; innocent Penguins wabble their way in fascination towards Humans in Big Reds as those same humans melt their habitat and only chance at survival; 50 knot winds blister through the frigid Ross Island desert as a frenzied, humid, costume party rages in a quanza hut; Mount Erebus, the southermost volcano in the world, streams a constant puff of white smoke, while McMurdo, the southernmost town in the world, puffs a constant cloud of diesel exhaust, poignant from 20 kilometers away; skuas scrounge for Penguins chicks and moldy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; Wind Turbines are installed up the hill from the (hush hush) buried nuclear reactor; the vast silence of the Sea ice offset by the constant groan of diesel sucking machines; ten million gallons of petrol is guzzled by the USAP every year in search of the 'cure' for global warming, beaurocrats stress the importance of wearing my safety glasses as I drive a 40 thousand pound load of cargo up a dusty hill in a 35 year old vehicle with broken windows and shoddy brakes.
I suppose I sound cynical or bitter. Not the case, really. I have great fondness for McMurdo. Its awesome here. It's real humanity. It's been an incredible and fascinating and novel experiment in extremes and the clash of those extremes. It's living history. It's a microcosm of humanity, of who we are, of what we dream for, of our ugliness, of our hypocracy, of our shortsightedness, of our genius, of our creativity, of our sense of beauty, of our endurance and adaptability and adventurousness. There is absolutely nowhere like it on earth. I love it.
But I will never return again . . . Two seasons of McMurdo beaurocracy is enough.
This is a short video of my boss. His name is Billy T. He is a terrible dancer and an even worse manager. Among his skillset is stretching an hour of work into a full, lucrative workday and hitting on the office staff. He has never looked me in the eye (presumably becasue I do not have boobies) and has never indicated to me that he knows my name.
