The Antarctic Book of Cooking and Cleaning: A Polar Journey
Page 10
{The excerpt from “Trespassing on Eternity” appears by permission of Bob Payne and Condé Nast Traveler.}
Volodya Cook on steps of the mess, Bellingshausen, 1996
{Wendy Trusler}
Vladimir (a.k.a. Volodya Driver), Bellingshausen, 1996
THE DRAKE SIDE
Wendy
Doc Roberto seemed more excited about sharing yerba mate than the scenery the day we flew to the Drake. I wondered if there was something other than “traditional Uruguayan herbal tea” brewed in the cup he passed around the helicopter cabin. I’d read in a travel book to be wary of South American men offering drinks. This one—served in a gourd, with a metal straw like a mouthpiece on a hookah—made me uneasy enough to embarrass myself by asking if it was the hallucinogenic tea referred to in Let’s Go South America. Thankfully the passengers didn’t understand my question; Lena and I could tell they wanted us to like the tea from their homeland as much as the place they were taking us to.
The tea is hot, so it’s good. From the air, we got a sense of how temperate the Fildes Peninsula is; the moss was bright emerald green in the sunshine. Small lakes—melt ponds we didn’t know existed dotted the tip of the island we considered our backyard. North of Bellingshausen, in the highlands, snow remained in the valleys and on all north-facing slopes on the moraines running parallel to the glacier. Signs of summer ended abruptly at the icefield. Our pilot followed that line on the traverse to the Drake. Jagged blue ice and deep crevasses look far more menacing up close. It would have been foolhardy if Sean and I had actually tried to ski there.
Everything about the Drake side of the island is wilder. Icebergs and growlers crowd the shores and fill the waters, then nothing.
The beach was packed with elephant seal sunbathers, a family of fur seals too. I always loved the story Sean told me about how the first mariners to see fur seals thought they were black bears that had returned to the sea, because of their bearlike heads, grouchy disposition and the way they walk on all fours. The story came to life when a cow, teeth bared with flippers slapping on the ground moving more like legs, chased Roberto down the beach at full tilt and very nearly caught him.
Even the rocks are different. Some larger formations rise at close to 90-degree pitches and level off abruptly as if they’d had their tops sliced off. Startling bands of green and a deep earthy red push out from black bedrock—no one seemed to mind not knowing the names of the minerals that day.
Jackie Ronne (first female working member of a U.S. expedition) and Sig Gutenko wrapping pemmican, Ronne Antarctic Research Expedition, Stonington Island, 1947
{This image of Edith Jackie Ronne and quotation from her journal appear by permission of Karen Ronne Tupek.}
“We ‘three sporty girls’ . . . beg of you to take us with you on your expedition to the South Pole. We are . . . willing to undergo any hardships that you yourselves undergo. If our feminine garb is inconvenient, we should just love to don masculine attire . . . We do not see why men should have all the glory . . . especially when there are women just as brave and capable.”
—Peggy Pegrine, Valerie Davey and Betty Webster’s letter to Shackleton, January 11, 1914. His reply: “There are no vacancies for the opposite sex on the expedition.”
BROKEN ICE
Carol
I don’t think Wendy, Lena or I cared much about the fact men outnumbered women in the Antarctic. Even before we boarded the icebreaker that would take us to Bellingshausen, we knew there would be a certain dynamic.
There is a long tradition of pioneering women to Antarctica—the first woman to work in the region was botanist Jeanne Baret, who visited the Falkland Islands in 1766–67, disguised as a man. A nightshade plant, Solanum baretiae, was recently named in her honour. In 1935 Caroline Mikkelsen, a Norwegian whaler’s wife, was the first woman recorded to have stepped on the continent.
Admiral George Dufek, the first commanding officer of the U.S. Operation Deep Freeze of 1955–1956, said women would go to the U.S. Antarctic program “over my dead body.”
The first female Russian in Antarctica was marine biologist, Maria Klenova, who went in 1956 and helped map the first Soviet Antarctic atlas.
In 1969 an all-women scientific team led by Lois Jones with Ohio State University’s Institute of Polar Studies (now Byrd Polar Research Center) did geochemical sampling in ice-free valleys. New Zealander Pam Young was with them. So much for Admiral Dufek.
Women are respected scientists, artists, activists, explorers, support staff and more. Today they represent one-third of staff at Antarctic bases, lead and participate in game changing research, such as Susan Solomon and team who helped identify the cause of ozone hole. Chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs) were depleting the ozone layer protecting life from the sun’s harmful ultraviolet light. Scientists and politicians acted following the discovery: The Montreal Protocol (1987) was a landmark international environmental treaty banning CFCs.
Barbara Hillary, a retired nurse, was the first Black American woman to reach both Poles (at age 75 the North Pole and age 79 the South Pole). She shared her mother’s message, “make sure your own window is clean before you criticize others.”
Wendy and I saw at Bellingshausen and while visiting other bases on this mini United Nations island in the middle of the ocean that no matter what the gender, class, rank, nationality or position of Antarctic scientists and visitors, everyone is interdependent.
NAVIGATION
JANUARY 16–31, 1996
{Sandy Nicholson}
Chocolate chips and brown sugar for cookies—finally!
And Russian lessons at radio house with Ilya afterwards.
JANUARY 22, 1996
WTDeliver Hot Cross Buns
Lunch:
•White Bean and Roasted Garlic Soup, African Lentil Soup or Chowder
•leftover pizza
•fruitcake, muffins or cookies
Camp 8. Republican Senator Fred and his wife, Nancy. She is so lovely coming into the kitchen after dinner to chat about my cooking influences. I like that neither of us could pin down our national cuisines. What a poker face—she really had me going with that piece of wood she said she found washed up on the beach—driftwood in the shape of a cowboy boot with a Kansas sticker on it. Both fit and strong—with Fred’s farming work ethic I think they could have come close to wrapping the cleanup at Stoney today, but Sean’s really trying to break up the work there now. Smart guy.
Sunny again, quite unusual two days in a row. Hiked over to Stoney to deliver lunch—well at least part of the way. Seems impossible to walk anywhere. People spotting me on the horizon, stopping to pick me up. Sergey and Vadim were hilarious, pulling up in the Niva like they were just out for a little tootle around the island. Thwarted plans to lose myself in a language lesson on Sean’s Walkman. Scrambled up the big headland at Stoney on the way back at least. Beautiful, peaceful, an escape. What am I here for?
Later: Football match with Uruguay on the flats in front of their station. Maxwell Bay and Collins Glacier sparkling in the sun make a spectacular backdrop. Our team comprises a Scot, a Canadian, a German and three Russians. Volunteers cheering from the sidelines: “Davaj, davaj, davaj!” (“Come on, come on, come on!”). We lost with me in goal. Great fun anyway—everything from the ride in the back of the truck, all huddled together, guys fussing over Lena and me to make sure we’re comfortable and warm.
One pair of earrings from Bio Vladimir
Ten more fish
Spatz now (sleep)
Camp 7 Debris Collection (Jan. 15–19)
Stoney Bay Area 10
Bellingshausen Area 3: 1 barrel mixed
JANUARY 23, 1996
Same old, same old. Grey, mild, changing wind, occasional shower. All hands on deck to work through the fruit and vegetables in the shed checking for rot and soft spots. Got all my preserving done—most satisfying. Freezer now stocked with eggplant, zucchini, green and red peppers, beans, tomatoes, apples and corn—grilled, stewed,
blanched or roasted. Soups, sauces and pesto too.
Potluck meals with the rest of camp. Most of the guys made an effort to try everything, others more tentative. Notothenia chowder a hit and Dima was sweet to compliment me on my vinaigrette. Chocolate mousse was the hands-down winner. Think I blushed when Nancy said it was lovely and light, as if it could compare to dessert at a state dinner.
Bit of a wait for the Petrov. No bubble bath, but biscotti this time and a visit with Kevin. Letter from Bob laced with basil—brilliant! Fax from P. Now, I’m not sure about this one but it reads a bit like a Dear John letter. Three pages of “come here, go away” and then, “I’m still missing you something fierce.” He’s twisted everything again. I said he should use the time to sort things out. I didn’t say I wasn’t coming home. Not sure how I’ll respond.
Got white potatoes and that’s the most important thing. What else? Chocolate chips and brown sugar for cookies—finally! And Russian lessons at radio house with Ilya afterwards—Dima, Lena and Radio Sasha as teaching assistants. Lena always makes a big deal when I’m good at a sound or word. “Zha, zha, zha.” I’m not sure how useful it is to be able to say “I’m hot.” (“mne zharko”) as well as I do since I rarely am, but I’m glad I mastered “U nas net vody. Pozhaluystra vody.” (“We don’t have any water. Bring water, please”). Vassiliy is in for a surprise when I call tomorrow. I’ve got so many languages going through my head everything is coming out wrong. Still I’m ridiculously proud to have the Cyrillic alphabet down and today at lunch Sergey and Vadim said, “Vendi, you are now speaking as well as a three-year-old.”
Bio Vlad’s handmade scrimshaw walrus-tusk earrings, a gift to Wendy
{Sandy Nicholson}
Penguin carcass, Deception Island
JANUARY 24, 1996
Day off—much needed. Lunch with Chilean base commander and officers. Not as animated as the Christmas lunch, but got Fernando’s recipe for cazuela. Invited to cook dinner for the lot of them tomorrow night. Not exactly my idea of a holiday, but I might learn something and Lena’s keen to go. Wouldn’t hurt Zuniga to invite Sean to one of these things.
Volodya Cook’s yummy pancakes for dinner tonight. They’re almost like biscuits. I had three helpings and lots and lots of cream. What luck to be immersed in a culture that celebrates Pancake Day for a week—February is looking good. Lots of joking; morale is high.
Made earrings with stones Sasha Diesel gave me. Paper clips for hooks.
No luck with Inmarsat. Will have to write to P.
Camp 8 Debris Collection (Jan. 19–24)
Stoney Bay Area 11: barrel mixed waste & piping
Bellingshausen Area 4: barrel mixed
What to give when you don’t have anything —
Feathers, fish, stones of all sizes and shapes
A bouquet of lichen, shiny bits of metal and pins for my hat
Fruit from who knows where—the Chilean kitchen, the ships?
Our guys had gone without fresh produce for months; why give a portion to me?
Even with my love of lists it’s not like me to keep a running tally of gifts. Perhaps I kept track to understand and to hold on to whatever lies behind the desire to give? It was a good impulse.
Now when I explain these strange and lovely rhythms I liken them to the way we often find ourselves drawn to the only toddler in a room. Or the way a male penguin will search a beach to find the perfect stone to present to a female and when he finally finds it, waddles over to place the pebble at her feet for her nest.
I think of the day Lena and I spied Anatoliy and Vassiliy up in the hills like shepherds with walking sticks and a large cloth sack. Hours later they came to the door at Canada House and gave each of us amethysts the size of butternut squash.
Tiger’s eye and jade from South Africa, jasper, quartz and amethyst from King George Island. If Lena and I had been roosting penguins we would have had the most beautiful nests in the rookery.
JANUARY 25, 1996
Made dinner tonight for base commander Zuniga, Doctor Rolando and Felipe the young heli pilot just in from Punta Arenas. A real home with running hot water, a CD player, a microwave and sterling candlesticks of all things—still a little culture shocked.
Lena gave me a pelmeni lesson. My tree-planter-sized attempts were a bit structurally unsound—perhaps because I used mashed potatoes in the dough. Felipe said they were more like empanadas.
Pelmeni = perogies = pasties = vareniki = empanadas = patties = dumplings = potstickers.
Bit of a musical language lesson as well tonight; Zuniga translating Spanish love songs in time with Julio Iglesias while Doc packed back the candy canes we brought for dessert. Made dinner plans for when the new volunteers arrive plus a footy match and a Canada House barbeque in two weeks. Offered a ride home. Makes me laugh—it’s only a ten-minute walk up my mountain. Zuniga asked if I’m scared living alone. Should I be? And then out of nowhere he volunteered his bathroom. Assured me it is private and says I can use it whenever I want. Second offer of shower from a base commander in one week. Funny. I’m not sure I’ll get used to this special treatment. Maybe they think I’m swimming out of necessity, not choice—who knows? But I don’t want to offend our guys by accepting or travel even farther to get clean, and really nothing can beat the hot sauna.
I didn’t know there was another sauna, a hotter sauna, until New Year’s. The Diesel guys were like boys in a toy shop that day, pointing out its proximity to my swimming hole, wash basins stacked under a marble bench, a wringer washer, clotheslines strung by the generator fans and a watchman to guarantee my privacy.
Three rooms just for getting clean—two of them lined with gorgeously aged tongue-and-groove wood panelling and lighting soft like candlelight. I asked about a tin tub, the shape of a coffin propped against a wall. One of the guys apologized about its manky condition—it hadn’t been used in years. And they were all a little sheepish about an intricate mural someone burnt on the wall one long winter dreaming of tropical islands and women. I fell in love with the place immediately, and would have switched to the old sauna even if they hadn’t promised to ignore the roster and crank the heat over 200°F whenever I want.
Some days it’s cooking, others it’s cleaning that affords me time for saunas. After morning chores and setting dough to rise, I head to the freezer for supplies and stop at Diesel to put food in basins to thaw—soup for lunch out front closest to the generator fans. I grab a sauna while I wait.
No dallying. Drop hose in tub. Draw bath.
The sauna always hurts, at least until I break a sweat and I have to stay very still or my hair will singe my back when it brushes against it. I never use the birch branches the guys leave out. When can stand heat no longer, pull up straps, slip on boots and Dad’s hunting jacket.
Walk—don’t run past generators. Dash to stream.
One quick plunge.
Repeat and cover with towel.
Wave to watchman on way back through Diesel.
Long, long soak in tub to warm up—quiet except for the muffled hum of the generator and the only pressing thing to think of is whether the soot will come out from under my nails this time. Shower to rinse—an option of pure decadence.
Dress.
Out to generator. Flick head over to dry hair by fan—look away if watchman watching.
Time permitting, stop for tea. Soup thawed. Back to work.
One rock from Radio Sasha.
JANUARY 26, 1996
Strangely calm. Barnyard smell from the Drake. News that the Multanovskiy bottomed out on a landing—wonder if that group of volunteers will come at all.
More jewellery-making with Sasha Diesel. Today he showed me the original mess and kitchen in the derelict buildings behind Diesel. Tinkering and a little sewing.
Must get to other projects: sketches, photographs, castings with penguin bones.
JANUARY 27, 1996
And what of today? Predictable weather change for a changeover day. As the guys s
ay, winter is coming. New group looks good—let’s hope so. Fax from Carol brought us down a bit as did mine from P. I’m glad I don’t have Carol’s job. Best to try to keep it in perspective, I guess. She’s just been fielding calls from those men in Camp 6 who thought they’d been shortchanged because Sean isn’t a capital N naturalist. To my mind he’s got so much cred from his fieldwork with Scott Polar on Cuverville Island last season. Good thing they never found out I’m a cook and not a chef. And their preoccupation with whether the work they did was going to have a lasting impact. Bellingshausen certainly isn’t a consumer society and Sean says given the debris they collected accumulated over 28 years, rates of littering are clearly low. Yesterday he inspected areas cleaned earlier in the season and found no deliberate re-littering. There are wood fragments and wire in places but they’re only due to the larger waste removal efforts the guys recently initated.
P: How can I be dumped so many times by one guy? It’s strange; I know we don’t belong together. His comment, “You could get a job in an office if you wanted,” still stings. But part of me loved what he offered. Am I sad because it wasn’t enough? So what is? What is the trade-off? Do I expect too much?
Dinner: White Bean and Roasted Garlic Pâté, Zucchini Toasts with Tapenade, French Onion Soup, All-In Pizza, Caesar Salad, Custard with Fruit Compote in Phyllo Nests.
JANUARY 28, 1996
Lunch: Spinach Soup and Salade Niçoise, Pineapple Upside-Down Cake.
Wind and snow—a real winter storm and it keeps on. 1:15 a.m. now—still blowing hard!