The Best Australian Science Writing 2012

by Elizabeth Finkel

  At a community engagement breakfast, representatives from those suburbs, and from Cairns’s tourism industry – always heavily affected by reports of dengue – hear the latest about the trial.

  ‘The story is simple,’ says the tourism industry rep. ‘Eliminate dengue and there’s an economic benefit – that’s what you’re doing; that’s it.’

  Along the table, Scott O’Neill demurs, ‘I’m looking for wood to touch. I don’t want to over-promise and under-deliver. We’re still a long way upstream.’

  Out in the field, the team distributes small black buckets lined with red felt in which they hope mosquitoes will lay eggs that show that the Wolbachia infection is beginning to spread. At the house of the project’s first release, they weigh up locations for these traps – under a table, next to a door – while the owner jokes about it being Wolbachia’s ground zero. ‘There’ll be a plaque on the fence,’ someone suggests. ‘There’ll be tours.’

  ‘If it works,’ laughs the homeowner. ‘If it works.’

  Four weeks later, the eggs collected from those traps are analysed. There’s Wolbachia in 20 per cent of them. ‘That’s what our models had predicted it would be,’ says O’Neill, ‘so it’s on the money.’ It’s also the point from which the models – designed by Ary Hoffmann and Michael Turelli, working together again more than 20 years after they watched Wolbachia spread across California – suggest the bacteria will drive itself through the population.

  ‘If it continues that way, we think the release should be successful,’ says O’Neill. ‘We’re getting quietly confident.’ In March, the time of the last releases, the level had reached about 70 per cent.

  And now, what next? The trial in Cairns is funded for two years; a successful release this year may see another rolled out in less isolated areas in 2012. Regulatory approval is being sought for field releases in Thailand and Vietnam. And Scott O’Neill has just moved to Victoria’s Monash University to become their dean of science, taking his lab, and this project, with him.

  Plus there’s the small matter of malaria. ‘The Gates people are really interested in malaria, more than they are in dengue,’ O’Neill confesses. ‘So they’re saying, “Fantastic, Scott, but can you do it for malaria?”’ It’s the million-dollar question – and the problem, again, is getting the infection into the mosquito. ‘Aedes mosquitoes have lots of close relatives with naturally occurring Wolbachia. But with Anopheles mosquitoes, which transmit malaria, no matter where you look in that genus, Wolbachia isn’t there.’

  At UQ, Thomas Walker estimated he’d injected 20,000 Anopheles embryos ‘without success. It will require something novel, a novel technique or a breakthrough,’ he says. ‘It’s gone past the point of hard work and perseverance.’ Around the world, several rival teams are on that hunt.

  And up in Cairns, those dengue mosquitoes keep up their hard work of feeding and breeding in their comfortable cages, collaborating with the development of this subtle weapon to be used against their own kind.

  Lateral thinking

  Things that bite

  Life in Lake Vostok? The link between Antarctica and extra-terrestrials

  Helen Maynard-Casely

  In early 2012, the Russian Arctic and Antarctic Research Institute (AARI) announced that they had successfully drilled into the elusive sub-glacial Lake Vostok, a body of water lying under nearly 4km of Antarctic ice. The breakthrough is the result of 20 years of drilling at one of the most inhospitable places on Earth.

  Much of the interest in the 15,000 square-kilometre Lake Vostok revolves around the fact that any micro-organisms within it have been isolated for anywhere up to 30 million years, trapped in an environment similar to that of the moons of Jupiter.

  So what does a sub-glacial lake in Antarctica have in common with the alien moons of Jupiter? And what’s the significance of the Lake Vostok exploration when we consider the search for extra-terrestrial life?

  Every time astronomers look at Jupiter with a different instrument they seem to discover a couple more moons. When I was a child I learned there were 16 moons – now there are 66, and I’m only 28. But it’s the four largest of these moons that have attracted the most scientific attention.

  They are now known as the Galilean moons, as they were discovered by Galileo Galilei when he pointed his telescope towards Jupiter in 1610. The moons are named, poetically enough, after the lovers of Zeus (the Greek equivalent to Jupiter): Io, Europa, Callisto and Ganymede.

  Most of what we know about the Galilean moons comes from an extremely successful NASA spacecraft. The unmanned Galileo spacecraft was launched in October 1989 and completed an eight year tour of Jupiter and its moons. That mission yielded images of the surfaces of the Galilean moons and spectral data showing the chemistry of their surfaces.

  Among the many discoveries made by Galileo were the sulphur volcanoes of Io and a greater knowledge of Jupiter’s massive magnetic field. Though Io is a sulphurous, inhospitable environment, the other three Galilean moons were found to have surfaces of water ice, with a number of other salty deposits.

  Perhaps the most intriguing discovery was that under the icy crust of Europa lies what is thought to be a planet-wide ocean. This was detected because the salts in this ocean caused a change in the magnetic field of Jupiter as the icy moon moved through the field. Discovery of this ocean under 6–100km of ice highlighted the potential of a warm and mineral-rich playground – a viable place for life to flourish.

  This was deemed so important that, at the end of its scientific life, the Galileo spacecraft was plunged into the clouds of Jupiter, to avoid the possibility of the craft hitting and contaminating the pristine environment of Europa.

  The issue of contamination is chief on the minds of many scientists as drilling equipment plunges into Lake Vostok.

  In the lead-up to the breakthrough, some scientists were concerned that liquid being used to stop the borehole from freezing over – a mixture of kerosene and other hydrocarbons – would leak into and contaminate the lake. The Russian scientists have refuted such claims, and the Antarctic Treaty Secretariat has since ratified the drilling methods as well.

  Discovering life in Lake Vostok would be a major scientific discovery. For a start, any organisms that live in the lake would have been trapped under the ice for millions of years. Such a discovery would also have significant ramifications for our understanding of the sub-surface ocean of Europa.

  Any micro-organisms surviving in Lake Vostok could be an unknown form of life, and excellent candidates for what life on Europa might be like. The technology developed for the Antarctica project could be used to build a follow-up to the Galileo spacecraft – a craft that could land on Europa and burrow into the ocean.

  Sure, a mission of this sort might still be many years away, but we are definitely heading in the right direction.

  In the meantime, we’ll await the results of the Russian drilling expedition and look forward to December, when a UK-led team starts to drill towards Lake Ellsworth – a similarly buried Antarctic lake. The UK team will be using a newly developed method of ‘hot-water’ drilling, avoiding the use of kerosene completely and allowing for clean samples to be plucked throughout the drilling.

  Stay tuned.

  Expeditions

  Moons

  The doctor is in

  Ranjana Srivastava

  ‘My husband is depressed,’ she says. ‘My cancer has gone on too long.’ Small tears coalesce into larger drops; soon her face is a soggy landscape that no box of tissues can dry. Some years ago, when she was first diagnosed, her husband was her rock. He cooked, cleaned, asked the right questions and said the right things. But the hard years and the relentless, nagging nature of her illness have clearly exacted their toll. ‘I am sorry,’ I say.

  ‘I didn’t see it coming,’ she mutters.

  Neither did anyone else, I think. When her husband left his job, I felt relieved that she would have a full-time driver so she would miss fewer appointments. And o
n the odd occasion when I asked him how he was, I read his shrug to mean ‘Fine’ … because that’s how I wanted him to be. ‘I don’t want any more treatment. I don’t want to beat the cancer and lose my husband,’ she tells me. I beg her to not make hasty decisions about her fragile health and pledge to get her husband the help he needs but she has made up her mind.

  She gives me a hug. ‘Thank you for all you have done. Please don’t feel bad about my decision.’

  I do feel bad, thinking of all the things we could and should have done, because although there was one patient, there were two people. But there will be another time for recriminations because the next patient is a young university student starting chemotherapy for breast cancer. She is petrified and I can’t help feeling anxious for her. We talk about the unfairness of life, about the fact that her friends are partying while she is hooked up to an infusion, and will not only lose her hair but also a breast.

  ‘Will I be OK?’ she whispers, her voice heavy with hope.

  I swallow before answering. Her mother and sister have died of breast cancer. ‘This is treatable – we are all going to do our best to make sure you do well.’ Her face relaxes.

  Next appointment. A 90-year-old Englishman with an incidentally detected small lung cancer apologises for the intrusion on my time. He is here simply to tell me that he is going to defy his children’s wishes and not see me again. ‘In fact, the only thing I ask you is to leave me alone. Are modern doctors able to do that?’

  I gravely reassure him that no one will call him back to my clinic. ‘Then I will say good day to you,’ he replies, almost tripping over his stick in the rush to leave. But the dairy farmer, at 79 years of age, has other ideas. ‘No one is going to stop me from getting to 80! Give me all you’ve got!’ I shudder at the thought of chemotherapy touching his fragile body.

  The next two patients, in solid remission, usher in a much-needed dose of relief. Once they had doubted their ability to survive their ordeal, but now they come with a newfound zest for life. Yet each admits to pangs of anxiety about recurrence, so we talk about the difficult adjustment to being a survivor.

  The last patient of the day is a 52-year-old lady. After an initial reprieve, she has not been feeling too well. ‘I just want to see my first grandchild being born. Just tell me I will be alive for it,’ she pleads.

  And so the day goes, different human dramas played out in short intervals. The script changes with every patient and the task of being an oncologist requires a continuous and real presence. You need to mix stillness with emotional agility, honesty with tact. Maintaining hope while telling the truth is a balancing act played out many times over.

  * * * * *

  It is only with the passing of time that I have realised just how unalterably my life changed the morning I discovered I was going to be a doctor. While many who miss out on a place to study medicine move seamlessly to other successful things, I would not have been one of them. In fact, I am positive that had I stumbled into engineering, my name would have been associated with a few too many upside-down bridges, dead-end thoroughfares and unintentionally explosive soaps. This makes my gratitude for being a doctor almost as strong as my sense of relief.

  After my birth in Canberra, I spent my early years in India, England and the US, where I completed high school. I returned alone to Australia at the age of 17, with the type of certainty only ignorance can bring that I was going to study medicine because I had done well at high school. In Melbourne, I discovered that securing a place in medical school was a little bit more difficult than filling out a form that nominated it as your first choice, but I still wasn’t unduly worried, for I believed that the same grades that had secured me admission to an ivy league American university would get me across the line here.

  I was told to present to campus, but no one thought to tell me it was for an interview. I still remember what I wore – an old white shirt, tangerine shorts and a pair of scuffed canvas shoes. By the time I found my way around campus in the intense summer heat, sweat was pouring down my face. When I finally located the airconditioned comfort of the meeting room, my heart sank. There, with parents in tow, waited impeccably dressed young men and women, eager to impress the same interviewers I was about to meet. Every single candidate wore a suit; everyone looked the part of a doctor.

  Jet-lagged and homesick, I still hadn’t figured out that this was the kind of interview that made and unmade dreams. The mix of questions would invite humorous disbelief in today’s age of strictly structured and timed sessions, but the ones I remember include, ‘Do you think there will be a day when mankind will know everything?’ and ‘Can it be possible that someone’s point of view is unequivocally correct in the face of a definite wrong?’ I cannot imagine my teen self discussing these philosophical questions with any sophistication.

  My rejection letter arrived in the mail. I still have it; it still looks pristine. It says, ‘This year we had nearly a thousand non-Victorian school leavers like you competing for less than ten seats. We are sorry to inform you that you were not selected.’ With that note in hand, I gloomily went to register for engineering, an ill-considered afterthought for me.

  Yet the lady at the computer said, ‘Darling, you are in the wrong place. The medicine enrolment is over there.’ Piqued by her insensitivity, I replied, ‘That’s not funny, I didn’t get in.’ It was her turn to look surprised. ‘I am serious.’

  Dazed, I approached the medical faculty. The secretary was sceptical and her response was as practical as it was ruthless. ‘This sounds odd. I wouldn’t take it for granted if you don’t have a letter of offer.’

  I returned home, neither budding engineer nor budding doctor, in fact wondering whether I would be going to university at all. Hours later, the phone rang. It was swift and impersonal. ‘Congratulations,’ an administrator said. And I was in. Somebody must have turned down their spot, probably to take up an offer elsewhere, leaving a vacancy for me.

  I am the only doctor I know who has never received a formal letter of offer to study medicine. In its place, I have my rejection letter carefully stored away. I look at it from time to time – to me, it epitomises just how close I came to forfeiting my dream. It is no exaggeration for me to say, then, that becoming a doctor transformed my life.

  Once admitted, I relished nearly every aspect of my training. People often think that after obtaining a basic medical degree, the path to choosing a specialty must be lined with a serious analysis of one’s strengths and failings. I’m afraid I was far less judicious. I fainted twice in surgery, much to the disgust of the surgeon, who had only just made the first cut.

  Watching a woman give birth and almost letting the slippery bundle slide from my hands made me doubt my ability to handle such critical moments in life. In paediatrics, I winced at the sight of a sick child – I couldn’t bear to draw blood from a crying baby. When a drug addict abused me for resuscitating him and bringing his expensive high to a premature end, I ditched the thought of emergency medicine. I enjoyed psychiatry and found it a natural fit for my interest in learning about people’s lives. But then, while still in the throes of uncertainty, I found inspiration in the unlikeliest of places – in a small rural hospital – and returned to Melbourne knowing that I wanted to be an oncologist.

  I have been an oncologist for only seven years but it feels like a lot longer. Perhaps it has something to do with the intensity of my work, as every joy, sorrow and anxiety seems magnified when viewed through the prism of cancer. But every day, my initial impression is confirmed: the satisfaction of oncology lies in its art as much as in its science. If you or someone close to you has been struck by cancer, you will know immediately that what you want from a cancer specialist is critical and current information but, equally, empathy and compassion. The most accurate information delivered coldly can dampen, even destroy hope. But the warmest, kindest doctor who cannot confidently guide a patient through a maze of complex information can cause equal harm. Being an oncologist req
uires constant awareness and finessing of this fine balance.

  For a few months every year, I also take on the responsibilities of a general physician. In this role, I see patients with non-cancer ailments, such as injuries from falls, heart attack, diarrhoea and pneumonia, who are admitted to the medical ward of a public hospital. I am able to tell many of these patients that their illness will definitely get better, with fluids, antibiotics, or other short-term measures. Since nothing is short-term in cancer management, I relish the contrast these interactions provide.

  I am fortunate that my work at a public hospital keeps me close to medical students and junior doctors who are still forging a path in medicine. Even more gratifying than teaching is listening to these doctors. On a day when one is feeling jaded, there is nothing like their youthful idealism to reset the button. In the time spared from work and family, I like to write. A physician who witnessed the prolonged suffering of his wife once said that it was impossible not to write if you treated cancer. The intimacies of the doctor–patient relationship are profound, and it is difficult to truly close the mind’s door to what has gone on during the day.

  The art of medicine

  The mind

  A dream of goldfinches

  Vanessa Mickan

  Some days the beauty of the natural world comes on almost like an ache. It is there right in front of me, but too intense, too big to put into words, to capture in a photograph or even to comprehend. The spring weather carries with it the energy of winter still. The air is crisp and cold like a crunchy apple. I want to grab hold of it, freeze the atmosphere like this forever. The branches are bare except for a few buds; the harbour’s water glows in the early-morning light. A Red-bellied Woodpecker trills. Titmice call, but I can’t see them popping around way up high. Goldfinches whiz and zing and whir. It triggers a memory that tries to run away from me, but I catch it and hold its tail for just a second before it slips from my grasp: a dream I had last night, a dream of goldfinches. There were thousands of them, brilliant yellow and black, flying through a forest. There was someone else in the dream, someone I was talking to about these birds, but I can’t remember now. All that remains is the image of the birds flying fast, urgently, silently, between the trunks of great tall trees.