Big Dead Place

by Nicholas Johnson

  “Oooooh…” we moaned in unison.

  After the Erebus plane crash of 1979, when corpses were brought to McMurdo, the freezer was used as a morgue until, upon consideration, the gym was preferred. People still hear strange things in the freezer, said Freezer Guy, and see what they think is someone’s breath, only to look around a corner and find no one there.

  A man who’d worked on the ice and died in the States requested that his ashes be scattered in Antarctica. The urn was put into the care of an absentminded acquaintance, who brought it down and kept it in his room, waiting for the right opportunity. Nero saw the urn sitting in different people’s rooms and finally spilling onto the carpet during a party, so that the remains shared a vacuum cleaner bag with coffee grounds and foot powder. Nero suggested that these events might have something to do with the angry ghost in the story that followed.

  Nero told us of a DA in the Galley who confided one night that he was afraid to return to his room. He had awakened in the middle of the previous night. He thought he saw someone standing on the other side of the room, but shrugged it off as a hallucination and lay back down to sleep. A feeling of proximity stirred him to open his eyes. A figure was hovering directly above him, face to face, with only inches between the ghostly eyes and his own. He let out a yelp and shut his eyes. When he looked again, nothing was there, but when he tried to sit up, he was unable, as if something were pressing down on him, or pulling the blanket on each side from below. After a brief struggle he sat up, then jumped out of bed and ran from the room.

  Nero has heard several versions of this story. People call it the Grab’em Ghost of McMurdo Station.

  By June our routine was hopelessly solid. Each of us in Waste could distinguish the sounds of different loaders even from afar. Every Saturday we checked the glass and aluminum bins at the bars to make sure they were empty. Every Monday we checked the same bins to see if they were full. The Galley pumped out a daily stream of Burnables and Cardboard and a medium stream of Plastic and Light Metal. FEMC produced a lot of Wood and Light Metal and Construction Debris. The Firehouse hardly put out anything at all, but when they did, they separated their trash poorly. The Heavy Shop made a lot of Construction Debris, and we had to make sure to pick up their Heavy Metal when it was only half-full; otherwise we might have trouble dumping it, because one of our loaders had some hydraulic problems at max capacity. The Carp Shop could fill a Wood dumpster in a day or two. The dorms were steady with Burnables and sporadic with everything else. The Coffeeshop Glass bin only filled with wine bottles, and we appreciated the bartenders’ separating by glass color even though it wasn’t their job. The power plant dumpsters had been requiring attention this winter, because the engineers were cleaning house, and they called us to pick up their cardboard frequently, but that’s because they didn’t break down their boxes. Crary Lab took forever to fill anything but Haz Waste or Plastic.

  Passing conversation ever more often involved Christchurch, an Antarctican’s Heaven, where the year’s grinding work would be rewarded with sushi and botanical gardens, Thai food and titty bars. There would be rain on windows and the sound of wet tires on pavement. Fresh off the plane, we would seep into Christchurch like diesel into snow. We would be full of money. We would scatter about the hostels and hotels, then clump again into smaller groups at restaurants throughout the city. Ice people would be everywhere, stopping on the sidewalks to ask each other what they ate for lunch, because now lunch would not be the same for everyone. To avoid tables for ten with confusing bar tabs, one would avoid the Monkeybar Thai restaurant. Bailey’s, a bar at the edge of Cathedral Square, draws so much business from the USAP that they have sent kegs of Guinness down to special parties on the ice. Bailey’s would replace Southern Exposure, but without parkas by the door, and the work stories would be full of nostalgia instead of details. The talk would concern beautiful future beaches and bloodless Antarctica.

  In Christchurch we look pale, weird, and menacing, but soft as adult-sized newborns. People who were attractive in thick brown Carhartts and all manner of accessories to cover necks, faces, and hands appear in the Christchurch summer as a mass of elbows, kneecaps, and toes. People wear shorts and sandals, exposing pasty flesh and propensities for camping. We are no longer Carps or Fuelies or Plumbers. Our cold-weather clothes are taken away, our intertwining community vines pruned; we suddenly have separate destinations.

  By June, work was sometimes a wearisome prospect. I was sleeping longer on weekends and tired on weekday mornings, even when I went to bed early. When I did laundry, the clean clothes got put away just in time to do laundry again. Shaving was a chore. My room was getting messier. My memory seemed weaker.

  One day while I was welding a dumpster I had problems explaining something to Jane.

  “In this case it’d be better to hold the steel plate than to…” I hawed. Jane waited patiently. I couldn’t think of it. I pointed to the clamp lying on the floor. “What’s that called?” I asked her.

  “Clamp,” she said.

  “…than to clamp it,” I finished. Jane said that pretty soon we would be speaking in grunts, merely pointing at things to name them, and staring into space.

  One weeknight there was a “Political Discussion Group” in the library. The topic was the First Amendment. The moderator, a former defense attorney, rambled for over an hour before opening the floor for discussion, and the topic quickly disintegrated from the First Amendment into general law and hypothetical employment practices in people’s home states, during which a normally subdued guy who worked in Supply erupted in aggravation.

  “So if my right to practice my religion conflicts with a seven-day work week, and I can’t find anywhere that doesn’t work on Sunday, then it’s not fair!”

  His voice was tinged with a flash of mania.

  Psychologists have been prying into the winter-over mind since the early expeditions. A report by Lawrence A. Palinkas, On the Ice: Individual and Group Adaptation in Antarctica, says that Antarctica “has long been viewed as having enormous potential as a ‘natural laboratory for the social and behavioral sciences’ (Shurley, 1974; Pierce, 1985).”

  The study is accurate in many cases. For example, it details the “Winter-Over Syndrome,” the name for all staring, grunting, and absentmindedness after April or so, and which the Antarctican simply calls “getting toasty,” or less frequently, “T3.” The term “T3” comes from the change in T3 thyroid hormone levels triggered by prolonged exposure to cold and darkness, which reduces the body’s activity so as to conserve energy. What this means is that in June or July your clothes get heavier and the air around your legs turns to mud.

  Palinkas’ study found in the winter-over “a complete absence of Stage IV sleep as well as sizable reductions in the amount of Stage III and REM sleep.” This means it is not a bad idea to bring a stash of sleeping pills. The “winter-over syndrome” of the “Antarctic microculture” caused by the “perceived absence of social support” within the “social and environmental context” simply means that when people are stuck together like monkeys in a box they start to get on each other’s nerves. And the researchers’ “analyses of the human experience in Antarctica suggests that there are few, if any, traits that serve as useful predictors of performance during the austral winter.” This means that a few psychos will always slip through, and also casts doubt on the value of psych evals.

  The study describes “long-eye” or the “Antarctic stare” as “the occurrence of mild hypnotic states,” which have been observed in Antarctic expeditions as early as 1900. This is perhaps the spookiest of winter traits, when we leave off in the middle of our sentences to stare at the wall or ceiling. Thousands of half-sentences disappear into the void during winter, and the winter-over seldom tries to retrieve them. By July or August, your story is finished, not when the narrative finds closure, but when you stop talking. Everyone seems to understand, and no one comments on the behavior.7

  The study also cites another st
udy claiming that “…approximately 5% of winter-over personnel experience symptoms that fulfill DSM criteria (American Psychiatric Association, 1994) for a psychiatric disorder and are severe enough to warrant clinical intervention (Palinkas et al., 1995; Palinkas, Glogower, et al., in press).” This sentiment is illustrated locally by the “Toast List” that Nero revised throughout the winter, and which included those whose behavior sometimes hinted at the subject being “over the edge” (Nero, et al., 2001). Nero would freely divulge the subjects on his list, especially in their presence, and it became something of an honor, creating an unbalanced elite. Thus subjects on the edge of the black crevasse of insanity met approval for their amusing achievements rather than scorn and hostility.

  The study falters when it emphasizes the effects of peer interaction and the “extreme physical environment” as the primary hardships of working in Antarctica. This is contrary to actual experience. I have never heard one person say that the most difficult thing about Antarctica is working outside, or being cold. I have never heard one person imply that Antarctica’s tough physical environment would be the main reason not to return. I have never heard of one returnee who finally quit because it’s the world’s highest, driest, coldest, or whatever. People leave because of the bullshit.

  Since the culture at the U.S. stations has been imported from the United States, the small polar society is by default structured so that any scheming pecksniff will feel comfortable making a lunge for the reins. And since the average American community regards “freedom” as any state of affairs other than being trapped in a tomb without food, the obedient and the unscrupulous find a welcoming place to play drug dog. Those who prefer a pristine image to the blemishes of authenticity are able to manufacture accomplishments in such surplus that the extent of privilege—dispensed by bureaucracy like food pellets at the end of a maze—becomes merely a matter of appetite. Any departure from the nickel-and-dime bureaucracy is met with howls of official protest. Without these comforts exported to Antarctica from the homeworld, we would no doubt be crippled by the culture shock, but after a season or two, familiarity brings awareness: whether in Antarctica, or on Mars, or on the brightest moon in the belt of Orion, we will set up shop with the same bag of tricks. Why not go back to the homeland, then, where at least there are fresh California oranges and New York steaks?

  The Palinkas psychology study claims that “Within each station from one year to the next, a high value is typically placed on certain qualities such as self-sufficiency, decisiveness, intelligence, the ability to work alone, good communication skills, assertiveness, and independence.” Palinkas is wise to avoid saying exactly who values these qualities, because, while it’s true that many still prize these virtues in work and friendship, actually demonstrating them in an official capacity endangers one’s bonus. Self-sufficiency, decisiveness, and independence, in practice, bring only grief, and “assertiveness” is also known as being “unprofessional.”

  It takes your average wide-eyed fingee approximately 30 business days to realize that the average manager is far less concerned with the business of managing essential tasks than in staving off the onslaught of accusations and sideswipes that might hinder her progress to the next level. If a forthright supervisor or fingee manager gets right to work with his crew, he won’t know what hit him. Blacklisted before the summer’s half over, he naively does too many favors, leaving his department open to encroachment and implicating him in other departments’ fuck-ups. Not knowing what’s going on, or rather, not believing his eyes, he fails to release inky clouds of emails that confuse his opponents or to fire off the right dart with the carefully feathered cc: list in time to save his reputation.

  Though isolated Antarctic stations are for obvious reasons carefully designed social environments, the psychological study fritters around with “mood disturbance scores” and the “stress-illness paradigm” to explain hardships. Though each new batch of management emails offers an exhausting blend of ominous warnings and perky pep, the Palinkas study is content to let “prolonged isolation and harsh environmental conditions” pull the battered sled of classic Antarctic burnout. Only briefly does the report mention the influence of “external agencies” as a component of the psychological landscape, which is unsurprising, considering its funding source: the National Science Foundation in partnership with NASA.

  The two agencies also co-published a report in 1990 that outlined how they might collaborate in applying USAP techniques to the goals of a permanent human presence on the Moon or a manned Mars landing. Antarctica is for NASA a model for the Moon and Mars: a sort of Mock Mars Drill where, because of its remoteness, terrain, logistical constraints, and the tendency of its crews to “experience stresses that are, in many respects, similar to those that will be experienced by crews on long-duration space missions,” NASA can perform tests in approximately lunar or Martian conditions at terrestrial prices. NASA not only slavers over Antarctica’s potential for a telerobotic construction outpost, but also claims that “Antarctic bases can provide a testbed for studying operational techniques, human factors, and small-group dynamics in harsh conditions… Command and control structure, crew coordination and communication, and questions of leadership, all critical to the success of space operations, can be studied in Antarctic outposts.” Though the report didn’t specify what varieties of studying would be involved, or when the studying would commence, the report makes clear that Antarctica is “a compelling place” for these studies of “human factors” and that, in exchange for their cooperation, the USAP “could benefit from developed and proposed NASA data, systems, and technologies that might increase the efficiency of operations or enhance the research program.” The report describes this win-win situation as “a proven, rational method to reduce the risks associated with human space missions,” which are “high-investment missions.” An Antarctic mission, on the other hand—in the words of NSF Director Dr. Neal Lane’s 1996 press release about the search for Martian meteorites in Antarctica—is like a “bargain-priced space mission.”

  At lunch one day, Jeannie told this story:

  Jeannie was five and playing with her hamster, Scratcher, while her parents loaded the car for a trip to the cabin. Jeannie had put Scratcher in the plastic hamster ball and was rolling the little furpuff around the room as he ran his stubby legs off inside.

  When the family came back from their weekend trip they found that poor Scratcher had spent the weekend in the little ball, soaking in his own filth, rolling around the room in futile gyrations like a lost atom. Jeannie took Scratcher out of the ball and lovingly bathed him in a shallow pan full of warm water and Dawn dishwashing liquid.

  The hamster did not respond well to the dish soap. Scratcher’s hair fell off in clumps while his tender naked body developed unwholesome scabs. He was in a bad way, and Jeannie’s dad told her they would need to put Scratcher to sleep. She thought this meant they would drive the hamster to the veterinarian for euthanasia, until she caught her dad in the laundry room with Scratcher inside a garbage bag, beating him against the washing machine.

  One Saturday night in June, after a month of detailed planning, we held the Black-Ops party in the Waste Barn. It was costume-optional. Before the party Ben poured a bottle of ketchup on his chest and Nero and Ivan wrapped Saran Wrap around his torso. The flattened and smeared ketchup and chest hair beneath the Saran Wrap looked like some hideous organism on a microscope slide. On top of this he poured more ketchup, then added a Barbie doll that was quickly wrapped up as a new appendage.

  I went up to the Waste Barn early because I was the first DJ. The Rec Guy was acting like a secret serviceman, telling people as they came in that they needed to talk to “Agent Tuna the DJ” and ask for the secret codeword or some such. Injun Joe arrived and began yelping at me. “You Agent Tuna? What the hey? Agent Tuna! You Agent Tuna? What the hey? What the hey!” I finally realized through the racket I was playing that he was yelling “Where’s the head?” I pointed him out the
front door, to where Ben had earlier spent a few hours with a loader and a Herman Nelson heater setting up and melting out a u-barrel shack. Injun Joe left for a while and came back. He told me his IQ was 76. He told me he was a Native American. “Navajo,” he yelled. He told me to call him Injun Joe. I excused myself, as there were only 30 seconds left on a song, and he disappeared. Later, just after I had played the song “Tuvan Internationale” by Huun-Huur Tu, Injun Joe reappeared and, with stern insistence, saluted me repeatedly then shook my hand for playing “true music.”

  After my duty as DJ ended at ten and one of the NASA guys took over, I wandered around the party drinking beer. Despite the recent policy of no hard alcohol at parties, it was in abundance, in unmarked containers. A party in McMurdo not on the verge of a stultifying binge is unthinkable.

  I spotted Laz dressed as a deranged lunatic and wearing a weird mask found in skua. I called him a murderous dog and explained that while he was away Ben and I had invaded his room and gone through all his stuff, and that I had jacked off on one of his shirts but couldn’t remember which one.

  Laz and Jeannie had just made the six-hour return trip from Black Island, where they had gone for almost a week to refuel the tanks that keep the generator building heated. On the way back, they made a bet on their ETA into McMurdo. Laz won the bet, so Jeannie would have to deliver burger bar to Laz in his room. At Black Island they had 100-mph winds. They took 20-foot walks to the Delta from the front door before turning back. Laz said longer walks could have been dangerous.

  I was eager to hear about Black Island, but Injun Joe soon pulled me away.