“You throw a punch, you’re on a plane,” says Stan Wisneski of Antarctic
Support Associates. “No one wants to live like the Wild West.” Welcome to the US
government’s McMurdo Station on the coast of Antarctica which, despite
Wisneski’s view, bears striking similarities to the frontier towns of bygone
America. There are no law officers here, but the rules are still strict.
Transgressors quickly find themselves “run out of town” by the authorities.
Situated more than 2500 kilometres from the nearest settlement in New
Zealand, McMurdo is a staging post. The main business here, however, is not
supplying wagon trains or gold prospectors bound for California. McMurdo is
Antarctica’s science city. Its 1200-strong workforce is dedicated to scientific
research: either doing it or supporting the people who do it. And as in a
classic Western, there are tensions at McMurdo between the different groups
there, alcohol is a major pastime, and women are still seen as a civilising
influence.

Transient scientists
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Anywhere else, McMurdo would be no more than a village, but by Antarctic
standards it is a metropolis. It has two airfields, its own sewerage system and
water supply, a church complete with a stained glass image of a penguin over the
altar, three bars, a two-lane bowling alley and even a kiln for firing pottery.
To look at, it is an ugly place, its brightly coloured buildings placed
haphazardly on the shore of Ross Island. Here and there sit barrels filled with
urine and other wastes waiting to be shipped out, or newly arrived pallets of
gas containers, timber and other supplies. The smell of fuel oil pervades the
air and your clothes, at least until you become desensitised to it.
Most scientists who arrive at McMurdo are transients, staying for just a few
days before heading off to field camps to look for fossils, meteorites or
whatever. Only a small number stay to live and work here—about 150 in the
summer just gone. These people study the “antifreeze” proteins in fish or take
measurements high in the atmosphere with instruments slung from balloons. They
also keep watch on the impact of McMurdo itself on the surrounding environment
or work on nearby, long-term research projects into climate change or penguin
biology. The station’s laboratories, which scientists say are as good as any in
an American university, are dedicated to biology, earth sciences and atmospheric
sciences.
These scientists form just one of three groups that live in an uneasy peace
on the station. They depend on a much larger number of support staff such as
electricians, cooks and drivers, hired mostly by Antarctic Support Associates
(ASA), a company based in Denver, Colorado. Then there are the Navy personnel,
who fly the planes and most of the helicopters that transport people around the
continent. The support staff spend anywhere from five months to more than a year
at the station, and are the closest McMurdo gets to having permanent residents.
These are the people who dominate the station’s culture. “The radio station
never plays classical music,” says David Rust, a solar physicist from Johns
Hopkins University. “At the parties, it’s always beer and rock and roll, never
DzԲԲ.”
The cultural divide is just as obvious to the support staff. They tend to
refer to scientists as “beakers”. The term’s origin is obscure (one suggestion
is that it came from “beaker scum”, a term used to describe algae from the ice
which scientists collect in beakers), but it all too effectively conjures up the
image of nerdy types who plunge ahead with some arcane project, oblivious to the
social niceties and the amazing natural wonders all around. Diane Stoecker, a
microbiologist from the University of Maryland’s Horn Point Environmental
Laboratory, says that most people mean no offence by the term—but not
everyone. “Some people use it with an edge to it,” she says.
Jim Mastro, a support diver who helps researchers gather marine samples,
blames stuck-up scientists for much of the tension. “There are always people who
value other people based on what they do rather than who they are,” he says.
“There are pretty arrogant scientists who think that what they’re doing is
vastly more important than what anyone else is doing and that they are superior
human beings.” Stoecker admits that this is true. “Some scientists are real
snots,” she says.
Laboratory geek heaven
It’s easy to see how support staff might view McMurdo scientists as nerds:
they sometimes get their kicks in most unusual ways. One afternoon, several
scientists in McMurdo’s main laboratory building took a break to admire a
vapour-filled cloud chamber one of them had cobbled together. Fast-moving
subatomic particles—in this case from cosmic rays—leave telltale
tracks as the vapour condenses on ions formed as they collide with atoms inside
the chamber. “Ooh, that was a beauty!” one exclaimed. Animated debate broke out
among the six men and one woman about how the device works and on the relative
merits of liquid nitrogen and other means of cooling the chamber. “This is
recreation for us,” said scientist Rudy Dichtl, as the fun broke up.
Much of the tension between scientists and support staff stems from the
do-or-die nature of academic work during the brief austral summer. Most
researchers who receive grants from the US National Science Foundation manage
only one, or at most two, trips before their money runs out, says Ed Carpenter,
who works for the NSF. “The success of your next grant proposal depends on how
well you do,” he says. “Usually you end up working 16 hours a day.”
Mark Tumeo from the University of Alaska at Fairbanks says he revels in a
trip to Antarctica. “It’s fabulous,” he says. “This is like laboratory geek
heaven.” Tumeo is studying pollution in and around the station. At the main
laboratory building, he can get anything he needs much more easily than back at
his university. But the main pleasure for him is the isolation. “When I’m in my
office in Fairbanks, someone will knock on the door, the phone will ring, the
dean will want something.” But here, things are different. “I don’t have to
worry about my personal life. I don’t have one here,” he says. “For six or eight
weeks, I am totally dedicated to my science. It’s fun. It allows me to be as
thoughtful as I want to be.”
But as well as alienating the people you work with, having a one-track mind
can bring other problems. Search and rescue experts, who number among the
support staff, complain that some scientists take unwarranted risks in the
field. “They tend to get really focused on their task,” says Bill McCartney, one
of the search and rescue team. “They tend to forget that there is an avalanche
slope between them and `that rock’.”
Life or death decisions
While the scientists squeeze as much as they can out of a few precious weeks,
the support staff have to meet the heavy demands they make on laboratories,
equipment, helicopters and so on. In this situation, support staff can make
decisions that are life or death for some scientists, says Al Sutherland,
another senior NSF official in Antarctica. And the scientists are feisty,
Sutherland says. “They’ve risen to the top because they persevere, because they
won’t take no for an answer and they question everything. It drives the support
people nuts.”
Many of the support staff are not particularly interested in science. They
sign on with ASA to see an exotic part of the world. Some travel during the
Antarctic winter, or work as travel guides, before signing up again with ASA for
another summer. In one psychological study of polar travellers in the 1991-92
field season, scientists were rated lower than support staff in the areas of
“agreeableness” and “conscientiousness”. The four authors of the study—G.
Daniel Steel and Peter Suedfeld from the University of British Columbia, Antonio
Peri of Italy’s defence ministry, and Lawrence Palinkas of the University of
California at San Diego—suggest that agreeableness may be more important
to support staff because they spend much longer together than the scientists
do.
Looking over the cafeteria, McMurdo’s three castes are obvious: ASA people at
one table, Navy pilots at another, scientists at a third. Social interaction
between the groups seems to be the exception rather than the rule. The Navy
people tend to keep themselves apart. They have their own officers clubs, for
example. The Navy pilots really love being at McMurdo. It gives them the chance
to do an exotic kind of flying that they couldn’t do anywhere else. Other Navy
folks hate being so far from home, while others are happy to be there, mainly
because they know exactly when their tour of duty will finish, and when they
will be on their way back to their home base in California. For tours of duty at
sea there is often no such certainty.
Whether you want to celebrate being at McMurdo or drown your sorrows,
drinking is the main social activity for many at the station. At the local store
alcohol is rationed. You can buy a bottle of spirits or a case of beer or two
bottles of wine a week. However, McMurdo also boasts three bars where you can
drink yourself silly. The station goes through about 13 000 cases of beer a year
and has gained a reputation as a home for hard drinkers, at least among workers
at the South Pole research station. People there can only buy alcohol—up
to their ration—at the store. Although there is a bar, would-be drinkers
have to take their own alcohol.
Nevertheless, things have been cleaned up quite a bit since the 1980s, when
the US Navy ran McMurdo. “It was a pretty wild place. Drunkenness was rampant,”
says Mastro. Back then, McMurdo had five bars. Today, two have been converted to
coffee houses, one for nonsmokers and the other named Erebus after the nearby
volcano. “It used to be that the sanctioned recreational activity was alcohol,”
says McCartney. Now the station offers lots of non-alcoholic activities, such as
dance lessons, aerobics, bowling and pottery classes.
“There’s just as much alcohol as there ever was. There’s less alcohol abuse
now,” says Mastro, who has worked at McMurdo off and on since 1982. He says that
a warning from ASA that alcohol abusers would be fired reduced the problem
drinking. But the ASA is not a complete killjoy. Wisneski, who is the company’s
most senior official in Antarctica, is well aware of alcohol’s benefit. “You
have to let people blow steam or you’d have a real problem.” But one sure way to
get sent back to the US is to get drunk and then into a fist fight. “Nobody
wants to live with drunken brawls.”
Actually, you needn’t be drunk or throw a punch to get sent home. Wisneski
reels off a list of other firing offences: having prescription drugs without
reporting them, trekking onto the sea ice without telling anyone, and growing
plants: it is a violation of the Antarctic Treaty to introduce new living things
to the continent. “There’s a hell of a lot of rules,” says Erick Chiang, another
senior NSF official. “Basically, if you step out of line, you’re fired.”
The rules exist because in practice American laws do not, although the US
insists that technically its laws do apply on the continent. Fortunately, crime
is not much of a problem. “At times, things get stolen,” says Wisneski. Bicycles
are a favourite target, along with coats that are different from the stock-issue
red or tan. It would be difficult to ride someone else’s bike around the
station, or wear someone else’s coat, so presumably these stolen goods are
shipped back to the US. Workers are allowed to send back huge quantities of
stuff.
No police, no judge, no jail
The low crime rate is just as well, because McMurdo has no police officers,
no judge and no jail. So it’s up to Wisneski, Chiang and other senior officials
to impose standards of conduct on the American workers. Chiang sees it very much
like a frontier town. “We have to rely on the responsibility and goodwill of the
people who are here,” he says. Karen Joy, a computer specialist in McMurdo’s
main laboratory building, puts it differently. “It’s like being an
institutionalised adult. They take care of you, but you’d better stay in line or
they’ll get rid of you in a minute.”
Apart from cutting down alcohol abuse, the big change in McMurdo over the
past decade has been an increase in the number of women. According to ASA, in
the summer that has just finished, women made up just over a quarter of the
scientists and support staff at McMurdo and nearby field camps. “The best thing
to happen to McMurdo in the past 15 years is the fact that there are more and
more women,” says Mastro. “It’s been a civilising influence.”
The McMurdo of the 1980s was like a “backwoods mining town” with a few hardy
female souls, says Mastro. “Having a more reasonable ratio of men to women has
made it more like a real community.” It has also allowed changes in the social
offerings, he says. “You certainly couldn’t have dance lessons if you had only
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