What Lies Off The Map

THE ICE, AND ICE PEOPLE

I left Houston four days ago to board a plane flying into the sunset.  Fifteen hours and seventy-nine hundred miles from home, I chased the night into the future, from late summer to late winter... from north to south... from Sunday into Tuesday, tessering through time and skipping Monday altogether.  When I call home, I am nearly a day ahead, having flown backward to get forward.  It is ever so much like falling into wonderland, and I am just waiting to meet Alice.

Here in Christchurch, I'm waiting for the flight down to The Ice.  We are on the fourth delay for weather, so it has been time taking organizing luggage, doing briefings, and getting ECW gear issued to survive the rigors of Antarctica.  Even here, in a town that has been the base of operations for missions going out for a century, people still ask me why I would go to such a place?  Why would I want to?

Antarctica is the most inhospitable place on the face of the earth.  It is the coldest and driest, and most remote.  It is, above the ocean deeps, the last great frontier on the planet.  It is still a continent that brutally devours what markers we humans place there every single year, and scours clean our tracks from the canvass.  It is, in spite of our Icarian devices in the sky, a map upon which we might justify marking "Terra Incognita", and "Here be Dragons".

Why would I want to go they ask?  Why ever would I not?

Of course, I have not yet set foot on that lonely, distant shore, so this is the best answer that I can give so far.  All else is from the reflections and reveries of those who have tales of their own, and ice in their blood.  In briefings yesterday, I met a vivacious lady age 23, and a quiet, white whiskered gentleman age 70 odd.  For her, this is the second sojourn, and for him, the twentieth.  The lot of the ice people include tattooed long-haired hippie millennials and strait laced veterans.  They span the range of worldviews, political affiliations, and backgrounds.  I know of no place outside of the military that such a disparate assortment of people can coalesce into such a community.

They must.  For to be alone in Antarctica is to die.  Adversity cultivates community where the fire does not consume it. 

That I suppose is also one of the attractions to me.  I have for most of my life not quite fit in... not quite belonged.  Brandy knows the same feeling, and we as one flesh belong to each other, and are together in that.  Even when I was last in a community that prided itself for being a family, I did not actually fit in, ironically enough.  My belonging seems to be with people on the edges of the map.  

It would be easier, would it not, if God would just write the letter with explanations and marching orders... but then where would I be?  I have come to laugh at myself whenever I pray for such a thing anymore.  But I can, and I do, thank the good Lord that this is a journey that I have been given to travel.

When the weather permits.  Saturday now, it looks like.  Perhaps.

THE CHARM OF KIWIS AND CHRISTCHURCH

Which leaves me in Christchurch, New Zealand.  The place of the charming Kiwis, (both of the avian and of the human varieties).  As I have been busy with preparation the last two days, today was the first day that I could actually relax and get out of the Antarctic Center and the hotel. The concierge is a warm and laughing Indian fellow, with a sharp curiosity for the Antarctic mission, and an amicable fascination with ice people.  He was cordial enough to not only help me mark a map of sights in town, but to make a suggested itinerary of places around the south island worth seeing if I had time and a car-hire.  So I hired a car today and went out in town.

Flying over the country from Auckland at dawn on Tuesday, I saw the snow-clad mountains, the dark forests, and the wide, green fields of Peter Jackson's Middle-Earth from afar.  Perhaps I shall have time when I return from the ice to see them up close when I can spend the leave.  But today, I stayed in town, with it's blend of familiar and exotic.  It reminds me of being in the U.S. in the '90's in many ways, though this is more of an impression than something that I can describe just yet.  Perhaps it is because it seems unspoiled by the division that has torn America so, and because the Kiwis are so friendly as a group, here.  The first one I spoke to outside of customs while transferring in Auckland to the domestic flight to Christchurch, was an older gentleman who offered some bits of advice for we newcomers to New Zealand:

Don't tip the Kiwis.  Everyone makes $18 minimum wage, and nobody starves here.
If you hire a car, the left side of the road is the right side.
He himself, was a fan of Donald, and he was very happy to shake hands and be a fan of us.
The best coffee in the airport is in the caravan (trailer) kiosk outside the last door to the left.

That was two days ago.  I have learned that the best coffee in Auckland airport is just OK, but not great, though the coffee shop just behind the hotel is good.  I have learned further, that some are in fact starving, and not everyone here likes Donald Trump.  Be that as it may, they have Target, Carl's Junior, and KFC, but I have not seen a single Starbuck's.  Soda is expensive, but many fresh fruits are not.  The radio stations have Maori music the next channel over from one that sounds like MTV's lineup from 1990. They advertise 50 channels of TV on hotel signs, and those include at least three Maori, two Chinese, one Indian, and Al Jazira.  The kids cartoon of Ganesh riding his pet rat which is smaller than his head looks like it is even weirder than the Teletubbies.  Reality shows seem to be very popular with HGTV and Discovery shows like Ice Road Truckers filling broadcast time.  Walking around a nearby park, there is not a single subdivision of houses composed of one of four cracker-box plans, though the overall aesthetic seems to be very English, with elements of Elizabethan beam and plaster walls, and modern terra cotta shingled roofs.  Wide grassy yards don't seem common, but gardens in boxes with hedgeries and shrubberies are.  I met a fat and friendly cat on my walk yesterday, as he came from one of the yards to greet me.

When I called to hire the car, the gentleman on the phone asked me for how long, and I had to confess that I was not sure, but would start with just one day.  That is $20 (NZ) which is about $14 (US).  He surmised that I too must be one of the ice people, and laughed as he told me that he saw the live camera from McMurdo this morning, and knew the C-17 would not be flying into the whiteout.
The national sport in New Zealand is rugby, but the local sport is camera watching and flight betting I think.  So I went down with one of the others from the weather team, marine vet Kevin Denner, and we went to see some of the sights downtown.

THE NEW ZEALAND AIR FORCE MUSEUM

The Air Force museum was quite interesting and had a "behind the scenes" tour that we were able to get in on.  Being a museum dedicated to the history of aviation (mostly military, but some post-military civilian including Antarctic support), it includes quite a lot of aircraft from one of the first wood and canvas planes from just before WWI, to a Sopwith Pup, to Spitfires, and forward to modern jets of the kind that have served in the last 20 years or so.  Only a fraction of the aircraft are on display in the main museum because the majority are in a hangar that serves as storage and workshop space to restore them.  There are a handful of paid staff working on them and about the same number of volunteers, almost all of whom are senior citizens, with one who is over 80.  The tragedy is that they have no apprentices who are learning to be their replacements in crafting the restorations for these historical treasures.

I asked our tour guide, Jeff, if I might go "behind the scenes" of the "behind the scenes" tour to talk to some of these old master craftsmen, and he said that alas OSHA regulations would not allow it.

But then a few minutes after the tour, he came back to me and said that they would make an exception.

We got to go into the workshop and climb into one of the WWII sea planes that they have been restoring for the last two years.  It was really cool to talk to one of the volunteers as he explained manufacturing one of the observation blisters on the side of the plane.  I missed his name, but he shared with me that his wife is at home under constant care for dementia, and so this restoration work is a way that he can put his hands and mind to use rather than sit at home and watch her fade.  He can bring something valuable to life as she slowly loses hers.

FEEDING FISH AND FEEDING FOLK

We spent a good four hours at the Air Force Museum before going to walk down town.  We found the WWI memorial bridge which was raised with a great stone arch to commemorate the Kiwi lives lost during the "Great War" in Ypres, Gallipoli, and such like battlefields.  Walking along the Avon river there, we stopped to take pictures on the bank, and saw in the water actual fresh water eels.  I could not get a good picture because of the light, but I saw first one, and then a couple more before an old Maori gentleman with salt and pepper beard and a woolen poncho came to the bank carrying a bag of white bread.  When the eels saw him, a school of at least two dozen writhed and rippled out to be fed.  Another fellow came by with a can of dog food and a wooden spoon.  They both began to feed the eels, and the Maori fellow offered me some of the bread to feed them myself.  He explained that he has been doing this every day for over 20 years, and that the oldest and largest of the eels is at least 80-100 years old.  He pointed out individual ones and told me about how old they were.  Several Kiwis who'd stopped to watch began discussing the savor of smoked eel and growing up eating it.  The Maori fellow agreed that smoked eel is the best.  And then, when I looked up after finnishing tearing up the bread, he was gone.

A woman named Lowe and her husband chatted us up and somehow got to the issue of environmental preservation and then when they asked and found out that Kevin and I work in weather, they asked what we thought about the world's weather changing.  I began to explain my thoughts about what part of climate change is hocus pocus (any assertions about human carbon as an existential threat to global weather), and what part is not (the fastest moving glacier in West Antarctical which is actually melting faster than it is growing, while Eastern Antarctic ice is growing faster than it melts which is a puzzle worth studying).  Then... well there he was, Donald Trump coming into the conversation.  Lowe asked us if we were embarrassed by Trump and I had to state that, no, I am not.  We had about a ten minute conversation in which she told us that she had liked Obama, but was afraid of Trump, and I explained why I thought Obama and Hillary are more serious threats to America.  We both agreed that Trump is a bully.  We disagreed on much, and yet she gave very specific directions to her and her husband's house north of Auckland down to the turns and side roads past the pub.  She said that should I go back through Auckland and take the side trip, I would be not only welcome to come visit and continue the conversation, but would have a place to sleep.

We parted there as they had dinner reservations, and so Kevin and I proceeded to stroll toward the Christchurch Cathedral under restoration.  The park around it has art installations, and indeed there is an art and design institute about a block away.  A homeless lady was sitting across the street on the sidewalk.  Her name is Maureen and I chatted with her a bit as we went to the convenience store a block down to get coffee and meat pies.  I asked her to pray for me and me for her, and Kevin and I went on to see a renovated train station that had been converted into shops, and salons, and boutiques.  It seems that many businesses close at 5:00 or 6:00 here, but there was still a coffee shop open, so Kevin and I went in.  I got a feta and onion scone and Kevin a cup of gelato.  Just down from the coffee shop was another homeless man named Jim.  I gave him the scone and asked to pray for him.  I asked him if he was going to be able to stay in a shelter for the night as it was getting chilly, and he said that he stays under one of the bridges, but that he would be OK.  It seems that the gentleman in the airport was not quite spot on about nobody going hungry.

AND BACK AGAIN

So what then can I say about this journey?

I don't know yet.  I am half way round the world from home, and I miss Brandy and the kids.  I wish that I could pack them in my suitcase, so that they could have coffee and scones with me and Cynthia and Jim.  I wish Brandy could have seen the wonderful maker-space and met the people working to turn gutted hulks into living history.

And yet, I am sleeping without clenching my teeth as I was through last year.  I have not yet met one of the Ice People who is not tough enough to disagree with, without thinking that disagreement is fatal division.  I have not met them all, and we are not in the crucible yet... so we shall have to see.

What can I say as I wait for my flight down to the harshest continent?

It has started well, and I can't wait to see what lies off the map.