2007–2008 is the International Polar Year, so it’s a perfect time for a new history of human endeavour in Antarctica.

Newcombe Bay, Antarctica: It’s Boxing Day at the bottom of the world. Although it’s high summer, the ambient temperature on the deck of the Polar Bird hovers a few degrees above zero. Icebergs skulk along the shoreline. Two Zodiac boats, zipping out from Casey Station, cut the still, dark blue water of the bay. As they pull abreast of the anchored ship, a hearty yell goes up from one of the smaller craft to the crowd peering down over the railings: “What the hell took you so long?”

No, it’s not a scene from the new Tourism Australia campaign. The exchange was witnessed by environmental historian Tom Griffiths, who relates it in his new history of Antarctic voyaging called Slicing the Silence. Griffiths, from the Research School of Social Sciences, took the long trip south in the summer of 2002–2003 as a humanities fellow with the Australian Antarctic Division (AAD). This program allows scholars, artists and politicians to tag along on an AAD re-supply voyage, when personnel and supplies are shipped to the permanent and temporary Australian settlements on the Antarctic continent and nearby Macquarie Island.

The voyage in which Griffiths participated was carrying a fresh batch of expeditioners to the Lego-like structures of Casey station, just outside the Antarctic Circle. These brave souls were going to replace the ‘winterers’ – researchers, engineers, maintenance and medical staff – who’d already spent 14 months living and working in the vast silence of the southernmost continent. Antarctica is arguably the most isolated place on the planet, so it’s no surprise that the seasoned expeditioners greet the prospect of ‘new’ people with enthusiasm. Griffiths believes that the jocular yell from the Zodiac boat, tossed like a paper ribbon at the re-supply ship, is a ceremony that’s been replayed in one way or another for decades. One of the key themes of his writing is the essential solidarity of human endeavour in Antarctica, taking place within the embrace of the continent: its inhospitable climate, its alien meldings of rock and ice, its curious penguin inhabitants, but perhaps most of all its guarded secrets.

“One hundred years ago we didn’t know a great deal about Antarctica,” Griffiths says. “People hadn’t been to the South Pole then. Only little bits of the coastline were known. We didn’t know if it was one continent or a whole series of islands melded together by ice. Even in the 1920s, experienced Antarctic expeditioners wondered if there might be parts of the continent, right in the centre, where there could be a mystery lost human race in residence.

“In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, Antarctica was seen as a mystery, the last frontier, and that’s the magic. It became a stage for the last gasp of empire, where the goals were very abstract. Many early voyagers were intent on filling in the blank spaces, planting the flag at the pole at 90 degrees south – where there was nothing, by the way. 90 degrees south looks exactly like 87 degrees south.

“That early interest is largely driven by the idea of heroic manly achievement. One of the great heroic figures of the early 20th century was the polar explorer. People read their newspapers about Shackleton, Scott, Mawson and their peers. These men embodied great virtues of the frontier, extending civilisation to the ends of the Earth, and they gained honour for themselves and their nations.”

These tales of courage and survival have assumed an epic resonance, despite being dismissed by some as just ‘boy’s own’ material. There is the stranding of the Endurance in the ice, which led to Shackleton’s long trek to find rescuers for his crew. There is Scott’s doomed race to the pole, which ended in defeat, death, and some of the most famous last words in recent history, attributed to Captain Oates when he voluntarily went to his grave rather than be a burden on his comrades: “I am just going out and may be some time”. These stories caught Griffiths’ attention when, as a young boy in Melbourne, he recalls surviving hot summer nights by reading polar literature. Today, he’s reassessed the tales from his perspective as an environmental historian.

In his book, Griffiths alternates between his own diary entries, reproduced faithfully just as he jotted them down on the ship, and more scholarly historical essays. He says the approach was an attempt to retain the innocence of someone voyaging south for the first time. “I tried to achieve a constant movement between past and present. When I see Casey station for the first time, I ask myself how permanent settlements got established down here. That’s how good history operates – a constant dialogue between the past and the present.”

Another treat for the historian was gaining access to the log books kept at Casey by generations of AAD staff. When he describes his time poring over these primary materials, the icy plains visible outside, one senses his thrill. Locating the history in situ is something he set out to achieve on a grander scale, too.
“History tends to be a very human-centred drama,” Griffiths says. “Environmental history seeks to bring nature into the narrative, and not just as a background. Nature is not just the stage on which human drama unfolds. Nature interacts with humanity; it shapes what people do, so there is a genuine engagement.”

If you accept that history is a dialogue between people and their environments, then in Antarctica the conversation has revolved around the twin poles of mystery and discovery. This has also prompted an evolution in the way that people think about Antarctica. Over the last century, the continent went from being an ‘empty stage’, on which heroic deeds could be performed, to being a place for international cooperation and the fulfilment of human ideals. Driving this shift was the imperative of science.

Antarctica is sometimes referred to as the ‘continent of science’, being the only place in the world where nations have agreed to disregard their territorial claims in pursuit of scientific discovery. One of the earliest proponents of fine Antarctic science was the Australian geologist Douglas Mawson, whose portrait could once be found on the A$100 dollar note. Griffiths says Mawson’s expedition to Antarctica between 1911 and 1914 was significant for the weight it gave to scientific endeavour.

“Yes, it was planting the flag for the British Empire. But what’s impressive about the expedition is that in a period in which other nations were very keen to plant the flag at the south pole, Mawson is down there saying, ‘No, we’re down here to conduct good science and to discover parts of the continent that haven’t been explored before, and especially the parts of the Antarctic coastline directly south of Australia, because Australia has an economic interest in it and a strategic interest in it and an intellectual interest in it. And we don’t want this continent to our south to be claimed by other nations’.”

“I’m not denying it was nationalist, but when one looks back, and wonders what is distinctive about the Australian relationship with Antarctica, then one has to feel proud about the high priority given to science from the earliest time. That’s clear in Mawson’s expedition, but it’s also clear in Australia’s contribution to a later event, which is the International Geophysical Year (IGY) in 1957-1958.”

Griffiths describes the IGY as a “massive cooperative exercise”, where scientists from around the globe concentrated their attention on the poles. He says Australia’s contribution was to make an early, substantial scientific contribution and to foster international cooperation without relinquishing its own territorial claim. The Antarctic Treaty, which was signed in 1959, is the foundation document of Antarctica’s unique political regime. It promotes scientific research and the peaceful use of Antarctica, and neither recognises nor denies any existing territorial claims to Antarctica – appropriately, such claims are ‘frozen’. Other beneficiaries of this accord were the penguins.

Among the many photos taken during his voyage south, Griffiths has captured a procession of Adélie penguins. These, along with the larger Emperors, are the only Antarctic penguins. Having evolved with few land predators, these white-eyed waddlers are known for their curiosity. Griffiths says that the AAD advises visitors to Antarctica not to get too close to these birds, but the directive does not seem to have reached Adélie central. In the photo, the creatures are taking it in turns to approach the photographer for an inspection. Just as he was there to observe Antarctica, Griffiths says this episode was one in which Antarctica seemed to be observing him.

“There’s a part in the book in which I’m writing about penguins,” he says. “In fact, there’s a chapter in the book in which penguins simply took over. It’s natural to anthropomorphise penguins, to see them as human-like. That’s what made them so attractive. They’re the closest thing to an Indigenous people in Antarctica’.”

Leaving notions of penguins as people aside, Antarctica went without permanent human settlements until the 20th century because of the extreme difficulty one must encounter to reach the place, let alone survive there. In his book, Griffiths refers to the Southern Ocean as a university, with much to impart about human experience to the diligent student. He regards voyaging as a time for contemplation and a time in which to read the diaries of fellow expeditioners. But he also regards the voyage as instructive in its own right, reinforcing the values of patience, perseverance and perspective. All this is about to change. Next summer, the AAD will begin flights on its first permanent airlink between Hobart and a runway near Casey station. In future, this will become the primary way in which Australian researchers will cover the 2,500 kilometre journey. Griffiths is concerned that this dramatic shift in transport arrangements will mean that people will no longer experience the ‘education’ of the voyage.

The prospect of easier travel arrangements to Antarctica also throws up the possibilities of increased tourism and perhaps even renewed interest in minerals exploration and extraction. In the 1980s, treaty nations agreed on a convention that set out certain rules that would apply should minerals exploration take place. “But before that convention was ratified, Australia stepped aside from it – this was the Hawke government in 1989 – and decided to campaign instead for a mining ban, and for a wilderness reserve, and for better environmental protocols,” Griffiths says. “That’s what happened. In 1991, the Madrid Protocol on environmental protection was agreed to. This was another turning point in Antarctic history, and one in which Australia played a major part.”

This is not to say that Australia’s record with its southern neighbour has always been without blemish. Griffiths says there are times when Australia has dropped the ball, particularly in the late 1970s and early 1980s when the nation conducted a massive building program on the ice. That was partly driven by a desire to shore up its territorial claim. Today, Australia lays claim to 42 per cent of the continent, more than any other nation. But as long as the Antarctic Treaty maintains the freeze on the business of who owns what, the southernmost continent will continue to impart its lessons to the environmental historian in all of us. And quite apart from its potential as a subject for history, Griffiths says that visiting Antarctica was a true adventure for the body and the mind.

“It’s a source of inspiration and ideas. It’s a place where people feel wonder and awe, where humanity feels marginal. That’s scary in a good way. You feel it’s as close as you can get to visiting another planet. You feel as though you’ve left Earth. You’re able to look back on your planet and think about important issues. People often feel Antarctica has this special ability to promote big thinking, and to encourage belief in ideals.

“The Antarctic Treaty is working at the moment because the continent is a place where all humanity feels marginal and nationality seems absurd. You have to cooperate to survive. There have been key moments in Antarctic history when idealistic behaviour has been rewarded and the commitment to fine learning and good science has brought people together. That’s really inspiring. I felt it on my ship. I called it a community of wonder.”
But do you have to visit the place to understand it? Or can we learn from the history, from the old tales of Shackleton and Mawson, and the newer stories about the AAD and international cooperation?

“I wouldn’t want it sold as simply a good news story about Australia and its involvement in Antarctica,” Griffith says. “We also have to see where we failed and where we can do better. It’s a complex history, and there’s a deal of anxiety about the future there too. But I think that teachers of Australian history should always looks for opportunities to view Australia from offshore, to connect it with world history. The history of Australians in Antarctica is a vital way we can do just that.”

Extract from Slicing the silence: Voyaging to Antarctica by Tom Griffiths (University of New South Wales Press 2007, pp187-188)

Saturday, 28 December
Windmill Islands, Antarctica
I never expected this trip to give me experiences such as today. I have been out on a Zodiac miles away from Casey, exploring the inlets and islands and ice cliffs of the coast. I have heard – for the first time – the silence of Antarctica. Everywhere else I have been within the throb and thrum of engines – even the ship at rest, at anchorage, is constantly drumming, cranking and sighing in order to sustain the community on board. Last night, at 11pm, when the air was still, I went on deck and leaned over the rail for a while, gazing across a peaceful, dark sea towards a sky of gentle mauves and pinks and light blues. The lone windmill on the hill at Casey was not moving at all; it was a steel statue. I felt the silence but could not hear it. Suddenly I craved it, I wanted to escape the ship and the station for a little while and hear the ice creak. And today I did! But even better than I could have hoped. It was a day full of other-worldly beauty, I gasped constantly. It was such a contrast to yesterday, when I negotiated and added to the human infrastructure of Antarctica. Today we were fragile creatures way, way out of our biome, space travellers temporarily visiting another planet. We had to be constantly aware of the danger of this environment, the margin for error is small. What is the wind doing, where are those clouds coming from, how firm is this sea ice, this overarching cliff, how cold am I getting? There was a time when we were preparing for our trip when I thought ‘it does not matter about the camera or keeping my bag dry, what matters is that I stay warm and come home’.

We skidded over the polar waters, between floating bits of ice, and under great rearing cliffs of ice four or five storeys high. We stopped beside floes populated by penguins and some of them swam beside us, leaping gracefully like dolphins in arches from the water. We followed a channel between two islands and nosed our boat into an ice crack, and I had to jump out and tether it to this great plain of thin sea ice that probably won’t even be there next week! Walking around this area you had to step over the tide cracks which were like small crevasses, and once the ice suddenly gave way up to my knee and I had to scrabble for a handhold. We had lunch here in the company of three Weddell seals sprawled on the snow, hardly batting an eyelid at our presence. And the little Adélie penguins came perkily up to us to investigate and one or two walked virtually between our legs. One waddled up to me in a friendly fashion and regarded me from only a metre away with respectful interest. It was the most beautiful setting, remote and potentially dangerous. Yet we were having a picnic! I really did hear the ice creak.

Antarctica is like a king-size playground for intellectual physicality. The marriage of ideas and bodies, of the most abstract aspirations and the most basic biological needs is close. Everyone you talk to here – whether they are a diesel mechanic or a physicist – is driven by curiosity and passion of some kind. This is a community of wonder.

^^

ANU Reporter 
Winter 2007