Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
was ten degrees further north than Ross Island, and on my inflatable globe the peninsula almost
seemed to touch South America - whereas Ross Island was perilously close to the air valve, inches
from anywhere to the north. At McMurdo the mean temperature in January is minus three degrees
Celsius, whereas at Rothera it is a sweaty two degrees above zero. At the Pole, the January mean is
minus twenty-eight. It can reach minus fifty at McMurdo in the winter, but the lowest temperature
ever recorded at Rothera is minus thirty-nine.
The sun, shining weakly through the clouds, was hovering in the light grey sky some way above
the western horizon. Here the nights were already dark, the sun setting before ten o'clock and
rising at six, much as it does in a northern summer.
Nobody showed any sign of putting on their cold-weather clothes, and when we landed George
was still wearing his tie. After we got off the aircraft, he gripped me by the shoulder.
'The laddies and I have separate billets from the BAS men,' he said. 'But don't worry. I'll come
over to see you soon.' With that, he vanished.
I loitered on the apron, waiting once again for whatever was going to happen next. I had not ex-
pected banners welcoming me to Rothera but I had assumed that the base commander would send
someone out to meet me, if only to avoid having to deal with the removal of my frozen corpse
from the airstrip. Eventually I spotted a sno-cat trundling around the edge of the apron. I flagged it
down, and smiled weakly at the Beard at the wheel.
'Any chance of a lift to the main building?' I asked.
He nodded, and I climbed up, slinging my bag into the space behind the seats. The Beard was
silent. I wondered if he often passed hitch-hikers.
We lurched to a standstill in front of a long, pale green building. It had two storeys, and was
separated from the runway by an expanse of gravel and ice. Open water was visible a few hundred
yards from each end, and behind the base a ridge of gentle hills, only partially ice-clad, afforded
some protection against the wind. The Beard looked at me expectantly. 'Thanks,' I said, dragging
the bag down after me. There was only one entrance to the building, so I went through it.
Finding myself in a cramped lobby, I engaged in more loitering and took off my parka. Men
were coming and going along the corridors, engaged in a variety of activities but united by the
fact that they all ignored me. Short of erecting a sign outside the base saying '
GO AWAY
', they
couldn't have made it clearer that I was unwelcome. Eventually a balding but youngish radio oper-
ator called Stu took me upstairs for a cup of tea. Everyone was crowding round a table of new mail
in an institutional canteen-style dining room. Stu consulted a wall-chart and found the number of
my pitroom. I was relieved to see my name written up there, for it meant at least they knew I was
coming and were not about to send me back, though in reality they could not have done so as there
was no means of getting back.
The pitroom was like my room at Scott Base - small, windowless and comfortable - except that
there were two sets of bunks rather than one and it was painted in repulsive shades of brown and
orange. Each bunk had curtains round it, which meant you could create a separate little box for
yourself and hide in it. My morale faltered when I realised from the absence of belongings that I
was to be alone in this room, for it meant I was the only woman on base. This late in the season
there was no hope of any new ones arriving. Outside the door, someone belched like the volcanic
