97th ANZAC Dawn Service at Davis

As the 21st member of the 65th ANARE at Davis, I'm finding myself feeling more and more obliged to immerse myself in all things Australiana. Even though I've been in the country since 2005, I've never felt compelled to go beyond understanding the accent, memorising the public transport routes and knowing the best spots for eating (all three are essential things if you want to survive here). Ever since winter started, I've found myself entering into footy tippings (both NRL and AFL, of which the former I was once Score Leader for 4 weeks but now have to share my place with another insubordinate, le sigh), watching weekly footy games, flogging 'howsit gowin' and 'no worries' like there's no tomorrow, drinking Bundaberg rum (ugh) and eating crackers with vegemite and melted cheese.

Yesterday, my Australiana education took one giant step forward, and I found myself participating in the Davis ANZAC Day Dawn Service. For those of you who don't know what ANZAC Day is, please read this. When I heard the words 'Dawn Service' uttered by the Station Leader, my mouth went dry, because I knew that Dawn Service back in Australia meant getting up at 5.30 in the morning. However, seeing as we are in Antarctica and going into winter, Dawn here means 10.00 am. Sweet.



 

All of us assembled out at the flagpoles, listened to an address from Ali, the flags were raised then lowered to half-mast, we played the Last Post over the sound system, and I had the opportunity to read out a very lovely poem from a John McCrae.

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago 

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie, 

In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe,

To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high. 

If ye break faith with us who die 

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

In Flanders fields. 

We then proceeded to spend the rest of our day drinking rum and watching Australian war movies. We went through Breaker Morant (Boer War), Gallipoli (WWI), Kokoda (WWII) and The Odd Angry Shot (Vietnam War). They were all great movies, but it made me feel really depressed towards the end (especially after watching Breaker Morant and Gallipoli back to back). They completely highlighted the futility and wastefulness that is war - and it was really heartbreaking to watch the enthusiasm of the young men signing up for WWI, because to them, I assume it was more for the adventure than the actual realisation that Death was waiting for them around the corner.



On the last page of the pamphlets that were handed out to us at the Dawn service was a short epithet:

Sacrificed to the fallacy

That war can end war

Second Lieutenant A.C. Young

Royal Irish Fusiliers

Born 9th October 1890

Died 16th August 1917

All photo credits to the other fine and outstanding members on station. 

it is nearly a month since the ship came and left us as winterers. time is flying by, but then again, it's not - you get? the days are peeling itself off the calendar, sure, but it feels like they aren't really going anywhere. perhaps it is the repetition, or the routine that i find myself in now. it's not bad, but, to borrow a line from 'In Bruges' (although it is totally out of context, because in 'In Bruges', it was in reference to the dreamy settings of Bruges in winter),

I know I am awake, but I feel like i'm in a Dream

the only markers i have around me that tell me time is passing are:

1. the extreme shortening of daylight hours with each passing day. the sun doesn't rise till 10.00am these days, and when it does, it hangs around till 5.30pm, and then POOF it is gone. waking up is getting harder and harder.

2. having to babysit that fucking aquarium now that i am by myself my god i feel like committing a murder/suicide (aquarium/me) every time i think about the fucking thing. i don't believe it is 'just an inanimate object' (as some wisecrack pointed out to me a while ago), i believe that it has a soul and a personal vendetta against me. but i will persevere, and i will come out of this the victor because i'll be damned if i let 'an inanimate object' get the best of me.

3. waking up with a hangover every Sunday. if my hangovers could talk, it would have a heavy mafia-esque italian accent. 'eeyyy HELL-low! iz me aggen, yaa?' HAHAHA ma and pa, i joke i joke. i never get hangovers.

anyway, much to do and see and another aquarium to check up on. toodles.

Night of the Dancing Flames, again.

I meant to put these photos up a while ago, but as is with everything that passes through my head these days, my intentions were forgotten and went unfulfilled. But no matter, better late than never, I suppose.

The return of Night to Antarctica also means the start of the Auroral season. I have to confess I wasn't as enthusiastic or gung-ho this season about aurora-spotting as I have been in previous seasons, perhaps I am being picky and fussy now, but if the sky wasn't aflamed in green, I wasn't getting out of bed.


One Saturday night when I got duped by the promises of a great Aurora, which didn't happen. It was doing this all night - diffuse and stringy. Not bad, but not good enough.

The worst thing about aurora-watching, is of course, having to get up in the middle of the night. By some twisted rule of Physics, auroras usually occur, and are at their peak intensities, between the hours of 2-4 in the morning. Around these ungodly hours, air temperature drops to -10 degrees Celcius on average, if you're unlucky, and wind speeds would be hovering anywhere between 10-20 knots. If you aren't already getting the picture, aurora-watching involves getting COLD.


The Big Momma. After this whopper of an Aurora, we have not seen any since. Cloudy skies are a major cause of an auroral-no-show.

Anyway, one day, a massive aurora DID occur, and it was intense enough for me to actually drag myself out of bed, put on 10 layers of clothing + gloves and head outside to take some photos and to soak in the awesomeness that is a great Auroral display. I can't explain what it feels like to be standing under an Aurora while it is flaring and twisting, shimmering and dancing, turning this way and that, and looking so close to Earth that if you could just stand on tippy-toes and reach out with your fingers, you just might touch it. Just. Might.


A direct vertical shot of an Aurora. This is how it would look if you tilt your head back and stare heavenwards.

If anything is magical, it is seeing an Aurora bursting into different shades of green above your head. At that point in time, you forget all about the bold, the wind, your numb fingers, your frozen nose.


Another vertical shot of twisty green magic lights.

How can it be anything but magic?


The tail-end of the Aurora, converging over the horizon of Prydz Bay, Davis. Note the slight pinks in amongst the greens.

as i mentioned before, the winter leg of our season has well and truly started. the few days leading up to the departure of the Aurora Australis from station was quite a whirlwind for me. not only was i trying to coordinate samples going back to the ship, but i had to deal with an aquarium breakdown. in amongst all this work drama, people were constantly asking me, "are you excited about staying?", "how do you feel?", "do you feel like a winterer yet?", "are you gonna miss home?" and of course, my perennial favourite, "are you coping?".

truth be told, i was a little scared. i am the only winterer coming into the team without a wintering-mindset; everyone else had had months and months to prepare them for the eventual day the ship leaves and, for want of a better word, abandons us in this cold, harsh clime.

yeah, ok. i was scared. maybe slightly less than terrified. but the prospects of being on station with only 20 other people made my head spin. what if i broke my leg or developed a serious illness that needed medical attention the station couldn't offer? in summer there were always airplanes and ships that could act as a sort of protection buffer for us in case of emergencies, but here and now, in winter, we are who we have to depend upon. pretty terrifying.

when everyone left for the ship, the old-timers kept hugging me and telling me to 'have a safe winter'. SAFE winter? not a happy or fun or exciting winter, mind you, but safe. i'm sure they meant well, and i'm sure a safe winter is better than an exciting winter, but yea, it made my head spin again.

and then there was the sense that i didn't belong on station, that i was supposed to be standing on the helicopter pad with all my bags packed and people bidding me farewell and to have a smooth journey home, that i was supposed to get onto that great big Sikorsky 76 helicopter and get whisked away on to the ship. but all that didn't happen to me. instead, i was left standing there bidding others farewell and seeing a handful of our wintering women with tears in their eyes hugging their departing men in an embrace that seemed like it would never end.

at that point, Adam jabbed me in my ribcage and said, "that should've been you".

and i know, oh believe me, i know.

. . .

it was strange seeing the ship leave, blowing its foghorn to signal its departure. it was strange to finally find myself standing on this side, not that...letting off smoke bombs, pen flares and rockets as our final salute to the summer of 2011/12. it was strange to know that i wouldn't see the great big orange body of the AA until November of this year. it was strange that i didn't feel any sadness that the ship was leaving, even though two of the women standing next to me were bawling their eyes out (now dubbed the Davis River of Tears). it was strange that, once the ship disappeared beyond the horizon, all 21 of us went back into the mess, made ourselves a cup of tea and life went on as normal, as though nothing out of the ordinary had just happened.

how well our minds buffer us from such changes, environmentally, socially and psychologically.


Photo taken by Chris Hill, wintering carpenter Davis 2011/12.

Davis 2011/12 Final Summer Saturday Dinner!

Now that the madness of Summer has ended, I can finally give myself some breathing space to put in a proper blog entry. As is the tradition at Davis, the last Saturday night of the summer season is always a lavish and formal affair. This year was no exception. We were treated to great food by the chefs (pictures of which I have none, apart from the amazing dessert, which you will see in a few moments), men and women in sleek-looking suits and pretty cocktail dresses (still thinking about that white dress we saw at Paddington AGES ago with the scalloped open back, Tammy), exceptional wines, awards handed out to a select few for their summer achievements (I won Best Summer Science Effort *bows*), amazing company and a live band towards the end of the night.


Linc came dressed appropriately as the Ceremonies Mistress, Nurse Sue Lutt.

It was probably one of the best Saturday nights I've ever had in Antarctica. However, for all its gaiety, it kind of felt a little sad for me, too, because I knew there were a lot of people around me that I would have to say goodbye to in a few days' time and would probably never see again. A lot of the summerers were really good friends of mine, and in effect, became something of a family away from home, hastily put together by the environment and circumstance that we found ourselves in.



No matter, I'm sure those friendships I intend to keep will still be able to pick themselves up from wherever we left off. Plus, new adventures await around the corner!!!




An amazingly melt-in-your-mouth chocolate mousse with associated condiments. 10/10 for yumminess and aesthetics!



How the Davis mess at the new Living Quarters looks like now. Pretty spectacular, it can fit all expeditioners in one sitting!





As the night wore on, so did everyone's visual focus.





The Big Orange Taxi, compromising of 11 musicians, took to the stage towards the end of the night and turned the LQ into a rock concert venue.