As we ventured further south along the peninsula over the following days, the landings continued. The next morning, we visited an island, busy with gentoo penguins. Far from alone, they were also accompanied by seals and flocks of seabirds. In Antarctica the islands are not selfishly populated. All but 2% of the continent is covered by ice sheets, and the species have learned to coexist in these small spaces. Largely unthreatened by each other, they are also naturally unmoved by a human presence. There are few places in the world where you can be so close to so much wildlife. It becomes a real joy. At one moment I was loosely circled by three gentoo penguins, a large adolescent Weddell seal snoozing in the snow, and pacing by were four sheathbill seabirds beautifully camouflaged in white.
It’s been this way since humans first stepped on the continent. Scott’s dogs were said to have had an excellent time chasing, and ultimately eating Adelie penguins. But unlike much of the world, docile animals have not been driven to extinction, nor has the environment been industrialised. While isolation plays its part, this is also thanks to the Antarctic Treaty. Entered into force in 1961 the Treaty set to demilitarise Antarctica, promote international scientific collaboration, and set aside disputes over sovereign territory. In its own words its key objective is to ensure “in the interests of all humankind that Antarctica shall continue forever to be used exclusively for peaceful purposes and shall not become the scene or object of international discord.” Honourable words that have so far been lived up to. Although the lack of extinctions might also have another reason. Unlike the ill-fated dodo, penguins are said to taste terrible. Tough fishy meat, oily, and covered in blubber.
The Treaty was a strong collective decision. And an even stronger one if some of the conspiracy theories are to be believed. There are some wonderful ones about how Antarctica became a hotbed for fighting escaped Nazi’s in hiding out here. Some things are true. We know that the Germans sent an expedition to Antarctica in 1938 to lay claim to new land. Many Nazis also disappeared to the southern hemisphere at the end of the war (although their preference would have likely been to Latin American vineyards than to the isolation at the bottom of the Earth). Nuclear testing has been known to have happened down in the Southern Ocean, and for many years American and British documents of activities on the icy content remained classified. Putting these pieces together, there is of course an explanation that the Fourth Reich set up in the snow. That is, until they were chased down and annihilated by a nuclear explosion. I later found online some strange and surreally entertaining supposedly first-hand accounts online of British soldiers chasing fearsome genetically modified Nazi snow people into cavernous underground Antarctic bases.
It’s also true that while no fighting took place here, it wasn’t ignored in the clash of empires, and particularly not by Great Britain. Ensuring safe passage across the globe’s oceans was crucial for the war effort. German ships began to raid the waters of the Southern Ocean and Japan’s entry into the war created an additional threat to Britain’s territories. They set up a presence here through the war. Clandestine operations, listening stations, and a means to maintain a British flag on the islands of the the southern Atlantic and Antarctic oceans, while the rest of the empire frayed.
Whalers were the first to call station to the Southern Antarctic islands. After depleting North Atlantic waters of their catch, they found their way south, becoming some of the first to name islands and bays. That was until they depleted these southern waters too. The traders left, but in the geopolitics of the early 20th century, this white untouched land became a blank canvas for nationalistic ambitions. A place for empires to lay down their mark to new territories. The early expeditions were all expeditions of firsts. Of laying claim to the names of vast tracts of land on the map. Victoria Land, Princess Elizabeth Land, Queen Mary Land, Kaiser Wilhelm II Land, all named after queen, king, and country. Explorers deposited their names here, spreading across the continent; Amundsen has 8 large tracts of land to his name, a trail from his legacy of first to the south pole. And in the case of Charlotte Bay on the Antarctic peninsula, a fiancée was given a gift that may or may not have compensated for her future husband’s long absence at sea.
Yet a name is only the start of a larger claim. Seven countries made claims to vast expanses of the continent: Britain, Argentina, Chile, France, Australia, New Zealand, and Norway. The USA and Russia, while conspicuously absent, have reserved the right to future claims, as have South Africa and plucky Peru.
At its centre, it’s a continent that has been unchanged for millennia. Yet here, at the edges, it’s a place that shifts and changes with the seasons. We stand to watch a glacier on the neighbouring island. A wall of white, rugged and uneven. Bereft of familiarity, nor anything like a landmark, the concepts of size and distance are indistinguishable. It creaks and heaves, huge sound in the otherwise still air. We’re in late summer, and so the shearing of huge chunks of ice, of new icebergs, is to be expected. My patience would have extended further to wait for one, but sadly our schedule did not, and we were not to see it occur.
Before heading back to the boat, we watched a small waddle (a fantastically apt collective noun for penguins on land) of Chinstraps. At the arrival of our presence they pause. Immobile, heads facing in all directions. We pause too, and as soon as they decide we’re nothing to worry about they continue on their way. There are a few rocks to climb over, or in their case, to hop. In their momentary time in the air, unencumbered, they appear graceful, before landing back on two feet. Head down, flippers pinned close to their body, legs that appear far too short – all in all far less graceful – this tuxedo (another perfect penguin collective noun!) moves steadily forward. As do we, I nearly stumble over a seal, at rest it looking far too much like a rock in the snow.
As we leave them behind, I found something on the ground. It looked almost like a snail shell. I was intrigued. I’d heard that the largest land creature here was the Belgica midge, which was just 5mm across and with a canny knack of being able to survive by freezing its bodily fluids. This was bigger. I picked it up and questioned one of the biologists a few moments later. “That’s a piece of bird shit Lorenzo!”. While the sea-life and sea birds thrive. Aside from the midge, incredibly, there is no other land-living bacteria or living organism of any kind in Antarctica.