Winter Quarters Bay

They started as a trickle, but we are now inundated with a couple hundred people in completely irrelevant camouflage.  The arrival of US and NZ navy folks means long lines in the cafeteria and the introduction of exotic new germs.  Last night's intermittent, clammy 13 hours of sleep didn't quite kill whatever culture I clashed with, but I think I'm over the hump just in time for 12-hour shifts to start.

A friend lucky enough to have been coming back to town in a helicopter as the ice breaker made its way in took this:

The drama of several large ships making their way to the world's southern-most port occupied much of my boss's attention over the last week, but other than being privy to related news and gossip it didn't matter to me.  It's pretty neat to see a big red boat out in the endless stretch of white ice.  It was also pretty funny to see it plow a path, pushing ice against the pier, and then pushing the ice pier itself (this is bad).  Apparently, someone didn't have a basic understanding of physics -- that, like, the ice you're breaking up and pushing through needs to go somewhere.  Anyway, stuff is fine, the boats arrived and departed mostly on schedule, and containers of food, paperclips, engine oil, and everything else are being unloaded.

Who does this unloading?  A pleasant group of Kiwi truck drivers.  Tater Time is my favorite truck name.

Logistics coordination is done primarily by radio.  This is where another tedious admin-y part of me being an admin comes in: monitoring TWO radio channels (that's two radios on, full of chatter and static), in addition to extra phone calls, and mix in Kiwi accents and people unconsciously adopting that big rig dispatcher "Breaker, Breaker" way of speaking.

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Sidebar: I will never cease to be amazed by the fact that there are no deadlines, ever, as an adult.  Extensions can be obtained for taxes, foreclosures, court dates -- pretty much everything.  January 17?  What a fucking joke. If we can manage to throw a last-minute box onto the vessel as it pulls away from the pier, we will.  
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There was a small folk/country acoustic show, the McMurdo Grand Ol' Opry, with Heehaw-like comedy interludes between bands.  And Saturday night's main attraction was a 90s dance-music show at the Waste Barn, featuring covers of "Another Night," "Be My Lover," "Mr. Vain," "Blue," and all those other songs that played on an endless loop on the bus home from junior high.  Anthony Bourdain's cameraman captured amazing footage of raving Antarcticans that our official minders will ensure never sees the light of day, but believe me, it was quite the rager.