home in water thatâs at 28°F. Iâm constantly amazed at how they survive in such a crazy environment that shouldnât support life. And you know what? They donât just survive there. They flourish.â
On the way back to town, I thought about those mothers urgently fattening up their pups against the coming winter, and how in spite of this four out of five of the pups would die. That McMurdo mantra may be said ironically but it was also true: this
is
a harsh continent. And I was beginning to feel that we humans, the newcomers, could learn a lot from the creatures that had spent thousands or even millions of years figuring out what adaptations it takes to flourish here.
2
The March of the Penguins
David Ainley looked like an ageing surfer dude, or a mountaineer who had spent a little too much time squinting into the sun and wind. He was in his early sixties and had been coming to Antarctica for ever. He had an untamed shock of white hair, a heavily tanned face, a moustache that he keeps when heâs off the ice, and a beard that was here just for the season. I had been warned that he wasnât so good with people. âTaciturnâ was how some had described him to me, and âa bit wildâ. He spends as much time as possible out here in his field camp, among his penguins, and as little as he can back in Mactown. 1
David was Californian, a biologist from an ecological consultancy in San Jose. He spoke slowly and hesitantly, as if he couldnât quite remember how youâre supposed to talk to other humans. Sometimes he put invisible inverted commas around his words and pronounced long ones in an exaggerated way as if he were making some kind of joke. He often was making some kind of joke. I liked him immediately.
He pulled on his coat as I entered the main research tent.
âCome on then,â he said. âLetâs see how many smiling faces greet us.â
âHuh?â
âPenguins are always smiling. They have no self-doubt.â
We stomped out of the tent in our bunny boots and headed down towards the sea. Davidâs camp at Cape Royds was a short helicopter ride from McMurdo, on the westernmost tip of Ross Island, and was home to a colony of Adélie penguins. They are classic cartoon creatures, knee-high, with black heads, flippers and backs, white throats and chests, and a bright white ring around their eyes. They are pathologically busy, packing their entire breeding cycle into the brief Antarctic summer. Adélies are also cute and comical. And everybody, but everybody, loves them.
I, however, did not. Even before I met them I was already tired of penguins. From the moment I started to talk about Antarctica to my friends and family I began to receive a mountain of penguin paraphernalia. There were penguin T-shirts, penguin cards, penguin jigsaw puzzles, cups, mugs, glasses, playing cards, a penguin apron, penguin pyjamas. For birthdays, Christmases, or for no particular reason I received penguin backpacks, pencils, rulers, scarves, gloves, big furry penguins, small furry penguins, penguin place mats and cutlery. When I outlawed penguin presents they still came in. âItâs just a small one. I couldnât resist.â
Well, I could, quite happily, and I was determined to resist the charms of the real Antarctic thing. Penguins are the clichés of Antarctica, annoyingly cute icons of a continent that is otherwise wild and vast and mysterious. I saw them as our way of diminishing the ice; we anthropomorphise them, personify them, imagine them to be amusing little people, and in the process we bring the continent down to a manageable human scale. I hated that idea. So although I love animals in general, I had told my friends and I had told myself that I would not, repeat not, fall in love with these creatures. I would write about penguins because there was interesting science to tell. That was all.
It was a gorgeous day, barely below freezing,
On the way back to town, I thought about those mothers urgently fattening up their pups against the coming winter, and how in spite of this four out of five of the pups would die. That McMurdo mantra may be said ironically but it was also true: this
is
a harsh continent. And I was beginning to feel that we humans, the newcomers, could learn a lot from the creatures that had spent thousands or even millions of years figuring out what adaptations it takes to flourish here.
2
The March of the Penguins
David Ainley looked like an ageing surfer dude, or a mountaineer who had spent a little too much time squinting into the sun and wind. He was in his early sixties and had been coming to Antarctica for ever. He had an untamed shock of white hair, a heavily tanned face, a moustache that he keeps when heâs off the ice, and a beard that was here just for the season. I had been warned that he wasnât so good with people. âTaciturnâ was how some had described him to me, and âa bit wildâ. He spends as much time as possible out here in his field camp, among his penguins, and as little as he can back in Mactown. 1
David was Californian, a biologist from an ecological consultancy in San Jose. He spoke slowly and hesitantly, as if he couldnât quite remember how youâre supposed to talk to other humans. Sometimes he put invisible inverted commas around his words and pronounced long ones in an exaggerated way as if he were making some kind of joke. He often was making some kind of joke. I liked him immediately.
He pulled on his coat as I entered the main research tent.
âCome on then,â he said. âLetâs see how many smiling faces greet us.â
âHuh?â
âPenguins are always smiling. They have no self-doubt.â
We stomped out of the tent in our bunny boots and headed down towards the sea. Davidâs camp at Cape Royds was a short helicopter ride from McMurdo, on the westernmost tip of Ross Island, and was home to a colony of Adélie penguins. They are classic cartoon creatures, knee-high, with black heads, flippers and backs, white throats and chests, and a bright white ring around their eyes. They are pathologically busy, packing their entire breeding cycle into the brief Antarctic summer. Adélies are also cute and comical. And everybody, but everybody, loves them.
I, however, did not. Even before I met them I was already tired of penguins. From the moment I started to talk about Antarctica to my friends and family I began to receive a mountain of penguin paraphernalia. There were penguin T-shirts, penguin cards, penguin jigsaw puzzles, cups, mugs, glasses, playing cards, a penguin apron, penguin pyjamas. For birthdays, Christmases, or for no particular reason I received penguin backpacks, pencils, rulers, scarves, gloves, big furry penguins, small furry penguins, penguin place mats and cutlery. When I outlawed penguin presents they still came in. âItâs just a small one. I couldnât resist.â
Well, I could, quite happily, and I was determined to resist the charms of the real Antarctic thing. Penguins are the clichés of Antarctica, annoyingly cute icons of a continent that is otherwise wild and vast and mysterious. I saw them as our way of diminishing the ice; we anthropomorphise them, personify them, imagine them to be amusing little people, and in the process we bring the continent down to a manageable human scale. I hated that idea. So although I love animals in general, I had told my friends and I had told myself that I would not, repeat not, fall in love with these creatures. I would write about penguins because there was interesting science to tell. That was all.
It was a gorgeous day, barely below freezing,
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