The Polar Bug

Oriane Laromiguière

Banquise.

On dit qu’elle fond.

A-t-on perdu la raison ?

Ses larmes sont douces.

Quand en silence elle souffre.

Sea ice.

They say it’s melting.

Have we lost our minds?

Its tears are gentle.

When, in silence, it suffers.

Leaning against the railing, the collar of my fleece jacket tight around my ears, the salty wind, damp with sea spray, brushes my face. My eyes are fixed on the glow of endless twilight, one of the few witnesses. I feel as if my gaze is the first to rest upon this landscape. I know that’s not true. Others have looked into this pure white, these deep blue patches cracking the ice, these sharp peaks falling into the ocean. I think of the first explorers, those navigators made of tougher stuff. Russians, Britons, Americans, French, who, for the first time, glimpsed a vast white continent, not even knowing it was one. A land of ice. If we wore such clothing today, we’d freeze. How did they survive, so lightly dressed?

Suddenly, a voice pulls me from my reverie. "Brr... It’s cold, isn’t it?" Next to me, a small figure in a red parka smiles. All I can see are her eyes and teeth, her beanie falling over her eyebrows. "I’m from the south of France, so the cold isn’t really my thing," she says.

I smile and share the thought she had interrupted. "Did you know that when the French explorer Jean-Baptiste Charcot first came to Antarctica in 1904, he and his team wore only canvas anoraks to protect themselves from the cold?" I said.

“Canvas? But they weren’t wearing fur?” she asked.

“Well, yes. They had brought reindeer skin garments on board, but Charcot writes in his logbook that they never used them. Maybe for practical reasons, or because they considered the temperatures bearable.”

“Barely bearable! You’re right, they must have been either incredibly brave or slightly mad!"

The red parka drifts away in a burst of laughter before disappearing behind two glass doors, swallowed by the warm belly of the ship. On the deck, other red parkas, less sensitive to the cold, still enjoy the view before heading to the dining room. All passengers wear the same jacket, emblazoned with the company’s colors. A warm, fleece-lined, windproof, waterproof garment, essential for outdoor activities in this remote world. It also helps us, the guides, spot them on land when they stray from the marked paths.

As a naturalist guide in polar regions, there’s little time for daydreaming. Our job is to observe, comment, and inform the passengers who’ve paid a hefty price for this trip of a lifetime. When we can, we steal small moments of calm to enjoy the show, pretending to be pioneers, forgetting for a while that we’re part of a tourism industry that doesn’t necessarily benefit this part of the world. Here, everything is order and beauty, luxury, calm, and — cruise ships.

When I first traveled to Antarctica in December 2018, I was overwhelmed by the grand landscapes, the brilliant white, the muffled silence, and the astonishing animals I had only seen in books or films. All my senses were heightened: my nostrils tingled with the pungent scent from penguin colonies, and my hearing sharpened, listening for the cracking of glaciers and the breath of whales. I felt something unique. At first, I didn’t understand, but then, talking with colleagues, I realized we all shared a strange affliction.

This was a year before COVID, but we had contracted a virus. It’s called the "polar virus" or "polar bug." It affects anyone who ventures to the poles. One encounter, one glance, one contact with the icy lands beyond the Arctic and Antarctic, and it infiltrates the cells. And then, you become hooked. The signs are unmistakable. It’s certain — you’ve caught it.

"Where does this strange attraction to the polar regions come from, so powerful, so tenacious, that after returning, you forget the physical and mental exhaustion and only think of going back? Where does the incomparable charm of these desolate and terrifying lands come from? Is it the thrill of the unknown, the exhilaration of the struggle and effort to get there and survive, the pride of doing something that others don’t, the sweetness of being far from the pettiness and meanness? A little of all of that, but something more, too." This quote from Le Commandant Charcot, transcribed in his book Le Français au pôle Sud, published in 1906, perfectly sums up this sweet illness.

As we sail along the Antarctic Peninsula, I read a passage aloud in the ship's theater during my lecture on the French polar explorer Charcot, who revived French expeditions to Antarctica over sixty years after Jules Dumont d’Urville discovered Adélie Land in 1840. For forty-five minutes, I trace the life of Charcot, son of neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot, and this quote always resonates.

I pause and ask, “Isn’t it incredible that over a hundred years later, we still feel the same emotions?” Nods of agreement. The poles have a magnetic pull, and despite modern comforts, they still stir us deeply. Tomorrow, the ship will anchor in Salpêtrière Bay, where the French first wintered in 1905 and built a cairn marking their passage, leaving behind their research results.

At dawn, the Zodiacs are lowered one by one from the upper deck. The sea is calm. I board one of the inflatable boats from the port side and am lowered into the water. It’s one of my favorite moments, just for me, captain of the boat, with no passengers. Before the frozen sea, I let my thoughts drift once more.

On board, there’s a flurry of activity. Polar tourists are called to the main lounge. After donning their base layers, boots, and red parkas, they rush to the deck, eager to set foot on land. Meanwhile, the team scouts the terrain, ensuring the site is accessible and setting up red flags to mark the perimeter of the morning’s activities. It’s one of the small pleasures of this job: leaving a mark in fresh snow without disturbing the locals, the funny creatures in their black-and-white suits. Through constant trips between colonies and shore, the birds create “penguin highways.” We must never cut them off; a slight detour could cost them energy for feeding their young.

The team soon welcomes the first passengers. We coordinate by radio. Everyone takes their post: near the colony or by a historical relic. Gradually, silence falls, and the white envelops everything. Then comes the time for waiting and conflicting thoughts. What are we doing here? We know the consequences of climate change on the poles. Our love for nature and desire to protect the environment brought us here. But what am I doing here, showing the wonders of a disappearing world?

Tourism in Antarctica has exploded in the past decade, but it’s strictly regulated by the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators (IAATO). This organization ensures guides pass a test each season to guarantee compliance with rules, such as maintaining distances from wildlife. Passengers also receive a briefing and must participate in an activity some aren’t used to. After leaving Ushuaia, the ship crosses the Drake Passage for two days before reaching the peninsula. This time is used for distributing boots and decontaminating gear to remove any seeds or plant debris that could contaminate the environment. Tourists and crew must go through this process before disembarking. And nothing works better than a vacuum cleaner.

My team and I supervise, amused by seeing passengers, so used to being served, cleaning. Some take it in stride; others, not so much. I help a couple in their fifties. "Clean the Velcro well. It’s where we often find things. And don’t forget the pockets."

The woman is focused when suddenly she exclaims, “Oh no! My glove just got sucked into the hose. Clearly, I’m not used to this!” She laughs.
Her husband, sitting next to her, looks grumpy. The rolling of the Drake is clearly bothering him, but there’s something more.

“Well, alright, we’re not going to spend hours on this. You’re nitpicking a bit, it’s not like this will change anything,” he mutters.

“If there were just one passenger to disembark each year, sure, that would be fine. The problem is, there are hundreds of ships like this one, carrying nearly two hundred passengers each, passing through every season.”

Grumbling, the man grabs the vacuum from his laughing wife. The operation lasts the whole morning. I’m exhausted, tired of repeating the same speech to passengers who don’t seem concerned about the place they’re about to step on. As expedition guides, our role is to accompany passengers on the ground, ensure their safety, and share the knowledge needed to help them understand and appreciate this unique environment. I think that’s why I do this job, hoping that by the end of the cruise, I’ll have passed on the polar virus to a few passengers who will spread it further.

Sometimes I see it happen. Among the passengers of a two-week loop to the Antarctic Peninsula over Christmas and New Year’s passing through the Falkland Islands and South Georgia, were a very young couple from Monaco. In the beginning, I wondered what they were doing there, how they could afford such a trip. They sipped their champagne, offered at any hour. I didn’t care much for their nonchalance, that blasé air of those who’ve seen it all. But then I watched them.

They attended every lecture, asked questions, and were eager to learn. On the field, I saw them become small in front of glaciers, soften in the presence of clumsy penguins, and cry in awe before the magnificent peaks. At the end of the cruise, as we said our goodbyes, the young woman handed me a small piece of paper. Unfolding it, I saw she had drawn a map of Port-Charcot, Booth Island, and the Bay of La Salpêtrière, with a small cross marking the cairn. Beneath the drawing, she wrote, “Thank you for your passion.” Touched, I looked up to see her eyes, heavy with tears. Then she added, hugging me, “Thank you for all the beautiful stories you shared with us. They were very inspiring.”

A few weeks later, she launched a small bilingual blog to share her passion for the polar regions. The name of her website: The Polar Bug. This small act reminded me why I do this job: to pass on the polar virus, hoping it will spread and inspire others.

Originally from France and based in Longyearbyen, Oriane Laromiguière is an independent journalist, polar guide and creator of the podcast “Les Givrés des pôles.”