Sunday at the Russian church

Today Russell, Jake (the newest addition to our team who has arrived to assist with the packing of our equipment and securing the E-Base for the winter), and I went to the morning services at the nearby Russian Orthodox Church that overlooks Bellingshausen Station. Built after the breakup of the USSR, this rustic building was constructed of Sitka pine logs in Siberia, which were then taken apart, shipped thousands of miles down to Bellingshausen, and reassembled, on a rocky spine above both the Chilean and Russian research stations. Scrambling across the mud, sand, and rocks to hike up to the church, it’s something of a Calvary just to reach the door.

Once at the steps of the church, we dipped our feet into the water bucket—a common feature at every building here to help keep the ever-present mud from inside buildings—and made our way into the church, which was actually quite small, considering its grand imposing visage, compared to the rude metal structures of the base buildings with wind-scoured exteriors. As an accommodation to the Antarctic and its formidable winds, large chains ran up the walls, solidly connecting the structure to the foundation. Brass and copper fixtures and candle holders, surrounded by iconographic images of Jesus, Mary, and a pantheon of Russian Saints glowed golden in the light that streamed through the small windows. The three of us, all wearing our damp windshell jackets and pants, stood in front of the small altar as three Russians, part of the support crew, clothed in equally rough clothes, came clomping in with their rubber boots, which they removed in the vestibule, and they joined us as we all stood in stocking feet.

Two priests emerged from the vestry, clad in high-collared gold brocade robes. They began what proved to be a lengthy liturgical call and response, added to by the occasional “Amen” from the Russians. Speaking little Russian beyond “hello,” and “thank you,” much—actually all—of the verbal portion of the service was lost on me, but the mood, as all of us stood in the warm building, breathing in the aroma of the candles, listening to centuries-old chants, couldn’t help but make one contemplative.

As I glimpsed at my Russian neighbors, support crew for the nearby base, all with work-worn hands and windburned faces, I thought about the events of the previous day, when a crewman from a Brazilian ship had fallen overboard. All the research stations from various countries, Russia, Korea, Uruguay, and Chile, had responded to the radio calls from the ship, and helicopters and zodiac boats were scanning the water for the missing person. You don’t survive for long in Antarctic waters (which are about 30 degrees Fahrenheit), and it was soon obvious that this would be a search for a body, but everyone, including those of us at the E-Base, were ready to do anything to assist. Every base here has its own country’s flag flying, but at no time did anyone ask what country the missing person came from—out here in the Antarctic, there are no border considerations—that’s for politicians thousands of miles away.

At the end of the service, the two priests whispered among themselves, and both walked towards us. Had they spotted us as heretics? No, in halting English they indicated that they wanted us to ring the church bell to announce the end of the service. The Russians in the audience nodded in agreement, and the next thing Russell, Jake, and I knew, we were all led up a narrow ladder in a corner of the vestry, and after opening a trapdoor, we found ourselves up in the onion-dome of the steeple, where, high above the Russian base, we each took turns pulling on various ropes, sending peals of enthusiastic, if amateur, melodic clanging over the hills, and beyond, all the way to Maxwell Bay,