Hello terra cotta tiles of my adolescence. We meet again. As a young and impressionable girl I did my fair share of dirty work. From changing poopy diapers to cleaning copper pipes in the basement of McDonald's with ketchup to recovering from an explosion of the dough machine, I'm not one to shy away from the evils of kitchen work.
Be that as it may, I wasn't overly thrilled about my assigned Dish Duty, or DA (Dining Attendant) Duty as it is called, though the idea of helping the galley seemed a welcome task. One shift (4 hours) of DA Duty is required of all winterover employees in order to build a sense of community amongst the winter population, and to reduce staffing costs. For working a DA shift, one is granted an equal amount of comp-time, a system that is the center of much debate, and rightfully so. If my shift is scheduled during normal work hours, I leave my job and go work as a DA at the same pay rate of my regular job. I then get equal time of comp-time (time-off). Which essentially means I get paid triple my regular salary to wash dishes. Were I a DA, I would certainly be upset if someone else got paid triple their already higher salary to do my same job. Alas, this is how things are done in McMurdo (sarcasm intended).
Politics aside, I quite enjoyed my DA shift on Sunday. My first task was to wipe down all the tables in the dining area of the galley. I was given a small plastic bucket that held about a quarter-inch of cold water mixed with bleach. It was a scene straight out of Barbara Ehrenreich's Nickel and Dimed, where she explains the practices of the cleaning service she worked for, which included the use of many chemicals and virtually no water. I wiped down 43 tables with a quarter-inch of bleach water. I made a point to wipe down the napkin holders too. The easy and quick spread of germs in McMurdo is not a mystery.
Next I moved on to the dish room. I left no piece of the experience undiscovered. In my blue shirt, yellow plastic apron and long green gloves, I sprayed and scrubbed plates, bowls and trays. I sorted and triple washed silverware. I stacked and unstacked cups. I put on music I thought everyone would enjoy: The Beatles. I remembered the metallic and hot dishwater smell from days passed, and for some reason smiled. Maybe it was the thought of my naivety so long ago, maybe it was something else.
The sinks back in the pot room were big enough for an adult to bathe in. If I were ever at McMurdo all alone, I'd probably try it. While my dish washing coworker Moose played Metallica and gruffly scrubbed and moved dishes from one sink to the next, I pre-rinsed and put away the still-hot metal bins from the clean side of the line.
During my shift, I washed my hands no less than twenty times. Virtually every last remaining molecule of moisture seemed to evaporate from my body, all while I was rather damp from splashes and spills.
Despite the nostalgia and altruistic hopes I'd had for the adventure, come quitting time, I was quite eager to retire my apron and head back to the lazy comforts and solitude of my room.
I can't say that my experience helped build community, helped the galley, or helped me gain an appreciation that I didn't already have, for kitchen work. I can say, however, that there are times in life when one must simply make do. And so I did.
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