Antarctic Architecture: Halley VI

Inspired by science fiction, the Halley VI Research Station has a lot to teach about how architecture can impact psychology.

A One morning in 2004, Hugh Broughton was listening to the radio when two voices caused him to pay attention. One of them he recognised through his work as an architect. It was the President of the Royal Institute of British Architects, George Ferguson. The other was less familiar: the director of the British Antarctic Survey, Chris Rapley. The two were announcing a competition to design a new research station in Antarctica. It was a job, they explained, that presented an unusual set of challenges. The site of the new structure was on floating ice 50 kilometres from the Antarctic mainland. Previous stations built in the vicinity had recorded temperatures as low as -50 degrees Celsius and winds of up to 160 kilometres an hour. Only one had escaped the fate of being completely engulfed by snow and abandoned. But it too was now in jeopardy.

Ferguson and Rapley listed a number of criteria that they'd be looking for: a background in building in remote locations, knowledge of extreme climates, and an understanding of complex logistics. Broughton ticked zero of those boxes, but that didn't prevent him from entering the competition -- and winning it.

B The structure that Broughton designed, which was completed in 2012, is called Halley VI. It's made of eight conjoined pods, raised above the snow by hydraulic legs at the feet of which is a set of massive skis, allowing the entire station to be moved by bulldozers.

It doesn't surprise Broughton that people often use film references to describe his creation. He openly admits that science fiction from the 1960s was a big influence. Of course, a few of Broughton's ideas had to be tempered when he learned more about the challenges associated with building near the South Pole. He realised that, in a year, only the 12 weeks of summer were suitable for construction work, meaning most of the base had to be prefabricated in South Africa, transported by ship and then built over a few summer seasons. No single element could weigh more than 9 tonnes, lest it fall through the ice during transportation. There was also the matter of complying with the Antarctic Treaty, which governs all activity on the icy continent. The rule outlawing the introduction of any non-indigenous plant life, for example, meant that plans to plant salad vegetables in a garden in the station had to be abandoned.

C Still, Broughton managed to navigate these challenges and enlisted the help of a colour expert to devise a palette that was bright, but not overpowering. Lebanese cedar, which gives off a natural fragrance, was used around parts of the station to combat sensory deprivation. As well, Broughton worked with a team to develop special lighting that simulates the sun's rhythms; the aim was to mitigate seasonal affective disorder (winter depression) during the 105 days a year in which there is no daylight.

Few appreciate the impact of these innovations more than Tom Welsh, Halley VI's winter station leader. 'During the winter, you can't really get out and do very much,' he says. 'So you really rely on getting your mental stimulus from inside the station.' The large central module is key for this function. It's where staff meet to watch movies, eat and play pool. Welsh's team has even constructed a small mini golf course there.

D Life at Halley VI isn't all fun and games. There's also the job of conducting research into topics ranging from space weather to ozone levels. Some of this work is done on a purpose-built observation deck atop the

E Thankfully, the entire crisis was eventually brought under control, and no one was hurt. But it gave Halley VI's team a taste of what life was like for pioneering Antarctic explorers at the start of the 20th century. Back then, research stations provided the bare essentials of survival. They were usually dirty, stuffy places, where tempers flared and the divisions in ranks were strictly maintained. 'There were definitely a lot of people living in very close contact with each other,' says Pip Cheshire, a New Zealand architect who has helped restore a number of old Antarctic huts. 'There are a few cases of explorers actually succumbing to "cabin fever" in these harsh surroundings.'

F It's difficult to imagine such bleakness on Halley VI. Here, every measure is taken to make its crew comfortable. Broughton is now seen as an expert in designing research bases, and was commissioned to design a new facility for the Spanish Antarctic programme. NASA also reached out for guidance on how to build stations for long-range space missions. 'They've asked questions like, "How small were the sleeping quarters and what features did you introduce to give them individual personality?"' he says. 'They're interested in how architecture can contribute to psychological wellbeing during long periods of isolation.'

G For Sam Jacob, a London-based architect and writer who recently wrote a foreword for a book about Antarctic architecture, applying Broughton's ideas to space travel makes sense. 'Antarctica is the place on Earth that is the least like Earth, if you know what I mean -- it's the place most like another planet,' he says. 'So, with that in mind, you can really imagine Halley sitting on a planet in outer space. It's something that's not only informed by science fiction, but could also give an idea of how we might actually colonise other places.'

How to Clean a Beach

Oil spills such as the disaster in the Gulf of Mexico serve to remind us of the potential dangers of various commercial activities for our fragile oceanic environments.

After the oil tanker Prestige spilt her cargo just off north-west Spain in November 2002, the beautiful beaches of the Galician coastline were covered by a metre-deep mixture of oil and seawater. The Prestige was only one incident in a long series of accidents involving oil tankers. But while each new incident, including that of the Prestige, brings environmental destruction and financial loss, it also improves our understanding of how to deal with oil spills. This knowledge is hard-won, as people have often learned from mistakes made in dealing with oil spills. Aggressive clean-ups have sometimes caused more damage than the oil. But such difficulties apart, a rough consensus on how to deal with the issues involved in clearing up oil spills has begun to emerge.

Oil is much less damaging at sea than on shore, so the best option is to skim the spilled oil off the surface of the water using specially equipped ships. A series of wooden booms floating on the surface of the water can also be used to protect the coastline. But the sea around the Prestige was too rough for the former, and much of the coast too exposed for booms to work, so there was little that could be done except watch the oil wash up onto the beaches.

When oil arrives onshore, the question becomes how best to save affected plants and animals, while minimizing damage to the surrounding ecosystem, without running up a huge bill. In large spills, leaving nature to do the job is a bad idea. Even the oiliest shore will return to normal, but without human intervention this can take many years. In the case of the Prestige, both the volume of oil spilt and the wildlife, fishing and tourist value of the Galician coast demanded action by specialists.

To decide what to do, specialists combined their own professional experience with local knowledge in an assessment process known as 'net environmental benefit analysis'. Factors taken into account include possible environmental destruction, such as damage to an oiled beach which is home to a breeding colony of seals or seabirds. Less immediate socio-economic repercussions also come into play: local people may rely on shellfish beds, for example, or an affected beach could be a tourist destination. And such practical realities as the cost incurred by a particular clean-up option and how easy it will be to implement are also assessed.

Every intensive clean-up option has its drawbacks. When oil from the Exxon Valdez polluted the Alaskan shoreline in 1989, hot water applied under high pressure was used to scrub the beaches. But the parts of the shoreline that got this treatment recovered more slowly than those that did not. In Spain, this technique has so far been used only on man-made structures such as harbour walls.

Other methods have been even more aggressive than this. When the Torrey Canyon ran aground off the south coast of England in March 1967, oiled beaches were treated with 10,000 tonnes of chemical sprays. These turned out to be more toxic than the oil: many seashore invertebrates died, and the nutrients in the dispersants caused an explosion of seaweed growth.

In Galicia, local people wanted heavy machinery to come in and remove large quantities of oil quickly. But this has its own environmental cost. There were no tracks to the worst-affected beaches and it was feared that building them would harm the surrounding landscape. But in one of the areas affected, oil on the surface of the

the oil.

After the Amoco Cadiz disaster in 1978, when nearly a quarter of a million tonnes of oil were spilt off the coast of north-western France, heavy equipment was sent in to some polluted salt-marshes, where it scraped up the top half-metre of sediment. Twelve years later, these areas had still not recovered, whereas the oiled marshes that went uncleaned seemed in good shape.

After a short period of time, the Prestige spill moved from the emergency phase--high profile, high pressure--to a long-term painstaking project. Cleaning the beaches, for example, was a huge task. At Carnota, one of the most heavily affected areas of Galicia, dozens of volunteers and soldiers worked their way along six kilometres of sand on hands and knees, scraping up the small lumps of solidified oil. At other beaches nearby, people sifted the sand and combed seaside plants by hand to remove the oil and stop it becoming buried.

Once workers there had done all they could, stubborn patches still remained on rocks and in crevices. A possibility was to move oily rocks down the beach into the surf since this accelerates the natural cleaning process, as can 'flushing'--i.e. pumping seawater over the shore and sifting the oil out of the run-off. But as the coastline became cleaner, the clean-up started to cost more for progressively less reward and more environmental damage. The Galicians were then faced with perhaps their most difficult decision: when to stop. As with most such operations, this decision is usually taken by local politicians rather than by environmentalists.