For centuries, the only sounds heard at the bottom of the world were the thunderous crack of calving glaciers and the shrill of katabatic winds. But today, a much different sound fills the air: the chatter of tourists.
Tourism to Antarctica isn’t new. In fact, organized, commercial tourism has been carrying tourists to the South Shetland Islands since the late 1950s. The explosion of visitors, however, did not begin until the 1990s, when the collapse of the Soviet Union saw the freeing up of research vessels for charter. Since then, tourism has only continued to grow, increasing from roughly 8,000 annual visitors in the early 1990s to over 120,000 in the 2023-2024 season.
In 1991, with sightseers’ demand to experience pristine wilderness and witness Antarctica’s unique wildlife skyrocketing, the need for an organization to oversee the largely self-regulated Antarctic tourism industry emerged. Therefore, the International Association of Antarctica Tour Operators (IAATO) was established with the purpose of minimizing the human footprint in Antarctica. Today, IAATO regulations make up a large part of Antarctic tourist expeditions. My own experience was no different.
From a traveler’s perspective, IAATO regulations can be broken down into two categories: everything done on the ship and everything done off the ship. During the crossing of the Drake Passage, the body of water between South America and the Antarctic Peninsula, all passengers were required to vacuum out bags and clothing to make sure no organic material would be brought ashore. We were also briefed on the routine we were all expected to follow before landing. This procedure included a virkon footbath for boots meant to combat viruses, bacteria, and avian influenza.
On land, the rules were even more strict; the main concern is that tourism will alter the natural behaviors of Antarctica’s wildlife. Consequently, we were directed to keep a minimum of 15 feet from penguins, seals, and nesting birds; give any wildlife the right of way; and stay on pre-marked paths to avoid disturbing any “penguin highways.”
There came a point in time during the expedition, as our ship passed by another sailing through the Gerlache Strait, when the thought struck me me: “How absurd is it that in what is supposedly the most remote place on Earth, there are two ships, carrying hundreds of tourists, passing by each other?” Avoiding the “penguin highways” and vacuuming out our bags felt like a small price to pay, yet the question remains: Can an industry that has grown from 8,000 to 120,000 visitors truly remain “low impact?” Will our desire to see untouched wilderness become the very thing that destroys its solitude?
