This week, I would have been in Helsinki attending the 43rd Antarctic Treaty Consultative Meeting. Here’s a taste of what I’m missing.
I attended my first Antarctic Treaty Consultative Meeting (ATCM) ten years ago in Uruguay. It was early May and Punta del Este’s white, sandy beaches were all but empty, the resort town drifting from a swarming summer to a sleepy winter.
In the days leading up the meeting, a large, empty ballroom in the town’s hotel-casino was transformed into a stage for international diplomacy. Dozens of country flags were draped from the ceiling. Tables, chairs and interpreters’ booths were installed. Also, a podium, from which Uruguay’s President, José Mujica, would make his opening speech.
On the first day of the meeting, I watched as diplomats, scientists, international lawyers and government officials filled the meeting room. After many handshakes, they took their place at a large U-shaped table, sitting directly behind the name and flag of the country they represented. Then, as a voice from somewhere in the room called for their attention, they quickly put on headsets and fiddled with dials, tuning in to the language of their choice.
Practically invisible in the corner of the room, I sat tall at my station, my hands floating just above my keyboard in readiness. I didn’t have a country name or flag on the table in front of me. Just a nameplate with the word ‘Rapporteurs’ written across it.
A rapporteur is a person appointed to report on the proceedings of a meeting. It’s a French word so it sounds kind of fancy. As you might be able to tell, it feels kind of fancy too.
For the duration of the two-week ATCM, rapporteurs sit quietly in our corner of the meeting room, recording debates and decisions about Antarctica and its future. We work in pairs, recording 90 minutes of discussion before disappearing out back to summarise our notes while another pair takes our place in the meeting room. We do this day after day, switching between shifts of notetaking and summarising, for as long as the delegates keep talking.
On the last day of the meeting, our report is projected onto big screens around the meeting room. The delegates carefully read through each of our paragraphs – over 300 of them – and no one goes home until they all agree on every word. Report Adoption is the rapporteur’s moment of truth. How well did we do? It’s never easy to tell but the hour at which the meeting ends gives some indication.
I’ve been to every annual ATCM since my first in Uruguay ten years ago. While the drama of tight deadlines and watching 300 people collectively scrutinise my work is thrilling, it’s not the only thing that brings me back.
Like most of those 300 or so people in the meeting room, I believe in the Antarctic Treaty and what it stands for. Peace, science, cooperation. Stewardship over ownership. Collaboration over competition. The Antarctic Treaty is a big, idealistic vision of the world as it ought to be.
Then there’s the travel. ATCMs move around every year, their hosts rotating in alphabetical order by country name. Since Uruguay, there’s been Argentina, Australia, Belgium, Brazil, Bulgaria, Chile, China, Argentina again, and the Czech Republic last year. This year was Finland’s turn but a pandemic had something else to say about that.
Finally, there is the rapporteur team, a group of talented thinkers, doers and writers, and the few people in the world who get my Antarctic Treaty jokes. Team members have changed over the years, but each meeting brings together a harmonious mix of seasoned veterans, capable sophomores and bright-eyed beginners.
Together, we spend long days and nights dissecting discussions and agonising over whether ‘Many Parties’ or only ‘Some Parties’ agreed to a particular proposal. Together, we occupy a world of diplomatic language, which is formal and reserved, and is always – no matter what anyone might think sounds better – written in past tense. Together, we double- and triple-check the spelling of Colombia, because we all remember that year we misspelled Colombia.
Rapporteurs eat together, exercise together, and make weekend plans that sound either fun or scary, depending on your point of view. I still feel slightly irresponsible for organising a self-guided walk along an unrestored section of the Great Wall of China. Even the taxi driver seemed nervous for us. But the 45-minute up-hill scramble wasn’t so bad, and after an hour on the wall, I was certain we were going the right way. It’s little wonder they promoted me to chief rapporteur (I know, the words just get fancier).
Who knows what the 43rd ATCM in Helsinki might have brought. Which topics might have sparked lengthy debate, and which might have sailed straight to agreement. How many paragraphs we’d get right and how many would get smothered in red marker on adoption day. What Finnish-flavoured adventures we’d have thrown ourselves into.
I’m disappointed that this year’s ATCM was cancelled and that I’m sitting here right now blogging in my bedroom rather than traipsing around Helsinki. Still, it’s nice to pause and reflect on ATCMs gone by – to be grateful that they exist and that I get to be part of them. It’s also helpful to look ahead, both to the future and to the next host country.
Cycling the Loire Valley. Now that sounds like fun.