The race to the South Pole – a quest that pitted Norwegian Roald Amundsen against British Naval Captain Robert Falcon Scott – was one of the most gripping episodes of global exploration. The last few months have seen a surge in Scott vs. Amundsen coverage and analysis to mark the centenary of the epic race. (One of my favorite treatments has been the excellent day-by-day recaps from each expedition relying heavily on primary sources. The contrast on March 8th is particularly stark: Scott’s diary offers a fateful “we are in a very bad way, I fear” as Amundsen’s exploits are shouted from bold newspaper headlines around the world.)
Scott is a much-loved figure in Britain, an embodiment of perseverance and toughness. But a less emotional critique might point out that his ultimate demise stemmed in part from self-inflicted wounds, particularly when compared with Amundsen. For example, Amundsen worked with dogs well suited to cold and snowy conditions while Scott used ponies that quickly perished. Amundsen wore furs, emulating Inuit attire; Scott wore heavy wool clothing.
So why the Scott worship? Why do the British so admire a man who ultimately failed? To get a sense of the peculiar brand of the British exploration mentality, I spoke with Benedict Allen, a man who’s had more than a couple of peculiar experiences himself. As a teenager, Allen began to venture into the world’s most remote regions with a new philosophy: travel light and practice full cultural immersion. He found that by engaging local populations and earning their trust, he could view previously “hostile” tribes as allies and delve deeper into foreign cultures. By his count, Allen has cheated death no fewer than six times and endured countless torturous rituals in the name of curiosity and cultural exploration.
Allen believes that the British respond more to the methods than the results of exploratory ventures. “It’s not about getting to the goal,” he says, “it’s about the way you do it.” If Americans love a winner, the British love a sufferer, someone who will test himself against the world and endure the worst for the sake of self-improvement. This vulnerability humanizes an explorer in a way that meticulous planning and hyper-competent execution don’t. After all, we’ve all been there one way or another – against the ropes, desperate for a way out, backed into a corner. “It’s that visceral thing we can all relate to,” notes Allen. “We know what it’s like to struggle and need to find something within ourselves to keep going.” It’s only natural to connect emotionally with the tragic hero Scott than the never-fazed, vaguely robotic Amundsen.
When style is prioritized over substance, however, preparation – the hallmark of results-driven efforts – is eschewed. “Many British adventurers are often deliberately not well prepared,” says Allen, “because in the end we like the idea of having to find something in yourself. That’s how you find out about who are you, and it’s that spirit that inspires.”
In Allen’s view, this cultural mindset is derived from Britain’s historical and geographical context. “We’re a little offshore island,” he says, “and we knew we would be wiped out if we didn’t learn about the world and build a self-reliant, pugnacious spirit.” Based on this perspective of historical psychoanalysis, Britain felt targeted, backed into a corner by the likes of France and Spain, forced to rely on societal traits like perseverance rather than geographical advantages or natural resources.
If suffering and man-against-nature brinksmanship are the yardstick of adventure, where does that leave modern explorers? How do astronauts test their mettle and prove their perseverance?
To Allen, “the thing about space is that you can’t quite pit yourself against the unknown.” He cites the constant (and completely necessary, I might add) buffer between people and their surroundings in space. Despite the constant danger of an utterly inhospitable environment, most missions to space amount to laboratory house sitting. The relatively comfortable physical reality within climate-controlled spacecraft contrasts strongly with the ever-present threat of disaster. As Allen sees it, this incongruity limits the emotional drama of manned space travel: “it’s less and less inspiring the more these people are insulated technologically from the elements,” he says.
Nonetheless, Allen believes “there will always be a space for the individual who sets off into the unknown and tests himself.” It appears, however, that such journeys are becoming increasingly driven by personal exploration and stunt-based adventurism than society-based or species-based pursuit of the unknown. That era, epitomized by the high drama that took place on South Polar ice 100 years ago, may be a thing of the past.
