Ineffable

 

Ineffable

 

Have you ever been so cold your skin feels like it’s on fire?That’s how I felt shortly after getting off the terra bus, down here, at theend of the world. My mobile phone insisted it was almost midnight, but the sunhadn’t gotten the memo and hovered over the horizon, a fat, motionless,lukewarm sphere, as if time stood still before my eyes.

The C-17 Globemaster III, the military aircraft that broughtus from New Zealand, was not designed to transport passengers, so I was gladwhen an announcement over the PA warned us that we were getting ready to land.Those who had attempted to get some downtime, strapped in their seats, stirredand yawned, massaging their sides, stretching limbs, and rubbing the sleep fromtheir eyes. I first met the team of scientists at Christchurch, New Zealand, atthe Clothing Distribution Centre, where they provided us with clothes and gearfor the cold weather. Three men and a young woman.

Dan, the German professor, unstrapped himself and knelt overhis PhD student, who had the sense to bring a sleeping bag and earplugs and wasstill resting motionless, her chest moving up and down slowly and rhythmically,to wake her up.

“You didn’t get any sleep?” asked Mathias, throwing his headback and running his fingers through his long hair in an unsuccessful attemptto tame it.

“How could I? These chairs are torture. And that noise, I canfeel it in here,” I thudded my fist against my chest. “A constant low vibratinggrunt that is thumping inside me.”

“We are almost there now. You will be able to get some properrest”.

Marta put away her sleeping bag and strapped herself to theseat between Christiaan, who never said a word or removed his headphonesthroughout the flight, and the professor. Even now, Dan seemed eager to impartknowledge to her. Perhaps a teaching habit he could not shake off. Marta,however, didn’t seem to bother. Her attention was focused on his every word,nodding slowly, taking in the information and asking for clarifications alongthe way.

Christiaan unstrapped himself from the seat, yawnedunashamedly and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a burp before reaching for hisbelongings. Mathias stared at him blankly. Rooted in place and through clenchedteeth, the gigantic man shook his head subtly and began collecting his things.All our paraphernalia was shipped to McMundus a fortnight ago. I felt nakedwithout my equipment.

The aircraft halted, and one by one we queued in front of thesquare cargo door. Slowly, a gaping mouth began to appear, allowing brightlight to creep in through the cracks, forcing us to avert our eyes. Amechanical, industrial humming lifted the top jaw upwards while the lower jawdescended to meet the ice runway. Finally, with a satisfying loud clunk, thecargo door latched securely and the crew signalled us to move forward.

The scene that met us outside the aircraft was surreal. Thepungent smell of fuel was a contrast to the clear, blinding brightness of thenever-setting summer sun. The light reflected off a vast white wilderness,which was littered here and there with remnants of human interference. Itsintensity was so strong that soon it became uncomfortable, followed by asensation of pricking needles assaulting my corneas. I closed my eyes, but thelight shone through my eyelids, making me feel as if I were infected by thewhite blindness described in Saramago’s Blindness.

“You should put on the glasses CDC gave us,” said Mathias.

“Yeah, I see that now,” I said, slipping on the glasses thatthe Clothing Distribution Centre in Christchurch equipped us with. “Is it goingto be like that the whole time?” I nodded to the sun.

“More or less,” he said shrugging.

It felt strange to see a little giant of a man being soattentive. He had the frame and the fair colouring that would make his Vikingancestors proud but none of the menace.

Right off the compressed ice runway, a tomato-red and white,fourteen-metre-long vehicle was waiting for us. The words “Ivan the TerraBus” were painted on either side of the bus in bold white capital letters.The inside was warm and comfortable, with wooden panelling and seats thatsmelled of hundreds of passengers, very different to the adverse atmosphere ofthe aircraft. The ride to McMundo station was slow and bumpy. The scenerylooked identical throughout the ride, and I could not stop wondering how someonewould manage to find their way around the continent when every surroundingfeature looked like a blank canvas.

“Are you ready for your survival training?” asked Mathias.

“You said you did it before, right? Is it hard?” I asked,stealing a look at the professor, who must have been in his early sixties.

“Well, it is demanding. You need to pay attention and takethe training seriously. It can make the difference between life and death. ButI suppose the simulation is not particularly physically demanding.”

“I thought so. If he can do it”, I pointed at the agedprofessor, “it can’t be that hard.”

He frowned. “It requires a certain level of endurance anddiscipline, and Dan has these qualities in spades. This is his third exhibitionin Antarctica.”

Approaching the station revealed its imposing size. More thana hundred buildings of scientific, logistics, housing and recreational naturespread out over two and a half square kilometres.

Ivan the Terra Bus brought us within ten minutes of thereception area. The change in temperature stepping out of the warm vehicle soonbecame apparent, but it was not a head-on attack. At first, the cold was awelcome, gentle breeze that felt pleasantly refreshing after eight hours ofbreathing stale human exhalations. Its low whistling hummed in my ears,reaching for the exposed flesh around my neck. I could see it gaining upon usin the steam escaping our breath. Marta’s unprotected earlobes were gleamingred, and I could feel mine burning. Minuscule ice crystals appeared overMathias’ moustache.

“God, are we sure it’s summer?” I said.

Dan smiled, “You don’t want to be caught here during winter,trust me.”

What did he mean by that? I can’t imagine he’d spend a wintertrapped here in frigid darkness. I began to contemplate whether the paycheckwould be worth all this hustle.

As we reached the climate-controlled building, I let out along, slow sigh of relief. The lengthy journey and the unforgiving cold hadbegun to take a toll on me. My neck was stiff and my joints ached. All I wantedwas to track my equipment and ensure everything was in order. Hopefully getsome rest for a few hours. They paired Dan with Christiaan, and I got to sharea room with Mathias. He seemed relieved by that, and when I asked him why thatwas, he said, “Well, I don’t think I have ever heard him speak…”,apologetically, which I thought was amusing. Marta got her own lodgings, atleast until her assigned roommate from another mission arrived in two days.

As soon as we were allowed to collect our equipment, I tookeverything out and started inspecting it. The cameras and lenses were inexcellent shape. I unpacked the hard drives and ran diagnostics on the laptopto check for errors.

While my bed was littered with batteries, tangled chargercables and a collection of lenses, Mathias’ bed remained untouched. With slow,measured grace, he stowed his clothes in the claustrophobic closet at the backof the room. He collected his backpack and leaned against the wall.

“You have a lot of batteries,” he raised his eyebrows.

“The cold impacts battery life. I didn’t want to chance it.”

He nodded softly.

“How about you? What did you bring?”

He weighed the question. “Nothing much…”. He pulled two itemsout of his backpack. One seemed to be a children’s book, all white with adrawing of a small boy dressed in old-fashioned clothes, titled Den LillePrinsen. The other was a yellow National Geographic featuring aclose-up of a male Javan Rhino on the cover. My cover. He put the book gentlynext to his pillow, fished a black marker from his inside pocket and presentedthe magazine and the marker to me. “Would you mind signing it?”

“Oh,” I managed to say, “how did you know?”

“The itinerary email included the names of the team membersand I looked you up.”

I remembered receiving that email, but I didn’t have the timeto go through it in detail.

“I would appreciate an autograph,” he went on, “my wife and Ilove the Javan Rhino, we are great admirers of your work.”

He was not kidding, “Sure, I’ll sign it.”

His eyes brightened. “I read you were nominated for theGerald Durrell award of wildlife for this photograph?”

“I actually won the award…”

“Incredible.” He folded his arms, and I saw his head tiltingslightly. Shadows appeared between his eyebrows, his eyes searching the room asif to find the right words to ask his question. “It’s the first clear pictureof the rhino in thirty-seven years.” He licked his lips, “How did you manage tocapture such a rare photograph?” He stared at me, listening.

“I don’t know,” I paused. “Nature is unpredictable. You needto be persistent and focus on your goal. It took me three days to get thatshot, but I got lucky.”

His eyebrows raised subtly, and he nodded. “What kept yougoing?”

“I needed a money shot.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t…” he started, squinting his eyesslightly.

“If my photograph made the cover, I’d get a lot of money,” Iexplained, and he nodded. “Not only from the magazine but from royalties,reprints, exhibitions, and so on.”

“Sounds rewarding. Thank you for your autograph, my wife isgoing to be very happy”.

“No problem”.

He stowed the magazine away and prepared to retire for thenight.

“So, is that why you’re here, for another money shot?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, hopefully. Why are you here?”

“I promised my son I’d take a photograph with an emperorpenguin”, he said and smiled.

I watched him fish for the children’s book from his pillow,flipping through its pages and clearing his throat.

“I need to record a video,” he explained, “for my son.”

“Go ahead.”

He sat cross-legged on the narrow bunkbed. He was holding hismobile phone in one hand and with the other he was turning the pages of thebook. His eyes widened and narrowed, his eyebrows raised and then fell. Hespoke gently and loudly, whispering and pausing for effect. And even though Idid not speak Swedish I could almost see the image form in front of my eyes. Icould not stop wondering how many photos I would have to take to capture thescene he was painting for his son through his exaggerated mannerisms, thechange in light in his eyes, and the quality of his voice.

I picked up my camera and, without shame, I started shooting.

Mathias noticed me, smiled and continued narrating.

I pressed the Display button on the back of the camera, andall I could see was a man holding a book and staring at his phone. Here I was,holding an eight-thousand-pound camera that had earned me two magazine coversand won me an award, but was unable to capture what I was seeing. Every shotwas wrong, inadequate. I set it down.

"God natt, jag älskar dig", he said, sending a kissand stopped recording. He turned to me apologetically. “My partner and I, wetake turns reading from The Little Prince to our son. Tomorrow is my turn, andsince I cannot do it in person…”, he shrugged.

I smiled. “I’ll help you take that penguin photo.”

Thank you for reading the story. If you enjoyed it, I would be grateful to hear your thoughts or questions in the comments below.