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 the end of the world. My mobile phone insisted it was almost midnight, but the sun hadn’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 brought us from New Zealand, was not designed to transport passengers, so I was glad when 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, stirred and yawned, massaging their sides, stretching limbs, and rubbing the sleep from their eyes. I first met the team of scientists at Christchurch, New Zealand, at the Clothing Distribution Centre, where they provided us with clothes and gear for the cold weather. Three men and a young woman.

Dan, the German professor, unstrapped himself and knelt over his PhD student, who had the sense to bring a sleeping bag and earplugs and was still 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 head back and running his fingers through his long hair in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it.

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

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

Marta put away her sleeping bag and strapped herself to the seat between Christiaan, who never said a word or removed his headphones throughout the flight, and the professor. Even now, Dan seemed eager to impart knowledge 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 along the way.

Christiaan unstrapped himself from the seat, yawned unashamedly and unsuccessfully tried to stifle a burp before reaching for his belongings. Mathias stared at him blankly. Rooted in place and through clenched teeth, the gigantic man shook his head subtly and began collecting his things. All our paraphernalia was shipped to McMundus a fortnight ago. I felt naked without my equipment.

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

The scene that met us outside the aircraft was surreal. The pungent smell of fuel was a contrast to the clear, blinding brightness of the never-setting summer sun. The light reflected off a vast white wilderness, which was littered here and there with remnants of human interference. Its intensity was so strong that soon it became uncomfortable, followed by a sensation of pricking needles assaulting my corneas. I closed my eyes, but the light shone through my eyelids, making me feel as if I were infected by the white 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 that the Clothing Distribution Centre in Christchurch equipped us with. “Is it going to 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 so attentive. He had the frame and the fair colouring that would make his Viking ancestors 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 Terra Bus” were painted on either side of the bus in bold white capital letters. The inside was warm and comfortable, with wooden panelling and seats that smelled of hundreds of passengers, very different to the adverse atmosphere of the aircraft. The ride to McMundo station was slow and bumpy. The scenery looked identical throughout the ride, and I could not stop wondering how someone would manage to find their way around the continent when every surrounding feature 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 take the training seriously. It can make the difference between life and death. But I suppose the simulation is not particularly physically demanding.”

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

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

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

Ivan the Terra Bus brought us within ten minutes of the reception area. The change in temperature stepping out of the warm vehicle soon became apparent, but it was not a head-on attack. At first, the cold was a welcome, gentle breeze that felt pleasantly refreshing after eight hours of breathing stale human exhalations. Its low whistling hummed in my ears, reaching for the exposed flesh around my neck. I could see it gaining upon us in the steam escaping our breath. Marta’s unprotected earlobes were gleaming red, and I could feel mine burning. Minuscule ice crystals appeared over Mathias’ 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 winter trapped here in frigid darkness. I began to contemplate whether the paycheck would be worth all this hustle.

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

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

While my bed was littered with batteries, tangled charger cables and a collection of lenses, Mathias’ bed remained untouched. With slow, measured grace, he stowed his clothes in the claustrophobic closet at the back of 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 items out of his backpack. One seemed to be a children’s book, all white with a drawing of a small boy dressed in old-fashioned clothes, titled Den Lille Prinsen. The other was a yellow National Geographic featuring a close-up of a male Javan Rhino on the cover. My cover. He put the book gently next to his pillow, fished a black marker from his inside pocket and presented the 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 members and I looked you up.”

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

“I would appreciate an autograph,” he went on, “my wife and I love 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 the Gerald Durrell award of wildlife for this photograph?”

“I actually won the award…”

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

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

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

“I needed a money shot.”

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

“If my photograph made the cover, I’d get a lot of money,” I explained, 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 is going to be very happy”.

“No problem”.

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

“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 emperor penguin”, 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 his mobile phone in one hand and with the other he was turning the pages of the book. His eyes widened and narrowed, his eyebrows raised and then fell. He spoke gently and loudly, whispering and pausing for effect. And even though I did not speak Swedish I could almost see the image form in front of my eyes. I could not stop wondering how many photos I would have to take to capture the scene he was painting for his son through his exaggerated mannerisms, the change 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, and all 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 covers and won me an award, but was unable to capture what I was seeing. Every shot was wrong, inadequate. I set it down.

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

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