Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
As we pulled, zipped, laced and unrolled, my companions began to talk. One was a cook, anoth-
er a senior ice-corer and the third a NASA technician. The ice-corer had six seasons of 'ice time',
and she showed me how to switch on the white rubber bunny boots. They were insulated by air,
and had a valve on the side which you had to open and close on aircraft.
When we had satisfied ourselves that no part of our extensive new wardrobe would chafe or
pinch or expose our soft flesh to the rigours of frostbite, we packed up our bags and the scowler
despatched us into the sunshine, ticking a clipboard and issuing threats about the consequences of
arriving late for the plane.
The sun made me squint as I cycled back along the straight artery into town. The malls had
opened, and I stopped to have a roll of film developed, drifting around the shops for the waiting
hour, consumed by a desire to buy almost everything I saw, given that it was my last chance - as
if anything could help me now. I groped around in my addled mind for the dream that had brought
me here to the other side of the planet, but it seemed to have evaporated in the heat.
I was a guest in Christchurch of Roger Sutton and Jo Malcolm, who lived in a ramshackle house
on the outskirts of the city. Roger's sister Camilla was an old friend of mine from her wild London
days. The entire clan had embraced me as one of their own, and I enjoyed their company enorm-
ously. Jo was a news reporter on New Zealand television and Roger bought energy for SouthPower.
He was obsessively committed to the outdoor life, and flung off his suit to go running or bicycling
or climbing at the first opportunity. That evening they drove me to Lyttelton, a potent toponym
in the history of Antarctic exploration and the last stop for most voyages early in the century. We
went, on the way, to Kinsey Terrace and the clifftop house where Scott stayed with his New Zea-
land agent, signing his name above the fireplace, and emerged from the high passes overlooking
Quail Island where he grazed his second-rate mules. In Lyttelton I saw hollow-eyed Russian sea-
men and tired brothels with shreds of grass struggling through cracks in the front step. It was quiet,
and old-fashioned even by New Zealand standards. It seemed to dwell in another age. In one bar,
the table soccer was equipped with small wooden teams of Jews and Nazis.
The crews of the first ships to drop anchor off the unknown southern continent reported pleasing
success with the women of Lyttelton, noting in their journals that mention of imminent departure
for Antarctic exploration constituted the most effective chat-up line they had ever deployed. 'No
mere ship's officer had a chance against a polar explorer, even if only in the making,' one of them
wrote. Roger suggested keenly that I should test the contemporary application of this theory, and
stopped the car outside several bars, urging me inside and saying that he would pick me up later.
Apparently it still worked, at least for men. I read in a textbook on Antarctic psychology pub-
lished recently by Victoria University of Wellington that when two men placed a personal ad in
a magazine asking for 'active female companionship for a week for fit men about to go to the
Antarctic', they were inundated with offers.
When we got home I called my friend Cindy in London; I needed to speak to her before I left.
She said she was glad I'd rung as she wanted the recipe for pisco sour, which they were planning
to have before lunch. I was furious that they were going to drink pisco sour without me, as I had
discovered it in Chile and introduced it to my friends. Still, I told her how to make it, and at the
