Call of the White Read online

  ‘My cousin was sitting in the garden with all their family watching a big TV,’ said Athina in a brief break between calls. ‘Suddenly I appeared in front of them! I could hear them all in the background shouting!’ The two women were so thrilled; it was a lovely moment. They were both very proud to be involved in something so exciting. It broke my heart to think that only one of them would be coming to Antarctica.

  I had a lot more information to share about the expedition but it was too much for them to take in all at once, so we called it an evening. I didn’t get back to the hotel until after midnight and an hour later I was sitting in a taxi on my way to the airport. The taxi driver was English and we got talking about the expedition. ‘You’ve got two girls from here going?’ he asked. ‘Cypriots?’ he reiterated, looking at me in the rear-view mirror as I nodded confirmation. ‘I’ll be surprised if they stick it,’ he said. ‘Cypriots like their home comforts. I shouldn’t think they’ll like roughing it in the cold.’

  ‘I hope I’ve found the exceptions,’ I answered.

  Just as I got to the airport my phone beeped with a text message. It was from Nicky to send me a contact she’d promised me during her interview. I felt desperately sorry for a moment. She would have been a great teammate. And then I thought about the taxi driver’s comment. He’d been so surprised that the two selected women were Cypriots; to admit that one of them had lived in New Zealand for most of her life would have somehow diminished the impact. I knew I had made the right decision but I was still sorry I would not have the opportunity to get to know Nicky better.

  Ghana

  Sweeping low over the roofs of seemingly endless rows of houses, we touched down on the runway under an angry red African sun. I could see clusters of cars at busy junctions and hundreds of people strolling the streets. In the taxi, driving away from the airport (windows open, music blaring), I looked out at Ghana and found myself smiling. I don’t know why. It was dark and I was tired, but the air was warm and soft and everything just felt so easy. I’d been full of trepidation about Ghana, my first trip to sub-Saharan Africa. Everyone I’d spoken to about it had narrowed their eyes. ‘You’re going alone? To Africa?’

  Those who had actually spent time in Ghana reassured me that I would love it. They turned out to be right. Already, the immigration official had shaken my hand enthusiastically and personally welcomed me to Ghana, the porter at the airport had helped me to get through the throng outside the arrivals hall and steadfastly refused payment, patting me on the back instead, and now the taxi driver was chatting to me amiably. He had ‘Blood of Jesus Christ cab’ written across the back window, which struck me as a little inappropriate. You don’t expect to see blood of any variety in a cab, especially in a country where the driving is so bad. But at least I had avoided the one emblazoned with ‘Say Your Prayers’.

  My hotel was right on the beach and, as I stepped out of the taxi, I could hear the roar of the sea. The next morning I followed the sound of the waves down to the beach. A wide stretch of flat, wet sand ended in a cloud of spray. The whole place was fuzzy with a thin mist that veiled the horizon and left the view along the coast slightly hazy. Two boys came over to say hello but were soon distracted by their game in the waves. A woman balancing a tray of bread on her head sat on a washed-up tree trunk for a rest and in both directions indistinct figures wandered along the beach to or from the city. Near the watery horizon, a cluster of brightly coloured fishing boats clung to the swell. As I stood alone, taking it all in, an emotion welled up inside me. I was overwhelmed by the fact that I was in Africa.

  Ghana had kept me awake during the long overnight flight. I had only six applications, two of those from Ghanaian women living in the UK (and therefore ineligible) and one from a woman who was clearly not aware of what she was applying for. I had invited the remaining three for an interview but had only heard back from one of them. It was embarrassing to have only one candidate. Maybe all those doubters had been right and the concept of this expedition was just a step too far for Ghanaians. Alternatives ran through my mind. Perhaps I should forget interviews on this visit and just use the time to drum up applications. I could return later, or try a completely different country. But I wasn’t ready to give up on Ghana just yet. After breakfast, I packed my laptop, phone and notebooks and walked to the British Council in the centre of Accra.

  After a short wait in a spotless reception, I was shown into a large office to meet Diana, the corporate communications manager, and Juliet, the business director. Both women were incredibly elegant and Diana, in particular, was so perfectly turned out, in every detail, that it was intimidating. I felt distinctly shabby in comparison. They both listened as I described the expedition and my attempts to find eligible women who wanted to take part. I explained that my efforts from the UK to get media coverage in Ghana had been spectacularly unsuccessful and asked for their help. Juliet was slightly incredulous, ‘Do you think you will find a Ghanaian woman who will want to do this?’

  Before I could respond, Diana came to my defence, ‘Of course they will want to do it. I’d love to go.’

  Juliet’s eyes widened, ‘You would?’

  I must admit, looking at Diana’s immaculate nails and elaborately coiffed hair, even I was a little surprised.

  ‘Well,’ she conceded. ‘I’m not really a roughing-it kind of person but I love the idea. I think lots of women would want to go, if they hear about it.’

  That was the key – getting news of the opportunity out there. Diana gave me a list of media contacts and sent my press release to dozens of her own personal contacts in other cultural organisations. Juliet warned me it would be hard to get their attention. ‘Accra is very political right now. We have elections in two months’ time and the UN climate change talks start today.’

  ‘Perhaps they have room for a little light relief?’ I countered, hopefully, but Juliet didn’t seem optimistic.

  The difference of opinion between Juliet and Diana was representative of the reaction I’d had everywhere. For a start, opinion on polar travel is very black and white – people either get it or think it is completely crazy. In addition, people seemed to have a strong view on whether it was something their countrywomen would be capable of. In Cyprus, everyone was surprised that I had received as many as 85 applications from Cypriot women. In Ghana they seemed equally sceptical that it was something that would interest Ghanaian women.

  I started ringing the press numbers given to me by Diana but quickly discovered a big problem. It was Thursday and the interviews were due to be held in just two days’ time. Even if a journalist wanted to carry my story, it wouldn’t be published in time. My only hope was The Ghanaian Times, which was published on a Friday. It would mean convincing a journalist to write the story before their press deadline that afternoon, but it was worth a try; it was a widely read paper. After trying the newsroom number several times without getting an answer, I decided to go to the newspaper office in person.

  I jumped in a taxi with a driver who knew where The Ghanaian Times was based. He dropped me off by a shabby front wall with a large group of intimidating men hanging around the gate. I hesitated for a second, fighting the urge to jump back in the taxi and run away from all the stares I was attracting. Instead, I walked up to the gate as confidently as I could and asked to see the editor. Expecting the guard to send me away, I had a number of arguments ready in my head but he casually called over a young boy hovering inside the compound. The boy walked me across a muddy courtyard surrounded by low concrete buildings and led me to the editor’s office. The bare-walled room contained several desks piled high with folders and it was so hot that the air felt too thick to breathe. Four men in shirts sat behind their desks: one was talking loudly on the phone, another was tapping at the only computer in the office and the other two were having a heated discussion about the copy in their hands. None of them appeared to notice me. There was a line of plastic chairs against the back wall where two very bored men sat looking at me, as
if waiting to see what I would do next. I approached the man on the computer and asked if I could see the editor. He nodded and indicated the row of plastic chairs, but showed no signs of fetching anyone. I felt defeated for a moment and turned to join the despondent men already in line, when one of the arguing pair broke off to ask me what I wanted. I quickly gathered that this was the editor. I introduced myself and began to explain what I wanted. He listened until I had finished. ‘So you want to ask for women to join your expedition. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, relieved that he had got the idea straight away.

  ‘But surely this is advertising? This is not a story, this is an advert.’

  I shook my head and quickly reeled off a number of ways in which it was an interesting story rather than an advert, feeling slightly frustrated that I had to explain the newsworthiness of an obviously newsworthy story. ‘This is a sports story,’ he said in a tone to suggest there was no argument. I was led back across the courtyard to a building where a very young man tapped on a computer as I described the expedition. He handed the printed copy to a boy who immediately sprinted out of the door. ‘It will go in the paper this evening,’ said the journalist, nodding me towards the courtyard as he turned back to his computer.

  Delighted at my success, I left the compound, flagged down a taxi and confidently asked to go to Joy FM. It was all very well getting a story in the paper, but Ghana was a radio country. If I wanted to reach a large number of women in Accra, my best bet was to get on the air, and Joy FM was one of the most popular radio stations in the city. The taxi dropped me off outside a building buzzing with people coming and going. Inside, I asked for Alex, a young friendly journalist I had spoken to earlier that day on the phone. He was enthusiastic about my story and wanted to record an interview with me for the lunchtime show.

  We climbed several flights of stairs to a small studio at the top of the building and recorded an interview. By now the questions I was asked in press interviews had become familiar – they usually followed a similar pattern and so my answers had become unintentionally practised. Today was different. ‘Can you explain to our listeners exactly what is skiing?’

  For a second or two I was at a loss at how to begin explaining skiing. ‘It’s a method of travelling across snow, using long, thin, pieces of wood’ (I winced inside at my primitive description) ‘strapped to your feet so that you don’t sink into the snow with every step.’ After a shaky start I didn’t think I’d done too badly.

  ‘And what is the South Pole?’ continued Alex. I was ready this time, upright in my seat and concentrating; I wasn’t going to be caught out twice.

  I got through the interview, telling myself that I would never get nonchalant about interview questions ever again, but Alex’s questions also gave me a clue as to why the application rate had been so low in Ghana. I don’t think I had truly appreciated just how alien a subject this was to the average Ghanaian. In a country barely a spit from the equator where there are no mountains and no snow, why should anyone know what skiing is? If you had no idea about Antarctica, the South Pole or skiing, an advert asking you to apply to ski to the South Pole was not going to spark your imagination; it would simply be written off as nonsense. As my taxi nudged through the Accra traffic back to my hotel I felt more depressed than ever. Perhaps the sceptics were right; perhaps I had been too ambitious and a little unrealistic.

  That evening I logged onto my email account with trepidation to see if the interview on Joy FM had prompted any last-minute applications. I squealed excitedly as my inbox showed 17 new messages. This brought the total number of applications from Ghana to 23. I excitedly read through the new applications and saw with relief that some of them were really great: a development worker involved in women’s rights, an investment banker who had given up her affluent lifestyle to follow her dream of becoming a successful singer-songwriter, a nurse from the northern region and a chef in one of Accra’s plushest hotels. I wrote to the ten strongest candidates inviting them to an interview and went to bed in a good mood. Once again, disaster had been diverted by the narrowest of margins.

  On the day of the interviews I sat drinking coffee in the hotel looking out at the sea. I’d already checked my emails and been disappointed. Of the ten candidates I’d invited for interview, only six had replied. I had tried ringing the remaining four but there was no answer. I consoled myself with the thought that six candidates were better than one. My first interview that morning was with Ama, who was waiting for me when I arrived. She had been the only candidate when I’d arrived in Ghana two days previously. Ama worked for an NGO, looking after volunteers from the UK who came to Ghana to work on school building projects. She was a lovely person but had so much humility that I wondered if she would have the conviction she would need to stand up in front of halls full of people to talk with confidence about the messages of the expedition. The interview made my heart sink: could I really give this wonderful woman the training she would need in order to take part in an expedition like this? She was certainly tougher than me in many ways, but an expedition to Antarctica was so clearly beyond anything she had ever experienced or had ever thought of experiencing that the thought of it seemed almost cruel. The interview brought back all my old doubts about the sensitivity and questionable wisdom of what I was doing. These concerns had never been far from my mind, but the enormity of the responsibility now made me feel sick. Could I take a woman from rural Ghana – a woman who has never left the country, seen snow or felt freezing temperatures – to Antarctica?

  My hopes weren’t raised by the application form of my next candidate. Sheillah was 23 years old and, although her form was well written, it struck me as rather naive. When she arrived she was so timid that she wouldn’t sit directly opposite me for the interview, but insisted on sitting across the room on a chair just inside the door. Once she had recovered from her initial shyness, I was soon struggling to interrupt her flow of dialogue and a different person altogether began to emerge. ‘I was the first born,’ she told me. ‘So, of course, my parents wanted a boy. But because I was the first born they gave me the freedoms they would have given a son. So I am privileged to have had that freedom to do whatever it is I want to do.’

  She was interrupted by a sudden flood of water gushing from an air-conditioning unit in the office we were using. I pushed a bucket underneath to catch the water but Sheillah instantly fell into business mode. She strode off into the reception area, returning quickly with a reluctant orderly who mopped while she stood over him directing. Now I could see how this 23-year-old in her business suit could cut a formidable figure at work and carry her authority. Sheillah was ambitious as well. ‘After the expedition, whoever goes will have a platform,’ she explained. ‘I want that platform to launch my own NGO which will use peer pressure for positive things, to encourage volunteerism among young people in their holidays and other ideas that I am working on.’

  Barbara arrived in the afternoon. She was a freelance writer who had recently returned from three years studying in America. She was easy company and confident, but her body language betrayed the fact that she was acutely aware that she wasn’t in shape. I got the impression that she felt this would preclude her, but in fact I wasn’t as worried about fitness as might have been expected. I know from personal experience how quickly you can gain physical fitness if you have the determination and motives to do it; it is the character that is more important. After Barbara came Hannah, a woman struggling to climb the professional ladder. She worked for the Ghana News Agency and seemed more insightful than the other candidates, but at the same time slightly tragic. It was clear that she worked hard but had never really been given the breaks she deserved. ‘People think that to get an opportunity they must leave Ghana; that they must go to the developed world. People are even walking across the sand to Libya. Walking! But there are opportunities in Ghana if you look for them. That’s what I want to tell people.’

  Once again, I’d told all the candidates that I wo
uld ring them that evening with a decision. I sat on the beach outside the hotel, digging my feet into the sand, trying to weigh up the options. Sheillah had impressed me with her dynamism and conviction but, as in Cyprus, I found it difficult to choose between two remaining contenders: Barbara and Hannah. It came down to the tent test. I could see Barbara in an expedition scenario clearer than I could imagine Hannah. And so the decision was made. I rang Barbara and Sheillah to break the good news. While Barbara squealed down the phone and jumped around in excitement, Sheillah took the news as casually as if I’d told her the weather report. I knew right away that I had made a mistake.

  India

  I squeezed myself through the aisles of the plane cabin, found my seat and sat down with taut pains around my eyes. It hurt to focus and it even hurt when I closed my eyelids. I’d only managed a few hours’ sleep during the three flights from Accra to Delhi and I could feel the tiredness wrap itself around me like an unshakable fog. I didn’t feel capable of getting through the day ahead, but there wasn’t a choice – there were too many people that would be let down. Thanks to a disruption in my flights, I would arrive in Delhi 24 hours late, meaning that I would miss a whole morning of interviews. As some of the candidates had travelled for days across India to attend their appointments, the decision was made to reschedule all the interviews for that afternoon. The British Council in Delhi had agreed to host the interviews, so they were able to take care of the arrangements. I would touch down at 9 a.m. and was now due to see my first applicant at midday. To make matters worse, that evening I was giving a talk in the large auditorium at the British Council to an audience of 150. The tickets had all been allocated, so there was no getting out of it.

  The British Council kindly sent a car to collect me from the airport and as I walked through the door of their central Delhi building, I was presented with a toasted sandwich and a flask of hot, sweet coffee. I cast heartfelt thanks to those responsible for the incredibly thoughtful gesture and prepared for the first interview in the small glass-walled office I had been allocated. Waiting for me was Commander Dam, a mountaineer and expedition leader in the Indian Navy. He had led military expeditions to both the North and South Poles and had agreed to sit in the interviews with me. After meeting applicants in the other countries alone, I thought it would be helpful to get another perspective. The Commander was a slight man with a big smile under a neat moustache and incredibly clear skin given his occupation and his 43 years. There was no sign of any cold injury on his face, or a single wrinkle. He was stiffly formal as he introduced himself and took a severe stance next to me at the desk as the first candidate was shown in.