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  I could see that Smirthi was nervous but, as I began to ask her questions about her life, she calmed down and talked with passion about her work to save the pangolin. She showed me a picture of this strange armadillo-like creature, an anteater covered with large, razor-sharp scales that only survives in small pockets of rural India and is threatened with extinction. I invited questions from the Commander, who asked Smirthi several pointed queries about the climbing experience she had described on her application form. His tone was a lot tougher than mine had been. It was clear that the Commander meant business, and I felt a little unprofessional in comparison. As the candidates came and went, I began to feel like the unwilling half of a good cop, bad cop routine. We met a doctor who was very intense and talked too long after each question. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, assuming it must be nerves, but the Commander interrupted impatiently, ‘Yes, yes, yes, you have told us that, but what was the most physically difficult thing you have ever done?’

  Next came Lata, who was so quiet and unassuming that I couldn’t see her holding her own within a team. After the interview, the Commander championed her case, emphasising her climbing competence and expedition experience, but I just didn’t get that gut feeling about her. The next candidate, Aparna, had sounded great on her application form and she didn’t disappoint. She had trained as a lawyer and had worked on several projects to improve conditions for female prison inmates. Clearly a very determined and focused person, she was emphatic about her commitment to all aspects of the project. The Commander wasn’t convinced. Aparna was due to start a new job with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Commander was adamant: ‘They will not let her go. It is too much time away.’

  By the end of the day I was beginning to feel a little desperate. Apart from Aparna, none of the candidates seemed to be likely team members. I could see by the Commander’s expression that he was equally concerned for me. ‘Do you wish now that you had seen others?’ he asked. Before I had a chance to answer, Reena entered the room and filled the space with her beaming smile. She had presence, both physically and in personality. She sat down and watched us intently as we asked her our questions. She had a disconcerting way of intently holding eye contact as she thought about her answers before speaking. When she made a joke, her booming laughter was so sudden and unexpected that it made me jump. She seemed a little eccentric but the warmth of her character was endearing. Before she left the room I knew that she was my second candidate.

  ‘Can you announce the winners in an Oscar style?’ asked Vijay from the British Council, who had organised my talk that evening. I was supposed to be announcing the successful candidates at the end of my lecture, but I hadn’t expected to make much of it. I looked at my watch. There were just 15 minutes to go until the audience, already gathering in the foyer, were due to file into the auditorium. I also had to get changed and talk to the press, and now I had to write Oscar-style introductions for each of the ten candidates I had interviewed. My head was spinning, but I couldn’t refuse. I decided I needed to look after myself first. I got changed in the toilets, startling a woman checking her make-up as I scattered my belongings throughout the room. Another woman came in as I was adjusting my top. ‘You look great,’ she said conspiratorially. I threw her a look of thanks – only another woman can know the comfort of a comment like that. I retreated upstairs to the glass-walled office to write the introductions and to gather my thoughts. I felt as if I could put my head on the table and fall asleep within seconds. I could barely focus and was so anxious about the impending talk that it was making me tremble slightly. I rarely use notes or prompts during talks and I don’t like to rehearse too much. Over-polished talks sound dull, so I like to rely on my wits. Unfortunately, I had had so little sleep during my series of flights from Ghana that my wits felt stretched to breaking point.

  As I entered the auditorium, it was already full. I took my place on stage and felt like a condemned man as I was introduced. Then came my cue to speak. I started my talk feeling strangely detached from my own voice. I looked at the audience’s faces in the gloom of the auditorium; they were all blank. I couldn’t get a sense of how the talk was being received in the stony silence. Usually I hear something from the audience – agreement, shock or laughter. I told a story that was supposed to be amusing and noticed a row of faces near the back. I couldn’t be sure in the near darkness, but it looked like they were laughing along with me. I focused on them for a while and it calmed me down. I began to get into my stride and was slightly taken aback when the room erupted into spontaneous applause at a key moment in the talk. I felt enormous relief; it was going well. At the end of the talk it was time for the Oscars. There was a lot of shuffling about on stage before Vijay produced a huge cardboard congratulations poster, like a lottery winner’s cheque, to hand to the selected candidates. I looked at him pleadingly for a second. This was not exactly the tone I had wished for but there was no time to argue. ‘This isn’t The X Factor,’ I muttered to myself. I read out my introductions and noticed for the first time that all ten candidates were sitting in the first two rows. Vijay performed a mock drum roll on the lectern and dramatically announced the names of the selected candidates. Reena and Aparna came on stage; Aparna looked fabulous in a flowing lemon sari and Reena was equally shimmering in blue and green. I handed them the poster as instructed and couldn’t help laughing as they looked completely nonplussed about what exactly they were supposed to do with it.

  The evening came to a close with a raft of flashing cameras snapping the three of us. I was once given some advice about speaking: ‘Be careful, it can make you feel very important.’ This advice sprung to mind now as I was suddenly surrounded by a circle of faces – people who wanted to ask questions, people who had asked questions and wanted to continue the conversation, reporters, well-wishers and, somewhere among them all, the women who had been shortlisted. I tried to make a point of focusing on them rather than everyone else, but was physically pulled away. One reporter was pressing me to make a statement about climate change (‘Would you say the situation in Antarctica is critical?’), while a photographer ordered me around, ‘Stand there. Look relaxed.’ I never take press coverage for granted and am grateful for any media attention, as I know just how important it is for sponsors and suppliers, but there were so many people that I didn’t get a single complete conversation with anyone.

  At the end of the evening I lay in bed at a nearby hostel. I had waited so long to sleep but now I found myself buzzing with adrenalin. I looked around the tiny room, which was more prison cell than accommodation. The hard wire bed was pushed into one corner, framed by leaky pipes, and the small window was covered by a curtain held together with years of grime. I heard a roar outside and, after a few minutes, realised it was rain. I went outside into the corridor that was open on one side, like a balcony, to see rain so torrential that I couldn’t see the top of the surrounding skyscrapers. As I watched, something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. A big brown monkey with a bright pink face sat, at head height, on the balcony a few metres away. As I stared at it, it turned its head slowly to look at me. We stared at each other for a few seconds before the monkey looked back out at the rain. I did the same and we sat there in silent company. After a long while I remembered how tired I was and went back to my room, leaving the monkey to his thoughts.

  The night before I left Delhi the Commander had invited me to his house for dinner with him and his wife, Namita. He answered the door wearing a T-shirt from the research station at the South Pole. He was more relaxed than the last time we had met; all trace of formality had disappeared and been replaced by irresistible charm. We sat down to a home cooked meal of paneer and spicy vegetables in a room hung with posters of past expeditions and dominated by an elaborate trophy from the navy that commemorated the Commander’s South Pole expedition. I felt an instant fondness for the Commander and his wife and after a wonderful evening in easy company I was extremely touched to be presented with a c
opy of the Commander’s book about his Everest expedition with an inscription inside: ‘From below one can’t see what’s above. From above one can see what’s below... That’s why I climb. From really high places and frozen landscapes, here’s to you.’

  I held the book close as I left. This expedition was my own mountain to climb and it felt like I was currently right on its bottom slopes. The Commander had given me a timely reminder of why I was doing all of this and that the view from the top of my own personal mountain would be worth it when I got there.

  Chapter Three

  Pet Gibbon

  Singapore

  After the sensory overload of India, Singapore was a vision of heavenly calm. I glided through a silent, glimmering and empty airport, a cathedral-like space in glass and chrome, and floated through queue-less passport control, pausing to fill in an immigration card at a conveniently placed desk with pens ready to be used. From passport control I was handed a trolley by an airport worker as my bags rolled out, immediately, onto a baggage carousel. As I passed through customs a sign pointed me to a desk where a smiling attendant sold me a ticket for a shuttle bus that was ready and waiting outside, with a driver who helped me with my bags and looked after them while I bought myself a coffee. We set off in the bus towards the city. I was the only passenger.

  The early morning sun shone through the window as I sipped my coffee and looked out at highways bordered with flowering rhododendrons. The greenery was gradually replaced by tightly packed tower blocks until we arrived at the YMCA in the city centre. I met Sandra from the British Council in the lobby. She was a petite lady with dark, loose-fitting clothes and a neatly-pinned hijab. We had corresponded by email intensely in the lead-up to my journey; as well as organising a venue for the interviews, she had arranged for me to give several talks during my short stay in Singapore. It seemed that Sandra had accepted the British Council’s aim to engage the young people of Singapore in the climate change debate as a personal mission and she attacked the challenge with enviable energy and efficiency. We both agreed that any excitement about the expedition could be used as a starting point to generate a wider interest in Antarctica within the context of global climate change.

  We walked across the quiet roads to a nearby cafe where I tucked into a tuna baguette and a tall latte. Sandra wasn’t eating because she said she was planning a big meal later but halfway through our meeting I realised that she was fasting. I had completely forgotten that it was Ramadan, the Islamic month of fasting. Sandra wouldn’t have eaten anything since daybreak, not even so much as a sip of water. In the intense humidity of Singapore I couldn’t imagine how difficult it must have been. I immediately apologised for eating in front of her and pushed my food to one side, feeling awful. Sandra didn’t seem to mind, but I still felt guilty for not being more sensitive. She handed me an envelope of papers and a copy of the schedule she had prepared for the next five days. She ran me through what I was doing, where I should be and who I was going to meet. I didn’t need to think a single thought of my own; Sandra had it all covered.

  The Singapore interviews started early the next day in a classroom at the British Council. The first candidate was an army officer who had written eloquently in her application form about her belief that there was a significant need in Singapore for positive female role models. During the interview she spoke in such a soft voice that I could barely hear her. Her job involved being in charge of large groups of soldiers on a daily basis, which seemed totally at odds with this painfully timid woman struggling to keep her nerves under control.

  Later followed a woman who had been a member of the Singapore Women’s Everest Team, who, from the moment she sat down, gave the impression that she had already assumed I would offer her the place. She seemed to see the interview as a rather tiresome formality. She casually passed me copies of glowing references written by former expedition teammates. The references described a very different person from the one sat in front of me and I wondered if her manner was due not to arrogance but a supreme confidence that was backfiring. Unfortunately, I couldn’t take the word of a reference, I had to make the decision based on what I myself had seen and in this case I had made my decision before she had even left the room. Later that evening when I called to thank her for coming to the interview, but break the news that she hadn’t been selected, she was angry. ‘But why?’ she demanded. ‘I am the perfect candidate.’ I tried to respond fairly but her attitude riled me. It didn’t help that I was still smarting from an email I’d received from an applicant who hadn’t been asked for an interview:

  To say I am deeply disappointed is an understatement. It was a very crushing revelation for me not to be shortlisted. So I reviewed what went ‘wrong’. I looked hard at your comments on the successful ladies and realised perhaps your semi-finalists weren’t altogether the ‘ordinary’ women I was led to believe is what your expedition is looking for. I can’t help but wonder if I should have just written a scripted application to yourselves and thereby given myself a better chance?

  This wasn’t the first critical email I’d received from an unsuccessful applicant but I was working so hard to make the expedition as open to as many people as possible that I found the suggestion that there was a conspiracy behind my choices particularly frustrating.

  There certainly wasn’t anything false or scripted about the two women I had selected from the Singapore interviews. The first, Sophia, carried her inner confidence as visibly as a neon sign. She was a busy mother of three with two demanding jobs and it was clear that she didn’t have the time or the inclination for any nonsense. She arrived for her interview in a casual tracksuit and I got the impression that it was just another item on her to-do list that she was squeezing into a typically manic day. She was petite but wiry, with defined muscles on her arms, a physique that was explained by her part-time job as a kick-boxing and aerobics instructor. When I asked Sophia how she felt about leaving her children for two or three months, she waved the issue aside. ‘When I filled in my application form my eldest daughter said to me, “Mum, it will be a miracle if you get chosen.” I want to go on this expedition to show my daughter that miracles do come true and that it is OK to dream big. The important thing is that we must try.’ Her face broke into a big smile and she laughed as if her story had been a joke but I could tell that she had meant every word.

  The second woman was Lina, an engineer and adventure-racer who had led a team from Singapore in the 2000 Eco-Challenge (notorious as one of the most demanding adventure races in the world). She had been a strong contender from the moment I read her application form and meeting her didn’t change my mind. Lina was instantly likeable. I could sense her quiet determination to succeed at whatever she put her mind to but she was also modest and good-humoured. I could easily imagine Lina as a well liked and dependable member of the team and felt lucky to have found her.

  That night I was invited to a dinner party at the home of the director of the British Council. The other guests were a careful blend of adventurers, academics and community workers. Among the adventurers was a man who had led the first Singapore team to the top of Mount Everest. As soon as we started talking he began questioning me, in detail, about my plans and telling me about his own leadership experiences. As soon as he uttered the words, ‘I used to be exactly like you… until one day I woke up in my tent and smelled the coffee,’ I began to form a dislike which was later confirmed during dinner when he quite suddenly, from the opposite end of the table asked me, ‘So, Felicity, have you ever had to sack a team member?’ The question was asked in the manner of an accusation, as if, by saying that I had not, I was admitting a woeful inexperience (he controversially sacked one member of his team just before leaving for Mount Everest). He clearly felt me to be unequal to the task of leading an expedition with such a complex team and seemed to want to make sure the others present came to the same conclusion. I am not sure why, but throughout my life I have often been underestimated – perhaps because I have chosen
to place myself in situations where I do not fit the expected norm. Whatever the reason, I have learned to use the frustration I feel in response as additional motivation to succeed.

  At the end of the evening the guest presented me with a signed copy of his latest book and I got the distinct impression that he probably wouldn’t have bothered if he hadn’t already inscribed a message to me on the front cover. I kept it as a reminder to myself to be confident in my own abilities, regardless of the scepticism of others. However, months later, I would have cause to think back on his question at dinner that evening and laugh ruefully at how similar our expedition leadership experiences were about to become.

  Brunei

  Within hours of landing in Brunei I started to realise the difficulty involved in doing any kind of business in a Muslim country during the month of Ramadan. Wandering into the city centre to find a local SIM card for my mobile phone I found that all the shops had been shut since early afternoon. The early closing didn’t just apply to shops; offices, museums, visitor centres and ferries were all the same. As the mid-afternoon heat approached 40ºC, most people were understandably drowsy and had gone home to rest until they could break their fast at nightfall. With everyone at home, the streets were left empty and quiet.