Call of the White (5 page)

Back at the hotel I sat in the evening sun enjoying a slight breeze and a cold beer as I re-read the applications of the remaining three candidates. The responsibility of the selection weighed heavily on me. The success of the project depended on choosing the right people. I had been confident about Stephanie from the moment I met her. She was a yes, leaving me with a choice between Lia and Athina. Athina was clearly conscientious, thoughtful and considered but I wondered if she lacked the determination to see the expedition through. Lia, on the other hand, had plenty of determination and I had no doubt she would ski to the pole, but I wasn't sure if she would be quite as committed to the outreach, the sponsor research and all the other less physical, less glorious, sides of the expedition. I had promised each of the interviewed candidates that I would call them to let them know my decision. As I sat with the phone in my hand, I wished I'd promised an email instead, but after the women had gone to such trouble to attend an interview, a personal phone call was the least they deserved. I did the easy ones first, calling the candidates to which I was giving good news.

Athina answered the phone tentatively; she was expecting my call. ‘I think you would be an excellent teammate, so I'd really like you to come to Norway next year,' I explained. ‘Would you like to?'

There was confused silence on the phone. ‘Are you choosing me?' she asked, finally.

‘Yes. You and one other woman from Cyprus. I'd like you both to come out to Norway and try out for the team.'

‘I can't believe you are choosing me. Are you sure?'

I couldn't help laughing but I could hear the emotion in her voice. I was sure she had tears in her eyes. In contrast to Athina's quiet uncertainty, there was no hesitation in Stephanie's reaction. She nearly burst my eardrum with her squeals of excitement. She was triumphant and rang off quickly to share the moment with her family.

Now that Athina and Stephanie had both agreed to come to Norway, I had to make the calls I was dreading. As I disappointed each candidate in turn, they were all very good about it, which somehow made it worse. As I rang off from the last call I felt like a complete villain. Despite the earlier elation, at that moment I didn't feel that my project was a very positive undertaking at all.

The next day I met Stephanie and Athina at a cafe in the city. I had arranged for some press to be there and, as both girls arrived, they were interviewed by Sigma TV and photographed by a journalist from
Cyprus Weekly
, one of the island's big newspapers. I could see that all this attention had taken them by surprise and I recognised the look on their faces as they sat waiting to be interviewed. I knew how they were feeling. Media is exciting but daunting. When the camera points at you, it is suddenly a very lonely place to be. You tell yourself that there is no reason to be nervous, while simultaneously resisting the urge to run away and hide.

With the press out of the way, we sat down to talk through what would happen next. It was interesting to see how Athina and Stephanie responded to each other. It was a tough position for them to be in and I addressed the subject directly, ‘You are, in effect, in competition with each other, but I hope you won't see it that way. We have a long way to go before getting to Norway and you will need each other's support in order to get there.'

Even so, I detected a slight friction between them. They were certainly very different characters and I felt that Stephanie was instantly competitive, while Athina disapproved of Stephanie's exuberance. As we waited for dinner to arrive, I told them about my meeting with the desk officer at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. I was astonished when they said that they had both received phone calls from him that morning asking them to send him a copy of their passports and a CV in order to get the support of the president. I recalled his assurances that it wouldn't have mattered if they were Turkish Cypriots – but he obviously wasn't taking any chances.

Our discussion was interrupted by both women's mobile phones going off at once as they received a stream of incoming messages and phone calls. ‘That interview must have been on the news!' said Stephanie. They read a few of the messages, both phones still bleeping without pause, and each answered one or two of the calls, babbling in rapid Greek to excited friends and relations.

‘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.