Sasha Diesel made the best tea. He spoke less English than I did Russian so we’d default to Spanish, which was equally dubious. Mostly we’d sit in companionable silence making things. Jewellery-making started with the first quartz crystal. I was so touched I started to fidget, turning it between my fingers. After a while I spied a paper clip on his desk and twisted it around the stone and up into an earring hook—this set the tone for all of our visits. With every new trinket I made he’d up the ante with another stone, Russian coins or a finer-gauge wire to work with. I started to bring rusty bits I’d found; he’d search through drawers to find another offering. In time he started calling me “soroka” (magpie).
One day between camps, between laundry loads, between cups of tea he motioned for me to follow him. I forget the way—somewhere through the main part of Diesel, past the sauna, to a machinists’ shop I didn’t know existed. Wordlessly he ground a tool for me to punch holes, and showed me a metal press. We found two copper washers and pressed them until they were gleaming with undulating edges. I tapped a pattern and holes for hooks with the punch and added these new dangly bits to the earrings I was wearing.
There was a buzz in the mess I couldn’t get a read on at lunch that day until I heard chairs shuffling and noticed a table of men craning their necks to look at me, hands to their ears so I’d know why. And then a chorus of “molodets.” I think it means “clever” or “well done” or “good man.” I beamed and regretted ever having to learn how to say “Ne cejchas, nyet vremeni, ya rabotayu.” (“Not now, no time, I’m working.”)
FEBRUARY 21, 1996
5:30. Having a lazy afternoon. I spent the morning in Chile touring their kitchen, mess and stores, chatting about food and recipes with Fernando and Manuel. The way they pointed out wares on the tour of provisions and bodega was comical—as though this might be the first time I’d laid eyes on such products. Given shampoo, a demitasse, and some mystery sweet thing Fernando’s going to teach me how to cook. Promise that he is going to bring me cognac and some other surprises when he comes on Sunday. Manuel said something to the effect of “You are like Princess Diana.” Must be my fashion sense.
Lunch afterwards with Zuniga and officers, as well as officers and captain from Chilean supply ship that’s downloading oil today. They served cazuela as it is Wednesday and the reason for my visit. Very good, but I like mine better. Got a few more recipes from Zuniga —hope Fernando will be able to translate for me. Z asked me to make cazuela for him before he leaves. Must remember to make bread with less honey when he comes, perhaps deliver a loaf to him and guys in the kitchen. Promise from Felipe he will take us flying to other stations when the weather is better.
Other events: saw two crabeaters migrating through camp today. Volodya Driver taught me the Russian for old maid (“staraja deva”) Ouch! Saw Su-Chong from Great Wall—invited for dinner there on the 23rd. I’ll go early to hang out in kitchen. Plans to have Diesel guys for dinner tomorrow. Pancakes tonight—my favourite. Get recipe from Vladimir Cook.
Feeling crabby tonight—tired of being pursued and tired of being polite. Just tired. Really feeling need for personal space. A walk home in the wind helped and clear skies too. First time I’ve really noticed the stars. I don’t know the sky down here.
FEBRUARY 22, 1996
I want to make sure I remember:
The way the mist comes down right upon us
Twinkling lights on the ships in the harbour
Sunlight on Argentinean and Korean bases across the bay
Silhouette of Flat Top and the big rock at Stoney Bay
Tinkling of ice as it breaks up on my lake, ice sculpture brash bits at low tide
Penguins running with outstretched wings
Midnight sunshine
Cod-jigging in January and my first taste of fish in Diesel
Laundry day—wringing clothes, like Nana
December and January mud
Our elation when we could finally put our rubber boots away
Wind pushing me down the mountain—wind pushing me up the mountain
Ladders, my rust collection and cool old things
Waking up at 3:00 a.m. to see the sun rising
Warming water on the stove—a basin, soap, warm washcloth—all the comforts
Moss changing colour, becoming so thick that it looks like bushes and rustles in the wind
Seams of green and red jasper in rock
Sitting on water tank on hill overlooking camp
Jewellery making in Diesel, tea at radio hut
Sergey’s evacuation and return, and the isolation and helplessness we all felt
Smell of the Drake on a still day
Whale and penguin graveyards
Fur seals’ coats, glistening in the sun, like Northern Ontario black bears
Glaring elephant seals, inquisitive penguins, crabeaters in the middle of everything
Patterns on soil made by rocks and wind
Going to shed for eggs in the morning
Clouds lifting—catching a glimpse of the Drake
Measuring the days and the weeks by iceberg flow
Wind hitting air vents and propane tank box, rain through the window onto my bed
Numbing waters of the lagoon
Drying my hair in front of the Diesel generator fan
Clean, dry clothes
Calving bergs at Drake
Wondering what others will go home with
People telling me I’m like a bumblebee or a mouse, darting place to place
Lena telling me I have the hands of a small boy, fingernails always dirty
Time to think, time to play, time to wonder
Absolutely magnificent day. Sun, warm, no wind. Up early, wrote all morning, finally dressing at noon. Learned how to make cabbage pie with Lena. “It feels like home. It’s my family’s pie. My mother always cooks it, my sister, everyone.”
Later: Skiing on rise behind Canada House. Snow bad—a thick layer of corn snow but it won’t hold to the ice underneath. Grade not particularly difficult, but I’m cautious given the rocks piled where the pitch ends and the dodgy runoff so close to the best snow. Skuas overhead shadow my run and climb back up for another. And where the snow ends moss and lichen so thick I can’t resist putting my face to it. Play of sun on Nelson Island glacier. Skuas approach boldly as I lie on the mountaintop. Dancing, yelling, laughing. Slide down the unskiable parts, walk home by the lake, ski poles up for protection. Dodge diving skuas. Sauna. Then up the hill to make dinner for the Diesel guys—a real pleasure to cook for them. Got some chuckles when I served chicken skewered on nails.
Chicken bites; zuch toasts and tapenade; soup; cheese; cabbage pie; roast beef with cognac sauce; baked spuds with sour cream, bacon, cheese, scallions; chocolate mousse.
FEBRUARY 23, 1996
9:00 a.m. Wake up to another gorgeous day. Don’t remember much else other than shutting the curtains—a ploy on Sean’s part. Bit of a lie-in today. Hard to get going. Eventually down the hill at noon for sauna and work in Diesel room. Lunch with guys putting things on my plate, insisting that I eat. Afternoon in the garage with Sasha helping me make earrings.
Walk to Great Wall station for cooking lesson and dinner. Teach Mr. Wong to make bread and he shares secrets of dumpling-making and other Chinese foods. Su Chung translates. Secret of Chinese cooking? Lots of oil, he says. Fancy dinner in conference room, taste dumplings we’ve made. Simple and delicious. Drive home at 9:00. Laden with gifts from their kitchen—century eggs packed in rice hulls and canned lychees.
Walk up hill. Lonely tonight. Colder—frost on Niva and ground. Happy to see fire burning in barrel outside Canada House. Am conscious of liking someone to come home to.
Two new stones from Sasha.
Let us follow the narrow sledge-tracks that the little black dots of dogs and men have drawn across the endless white surface down there in the South—like a railroad of exploration into the heart of the unknown. The wind in its everlasting fligh
t sweeps over these tracks in the desert of snow. Soon all will be blotted out. But the rails of science are laid; our knowledge is richer than before.
—Fridtjof Nansen, Introduction to The South Pole, Roald Amundsen, 1912
Breadmen and women dancing, Bellingshausen, 1996
{Wendy Trusler}
Volodya’s pancakes and tea in Diesel room, 1996
FEBRUARY 24, 1996
10 a.m. Cloud, cold wind from east bringing in brash ice. Volunteers are not coming until this afternoon. 12:30 p.m. Winter blizzard with very high winds. Volunteers forced to stay on ship. Another five-day break—hope I can pack everything in. Funny how today worked out with me holding off dinner prep a little longer than usual. Did my baking, though, which I know the guys will enjoy. Dinner with the Russians—wind so strong I nearly didn’t make it down the mountain. Hiking across the base, three guys standing on the porch waiting, two run out to help me—funny, I had to come all the way to Antarctica to find gentlemen.
Well, most of them.
Here I am so far away needing solitude. You’d think I could find it. The attention is overwhelming. I’m craving anonymity.
A beautiful night with sunset through clouds. Sad Vlad gave me his Soviet navy jacket and holster as a memory of Satellite House parties—it’ll be a knockout in Toronto. Think I’ll leave the holster in the dressup box. Visit from Fernando to deliver cookbook, Christmas tree ornament and ingredients to make mote con huesillo. It’s going to take some magic to make dried peaches and pearl barley taste good. And what else of the day? Walked with Sean up to the point. Scrambled up some rocks, lay on a ledge, watched the birds overhead. Listened to the waves and the wind. Watched a snow squall pass by. Later, scree running down the mountain. Hatched a plan to go skiing on the glacier.
FEBRUARY 25, 1996
Lost myself in a letter to Morningside. Took minestrone, bread and Parmesan down to the guys. I’m not sure if they like my cooking or like that it’s different. Doesn’t matter I guess.
Talked with Volodya Driver after lunch. Questioned why such a good woman likes such dirty things. Told me he wished I could speak to him for just one hour a day. If I got it right, he advised me to have children because they can look after me when I’m old. If not, life will be hard. I responded, “That’s life—c’est la vie.” He replied, “Chudo! Ty prosto chudo.” I think—I’m not sure—but I think it’s something about being a miracle. Lena explained, and the guys in radio hut assured me it was a compliment. Hung around with them for a bit there and then up to Satellite House for our usual program: Russian folk songs with Laura Branigan dance party interludes. It will be a long time before I listen to eighties pop at home. Best part of the night was learning to sing “Milen’kij ty moj.” A little action in the middle of the night when one of the ships brought in an injured man for a medevac to Punta Arenas. Makes even the healthiest of us feel vulnerable and this poor guy had no medical or travel insurance—every traveller’s worst nightmare.
Behind the Curtain—When I think of the conditions Antarctic explorers endured and the eloquence of their language, not having time to write is a pretty sorry excuse. It also makes me grateful we have any record at all, and curious about the stories between the lines.
The first kiss for instance. My best guess is that it was the day Sean and I spent breaking KGI rules or when he asked me to reach over him to shut the curtains, although that seems like it could have been something else. I think Lena knew by the way she said out of the blue one day, “Sean has a good face,” looking at mine for telltale signs. I gently nodded yes, added he had nice eyes and kept cooking—it was easier that way.
Dumpling making at Great Wall Station, 1996
{Wendy Trusler}
The rise behind Canada House, a glimpse of Stoney Bay in the distance, 1996
But why the cryptic emotional shorthand in my journal?
I wasn’t concerned anyone would read it and there weren’t really any KGI rules. I wonder sometimes if I wrote around Sean because I was disappointed I had broken my own rule: Don’t play favourites. In the bush that tenet translated into equal portions for everyone, especially dessert. On KGI I amended it slightly to: what you do with one person you have to be prepared to do with everyone. I kept it to dancing and tea.
FEBRUARY 26, 1996
Cloudy, cooler today, with not too much wind, but we know autumn is upon us; the ice in the boot-washing barrels and puddles doesn’t melt anymore. Brash ice on the shore. Surprised that no bergs brought in by storm. An inside and clean-the-fridge kind of day. Started the cazuela for tomorrow’s dinner, got a head start on pizza toppings for lunch and made cabbage rolls. Lots of writing. I feel like I’m finally processing things. But how will I share it, where will I start? Eyes and mind are tired. I’m loving this quiet. Gotta find me a mountain shack somewhere to hide in. Make things, draw, paint, think great thoughts.
FEBRUARY 27, 1996
8:40 a.m. Left the blackout curtains open to see first light. I can’t remember whether it was 4:30 or 5:00. Perfect dawn again, this time with a sugar coating of snow and frost on the windows, almost all gone now. It’s a beautiful clear day, though wind from west and clouds hovering over the Drake indicate change. Hope we get some sun again later as I have a full morning ahead of cooking. What a treat to cook when there’s no real pressure.
Stood up by two nations at dinner, but had a very nice time with the Uruguayans. Yummy dinner. Doc Roberto says that Uruguayan cazuela is thicker with mushy rice—my cazuela seems more like soup to them. Fernando arrived in time to try my mote con huesillos, but was really uncomfortable joining us at the table. He told me later that cooks can’t eat with officers, which might explain why Mr. Wong and Su Chung were no-shows. Great yerba mate cup from Roberto, recipe from Jorge for humitas and promise he’ll make me something on the second of March, also promised a helicopter ride. These guys are gentlemen as they invited Sean along. Too bad he’s not a woman. Then again.
FEBRUARY 28, 1996
Sun, cloud, sun. Sunset. Rain and a bit of a blow for the night; antenna clicking in the wind. Packing and planning today. Potluck meals down the mountain. Lunch: Took pasta puttanesca and mote con huesillos. Dinner: Took cazuela, bread, cheese and Russian vinaigrette. Squirrelled away some vinaigrette for Volodya Cook for official taste test. Pancake-making lesson with him—remember to use hands to form them. Get recipe.
Dietary and aesthetic research/taste-testing with Lena, Hilltop and Radio Sashas, Dima and Ilya: biscotti for Hilltop Sasha, chocolate chip cookies and ice cream for the others.
Pathway from Canada House to main Bellingshausen base, 1996
{Wendy Trusler}
FEBRUARY 29, 1996
Goodbyes began today. Up at 6:00 to get a shot of Radio Sasha at radio call. He posed for me in front of the wall of radios and computers. Over to Diesel to drop off juice, lemons and hot chocolate. Sasha Diesel was snoozing when I arrived, but jumped up to put the kettle on and then got the idea to have me make the wakeup calls to Volodya Cook, Volodya Driver and Vassiliy: “Dobroje utro. Govorit Wendy. Pora vstavat.” (“Good morning. It’s me Wendy. Time to get up.”) Russian men laughing is a fine, fine sound.
Sasha Diesel poured tea and we sat making paper airplanes for a time until he signalled for me to follow him to the machinists’ shop. He ducked behind equipment and came out with a crate. With his back to me he reached into it and briskly put something heavy, covered in a dirty chamois in my hands. I recognized it at once—that exquisite chunk of petrified wood the Chinese scientists found on our first Drake trip—a gift for me to take home. I can’t. It still belongs here. His plan B was right there: material to patch my jeans, and a colander like the one in the abandoned buildings we explored last month. Oh my heart.
Arrived in mess at 8:15. Breakfast finished, though guys were still gathered. Moved by Vadim’s gesture—he has the kindest eyes—and the way he brought me the last wedge of cheese, his entourage translating that he wanted to make sure I got a
piece. Learned word for cheese (“syr”) from three teachers—or was it four?—all looking at me as if they were teaching a small child. Is this my childhood?
Camp 16 Debris Collection (Feb. 24–29) Stoney Bay waste and sorting piping
Bellingshausen Area 12: barrel glass
Bellingshausen Area 2: barrel mixed
CHICKEN TERIYAKI BOUCHÉES
Sasha teased I was like a “soroka” (magpie) the way I was drawn to shiny things. Later our dinner guests from Diesel found out why I’d asked for nails. You can use toothpicks when you make these at home.
6 boneless, skinless chicken thighs // 2 cloves of garlic // 1 thumb of fresh ginger (about 1 teaspoon minced) // cup soya sauce // 1 teaspoon rice vinegar // 2 tablespoons brown sugar // 2 tablespoons warm water // 1 green onion // sesame oil (optional)
Cut the chicken in pop-in-the-mouth size pieces and place in a medium bowl. Peel and mince the garlic and ginger and toss them together with the chicken. Whisk together the soya sauce, brown sugar and warm water until the sugar has dissolved. Pour the mixture over the chicken, turning each piece so that every surface gets to know the marinade. Cover the bowl tightly with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least 2 hours, turning at the halfway point.
Place the chicken in an ovenproof dish (I like a small cast-iron skillet) and broil until the juices run clear and the edges of the chicken morsels are nicely browned. Garnish with thinly sliced green onions and a dash of sesame oil (if desired). To serve: pierce each piece with a toothpick (or nails, sterilized in boiling water, for authenticity) and place on a board or plate.
Makes about 36 pieces.
The Antarctic Book of Cooking and Cleaning: A Polar Journey Page 15