by Anne Kennedy
As it turned out, none of this Cook Blub drama mattered an iota, because one day soon afterwards, I got an email from Arts New Zealand informing me that a place had become available for me on the Antarctica Residency. Waitlisting and eventual success was becoming a pattern, and I wasn’t complaining. I remember sitting in Mandy’s living room with my laptop on my knees, reading the email and thinking that being kicked out of Cook Blub, evicted from the fifties apartment, none of it needed to feature on my radar. I had bigger and more important fish to fry, for five days in December.
I tweeted my good news. Chuffed to be awarded the prestigious Antarctica Residency esp along with other brilliant recipients. Humbled. Thanks @ArtNZ! There was an instant barrage of activity, including from @ArtNZ, who followed me (yeah, finally), and a retweet from one of my followers in the UK, a sailor/poet/mother/activist. I replied, Thanks so much for the RT @wavemaker! And they replied, Don’t mention it @Janiceawriter, and I replied, I hope you are having a lovely day @wavemaker. They replied, I am thanks @Janiceawriter. Later in the day, @heartwriter and @fringefestdweller and of course @mandycoot favourited it. I took all this as a very good sign.
A few weeks later, I attended the four-hour prep session for those travelling to Antarctica to help ensure ‘personal and environmental safety on the ice’. An afternoon might seem a short time to cover such a big topic, and in fact it did turn out to be lovely and low-key, I’m guessing due to the no-blame policy of the Accident Compensation Commission; that is, the government will fork out for your injuries, and no one will be held accountable. It’s a good system, it’s worked for years, and it suits the New Zealand she’ll-be-right philosophy. In some ways it could be equated with Cinema of Unease. If any of us—me, or any of the group of artists with whom I would go to Antarctica—were to slip on the ice and break our neck due to lack of training, Scott Base would say, sorry about that, yeah nah, there’s free surgery available and a few months’ convalescence, have a nice life. Oh, and a fifty-dollar voucher towards your next trip to Antarctica, which is fully transferable so your relatives can redeem it if you find you never walk again, or if you die.
I turned up at the training facility in Ghuznee Street, up some dingy stairs in a long, dark room that looked as if someone might be organising a last supper there. As my eyes grew accustomed, I saw an expanse of bare floorboards and, at the back of the room, a knot of people in arty black coats. I guessed correctly that they were the very artists with whom I would go to Antarctica and whom of course I hadn’t met yet. They looked stunningly cool and I greeted them warmly—Beatrice Grant, Tom Atutola, and Clement de Saint-Antoine-Smith, whom I’ve already introduced in these Acknowledgments. They nodded tightly, redolent of Cinema of Unease. It occurred to me that hell might freeze over before you could get a smile out of this crew. I wasn’t bothered. We were busy. There were forms to fill in, equipment to organise, instructions to take on board, fire safety to be learned. It seemed that the greatest possible danger that awaited us on the ice was the threat of fire, even though Antarctica is mostly water. I guess it would take a lot of energy and, crucially, a lot of time to heat up enough water to put out a fire. I’m reminded of the performative doing of the dishes at Hoki Aroha—the cauldron, the blazing logs. Also: ‘Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to put out a fire.’ Isn’t life ironic? Isn’t the planet ironic!
Before I go further, let me introduce you to our tutor, Kevin, whom I want to thank mightily in these pages. Kevin was small and wiry and wore a shiny green paramedic outfit. He never laughed but spoke like a broadcaster delivering extremely bad news.
Kevin taught us basic first aid. Slings, splints, eye-bathing, vomit-inducing, when not to vomit-induce, recovery position, and CPR. The artists with whom I would go to Antarctica and I joshed our way though, striking poses with the slings and things. It was all a bit of a laugh and a good bonding experience, although it seemed the other three had bonded previously. I didn’t mind. Plus, I felt a bit sorry for Serious Kevin. It was especially funny to be crouched over the half-manikins on the floor and engaged in an activity involving rubber, lips, puffing and suchlike. I was fairly dizzy at the end of it. The artists with whom I would go to Antarctica and I all gained a Certificate in Basic First Aid, awarded to us in a makeshift ceremony in which we trooped up to Kevin and received our certificates still warm from the photocopier. I’m proud to say that in the event of an emergency I’d be a useful person to have around. Next time I’m at a reading, say, and someone collapses on stage and they call out, ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’, if there is no answer and if there is also a resounding silence in response to the next question, ‘Is there a nurse in the house?’, and no answer to the next question, ‘Is there an enrolled nurse in the house?’, when they get to the *next* question, that is, ‘Is there someone with an Two-hour Certificate in Basic First Aid in the house?’, then I will not hesitate to volunteer my services.
The next stage of the course was Preliminary Environmental Evaluation. Full marks to Kevin for being able to say the acronym PEE with a straight face. I’m afraid I and the other artists didn’t have such self-control, I suppose because we are artists. We all got the giggles. The other three in particular seemed to be having an hilarious time. I did too, and I didn’t mind that they seemed to shun me. Kevin told us what to expect of the environment when we arrived at McMurdo Sound. First off, it seemed that flying to the polar ice cap was no different from arriving in a provincial New Zealand town.
‘If no one is there to meet you at the airport,’ said Kevin, ‘wave down the shuttle.’ There was a shuttle, and apparently a bus stop, which I hoped would not be situated in blizzard conditions, and the shuttle that picked us up from there would then transport us to Scott Base. I knew all about not being met at a remote station. I would be absolutely fine thanks to my solo trip to Hoki Aroha at the age of eight when I was not met at the Taihape Train Station; thanks very much, Sorrell and Harry, I always knew that that experience would come in handy.
Kevin instructed us to respect the ice, not to leave any litter, not to pour any beverages onto the ice, not to walk on soft ice. I went into a bit of trance listening to him—his newscaster tone was strangely calming—and as I was thinking my own thoughts, I assumed Kevin was advising us to *not*, on any account, make snow angels, because transferring your body heat to the ice would make that piece of ice warm up; your body would then go numb and the warmed piece of ice would break off and float away and finally, when it had got so small as to not be visible anymore, it would melt altogether, it would be gone, it would be *sea*, and the sea level would rise on some distant piece of real estate.
As I came out of my reverie, Kevin was explaining how to escape from a burning building because, as outlined above, fire is the biggest danger on the ice. If the building caught fire, there would be no water to put it out on account of the water being otherwise engaged, that is, frozen, not yet subject to global warming, apart from the New Zealand-sized chunks that had already fallen into the sea. In the event of a fire, there was nothing to be done apart from running out onto the ice. Kevin instructed us in this practice: if you should hear the fire alarm in the middle of the night, on no account remain lying in your bed. Instead, run out of the building by the nearest exit. If you should hear the fire alarm in the middle of the day, on no account keep eating your lunch in the communal dining room. Instead, run out of the building by the nearest exit. If you should hear the fire alarm while you are in the bathroom, on no account continue sitting on the toilet. Instead run out of the building by the nearest exit.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Kevin brought out a box of gear: sturdy boots, big brown padded jackets, gloves and beanies. We tried them on for size, chucking boots at each other and having fits of laughter, at least the other three did. I got on my boots and my jacket. The jacket had a tight-fitting hood, multiple zips including one right up to the chin, elasticated bands around the wrists, and a toggle to draw tight around the thighs so that not eve
n the smallest zephyr of icy air would chance an assault on the body. The padding had accumulated in clumps and it smelt of rodents. I stood there in the upper room in my jacket and, for some reason, it hit me—I was going to Antarctica! It occurred to me that I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do when I got there. I hoped I wouldn’t do that weird thing where people are drawn to the edges of cliffs and jump off. I hoped I wouldn’t go out and lie down on the ice just because it was there, and I was there too, and I had a corresponding cold space inside me that longed to be part of, to lose itself in, a frozen world.
Loaded up with our big brown jackets, our boots and our first-aid certificates, the artists and I tumbled down the steps into the late afternoon sun. The other three were doing renditions of Serious Kevin and generally having a really excellent time. On Ghuznee Street they milled about for a minute or two, doing Kevin, until all that was left of him was a few high bleats of laughter, then someone suggested the pub and they set off jauntily towards the Mall. About half a block away, one of them, I think it was Beatrice Grant, looked back and me and waved madly. I waved back, grasped my Antarctica gear tightly and ambled across town to Mandy’s.
When I began writing this section, I was going to thank Kevin, but now I can’t remember what I was going to thank him for. It may well occur to me in due course.
*
My fridge and I, still slightly at a loose end, have progressed as far as Cuba Mall. The dusk is well and truly underway now and the mall is criss-crossed with the gluey light of convenience stores and the infraredness of bars. Every so often an angry patron, cheeks ablaze, erupts from the doors of one of the latter establishments and staggers into the night. Judging by the leathery sound of thuds, somewhere in the distance a fist fight is happening. I mosey up the mall, weathering the doleful stares and random shouts of lost souls in pursuit of pleasure. As I approach the bucket fountain, I press myself against shop windows to avoid being drenched when the contents of the big dipper are inevitably hurled sideways by the wind. As a result of previous dumpings, the pavement runs like a small river. I skirt around a busker with a big beard and a creased face who is trying to sing but has no voice. Well-oiled revellers boo him as they pass. Further up, a bronze-painted man posing as a statue shivers muddily under a neon sign.
I don’t know where to go or what to do. I wish I had enough money to park myself in a nice warm bar to pass the time. With the wind howling and the mall ever more gloomy, it occurs to me—why not just rock up to the Matterhorn and see what eventuates? Why fucking not, Janice? I wheel along a hushed, red-lit passage which opens onto a frowsty lounge with a shiny bar and coin-like tables. I stash my fridge in a dark corner, so dark I don’t expect to be harassed about it, and I sashay between the patrons. Things are busy but orderly with an overlay of hysteria. This is a different rung from the mall. As there are no empty tables inside, I end up in the little garden out back where the smokers congregate in their cultural Siberia. In fact it’s kind of cute out there, with the raised shrubberies tangled in fairy lights and the arty-looking people knotted around tables. I perch at the free end of a long table with a group at it. When the party gets up to leave, I notice some of them have left tides in the bottom of their glasses, so I scoot along and combine them into a single glass and soon have the best part of a drink. I’m not usually given to this kind of behaviour, but I figure the alcohol kills any germs. Don’t they use alcohol for cleaning stuff at the hospital? And Christians seem to think they won’t die from sharing the blood of Christ. Armed with my drink, I look around for diversion. My fridge is within sight, so I’m not worried anyone will take it.
At the table behind me sits a weedy-looking couple, dressed for a revolution in berets and thick, army-style jackets with epaulettes. They are having a game, it seems, with a slim volume. They are shuttling the volume back and forth between them quickly, as if playing ping-pong. Each time the woman has the book, she flicks through it ferociously looking for a particular bit, but she’s never fast enough and the guy snatches it back and goes straight to a page and reads aloud. I hear snippets of important-sounding words like ‘mendacious’ and ‘deliquesce’ before the woman takes possession again. After a while they notice me and look a bit self-conscious, but we exchange friendly nods. I sip my wine/spirits/beer, which actually isn’t too bad. I decide I may as well turn around properly and say hello. I open with, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing …’, indicate the book and mention that I happen to be a writer.
They try to hide their interest, in an endearing, quintessentially New Zealand way. We chat and what I find out is that the man is a writer too. Not only that, he is the writer of the book that is being manhandled. It has just come out from a little local press, and the couple is out celebrating his good fortune. They tell me their names, Simon and Sarah, and I tell them mine. It is then that Simon looks interested. He puts his bereted head on one side. Sarah follows suit.
‘Are you the author of Utter and Terrible Destruction?’ asks Simon.
I confess that I am, and I feel myself go strangely shy under their gaze.
‘I’ve read it!’ says Simon.
‘Really?’ I feel a jumble of emotions at this development—glee, nervousness, dismissal; it’s hard to explain. I consider admitting that my little volume is really quite modest with its forty-nine pages and no spine, but Simon continues: ‘Yes, I keep up with all the small presses. Don’t we, Sarah?’
Suddenly we are all great friends. We shake hands solemnly, clink glasses and take celebratory sucks of our drinks. If the world were to end right at this moment, the planet struck by a meteor, a tsunami wiping out Wellington, we’d cling to each other under the table in the Matterhorn and feel fully connected as humans who happened to exist at the same time. I almost wish an earthquake, the Big One perhaps, *would* come now so that Simon, Sarah and I could die together wrapped in each other’s arms. But it doesn’t come, and I ask if I could have a squiz at the book. Sarah and Simon trip over themselves to say yes, and the volume is more or less shoved into my hands.
I begin to flick through the book. After a few moments, I look up at Simon, at his innocent, wide-eyed face in direct contrast with his revolutionary garb, and consider whether I should break the bad news to him.
This is what I have found: the *book*, so-called, may be very handsome with its lovely cover, and it even has a spine. But, unfortunately, this publication has only forty-nine pages.
Quite quickly, I work out that telling Simon is the only humane thing to do. What if he were to go out into the world thinking that his publication was a book, only to find out in a much more public arena than our table at the Matterhorn (I am thinking Borich Festival) that it is no such thing? I figure that having me tell him right here and now, with just three of us and in the half dark, is the kinder act.
‘This is not a book,’ I say, in the very nicest way I can.
‘Pardon?’ he says, his eyes popping a bit. Sarah’s eyes pop too, underneath her beret.
I explain to them the definition of a book according to the Society of Authors and the Authors’ Fund. I relate how this little publication will not make its author (i.e. Simon) any more than an Associate Member of the Society of Authors, nor, even if it is to be circulated in public libraries by the tens of thousands, will it make him a single cent in revenue from the Authors’ Fund.
Simon blinks. No doubt this is tough to hear, but all in a good cause.
Suddenly, Simon and Sarah, as if by some prearranged pact, scrape back their chairs and get up from the table. They leave the Matterhorn quickly, their berets bobbing through the crowd. This is slightly confronting, but they leave half a glass of wine each. Every cloud has a silver lining.
It’s true that I feel a bit bereft and self-conscious, abandoned at the table like that, especially surrounded by vibrant groups having a wonderful time. I consider uplifting my fridge and leaving the Matterhorn myself. But then: who should come in but one of the five men from my dating grid? I’m not kidding
. Eric. Not only was Eric *on* my list, he was top of it at one point. Wellington is a small place, so I suppose these coincidences are not surprising.
I recognise him instantly even in the fairy-lit dimness of the garden by his big hair, beard and broad, olivey face; he’s a dead ringer for Karl Marx. Eric takes a seat along the bench from me. Like the last time we met, I notice everything about his presence immediately, his washing powder and tobacco smell, the way he spills out of his clothes on the edge of overweight. For some reason, I find this lush quality sexy, enough for now, anyway. What’s more, he seems to be alone. I scoot a little way along the bench, nothing major, and a rise of the eyebrows tells me he recognises me too. I remember that with Eric there’s rarely eye contact. We clink glasses and start to make convo. I expect he’ll want to talk about the evils of Capitalism, and he does quote an article from the Guardian about fracking in the North Sea, but it’s mostly DJs, and before long we’re deeply engrossed.
‘May I recommend Flippinhell and Pocket Lipps?’ Eric asks the table.
‘You may,’ I say.
‘And the scene at the Fat Angel. It’s a thinking crowd,’ he says, drawing fondly on his cigarette.
It’s all about thinking, I say.
‘The intersection of acoustic and digital is actually the jumping-off point.’ He’s quite drunk.
I remember he works in a bookshop (that’s why he scored low for financial prospects—it’s all coming back to me), and I inquire after business. Apparently it’s going well.
‘What do you do again?’ Eric asks
I quickly get to the main point: I am Antarctica-bound. ‘Like, tomorrow,’ I say.
‘Tomorrow!’ He squints into the middle distance and his eyes are deep and wrinkled like his trousers. I tell him about The Ice Shelf, its history, the economy measures I’ve applied to it this evening, and the concrete sensory details I will acquire on the ice.