Call of the White

by Aston, Felicity

  Bandar Seri Begawan is the capital of Brunei but it’s not a big city. Downtown is little more than a shopping mall and a mosque, while across the river there is a sprawling settlement of wooden buildings on stilts connected to each other by a maze of narrow bridges and raised walkways. Most of the buildings are houses but there are also shops, mosques, schools – even a police station with white and blue police boats moored up beneath the stilts and a fire department painted red.

  As arranged, Karen met me in the lobby of my hotel. She was the director of a well-established educational charity in Brunei and had kindly offered me the use of her offices to interview the Bruneian applicants. As we drove, we talked about her life in Brunei. ‘It has been a happy place to bring up children but the best thing about living here is having an ama,’ she said. An ama is a cross between a maid and a nanny who helps with the housework and looks after children. Karen sighed; in just a few weeks she was returning to the UK after 20 years in Brunei. ‘Without an ama, I’m going to have to learn how to iron again.’

  The charity’s offices were bright and airy, lined with shelves of children’s books and educational toys, the walls crowded with drawings and posters of dancing cartoon words. I was introduced to the receptionist, Siti, who was so excited about the expedition interviews that she had obviously gone to a lot of effort to prepare for the day. She had stuck a large poster on a board outside the office that read, ‘Volunteer Women’s Commonwealth Arctic Expedition interviews’ and methodically asked me questions about each of the candidates that would be coming along. I’d had more than fifty applications from Brunei and the shortlist included an interpreter, a sports reporter, a midwife and a businesswoman – but my first interview was with a Bruneian celebrity. Norhayati had just been named ‘Brunei’s First Lady Explorer’ in a ceremony a few weeks before as a result of a ten-month overland journey she’d made from Africa to Brunei with her husband. Her trip had been broadcast on Bruneian TV and written about in the newspapers. When I first contacted the Bruneian authorities about my expedition, they had immediately put Norhayati forward as a candidate with a heavy hint that she should be my choice. I was keen to interview Norhayati but her fame didn’t work in her favour. I wanted to prove that anybody could achieve their dreams – Norhayati had already achieved hers. She arrived wearing a long Malay-style dress but with her head uncovered. It was clear from the outset that she had not come to be interviewed; she had come to tell me about her experiences. I knew almost immediately that she was unsuitable for the team but enjoyed meeting her all the same. She had overcome many prejudices, on grounds of gender and religion, to be a jungle guide. ‘Many people turn up to go on my trips, particularly the men, and assume that I am helping them prepare for the trip but that their guide will be a man,’ she told me. ‘It is only when we set off with packs on our backs that they realise I am the guide, the only guide. That’s when they get worried and start asking questions. After a few days, when they are exhausted and I am still strong, they accept that I am the guide.’

  By mid afternoon I was anxious that I still hadn’t met any realistic potential team members but then Aniza arrived, a softly spoken air hostess with large almond-shaped eyes and a dazzling smile. She eloquently described her wish to be part of something that could present Brunei positively as a nation, to show other Bruneians that they need to engage in international matters and to generate greater national pride. Her views were so considered that I was surprised when she revealed that she was only 19 years old. I had been doubtful whether someone so young would be able to carry the burden of returning home as a role model but Aniza’s quiet confidence was reassuring. ‘How would you convince me that you have the mental toughness required to get you to the South Pole?’ I asked. Aniza didn’t hesitate with her reply. ‘I would tell you about my pet gibbon.’ She pulled up the sleeves of her top to show me her forearms, which were criss-crossed with long scars. ‘Every morning I have to feed him and every morning he scratches me. But I don’t give up.’ We both laughed, but it was a persuasive answer.

  Shortly after my interview with Aniza, I met Era. I wasn’t hopeful as she entered the room. Physically tiny, she seemed timid and unsure of herself but she answered my questions with conviction and passion. ‘I would use my experiences on the expedition to motivate the youth of Brunei to do great things,’ she told me. ‘We have a privileged life in Brunei but many young people are lazy and fall onto the wrong path.’ Having married her husband less than a year before and spent the last three years as a mathematics teacher in a secondary school, Era had a clear idea of what she wanted from life and seemed to have it all planned out. ‘Being a good Muslim is important to me and I want to keep learning how to be a better Muslim,’ she explained. Even so, Era described the culture shock of returning to her own country after spending a number of years overseas with her family. ‘Brunei has become more conservative while I was away and at first that was hard.’ She hesitated before continuing, as if unsure how much to reveal. ‘I like to play soccer but now it has been banned for girls to play. It’s annoying.’ Despite the fact that I was a good five years older than Era, her emotional maturity made me feel like a rash teenager in comparison. I could see that Era had the self-belief to keep her motivated and already I sensed that I was going to be able to depend on her.

  I met with Era and Aniza at my hotel the following day and was really pleased to notice that they seemed to get on well with each other. As we discussed plans for Norway and the expedition, Era talked about consulting with her religious leaders about what rules she would need to follow while she was away and what exceptions would apply to her regarding prayer and fasting. Islam requires time for prayer five times a day but there are dispensations when travelling and missed observances can be made up later. As Era tried to explain some of the intricacies of her obligations, it all seemed so complicated. I was brought up as a Roman Catholic but the idea of consulting a religious authority about the smallest details of personal life decisions seemed so alien to me. I left them both in the lobby, talking excitedly about raising money and discussing who they could approach for support. Seeing them so focused on the road ahead gave me a sudden boost of euphoria. The team that had been a figment of my optimism for so long was now forming in front of my eyes. I was no longer alone and would soon have a worldwide network of women as determined as me to make the dream of an international polar expedition a reality. Stepping into the hotel lift, I filled my lungs with air and let it out again slowly. For a moment I allowed myself to wallow in a feeling of triumph and excitement.

  New Zealand

  Wellington was sunny but bitterly cold. September is winter-time in New Zealand and as I stepped out onto the street, a grit-filled wind blew into my face. After a while my nose began to run and my eyes started to water in the cold wind but it didn’t take me long to find Turnbull House, a historic red-brick building that sits like an obstinate intruder amidst the modern concrete and glass skyscrapers in the heart of the city. The caretaker showed me the room I had hired for the interviews, gave me a set of keys and introduced me to the complexities of the alarm system. I headed back to the youth hostel and went to bed, exhausted.

  I woke up knowing something was wrong. Blinking at my compact room, I knew what it was. I felt really well rested. I’d had a good long sleep. I must have overslept. I threw back the covers and leapt out of bed, grabbing the clock. It was already 10 a.m. – I was an hour late. I quickly plucked the sheaf of application forms from my bag and found the number of my first interviewee. She was already waiting outside Turnbull House wondering what to do. I gushed an explanation and asked her to find a coffee shop to wait in while I got there as soon as I could. Within the hour I arrived at Turnbull House to find Melanie, another candidate, pushing at the locked doors of Turnbull house looking confused. I felt terrible; applicants had come from the furthest reaches of New Zealand but it was me who was late. With Melanie in tow I quickly set up the meeting room and wrote new times for the interviews
on a whiteboard outside the door. By limiting each interview to 30 minutes rather than 45, I could still see everyone.

  Thankfully, Melanie was very laid-back. She had arrived home from a long stint abroad just the day before and had only applied at the last minute thanks to her sudden decision to return – it all seemed like it was meant to be. As a nurse and former ski patroller, she would be immensely useful as a team member and a calming influence in a crisis. I could visualise her as someone that the less experienced team members could look to for reassurance. The next candidate, Helen, arrived with a coffee for me – I could have hugged her. In my hurry that morning I hadn’t had time for breakfast. As I gratefully wrapped my hands around the warm paper cup, we chatted casually. Helen had been trying to get to Antarctica for years. She would clearly be determined and passionate about the project. Next was Charmaine. I liked her instantly. She was a doctor in the army and, as with Melanie, I could see that other less experienced team members would respond well to her calm confidence. She was also a specialist in nutrition and physical training, knowledge that would be very helpful in our preparations for Antarctica. When the next candidate arrived and was yet another wonderful and competent lady with many strong abilities of clear benefit to the expedition, I started to realise that selecting the candidates from New Zealand was going to be extremely tough. I wanted to include everyone, and choosing was going to be heartbreaking for me, as well as for the candidates.

  After the last interview I walked back to the hostel very slowly, thinking about each of the candidates I had met. I chose Melanie almost straight away, but it took me longer to decide on Lani, a young film-maker and committed community worker, over Charmaine the army doctor. Lani was the sort of person I would love to be – active, confident, creative and highly principled – but as I rang her number I noticed something on her application form that I had inexplicably missed beforehand; she had given her nationality as ‘New Zealand/Australian’.

  ‘Ah, I wondered if this would be a problem,’ she said when I asked. Lani explained that she was still an Australian citizen even though she was a permanent resident in New Zealand. My heart sank. I had to discount Lani for the same reason I’d had to decide against Nicky in Cyprus. I could imagine the controversy if the New Zealand media discovered that the first New Zealand woman to ski to the South Pole was actually an Australian citizen. Lani was upset. ‘I do so much for my community and yet when it counts I’m not Kiwi enough?’ she demanded. There was nothing I could say. During my journey I had seen for myself how strongly people feel about nationality. I rang off and stared at the wall for a bit before bursting into tears. Maybe it was just the cumulative exhaustion of travelling for two months but the New Zealand selection had hit me hard. I had spent the day with women who had been full of enthusiasm but who were now bitter with disappointment. My tense conversation with Lani replayed in my head. An inspirational woman who cared about her community had been plunged into anger and frustration because of me and my rules. Combined with my experiences in Singapore it appeared that the expedition had done more damage than good.

  As I waited for Charmaine and Melanie to arrive for our meeting the next day, I felt a familiar churn of nerves, worried that they might not be the people I remembered and that I would be faced with the realisation that I had made a mistake. Melanie arrived first, a big grin framed by blonde curls. Charmaine arrived shortly afterwards and was, in many ways, the complete opposite to Melanie. Petite with cropped dark hair, she was reserved but I thought I sensed a kindred spirit in her. As I sat down with them both I noticed each looking at the other in appraisal, as if trying to work out why they themselves had been selected. It was clear that they were very different characters but, like the Bruneian candidates, they seemed to get along with each other easily. When I had worked my way through the usual avalanche of information, I left them both in the cafe to digest what had been said. I walked back to the hostel along the waterfront, battling the wind as usual, and tried to imagine what kind of team would emerge from the group of candidates I had selected so far. I was sure that either Melanie or Charmaine would be a huge asset as I tried to form a single unit from this band of strangers but I wasn’t confident that this would be enough to cope with the level of inexperience in all the other women. I had already come so far but there was still an awfully long way to go.

  Jamaica

  A documentary about violent gangs in Kingston probably isn’t the best in-flight entertainment choice when flying to Jamaica. People had given me more warnings about travelling in Jamaica than any other destination on my trip. My dad, who had watched me set off for all sorts of places over the years, was unusually anxious when I rang home. ‘Be careful won’t you? Watch your back. It’s dangerous,’ he said in a low voice full of concern. It made me nervous.

  The customs official studied my passport carefully as I arrived in Montego Bay. ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Knightwick bed and breakfast,’ I replied.

  He looked at me oddly. ‘Bed and breakfast?’

  He thought for a while before disappearing to confer with his colleagues. He came back smiling. ‘Knightwick House is what we would call a villa,’ he explained. ‘A bed and breakfast is somewhere a man might take his girlfriend,’ he paused before adding, ‘just for an hour or two.’

  Outside I collected my hire car and minutes later was heading into the town. I was navigating using the map in a guidebook but there was not a single road sign anywhere to help me find Knightwick House. Eventually I stopped to get a better look at the map. A man with dreadlocks rushed up to the car. I locked all the doors – jumpy from all the warnings I’d been given – but rolled down the window. ‘You lost, sister?’ he asked. I told him the name of the road I was looking for but he didn’t know it. We waved goodbye then he added, ‘You want any smoke?’ He dipped his fingers towards his mouth to illustrate that he wasn’t talking about cigarettes. I drove away leaving him disappointed. I’d been in Jamaica less than an hour and had already been offered marijuana.

  The next morning I set off around the coast. I had five days to make it across the island to Kingston for the interviews but along the way I had a lot of phone calls to make. As in Ghana, I arrived in Jamaica with just a handful of applications. I needed to get the word out about the expedition – and quickly. I felt like I was holding my breath. It would be a shame to only have a few applicants; Jamaica deserved better than that. I emailed the press attaché at the Jamaican High Commission in London, who sent out an update through the Jamaica Information Service. The British Council in Kingston had offered to host the interviews, so I rang the director, Pauline, who sent me a long list of radio stations to call as well as the names of a couple of newspaper editors. The big paper in Jamaica is The Gleaner and I was determined to get some coverage from them. I called the editor and, although he was friendly, he wasn’t willing to run a story on the expedition. ‘This is an advert?’ he asked me repeatedly. I tried to convince him that this was in fact a story, not an advert, but it became clear that he had already made up his mind. I listened to the local radio stations in my car as I drove around the island and noticed that talk shows seemed to be really popular, so I arranged to be the first caller on a national evening talk show. I had been warned by the producer beforehand that they could only give me three minutes on air but it was long enough to mention the expedition website and all the main information. The panel of presenters discussed the merits of such an outlandish plan for the next seven minutes – which in radio terms is an epoch.

  My persistence with the media paid off; by the time I reached Kingston, five days after arriving in Jamaica, I had over thirty applications and could breathe again. My first stop in Kingston was to meet with the deputy high commissioner at the British High Commission, who gave me a fascinating insight into Jamaican society. ‘Everything that is being done at a grass roots level, at a community level, is being done by women,’ he explained. ‘Women are the organisers, the go-getters, the improve
rs and yet Jamaica is a very macho society. You will never see women involved in the violence; that is all down to the macho side of the culture. And yet, you get to a certain level and the women disappear. For example, there are very few women ministers.’ He and his press officer were very enthusiastic about the expedition and gave me several leads for sponsorship as well as offering to help with the media.

  I crossed the compound to speak to Pauline at the British Council. I had arrived at lunchtime and her team in the office sat eating, eyes wide, as I told them about the expedition. They were incredulous, but excited, and I felt instantly welcome. Pauline had already helped enormously with the media and now she generously agreed to give up her Saturday to open the office for the interviews. She was already there when I arrived the following morning but she greeted me with disappointing news. Out of the ten candidates that I had worked so hard to find, two had already called the office to cancel. One had damaged her car and the other had forgotten about the appointment and now found herself too far away to make it in time. As the remaining eight candidates came and went, Pauline chatted to them in reception while they waited for their turn. She wasn’t able to join me in the interviews but when I had seen the last candidate, I sat at her desk and we talked through our opinions on each woman. I enjoyed having someone to compare my notes with, particularly someone with such good insight, and while Pauline locked up for the day, we both agreed on who my selected candidates should be.