The land of mythical tragedies. The place of ships’ hulls being crushed by ice, of long treks into darkness and death, of soles falling from feet and being strapped back on, of teeth freezing and splitting, fingers dying, toenails coming away, mates disappearing through holes in the ice, mates walking away into blizzards, saying I’m just going outside and may be some time, and never coming back, of men lying down to die and placing their hand across the chest of their already dead, dear mate.

It’s the most isolated place on earth. The coldest and the windiest. The lowest temperature ever recorded is –89.6°C. The highest wind speed, 320 kilometres an hour.

Lyn’s exact words when she found out it was me who’d been given the Antarctica assignment were, Bitch bitch pig bitch. Her envy was magnificent. Who could refuse the offer after envy like that? An offer that gets me off the early shift and out of the newsroom and away from Kings Cross for a while.

Who could refuse?

Two: Belly Rings and Beards

TWO

BELLY RINGS AND BEARDS

I always feel as if my blood thickens when I come to Tasmania, from cold or something. I sense within me a kind of slowing and I tell myself it’s not such a bad thing.

The sky hangs low. It touches the Hobart rooftops. From the dark closeness of the rain-soaked city we’ll be sailing south into a dazzling world of long white light. We’ll be leaving behind raincoats and umbrellas and taking special filters for our cameras and skin and eyes.

The taxi climbs through the mist to the headquarters of the Australian Antarctic Division. The complex is high on the edge of the city. The taxi passes a convoy of trucks winding slowly down the mountain. On the trucks’ flat backs are tree trunks piled high and shaved ragged like giant shaggy pencils. The taxi driver lifts his finger from the wheel in a salute to the truckies and in his small movement there’s pride at those trucks.

‘Why on earth would you want to go to Antarctica, eh? It’s too bloody cold for me. I’ve never been out of Tassie. Everything I need is here.’

The taxi driver talks affably and slowly. He hands across his crudely printed business card at the end of the ride. He wants the fare to the airport, on my way out of town several months down the track. I tell him I’ll put his card somewhere safe.

‘You do that.’