Polar Expedition: A Journey to the North Pole
Diary Entries:
12. July 2021
02:30 am, outside deck 4
I am standing outside on the deck looking over board and watching the way the sunrays reflect off the tiny water puddles covering the top of the ice. The light-blueish colour emanates from the pale white background which complements it from top to bottom. It’s almost impossible to tell the ground from the skies, as it all melts into a quasi acrylic painting reminiscent of an impressionist painter of the late 19thCentury. I’m wearing a thick red hoody with Poseidon logo sewed into it, a think dark-blue parka, a grey hat, which was far too small for my head – not that my head is big – but rather due to the fact that there weren’t enough supplies of hats for the expedition staff that had arrived a week earlier on the ship, and so we had to take the kids sizes which were lying around in the shop. I’m wearing thick skiing gloves and dark green wellies that go up to my knees, propped with thick sports socks and thermal underwear. It feels good standing outside in the fresh air. It doesn’t feel cold; a couple of degrees below zero – I’m guessing. The wind has died down and the air around is still and crisp. It’s serenely quiet, which is a massive contrast to usual hustle and bustle that goes on the nuclear icebreaker round the clock. I’m thoroughly enjoying this brief moment.
A few hours earlier I had just finished my last set in the bar, playing piano and singing to the seemingly disinterested audience – all of whom were Russians. Indeed, most of them didn’t care for any songs in the English language, but the harassment I got during the first 4 nights had finally stopped – and by now those who strongly opposed to the likes of Sting, Sam Cook; the Sinatra, Queen and any other Anglo-American song repertoire that I had brought with me on the ship – had all moved into the library situated opposite the bar, where they eventually set camp playing music from their own mobile devices, cheerfully playing board games with their kids well into the small hours. Well, almost all of them. Mr. Igor Vitalievich, a stocky 50 something year old man from Caucasus, whose neck was as thick as a trunk of a 100 year old oak tree – had been doing his usual routine – starting in the early afternoon – he was drinking heavily. By the late evening he had reached his ‘full tank’ capacity and was openly remonstrating about my choice of songs in the middle of the bar. Shouting abuse at the West and instructing me to play Russian songs I didn’t know, he was adamant that I should not carry on performing.
“what kind of shit is this?!”, – he exclaimed in Russian.
The fact that I didn’t know any of the music he had on his wish list, which, incidentally, later I found out to be old Soviet post-war songs with lyrics of patriotic nature – certainly did not work in my favour. Moreover, the fact that I speak fluent Russian (being half-Russian myself) only seemed to infuriate him further.
“You don’t know your own country!”, – he exclaimed, and “How can you even call yourself ‘Russian’?!”. I felt ashamed. He was right, sort of. I wanted to tell him that I had emigrated from the country while I was still in my early teens, but thought better of it, instead promising on my scouts honour – I mean on my pioneer’s honour to learn those bloody songs he requested in the next day or so. That course of action from my part did seem to calm him down for a few minutes, however, by the time I had begun my next song, he was at it again. The performance of “Fields of Gold” by Sting had ended abruptly, mid-song so-to-speak, when Igor Vitalievich had turned on his own mobile device on full volume, defiantly singing along with it, waving his arms up and down, encouraging the mobof 5 remaining people in the bar – including the 2 bar staff – to collude with him. I conceded, packed up my stuff, it was time to call it a night.
Fast-forward to 6:30 am. My alarm goes off and it’s time to get up to get ready for the polar day out. A feat had already been set-up by my colleagues, who had worked through the night. To the far right, a tent has been setup for the famous Russian explorer Fedor Konyukhov; a name which I had only learnt of since I arrived on the ship. In the middle, a rope has been carefully laid out in a perfect circle. To the left, wooden tables with benches setup for the polar barbeque. And to the far left side, two more tents were setup, separated by a red carpet which weaved between the tents, all the way to the open water. “Banya”– I retorted. Unsurprisingly, Russians love their ‘Banyas’, which they frequent on regular basis., and, after getting all hot and smacked by twigs in the tent, the routine would be to jump into the icy water. And what better place to do that than the actual North Pole. I suppose when money is no object, people have to do something special, and if a trip to the North Pole on a nuclear icebreaker by the name of ’50-years-of-Victory’ in itself isn’t enough, then checking in to a sauna on an iceberg would definitely put the proverbial icing on the cake, or to adapt the metaphor in its Russian version – ‘Banya on ice’.
check out my instagram vlogs from the ice breaker:
https://www.instagram.com/tv/CRL3mSeqkAj/
I head down to the ship’s restaurant, where the tables are already filled with expedition staff, all wearing their wrinkled blue and white polo shirts, which notably they have had on them since the start of the journey along with the red hoodies (a mandatory uniform for all staff). There’s a cheerful banter around the tables which I find highly surprising. After less than 4 hours sleep, I can barely keep my eyelids open, having to summon all of my strength in order to mutter a brisk “hello” as best as I can. Thus, my dismay has just been compounded by the fact that the most chirpy ones are those who had barely had an hour of sleep or so. Anton, the ship’s doctor, is one of them. He looks up cheerfully at me and says ‘good morning’, rolling his ‘R’s in the same way that I do. At an accomplished age of 36 (a couple of years my junior), he was one of the first members of the expedition staff I met on my first day on the ship. A head taller than me, with short cropped hair, normal built and a strong chin, he impressed me with his ability to do almost any type of physical work he was asked to, and he certainly wasn’t afraid of getting his hands dirty. On the first day we were pulling deflated ‘Zodiacs’ from the crane onto the top deck of the ship, unfolding them and checking if there were any punctures. While I went back to get some working gloves I had left in my cabin, he just shrugged and carried on without his gloves, and without even a hint of a discomfort. I was quite impressed by this, but also sensed a certain element of machothat he was driven by, a trait which was quite common among Russian men in general. Another thing that struck me when I met Anton, was the fact that he had his 14-year-old son with him. It didn’t take long for me to do the math and establish that he became a father at the young age of 22.