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Authors: Sara Wheeler
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and barked a few sentences of unintelligibly acronym-laden Italian.
Shortly before supper Mario asked sheepishly if I minded sleeping on the floor of a laboratorio . The dorms were full, and the alternative was an isolated outbuilding. I was perfectly happy. The laboratory was a narrow room with a sink, shelves lined with bottles of lurid substances, a smell of formaldehyde and a camp bed. When I opened a cupboard door a deluge of syringes rained down. I tried to disconnect the long rubber tube from the tap, so that I could clean my teeth in situ , but the project failed amid geysers of very cold water. At the end of the room there was a window, which was fortunate, as the lab grew unaccountably hot at night.
â
The accommodation, the kitchen, the sala comando and most of the labs and offices were located in the main building, which meant that you didnât have to face whiteouts to get to breakfast. In the evening cena was eaten at the civilised time of 8.30 and in this department the Italian nation excelled itself. Not only were wine boxes provided at both lunch and dinner, but the chef, an endlessly cheerful Neapolitan called Ciro who was like a small rubber ball, created unbelievably delicious meals. His kitchen was not resupplied regularly with fresh foods and I never understood how he managed to perform his culinary feats. When I asked him, he said the important thing was to cook con amore .
On top of this, an industrial-sized espresso machine in one of the two lounges was permanently connected to the water supply. To me, this was akin to attaining Nirvana. The lounges were furnished with brown Dralon sofas, a fridge containing soft drinks and mineral water (the Italians drink bottled water on the ice, a habit held up by veterans of the British Antarctic Survey as an example of wanton profligacy and the moral turpitude of Foreigners) and a video screen. In a small room next door there was a table football game, hunched over which people regularly worked themselves into a frenzy. After dinner, the Italians enjoyed lounging around in the corridor outside the dining room and jabbering over tiny cups of espresso. Mario often used this period to inform the team of his latest project.
âI have decidedâ, he said one night, throwing his head back and gulping down a mouthful of espresso, âto bring the Pope out to the ice.â He paused to allow for digestion of this information. âWhat do we all think of that?â
âWell,â said Gaetano, spluttering quietly, âI cannot really see His Holiness on a snowmobile.â
There were three women on station, and they used to gather for a cigarette outside the metal shower cubicles in the bathroom.
âHow are you finding our base?â the eldest one asked me during one of these fag breaks. She was a woman of feisty spirits and Chaucerian ribaldry whose role at Terra Nova Bay I was never able to ascertain.
âFine!â I said.
âLook, donât panic if the men seem desperate â you know, for women. They are just talk ââ she finished the sentence by imitating the working of a jaw with her fingers and thumb. âIn this very cold,â she continued, whereupon the other two began laughing, as if they knew what she was going to say, âtheir little cazzi become this tiny,â and she held her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. With that, she slapped me on the back with one hand, stubbed a cigarette out in the sink with the other, burst through the swing door and sailed into the corridor.
During the day the base exuded a permanent sense of urgency. It was a summer-only station, 1 which put everyone under pressure, and besides this, the Italians were a long way from their nearest neighbours. It all contributed to a kind of frontier spirit, as did the fact that the history of the Italian presence in Antarctica was shorter than a decade. They still referred to their presence as una spedizione â an
Shortly before supper Mario asked sheepishly if I minded sleeping on the floor of a laboratorio . The dorms were full, and the alternative was an isolated outbuilding. I was perfectly happy. The laboratory was a narrow room with a sink, shelves lined with bottles of lurid substances, a smell of formaldehyde and a camp bed. When I opened a cupboard door a deluge of syringes rained down. I tried to disconnect the long rubber tube from the tap, so that I could clean my teeth in situ , but the project failed amid geysers of very cold water. At the end of the room there was a window, which was fortunate, as the lab grew unaccountably hot at night.
â
The accommodation, the kitchen, the sala comando and most of the labs and offices were located in the main building, which meant that you didnât have to face whiteouts to get to breakfast. In the evening cena was eaten at the civilised time of 8.30 and in this department the Italian nation excelled itself. Not only were wine boxes provided at both lunch and dinner, but the chef, an endlessly cheerful Neapolitan called Ciro who was like a small rubber ball, created unbelievably delicious meals. His kitchen was not resupplied regularly with fresh foods and I never understood how he managed to perform his culinary feats. When I asked him, he said the important thing was to cook con amore .
On top of this, an industrial-sized espresso machine in one of the two lounges was permanently connected to the water supply. To me, this was akin to attaining Nirvana. The lounges were furnished with brown Dralon sofas, a fridge containing soft drinks and mineral water (the Italians drink bottled water on the ice, a habit held up by veterans of the British Antarctic Survey as an example of wanton profligacy and the moral turpitude of Foreigners) and a video screen. In a small room next door there was a table football game, hunched over which people regularly worked themselves into a frenzy. After dinner, the Italians enjoyed lounging around in the corridor outside the dining room and jabbering over tiny cups of espresso. Mario often used this period to inform the team of his latest project.
âI have decidedâ, he said one night, throwing his head back and gulping down a mouthful of espresso, âto bring the Pope out to the ice.â He paused to allow for digestion of this information. âWhat do we all think of that?â
âWell,â said Gaetano, spluttering quietly, âI cannot really see His Holiness on a snowmobile.â
There were three women on station, and they used to gather for a cigarette outside the metal shower cubicles in the bathroom.
âHow are you finding our base?â the eldest one asked me during one of these fag breaks. She was a woman of feisty spirits and Chaucerian ribaldry whose role at Terra Nova Bay I was never able to ascertain.
âFine!â I said.
âLook, donât panic if the men seem desperate â you know, for women. They are just talk ââ she finished the sentence by imitating the working of a jaw with her fingers and thumb. âIn this very cold,â she continued, whereupon the other two began laughing, as if they knew what she was going to say, âtheir little cazzi become this tiny,â and she held her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. With that, she slapped me on the back with one hand, stubbed a cigarette out in the sink with the other, burst through the swing door and sailed into the corridor.
During the day the base exuded a permanent sense of urgency. It was a summer-only station, 1 which put everyone under pressure, and besides this, the Italians were a long way from their nearest neighbours. It all contributed to a kind of frontier spirit, as did the fact that the history of the Italian presence in Antarctica was shorter than a decade. They still referred to their presence as una spedizione â an
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