The Polar Circles: Fear and Failure at the Edge of the World

The Polar Circles: Fear and Failure at the Edge of the World

We screamed.

“I’m scared.”

In her essay, Total Eclipse, Annie Dillard describes how seeing
the eclipse made people scream. Scream, because for a moment, the
universe was laid bare to them, and they grasped the speed at which
everything was actually in motion, glimpsed a portion of
infinity.

We screamed.

We were sauntering around the town of Ny Alesund, the
northernmost settlement in the world, when all of a sudden, the sky
lit up in a frenzy of green. We made sounds that were
unrecognisable by genre but resembled a combination of a heave and
a howl. The wind vibrated and the sky seemed to respond to our
cackling, pseudopodic and multiplying. We had not conceived of
anything like the northern lights before, not this alchemy of joy
and terror anyway, and never this reaction of limbs flailing and
pure, automatic floundering. In Arctic Dreams, Barry Lopez says
that the Inuit have a unique relationship to fear: “It is a fear
tied to their knowledge that sudden, cataclysmic events are as much
a part of life, of really living, as are the moments when one
pauses to look at something beautiful.”

This year, I travelled to both polar circles: I sailed to the
Antarctic circle in March
and to the Arctic circle in October.
What better way to escape the crises of Earth? What better way to
think I escaped the crises of Earth, only to realise that the polar
caps are the Earth’s thermostat, regulating its temperatures,
maintaining its heartbeat. I’ve grown up in a family of explorers,
travelling to remote parts of the planet with insatiable curiosity.
This was my ultimate voyage: it was the closest I could get to
outer space. And yet, in these no-man’s’ lands, it was the places
that contained the ghosts of earthly exploits that affected me:
they countered the fear of the infinite with the comfort of human
failure.


For a long time, the history of exploration to the edges of our
world consisted of failed attempts and false conjectures. Until the
late 1800s, Antarctica was referred to as terra incognita, while
the Arctic was called terra nullius. Compasses were unreliable and
measuring longitude at sea was deceiving. The mist was solid, and
the combination of ice mirages and bursts of madness from the
piercing cold led expeditioners astray. Ernest Shackleton, one of
the pioneers of Antarctic exploration, described seeing a second
sun in the floating ice-crystals: “It had the form of a wide halo
with two mock suns at either extremity of the equator of the halo
parallel to the horizon and passing through the real sun.” These
first impressions – erratic, unwieldy, often bombastic accounts
from the journals of tired, frostbitten, delirious men – are an
important basis for the scant scientific observations that would
succeed them as research bases and tourism developed over the next
decades. Even today, the poles are shrouded in hypotheses such as,
55 million years ago, they were tropical paradises, thrumming with
bees and alligators or that they are, until today, host to alien
bases.


The kind of people I met aboard the vessels were the kind of
people that seem to have already lived a thousand lives, felt every
emotion in the span of a day. The people that voyage such distances
seem to be able to quip about the coins of ancient Rome in the same
breath as they might identify an Arctic tern as it flies past en
route to the Antarctic (one of the longest migrations ever
conducted by-wing). These people seem at once foolish and wise,
restless and grounded. Of course, this is not true but form part of
the misperceptions that characterise the polar circles. The people
who voyage here are distinguished by their willingness and
resources to realize this journey, but are no more or less
breathtaking or mediocre than anyone anywhere else. Similarly, the
Arctic, from the Greek, arktikos, meaning bear, and Antarctic,
meaning anti-arctic, are perhaps only antonyms in etymology,
because, very quickly, they melt (quite literally, with climate
changes first and most devastating effects here) into one, uncanny
in their similarities and bound by ocean.

The Arctic and the Antarctic are everything of our imaginations:
freezing, white deserts. But it was in two specific places,
Deception Island on Antarctica and Ny London on
Svalbard
, where I experienced the sublime: that mixture of
beauty and terror, at once.

I arrived at Deception Island, as if named as an invitation to
poets. It has a circumference of 21 miles, shaped as a horseshoe, a
barely open circle whose mouth is easy to miss. This liminal gap of
400m is called Neptune’s Bellows, named after the gusts that blow
through the narrow entrance. The black, ashy, volcanic sand beach,
granulated lava, breathes out fumes from natural vents in the sand.
Bull fur seals and elephant seals yawn, screech. The harpoon had
been invented. The British claimed the island in 1908 and leased it
to a Norwegian whaling company. 1.5 million whales had been
harvested by the 1920s but by 1931, falling prices, excess costs to
dispose of whalebone once their oil had been extracted, and new
technologies made the base redundant. Now, the massive round rusted
metal fuel containers look like Richard Serra sculptures. No
deliberate imagination could conceive of as dystopic a scene as
this. The war led to the buildings being burnt, fuel cans emptied.
Frequent volcanic eruptions boiled the waters of Port Foster and
the heat and sulphur stripped the paint from the moored ships. As
if it were not hyperbolic enough, the 45 men that died whaling are
buried behind the station, their cemetery is now shrouded in
lichen, rotting wood, the occasional bone and the chatter of
tourists. The volcano erupted several times in the 1960s and a
mudslide excavated a lone coffin, that until today appears and
disappears at a whim.


In Ny London on Svalbard, a similar story of a failed colonial
extravagance forms a landscape of memory, loss and ruin. The
Northern Exploration Company, under the guidance of English
explorer Ernest Mansfield, set up a marble quarry in 1911 after
five years of research and planning. An extravagant ground was set
up: seventy men, heavy machines and equipment, even a steam engine.
When they brought back their first load of fifty tons of marble to
the mainland, the permafrost evaporated and the marble turned to
rubble. Rubble, as if it represented the whole world, which was at
war, and nothing came off any of it. Ny London was entirely
abandoned before the second world war began. What remains is traces
of rusted machine parts, oil containers and ovens. The wasteland
contains the ghost of immense activity, of the fallacy of immense
expectations. It is the stuff of extraterrestrial life: implements
whose purpose cannot be pinpointed, lying astray, as if a UFO might
have hurriedly landed, picked up its beings and whizzed back out
into the horizon to elsewhere.

An occasional reindeer dodged the decay, its antlers perked.

At the poles, everything is extreme. The cold burns, the beauty
terrifies. At the poles, the horizon is also the zenith. Shadows
are long and luminous, and the darkness glistens. At the poles,
where the landscape has morphed from forest to ice over eons,
everything is still. I went there to confront a fear, I returned
having found solace in failure.