Call of the White (34 page)

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Authors: Felicity Aston

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Final Thanks

During my original interview with the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust, I promised that the WCMT would always be acknowledged as the seed from which the rest of the expedition grew. I willingly fulfil that promise here. I received more support and encouragement from the trust than I could have ever hoped and I can't thank them enough for their belief in me throughout (
www.wcmt.org.uk
).

I also feel incredibly fortunate to have worked with Kaspersky Lab, a global giant that welcomed us into their close-knit and inspiring community. Kaspersky Lab were more than just our dream sponsor, they became partners in our ambition, and friends. Particular thanks to Harry Cheung, Suk Ling Gun, Maggie Yu, Roger Wilson, Jennifer Jewitt, Christine Gentile and, of course, the irrepressible Eugene Kaspersky.

The expedition simply would not have been possible without the support of a number of key suppliers whose products and equipment saw us safely to Norway, New Zealand and the South Pole. Heartfelt thanks to Montane for the clothing; Iridium and Wright Satellite Connections for the airtime; Pilotur.dk for the watches; Hilleberg the Tentmaker for the Keron GT tents;
Chocolate Fish for the Merino wool thermals; Ellis Brigham, Buffera, Mountain Equipment, Multimat, Leatherman, Rab, Applied Satellite Technology and Bloc for the specialised clothing and equipment; Fuizion Freeze Dried Foods, Healthspan, High5, Power Porridge and Herbalife for the nutrition products; Anteon for the ‘Louis Poo-uittons'; John Lewis for audio-visual equipment; Commonwealth Foundation, Visit Norway, DFDS Seaways, The Gordon Foundation, NSB, Hollock Waine Design, S. A. Brains and Wineaux for your services and support.

We also wish to gratefully acknowledge generous assistance from Medcon Constructions Limites, Ministry of Justice and Public Order in Cyprus (National Machinery for Women's Rights), Bank of Cyprus, Cyprus Computer Society, TSYS International, Caramondanis Group of Companies, Piraeus Bank, BPW Cyprus, (Louis Tours Ltd) Cyprus Airways, Tototheo Ltd, CYTA Cyprus, Komanetsi Fitness Center. Indian Mountaineering Foundation, Bajaj group. Technological University, Trailblazer Foundation Ltd, Singapore Sports Council, Singapore Sports Medicine Centre. BAG Networks, Bank Islam Brunei Darussalam, City Neon, Women's Council (Brunei Darussalam), Royal Brunei Technical Services Ladies Club, Ministry of Culture, Youth and Sports (Brunei Darussalam), Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade (Brunei Darussalam), Brunei Adventure and Recreation Association
,
Brunei Sports Medicine and Research Centre, Coach Rana and Dr Danish Zaheer.

There have been many people who have gone out of their way to give generously of their time, energy and enthusiasm to help the expedition in any way they could. I cannot begin to express how much your involvement has meant to us, for your laughter and friendship, as much as for the practical support you have selflessly volunteered. I sadly cannot mention everyone here who has played a role but I would like to particularly thank Dr Kapo Simonian of Comtrack Services PLC who made the Norway training possible; Victoria Holdsworth for your dedicated championing of our project within the Commonwealth Secretariat and in the international media; Jim and Sarah Mayer for always being there, no matter how barmy the scheme; Jo Vellino for the laughter in Norway; Mark Priest for cheerfully accepting often bizarre or impossible jobs; Connie Potter for the scavenger hunt around London for Sesame Snaps and the endless rounds of phone calls; Paul Deegan for the no-nonsense motivation (and for calming me down before the launch!); Al and Elliott of Snowline Productions for working so hard on the expedition documentary; Kari Varberg Oydvin of Dyranut Fjellstove and her wonderful family for welcoming us to Norway; the snowplough drivers of Route E11 (I'm sorry we never learnt your names) for rescuing us on several occasions; Richard Woodhall of Mountain Equipment for your determination to find a way to help us; Rob Lewis of Mission Performance for introducing Red, Green and Blue to our team vocabulary; Dr Justin Roberts of Hertfordshire University for once again scaring us into action; Simon Meek and Anthony Slumbers of Estates Today for producing an awesome website; Danny, Joanna and Claire of the Royal Commonwealth Society; Phil H-B, Tori James, Chris Blessington and my lovely sister, Alex for the careful consideration of dozens of application forms; Amit Roy; Sandra Bodestyne of the British Council in Singapore; Satyabrata Dam and Namita Dam; His Excellency Burchell Whiteman; the staff of the British Council in Delhi; Soren Braes of Pilotur.dk for being such a dedicated friend to the expedition; Justine Jones; Steve Jones of Antarctic Logistics and Expeditions for putting on your ‘friend hat' so often; Tim Butcher of Montane for literally saving the day on numerous occasions; Guy Risdon for being such a great support over the years and for showing us the value of good gaffer tape; Robert Hollingworth for the photographs that we shall all treasure for ever; Tim Moss for all the long hours and late nights waiting for our phone calls from Antarctica; Kate Gedge for coping with the world's press when you should have been enjoying Christmas – we are incredibly grateful; and Peter Martin for remaining unruffled by all the chaos I create (and for not telling me about the 360
°
slides along ice-covered Norwegian roads in the Land Rover). Finally to my wonderful parents, Jackie and Richard Aston, for allowing the expedition to take over their house so completely, for extending their hospitality so unforgettably to the team and for loving me despite the strife I bring. You are the reason I am free to do what I do.

About the Author

Felicity Aston
is a British expedition leader, public speaker
and freelance travel writer from Kent. Her past achievements include leading the first British women's team across Greenland, completing the infamous Marathon Des Sables across the Sahara and working as a meteorologist in the Antarctic for three years.

www.felicityaston.com

Read on for an exclusive extract from
'Into the Amazon'
, by Summersdale Publishers.

PROLOGUE

December 1983

'How deep should a grave be anyway?' Peter asked, scuffing the patch of rough ground with the toe of his sandal.
  I thought back to a blustery winter long before, and the burial of a friend who hadn't survived the heady exhilaration of a new driving licence. I remembered the cold wind whipping the yews, the devastated parents clutching each other to keep from falling apart and the group of pasty-faced friends staring into the dark trench of the grave. It had seemed bottomless. All our assumptions of immortality lay in that conker-coloured coffin whose lid echoed under the hard rain of clay.
  'I don't know,' I answered now. 'At least five feet I guess.'
  'Bloody hell,' he muttered. 'Deep as that? We'd better get started then.'
  The layer of topsoil was only 3 inches deep, then we were through to a glutinous clay which the axe sliced into chunks. Large rocks and sinewy roots from long-dead trees made us fight for every shovel scoop, and under the full glare of the tropical sun we were soon running with sweat that stung our eyes and darkened the waistband of our shorts. After forty-five minutes, and still barely a foot down, we stopped for a rest in some nearby shade.
  Our food supplies had run out ten days earlier and since then we'd eaten almost nothing. The pangs of hunger had diminished a little, to be replaced with an overwhelming feebleness and lethargy. I gulped from a water bottle and could feel the cool liquid splashing down on the empty floor of my stomach.
  'Is that a ripe cashew I can see up there?' Peter asked suddenly, raising himself on one elbow to tilt his gaunt whiskery chin and peer at the branches above his head.
  'I believe it is. Give us a leg up will you?'
  He descended with an apple-shaped fruit devoid of any blush of ripeness, but we shared its tough pulp, feeling our mouths go furry from the acidity. Peter pocketed the crescent nut to roast later. We then visited the other three fruit trees, but with no further luck.
  'Lunch break over.' he announced, before adding, 'When I think of all those times I moaned about my dull sandwiches at work, and threw them away uneaten!'
  We smiled wearily. Four months alone together in the jungle had forged a good friendship; we'd been through a lot together. A Swiss landscape gardener, Peter was also a lover of fine food, but he'd come to the wrong place here. In recent weeks we'd eaten just about anything that swam, slithered, swung, flew or hopped. I'd learnt that he was invariably generous, reliable and good-natured, and didn't have an ounce of malice or unpleasantness in his body. Regretfully in our time together he'd have learnt some less palatable insights about me.
  Four hours later we sat down, exhausted, on the pile of earth by the grave and looked into its depths. It was a fine job. The neat perpendicular sides were pleasing to the eye and Fernando could be laid to rest 5 feet down with ample room to stretch out. It just seemed a bit of a shame to fill it in so soon.
  A small dark-skinned man came ambling up the trail from camp.
  'Trust Epileptic to turn up when the work's done,' I muttered. He was a shifty, light-fingered, unsavoury man in his early thirties who thought himself wily and cunning. He was now our only companion. He approached the grave while we watched him in hostile silence, and scrutinised our work without comment.
  'Did you find any cashews today?' he asked innocently.
  'Just one,' Peter replied.
  'Where's my share? I thought we'd agreed to share out any food between us?' His mouth turned down in a wounded pout of betrayal.
  'It wasn't big enough, an—'
  I butted in. 'Anyway, we were working while you've been lying in your hammock all morning, so we needed it more.'
  'I had malaria last night,' he whined. 'I was so weak this morning that I couldn't even stand up.'
  I remembered his theatrical groans in the darkness. Once he'd whimpered, 'Oh my dear God, I'm dying!' and I had called out, 'Well hurry up then, for pity's sake!' Maybe I could get a job at the local hospice.
  'Oh you poor thing,' I snapped. 'We
all
had malaria last night, but we don't use it as an excuse every time there's some work to be done!'
  My self-control seemed to evaporate when I had dealings with Epileptic, and I detested the little weasel with an irrational hatred way beyond anything I'd felt before. Peter, being Swiss, adopted that comfortable neutral stance that has kept his country out of Europe's messy wars. I can't remember Epileptic's real name; in fact I doubt if we were ever interested enough to find it out. Epileptic was the cruel label that we'd given him because, after running out of tablets, his attacks now came daily, making the poor man terrified to go too near the river or the fire. We should have been more sympathetic.
  I could see that he felt just as much hatred for me. His face was contorted now, and his arms began windmilling about.
  'Shout, shout, shout! You're always shouting! Three days ago you shouted at me for not sharing a bit of food, and now you two eat behind my back!'
  He was right, but Peter and I had caught him eating all fifty cashew nuts that we'd roasted to eat communally, so there was a difference in scale.
  'Anyway,' he went on, adopting a laughable expression of unctuous piety, 'you should lower your voice and show some respect for the dead man lying over there.'
  'I wish it was you who was dead,' I said venomously, and the conviction in my voice shook all three of us. 'I wouldn't bother digging a grave though – just toss you in the river for the piranhas – if they could face eating you, that is.' I put my face near his, and added with a leer. 'Maybe I'll do that anyway next time you have one of your fits.'
  'For Christ's sake, that's enough!' Peter appealed, seizing my shoulder.

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