Call of the White (6 page)

Delighted at my success, I left the compound, flagged down a taxi and confidently asked to go to Joy FM. It was all very well getting a story in the paper, but Ghana was a radio country. If I wanted to reach a large number of women in Accra, my best bet was to get on the air, and Joy FM was one of the most popular radio stations in the city. The taxi dropped me off outside a building buzzing with people coming and going. Inside, I asked for Alex, a young friendly journalist I had spoken to earlier that day on the phone. He was enthusiastic about my story and wanted to record an interview with me for the lunchtime show.

We climbed several flights of stairs to a small studio at the top of the building and recorded an interview. By now the questions I was asked in press interviews had become familiar – they usually followed a similar pattern and so my answers had become unintentionally practised. Today was different. ‘Can you explain to our listeners exactly what is skiing?'

For a second or two I was at a loss at how to begin explaining skiing. ‘It's a method of travelling across snow, using long, thin, pieces of wood' (I winced inside at my primitive description) ‘strapped to your feet so that you don't sink into the snow with every step.' After a shaky start I didn't think I'd done too badly.

‘And what is the South Pole?' continued Alex. I was ready this time, upright in my seat and concentrating; I wasn't going to be caught out twice.

I got through the interview, telling myself that I would never get nonchalant about interview questions ever again, but Alex's questions also gave me a clue as to why the application rate had been so low in Ghana. I don't think I had truly appreciated just how alien a subject this was to the average Ghanaian. In a country barely a spit from the equator where there are no mountains and no snow, why should anyone know what skiing is? If you had no idea about Antarctica, the South Pole or skiing, an advert asking you to apply to ski to the South Pole was not going to spark your imagination; it would simply be written off as nonsense. As my taxi nudged through the Accra traffic back to my hotel I felt more depressed than ever. Perhaps the sceptics were right; perhaps I had been too ambitious and a little unrealistic.

That evening I logged onto my email account with trepidation to see if the interview on Joy FM had prompted any last-minute applications. I squealed excitedly as my inbox showed 17 new messages. This brought the total number of applications from Ghana to 23. I excitedly read through the new applications and saw with relief that some of them were really great: a development worker involved in women's rights, an investment banker who had given up her affluent lifestyle to follow her dream of becoming a successful singer-songwriter, a nurse from the northern region and a chef in one of Accra's plushest hotels. I wrote to the ten strongest candidates inviting them to an interview and went to bed in a good mood. Once again, disaster had been diverted by the narrowest of margins.

On the day of the interviews I sat drinking coffee in the hotel looking out at the sea. I'd already checked my emails and been disappointed. Of the ten candidates I'd invited for interview, only six had replied. I had tried ringing the remaining four but there was no answer. I consoled myself with the thought that six candidates were better than one. My first interview that morning was with Ama, who was waiting for me when I arrived. She had been the only candidate when I'd arrived in Ghana two days previously. Ama worked for an NGO, looking after volunteers from the UK who came to Ghana to work on school building projects. She was a lovely person but had so much humility that I wondered if she would have the conviction she would need to stand up in front of halls full of people to talk with confidence about the messages of the expedition. The interview made my heart sink: could I really give this wonderful woman the training she would need in order to take part in an expedition like this? She was certainly tougher than me in many ways, but an expedition to Antarctica was so clearly beyond anything she had ever experienced or had ever thought of experiencing that the thought of it seemed almost cruel. The interview brought back all my old doubts about the sensitivity and questionable wisdom of what I was doing. These concerns had never been far from my mind, but the enormity of the responsibility now made me feel sick. Could I take a woman from rural Ghana – a woman who has never left the country, seen snow or felt freezing temperatures – to Antarctica?

My hopes weren't raised by the application form of my next candidate. Sheillah was 23 years old and, although her form was well written, it struck me as rather naive. When she arrived she was so timid that she wouldn't sit directly opposite me for the interview, but insisted on sitting across the room on a chair just inside the door. Once she had recovered from her initial shyness, I was soon struggling to interrupt her flow of dialogue and a different person altogether began to emerge. ‘I was the first born,' she told me. ‘So, of course, my parents wanted a boy. But because I was the first born they gave me the freedoms they would have given a son. So I am privileged to have had that freedom to do whatever it is I want to do.'

She was interrupted by a sudden flood of water gushing from an air-conditioning unit in the office we were using. I pushed a bucket underneath to catch the water but Sheillah instantly fell into business mode. She strode off into the reception area, returning quickly with a reluctant orderly who mopped while she stood over him directing. Now I could see how this 23-year-old in her business suit could cut a formidable figure at work and carry her authority. Sheillah was ambitious as well. ‘After the expedition, whoever goes will have a platform,' she explained. ‘I want that platform to launch my own NGO which will use peer pressure for positive things, to encourage volunteerism among young people in their holidays and other ideas that I am working on.'

Barbara arrived in the afternoon. She was a freelance writer who had recently returned from three years studying in America. She was easy company and confident, but her body language betrayed the fact that she was acutely aware that she wasn't in shape. I got the impression that she felt this would preclude her, but in fact I wasn't as worried about fitness as might have been expected. I know from personal experience how quickly you can gain physical fitness if you have the determination and motives to do it; it is the character that is more important. After Barbara came Hannah, a woman struggling to climb the professional ladder. She worked for the Ghana News Agency and seemed more insightful than the other candidates, but at the same time slightly tragic. It was clear that she worked hard but had never really been given the breaks she deserved. ‘People think that to get an opportunity they must leave Ghana; that they must go to the developed world. People are even walking across the sand to Libya. Walking! But there are opportunities in Ghana if you look for them. That's what I want to tell people.'

Once again, I'd told all the candidates that I would ring them that evening with a decision. I sat on the beach outside the hotel, digging my feet into the sand, trying to weigh up the options. Sheillah had impressed me with her dynamism and conviction but, as in Cyprus, I found it difficult to choose between two remaining contenders: Barbara and Hannah. It came down to the tent test. I could see Barbara in an expedition scenario clearer than I could imagine Hannah. And so the decision was made. I rang Barbara and Sheillah to break the good news. While Barbara squealed down the phone and jumped around in excitement, Sheillah took the news as casually as if I'd told her the weather report. I knew right away that I had made a mistake.

India

I squeezed myself through the aisles of the plane cabin, found my seat and sat down with taut pains around my eyes. It hurt to focus and it even hurt when I closed my eyelids. I'd only managed a few hours' sleep during the three flights from Accra to Delhi and I could feel the tiredness wrap itself around me like an unshakable fog. I didn't feel capable of getting through the day ahead, but there wasn't a choice – there were too many people that would be let down. Thanks to a disruption in my flights, I would arrive in Delhi 24 hours late, meaning that I would miss a whole morning of interviews. As some of the candidates had travelled for days across India to attend their appointments, the decision was made to reschedule all the interviews for that afternoon. The British Council in Delhi had agreed to host the interviews, so they were able to take care of the arrangements. I would touch down at 9 a.m. and was now due to see my first applicant at midday. To make matters worse, that evening I was giving a talk in the large auditorium at the British Council to an audience of 150. The tickets had all been allocated, so there was no getting out of it.

The British Council kindly sent a car to collect me from the airport and as I walked through the door of their central Delhi building, I was presented with a toasted sandwich and a flask of hot, sweet coffee. I cast heartfelt thanks to those responsible for the incredibly thoughtful gesture and prepared for the first interview in the small glass-walled office I had been allocated. Waiting for me was Commander Dam, a mountaineer and expedition leader in the Indian Navy. He had led military expeditions to both the North and South Poles and had agreed to sit in the interviews with me. After meeting applicants in the other countries alone, I thought it would be helpful to get another perspective. The Commander was a slight man with a big smile under a neat moustache and incredibly clear skin given his occupation and his 43 years. There was no sign of any cold injury on his face, or a single wrinkle. He was stiffly formal as he introduced himself and took a severe stance next to me at the desk as the first candidate was shown in.

I could see that Smirthi was nervous but, as I began to ask her questions about her life, she calmed down and talked with passion about her work to save the pangolin. She showed me a picture of this strange armadillo-like creature, an anteater covered with large, razor-sharp scales that only survives in small pockets of rural India and is threatened with extinction. I invited questions from the Commander, who asked Smirthi several pointed queries about the climbing experience she had described on her application form. His tone was a lot tougher than mine had been. It was clear that the Commander meant business, and I felt a little unprofessional in comparison. As the candidates came and went, I began to feel like the unwilling half of a good cop, bad cop routine. We met a doctor who was very intense and talked too long after each question. I gave her the benefit of the doubt, assuming it must be nerves, but the Commander interrupted impatiently, ‘Yes, yes, yes, you have told us that, but what was the most physically difficult thing you have ever done?'

Next came Lata, who was so quiet and unassuming that I couldn't see her holding her own within a team. After the interview, the Commander championed her case, emphasising her climbing competence and expedition experience, but I just didn't get that gut feeling about her. The next candidate, Aparna, had sounded great on her application form and she didn't disappoint. She had trained as a lawyer and had worked on several projects to improve conditions for female prison inmates. Clearly a very determined and focused person, she was emphatic about her commitment to all aspects of the project. The Commander wasn't convinced. Aparna was due to start a new job with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Commander was adamant: ‘They will not let her go. It is too much time away.'

By the end of the day I was beginning to feel a little desperate. Apart from Aparna, none of the candidates seemed to be likely team members. I could see by the Commander's expression that he was equally concerned for me. ‘Do you wish now that you had seen others?' he asked. Before I had a chance to answer, Reena entered the room and filled the space with her beaming smile. She had presence, both physically and in personality. She sat down and watched us intently as we asked her our questions. She had a disconcerting way of intently holding eye contact as she thought about her answers before speaking. When she made a joke, her booming laughter was so sudden and unexpected that it made me jump. She seemed a little eccentric but the warmth of her character was endearing. Before she left the room I knew that she was my second candidate.

‘Can you announce the winners in an Oscar style?' asked Vijay from the British Council, who had organised my talk that evening. I was supposed to be announcing the successful candidates at the end of my lecture, but I hadn't expected to make much of it. I looked at my watch. There were just 15 minutes to go until the audience, already gathering in the foyer, were due to file into the auditorium. I also had to get changed and talk to the press, and now I had to write Oscar-style introductions for each of the ten
candidates I had interviewed. My head was spinning, but I couldn't
refuse. I decided I needed to look after myself first. I got changed in the toilets, startling a woman checking her make-up as I scattered my belongings throughout the room. Another woman came in as I was adjusting my top. ‘You look great,' she said conspiratorially. I threw her a look of thanks – only another woman can know the comfort of a comment like that. I retreated upstairs to the glass-walled office to write the introductions and to gather my thoughts. I felt as if I could put my head on the table and fall asleep within seconds. I could barely focus and was so anxious about the impending talk that it was making me tremble slightly. I rarely use notes or prompts during talks and I don't like to rehearse too much. Over-polished talks sound dull, so I like to rely on my wits. Unfortunately, I had had so little sleep during my series of flights from Ghana that my wits felt stretched to breaking point.

As I entered the auditorium, it was already full. I took my place on stage and felt like a condemned man as I was introduced. Then came my cue to speak. I started my talk feeling strangely detached from my own voice. I looked at the audience's faces in the gloom of the auditorium; they were all blank. I couldn't get a sense of how the talk was being received in the stony silence. Usually I hear something from the audience – agreement, shock or laughter. I told a story that was supposed to be amusing and noticed a row of faces near the back. I couldn't be sure in the near darkness, but it looked like they were laughing along with me. I focused on them for a while and it calmed me down. I began to get into my stride and was slightly taken aback when the room erupted into spontaneous applause at a key moment in the talk. I felt enormous relief; it was going well. At the end of the talk it was time for the Oscars. There was a lot of shuffling about on stage before Vijay produced a huge cardboard congratulations poster, like a lottery winner's cheque, to hand to the selected candidates. I looked at him pleadingly for a second. This was not exactly the tone I had wished for but there was no time to argue. ‘This isn't
The X Factor
,' I muttered to myself. I read out my introductions and noticed for the first time that all ten candidates were sitting in the first two rows. Vijay performed a mock drum roll on the lectern and dramatically announced the names of the selected candidates. Reena and Aparna came on stage; Aparna looked fabulous in a flowing lemon sari and Reena was equally shimmering in blue and green. I handed them the poster as instructed and couldn't help laughing as they looked completely nonplussed about what exactly they were supposed to do with it.