Beloved Antarctica (with thanks to Antjie)

The call

It started on a hot day with a call on my cellphone in a shopping centre in Sea Point. A friend who does marketing for airlines asked me if I wanted to go to a place for a story, a place I will never forget.

“A trip of a lifetime," she said. I had been with her to Lagos, Atlanta and New York. Her modus operandi is she invites you and you can write whatever you want. There are no conditions attached; if you love it or hate it, write about it.

“Where?” I asked. “Antarctica.” Excuse the ridiculous pun, but I froze. “Start packing,” she said.

The reason?

For a long time, Safair had been flying to various corners of the world  with a special type of aircraft, the Lockheed Hercules, better known in South Africa as Flossie. These planes have propellers and can use unprepared runways.

Their rear cargo doors enable them to transport large loads, and they can land on shorter runways and fly to areas where traditional jetliners would struggle.

Every November, Safair flew supplies and scientists to Italy's Zucchelli research station in Antarctica's Terra Nova Bay. Because this base is on the eastern side of the continent, we had to fly from Christchurch in New Zealand.

The flights

First from Cape Town to Johannesburg. Upon arrival at OR Tambo International Airport, I meet the pilots who will fly the Hercules. Flossie is already at the airport in Christchurch.

We fly from Johannesburg to Sydney, where we sprint for what feels like kilometres to catch the connecting flight to Christchurch. By this time, my body is thoroughly worn out; I feel like a sorry mess.

From Cape Town, it was a two-hour flight to Johannesburg. From there, it's almost 12 hours to Sydney. And from Sydney to Christchurch, it's just over three hours. We are now looking at 17 hours in the air.

My birthday and the drugs

It's 11pm when we land in Christchurch. The pilots are processed quickly and our overnight stay is to be at a hotel near the airport.

The immigration officer looks at me strangely. I wonder if I should have obtained a work visa; I'm confused and tired. He asks me what I'm doing there. I want to tell him I'm on my way to Antarctica but it might sound like a lie, it's so absurd.

Luckily, I remember I have a friend there, Samantha. I mention her name and surname. They want to know where she lives but I don't know.

Am I on vacation? I stumble and say yes, to see the natural beauty and the zoo. “Zoo?" he asks. “There isn't one." I'm now exhausted and don't know what else to tell him.

It's almost 11.30pm and my birthday, on November 4, 2013, is about to arrive.

My mouth waters for a midnight snack, and my body craves a bed. He lets me go, but as I walk through the gates a man who looks like Frik du Preez asks me to go with him to a room. There's a German shepherd with him, sniffing me.

This is all I need; flying all the way to Christchurch so a dog can take a bite out of my behind. I see prison doors closing. I'll never see my country again; lonely, I'll sit behind bars here.

The man takes me into a large, white room. He opens my luggage and asks if I packed it myself. The damn dog keeps sniffing me.

He asks if I have any drugs with me. Please, I'm turning 49, not 19. He has a strange machine with him that moves over everything like a scanner.

It's 11.55. I show him my passport and tell him I'm turning a year older in five minutes. It's the end of my forties; I'm done. From now on, it's just old men's cough medication.

He ignores it and only lets me go after midnight without wishing me a happy birthday. I stand outside the airport, shivering in the cold.

It's November and it's summer, so why the winter weather? I walk to the dark hotel, which looks like something out of The Shining. I get my key from a deathly pale woman with the face of a funeral director.

The bar is closed. Parched, I collapse on my mattress, my birthday fizzling out.

I sit and weep at Christchurch

In the morning, the pilots tell me there's a storm over Antarctica; we'll only be flying the next day. It sounds so dramatic, like the title of a black-and-white film noir from 1940: “Storm Over Antarctica".

I call my friend Samantha and she comes to pick me up. Hugs, kisses, tears, as only South Africans can; we haven't seen each other in years. We climb into her small Jeep and she takes me on a tour.

I had forgotten that there'd been an earthquake, and Samantha warns me I'll be shocked by what I see.

Even though the earthquake happened on February 22, 2011, there's still debris everywhere. The clean-up process, decisions about new buildings, it all takes a long time. I never realised this.

In the city centre, buildings lie in ruins. Restaurants are empty. Debris, bricks; it looks as if there was a war. The city is quiet, lifeless. The quake killed 185 and many people left Christchurch because there was no more work or because their homes were destroyed.

The photos I took are gone; there are few words to describe such a battlefield. I get out of the car, half paralysed by shock, and sit on a bench. There's snow on the peaks of the mountains and a dilapidated building behind me.

All the windows are shattered, the walls crooked. It upsets me so much, the whole atmosphere, that I sit in this strange city and cry.

The sun is sharp, and the feeling that our lives hang by a thread clings to me. Like the smell of death.

Antarctica, the chilling mystery

The next day at 2am, I am woken up and told to put on a red suit. We depart at 3am and expect to land around 10am. I've already taken notes about the plane and talked to the pilots; my notebook is full. The engines roar, like a big truck growling.

The plane is so loud that some people put in earplugs. There is a group of South Korean scientists on the flight with us. Everyone is very serious. Not that you can talk — it's too noisy. They are also serious scientists and not actors or artists.

We fall asleep; it's all we can do. At 9am, I am woken up and invited to the cockpit by the pilot. What an experience. I sit next to him and start taking photos. A pristine white landscape stretches below me.

We are heading for an ice runway, and the descent begins about 45 minutes before landing. Slowly, we descend, and the earth beneath me becomes whiter and wider. I see colonies of penguins waddling, black pepper grains on the ice. Below, the captain shows me a speck of lemon orange. The sky is light blue and the sun is colourless.

The Oros man approaches and indicates where we should land. The large, lumbering aircraft gently touches down on the hard ice and comes to a stop.

The engines are turned off and the propellers stop. The door opens and we slowly step out and descend the stairs. Just before I place my foot on the ground, I realise the magnitude of the moment: I am going to walk on Antarctica.

First, there is a profound silence. No one speaks. The brilliant white landscape glows as if light is emanating from beneath. Here and there, I see powder-blue ice.

In the distance, I hear the screech of a large bird that seems to come from a prehistoric era. It flies slowly over our heads and disappears gracefully towards the horizon.

Then come the jeeps and small trucks to load up the supplies. A woman approaches and shakes my hand. She is a scientist and takes me to the headquarters.

We walk on the smooth ice, stepping carefully. If you slip, you can break something. She tells me the ice on the runway is 10,000 years old. It's minus 23°C. We arrive at the base.

Maria Callas and the smell of pizza

Before we enter, I see a collection of blue buildings or chalets with orange accents. She opens the door, and the first scent is that of pizza. I hear Maria Callas singing.

There are recreation rooms with dartboards and foosball tables. Some of the walls are covered with inscriptions, drawings, and the signatures of visitors and staff over the years.

She shows me round and tells me how they drill holes in the ice and send divers down to gather information. Everyone works hard to determine how weather patterns have changed over the years and what the ice and the marine life underneath can tell humanity about the past and future.

I look out the window and see another colony of swaying penguins passing by. She mentions that the reproduction of emperor penguins, in particular, is threatened by shrinking sea and ice levels.

Their vulnerable and fluffy chicks do not always survive climate change. Little did I realise that 10 years later, I would read about this very phenomenon and synchronistically stumble upon my old photos.

In the kitchen, the chef is preparing lunch. The food is among the best, I hear; sometimes people from other bases come just for the meals, especially the pizzas.

Later, I take a one-hour walk and breathe in the silence. This place is a marvel, I think. Most of the ice is millions of years old.

I wonder what ancient information I'm walking on. Each piece of ice holds its own secret, and work is continuing to decipher it all.

The captain calls and tells me there's a storm on the way; we need to go. The mucus in my nose already feels like it's freezing, and the moisture in my eyes burns. I board the plane, half numb and overwhelmed by the realisation that I may never return. This is the last time.

On the way back to Christchurch, I gaze out the window at the white expanses and think of Antjie Krog's collection Beminde Antarktika (Beloved Antarctica). There's a poem, “naweekpas" (weekend pass), where the last lines read: “sy skouers weerloos laai ek sondagaand by die kamphek af / en keer magteloos / en pasloos terug / om met blote bestaan / 'n toekoms vir sy ondergang te bou.”

A metaphor? Are we waging war on the world? Isn't it also humanity's mere existence that is building a future for Antarctica's decline?

The lonely continent disappears beneath us and the sea appears. Antarctica is behind me, like a brief affair. It's 10 years later, and I remember it like yesterday. Even the buzzing silence on the kaleidoscopic blue and white ice.

The white and blue of remembrance.

• Here is more information about the thousands of penguin chicks dying due to record-low sea ice levels in Antarctica.
• Read about how Christchurch has changed after the earthquake.
• Here is an article about the delicious meals at the Italian base.

Werner Hertzog's Oscar-nominated poetic documentary  about Antarctica, Encounters at the End of the World (2007), is available for purchase or rental on various streaming services, including Amazon.

♦ VWB ♦

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