but I don’t reckon anyone who works here even notices them. I don’t often see the sculptures myself because the workshop’s round the back.
Bazza’s in there working on a new Hägglunds—a twin-cab tracked vehicle that’ll be delivered south with resupply to replace one that a scientist dropped through the sea ice. When they bring the other one back, Bazza’s crew will give it a full analysis and decide if it’s worth refitting for another season south. They swap them over every three years anyway, but if the Hägg’s in reasonable condition it might be okay to send with the next trip. Häggs are costly machines, but they’re invaluable on the ice.
Bazza has four other diesos working in the shed with him, so you’d expect them to be on top of things, but I know from experience that everything’s on a ridiculously short time frame. The antdiv just lines up the jobs, expecting Bazza’s crew will have everything ready to go south again with the October or December resupply. It’s flawed optimism. You’d think by now they’d be familiar with Antarctic logistics.
After I machine my parts for the truck, Bazza and I have a cup of coffee. He looks at his watch—three o’clock—and says he’d prefer a beer, but I tell him I have to get back to work. He raises bushy eyebrows at me and asks his usual question: When am I going south again? He asks me this every time he sees me. They need good diesos like me on the stations, he says. I always fob him off with some pathetic excuse, like not being able to stand the cold. But we both know I’m kidding myself. Ever since I went down there I’ve been yearning for the space and the light, for those long horizons and the cold emptiness of the air—white that goes on forever, and the plateau like a low grey cloud.
Bazza catches me staring into distance. ‘Go,’ he says. ‘Just go this season. You’ll be right, this time.’
Everyone knows, you see. Everyone in the Antarctic Division knows what happens to you while you’re down there. They know who’s being unfaithful, whose marriage is collapsing. But nobody lets on. It’s the code. So nobody says anything to the suffering person back home who suspects their partner is having an affair down south. Affairs can happen at the other end too. The tyranny of distance.
‘Come on,’ Bazza says. ‘Take your pick. There are positions for diesos at every station. There’s nothing to hold you back.’
But he’s wrong. There’s plenty holding me back. Doubt. Fear. Inertia. Mum. ‘What would I do with Jess?’ I say, digging for excuses.
Bazza shakes his head. ‘Someone’ll look after her. I dunno. What about that niece of yours?’
He’s right; Jacinta would care for Jess if I asked her. But I just can’t go. There are weights in my shoes holding me in Hobart. Something bad would happen and I wouldn’t be here to deal with it. I learned that last time; when you go down south you’re vulnerable to losing things. Unfortunately, it’s a risk you don’t understand until after you go.
‘Not this season, Bazza. Can’t do it. I’ve got too many commitments.’
‘We’ve all got commitments, mate. I’ve got my name down for next year. Had it approved by the missus. The pay’s better than it used to be, too.’
Bazza has his own reasons for going south: a break from his wife, not too much work to do, the money, jollies every weekend, drinking beer in a field hut with his mates, porn movies to combat other aspects of the isolation. Bazza’s got an arrangement with his wife: she has some bloke she sees when Bazza’s south and he seems to be okay with that. And his wife doesn’t mind if something happens down there with a girl over winter—although he’s getting a bit beyond the eligible age group. The girls who go south are mostly young and get snapped up by the enthusiastic young testosterone that moves quicker than old bulls like Bazza; the ship’s hardly out of Hobart and it’s happening. If the beer wasn’t free down there, Bazza says he’d get sick watching it all. No, he says, you wouldn’t want to let your wife or girlfriend go south without you. They’re all into it, like a bunch of animals.
That’s what we are really, I tell him. Animals. Even though we spend a lot of time trying to hide it. It’s biology; people can’t help themselves. And what do