the hardest part about going to antarctica is coming back
after two years to a six-year-old daughter who screams
when you open the door to your home because she thinks
you are a monster. you made a pact with the ship doctor that
you’d throw away your razor and so your hair is longer than your child
is tall and you are trying to convince her that it’s you, papa rob
but it’s clear you’ve been spending too much time in the presence of
danger. you could be a leopard seal for all she knows and she’s right to
scream at strangers. this is downtown joburg after all. it doesn’t help
that you are still wearing full thermals. while you were 40 below they
sort of frosted to your body, which might have been handy as the
base mechanic but tonight you just look sweaty and nervous as
you reintroduce yourself to the girl you left behind. she is thawing
as you tell her that you’ve prepared penguins for tonight’s dinner
discussion, photos of the emperor and the mushroom ice –
she will eventually recognise you, after the haircut. but you will never
quite forget the moments before the ice was broken.
