The Entire Earth and Sky: Views on Antarctica

Four

Four Like a Lorelei, Antarctica tempts men and then repels them, sounding a siren song of snow-filled wind, a wind that, as it sweeps over the haunted, crevassed wasteland , seems to shriek, like a Malraux character, “Death is always there, you understand, like a standing proof of the absurdity of life.” —Jennie Darlington, My Antarctic Honeymoon James Paton, posed with his daughters, one of whom was named Beaufort after the Antarctic island on which Paton was the first human to set foot. James “Scotty” Paton had killed the penguin that met me when I walked into the Lyttelton Museum’s Polar Gallery. Its weirdly thin neck reminded me that while some things are easy to master under the Antarctic’s tough conditions, taxidermy was not one of them. Baden Norris worked nearby, cleaning out display cases in the colonial New Zealand gallery. In addition to being the primary architect of how Antarctic histories were told in this and the Canterbury Museum, he also joined other volunteers in the day-to-day maintenance in Lyttelton. I asked about the penguin. “James Paton,” Baden said, climbing down a small ladder, “was apparently a tough, cranky man; he placed his two young daughters in an orphanage when he found their mother—his wife—had made them eat boiled onions each night for dinner during his long absences, working on ships.” Baden disappeared and returned with a brown tea tray. It was Wednesday and the museum was closed. We sat on Victorian-era high-backed, red-velvet chairs. Nearby, a 98 * the entire earth and sky mannequin sported World War I combat gear, complete with a postmodern fly-face gas mask. Someone had put a Santa hat on its head. Baden leaned forward and said, “Do you want to hear something really strange? Well, it’s very hard to get mannequins for the museum displays. You know why? Some people collect them! Imagine that! Who would collect mannequins?” I often could not tell if Baden was putting me on—could someone who collected bits of torn newspapers, half-eaten, hundred-year-old biscuits, both scavenged from Antarctic huts, find anyone else’s collection strange? But such is the nature of obsession, I imagine. One’s own feels so right. He poured me a cup of tea. “What I want to tell you about is the life of Lyttelton as a, and perhaps the, crucial port of early Antarctic discovery. The whole town threw themselves into it! Schoolchildren raised money for the expeditions; Scott and Shackleton wandered these very streets. Many homes were decorated with penguins brought back by returning sailors! When the men came home to Lyttelton, they were heroes and they never had to buy another beer at the pub for the rest of their lives,” Baden said. “It sounds like Lyttelton was the Cape Canaveral for Antarctic exploration,” I responded. “Precisely,” Baden laughed. But all these stories of Antarctic voyages generated a lot of memorabilia that until late in the twentieth century was close to valueless. No one cared about these men or their things. No one had heard of Lyttelton. Yet as the century came to a close, early Antarctic histories caught on. A big Shackleton museum show and catalogue excited imaginations in America and the United Kingdom, rekindling interest in Antarctic heroes, spawning bbc documentaries, books, and films, including one starring Kenneth Branagh as Shackleton . Baden said the evolution of Antarctic awareness was four * 99 remarkable—when visitors toured his two polar collections they came armed with a provisional expertise of Antarctic history. “Now our local boys take a place in the bigger picture —their stories fairly burst with bravery and often terrible sadness,” he said. Baden poured more tea; in New Zealand, tea or coffee, and a biscuit, accompanies every conversation —after many months there, I was convinced that if cut, I would bleed tea. Baden showed me a picture of Paton with the Antarctic ship Morning’s crew. Paton wore the traditional flat-topped sailor’s cap, rugged face set in a stern gaze. While I wouldn’t say he was handsome, he had a face that a woman would be inclined to remember. You could see him staring down the rough, frigid Antarctic seas, smoking a small cigarette. He had a notable first to his credit, first man to step onto Beaufort...