Ship of Fools - Chapter 29
Wandering in Samsara
[Start at the beginning of the novel: Prologue.]
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Welcome back to Ship of Fools, my satire about a science journalist trying to make sense of conspiracy theorists, flat-earthers, moon-landing deniers, New Agers, and more.
At Amazing Antarctic Expeditions’ Union Glacier Camp, Sarge struggles with the expedition’s inability to find an Ice Wall, the edge of the disk, or any UN troops, all while learning to travel on skis.
SARGE lay back against the stuff sack full of extra clothes that served as a pillow and zipped his down sleeping bag all the way up. He shivered, wishing the bag would warm up faster, but even this involuntary response felt like too much effort after another day spent skiing. He, Liz, and Dawa were getting in shape for the next stage of the journey, traversing the last degree to the supposed South Pole on skis. Not that it felt like he’d ever be able to ski sixty miles in seven days, especially not at the ten-thousand-foot elevation Sven said they’d face — more like eleven thousand, according to the Swede, since the air was supposedly thinner at the poles. Whatever.
Worse, he didn’t see the point of the trip, and wondered why he’d let Liz persuade him to come, let alone pony up another fifty thousand of Rock’s money (his own GoFundMe funds having been exhausted long ago).
At the other end of the two-person shelter, Tenzing was “brewing up,” melting snow on a portable stove to make tea. The Union Glacier camp had a central commissary where they ate meals, but the monk liked doing tea this way.
The two of them had been stuck together. Liz, as he had easily predicted, was sharing Sven’s tent. “Don’t these guides have rules about fraternizing with clients?” he’d asked when the situation became obvious.
“I’m not exactly a client, though, am I?” she’d responded with a mischievous glint.
Sarge tried not to be jealous of the extra spring in her step as she entered the mess tent every morning. He was just lonely, missing his girlfriend, he told himself. At least their tent was far enough away that he couldn’t hear them going at it during the night — or what counted for night out here.
They’d been three days on the glacier now. After Liz made the arrangements with Sven and his company, Jerry had flown the three of them to the Gould Bay Penguin Camp, a few red tents and temporary buildings and nothing else but snow and walls of ice as far as the eye could see. Not even a penguin in sight during the brief time they spent at the camp while Jerry made a second trip for their gear. A bleaker spot he couldn’t imagine, or so he’d thought at the time. They loaded their gear onto a ski plane — the pilot complaining about the amount and weight of it — and set off for the company’s base camp up on Union Glacier, on the “continent” itself, according to the pilot.
The flight had taken much of the afternoon, covering around four hundred miles. The Ronne Ice Shelf itself was the size of Iraq. The pilot let Sarge sit up front, where he had to agree he was looking out an actual window, not at a screen meant to fake him out. He’d scanned the landscape with his binoculars the whole time, searching with no success for any sign of an Ice Wall — the truth was, there were walls of ice everywhere, but always more mountains and ice sheets beyond them. And no sign of any UN troops. The idea that this place could be cordoned off by any army now seemed absurd. It was just too vast.
At least his mood had improved at the camp, for a day or so. Backed up against some rocky, snow-frosted mountains, the place seemed more intimate, less vastly oppressive, than anything they’d seen in the past days. He began to feel oriented to the spot, except for the sun going around in circles, a fact he couldn’t explain, and didn’t want to think about too much. And at first, learning to ski had been fun. But now he felt like a sled dog at the end of the Iditarod.
And with the fatigue, his cynicism had returned. He couldn’t let go of the idea that he was being duped somehow. Hooking up with this outfitter — literally hooking up, in Liz’s case — had seemed too easy. And when he learned that Tenzing had mutual friends with Sven, since Amazing Antarctic Adventures was just one arm of a larger expedition company that led trips in Nepal, he knew something was up. Nothing was ever coincidence. Sven was taking them and the other clients somewhere, but it wasn’t the “South Pole,” which didn’t exist, and certainly nowhere near the wall or the actual edge of the Earth.
It was just as his followers had warned him. The lengths to which the cabal would go to hide the true shape and extent of the Earth knew no end. And Liz was in on it! Why had he ever thought he could persuade her to give Flat Earth a fair hearing? Propping up the dominant paradigm, ensuring no other voices broke through their hegemonic control, that’s all these MSM shills were good for. All while claiming to be objective and speak for the truth.
At least Tenzing was a good tentmate. “Tea?” he asked now, holding out a steaming mug of hot liquid.
“No, thanks, Dawa, you have it.” He was too tired even to sit up.
“No, you must drink and stay hydrated, or you won’t be able to continue the journey.”
“I don’t think I care anymore. I’ve seen enough. I’m ready to go home.”
“I see your heart and your mind are troubled.”
“Of course they are. I don’t know what’s going on here between you and Sven and Liz, but you’re all trying to con me. I should have realized it when you showed up back on the Anóitoi.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. I wish you would believe me when I say, I only want to go to the South Pole with you, where we may find the key together.”
“Key to what?”
The monk didn’t really answer, he just launched into another one of his stories. “All beings wander in samsara, the dream-like cycle of death and rebirth, ignorant of the true nature of reality. And the more we cling to ideas and self-concepts, the more we are lost. It is the same for you and this idea of Flat Earth and the Ice Wall. Do you know the parable of the poisoned arrow?”
Sarge shook his head.
“We are like a man with a poisoned arrow stuck in his eye. Instead of asking, please take the arrow out of my eye and cure the poison, we want to know, who shot the arrow and how was it made? That is, instead of seeking relief from the suffering all beings endure, we ask, who is this God who made me suffer? But Buddhists say, forget about God and concentrate only on relieving pain.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a religion.”
“More a science of mind and a system of ethics to relieve suffering. Here, this tea will help your headache.”
How had the monk known he had a headache? He must have winced without knowing it. He sat up and took a sip. “So how does Buddhism relieve suffering?”
Tenzing only smiled.
“Oh, I get it,” he said, feeling sheepish. “But I mean in the larger sense.”
“Oh, the ‘larger sense’ — as if there’s anything more important than helping one another. But there are the Four Noble Truths and the Eight-Fold Path.”
“Sounds arcane.”
“They can be boiled down to ‘be present in every moment, have compassion for all beings, and relieve their suffering.’ And sometimes, just do the thing that needs doing in the moment, without expectation.”
“And the thing to do now is?”
“Go to the South Pole, though I cannot tell you exactly what we will find there. You will find answers, though maybe not the ones you seek.”
“And I should just trust you.”
“Yes,” the monk said cheerfully.
He had never been the trusting sort, and getting involved in the Truth Community had driven out whatever innate belief he ever had in his fellow humans. Distrust for one’s fellow believers was the rule rather than the exception, since any of them could be counter agents, spies, COINTELPRO operatives. The community was filled with charges and counter-charges, putsches and purges. The smallest argument over a detail of the Flat Earth model could lead to accusations of being a shill or a gatekeeper. He’d long ago learned that he had no friends, even among this community that supposedly accepted his beliefs.
But here he was, trusting this foreigner he’d only known for a few weeks, and whom he’d met under suspicious circumstances. What would his YouTube followers think?
“Okay,” he said, feeling somehow relieved.
“Good,” said Tenzing with a broad smile. “Now let us go to dinner.”
But Tenzing’s pep talk proved for naught when they got to the mess tent. Sven greeted them, looking glum, and informed them they wouldn’t be joining the expedition to the pole. He’d observed them over the past three days and decided they lacked the fitness necessary to stay with the group. Judging by the look on Liz’s face, Sven had already told her the news.
“I’m sorry, guys,” the guide said. “I can’t jeopardize the trip for the other clients. If you get stuck halfway, a rescue from that point is just too dangerous.”
Sarge was surprised at how disappointed he felt.
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If a 24-hour sun in the Antarctic Circle and the lack of an Ice Wall won’t convince Sarge, what will?
Next up: Chapter 30, “Spice Cowboy,” in which Slim heads to the moon.