Polaroid Night

How I ended up on Svalbard simply comes down to work. I was given an assignment to cover the Northern Lights. I had photographed so many things in hot, dry countries the world over, but I’d never been a fan of the cold. It was something that filled me with dread: going to stay on a remote island where Winter reigned, and darkness dictated the unfolding of our days. I knew it would invite depression, just being there for a number of weeks. I knew not a soul there, and that hadn’t mattered on any of my other assignments, but there was something about retreating to Winter’s core that made me suddenly feel inexpressibly lonely. I had my camera with me: my always faithful companion, but it was no substitute for human interaction.

Work put me up for as long as I needed to stay, in a wooden cabin in the middle of the snow-topped forest. It felt like dangerous wildlife could reach me there long before any human saviour could. I felt scared, and that wasn’t something I felt often. It was Polar Night and the only sunlight I would receive would be the sunrises and sunsets, followed by an immediate return to darkness. I’d never known a life like it and I knew it would be an enormous adjustment to make – just figuring out how to survive in such a barren landscape. I’d heard there were a mere two thousand residents on the Norwegian islands. Knowing so few people chose to live there wasn’t exactly a recommendation. Whenever I got to my cabin, after the longest hike, I realised just how isolated I was. There wasn’t a neighbouring artificial light in sight. It was just me, the cabin and utter darkness. Thankfully, there was electricity in the cabin and a wood burning stove but looking out the uncovered windows brought me back to the phantoms of my childhood: the ones that had haunted me in the form of night terrors. Admittedly, I was a spoilt individual in many ways, but even well-off people are liable to succumb to their basest fears when their luxuries are stripped away. I thought of every horror film and story I’d ever seen and heard, and they seemed to converge in the realms of possibility of what might happen to me that cold night. I didn’t know what danger lurked beyond the locked door and I didn’t plan on opening it that night, even though my assignment depended upon it.

I checked the fridge, hoping for a stock of basic supplies, but there was nothing. I went to bed hungry. I was sleeping on a pull-out bed that was murder to my spine, but there was no alternative. I thought, dreamily, of my own comfortable mattress. I’d invested thousands in the best quality bed, sheets, pillows and home comforts, so I could get as peaceful a sleep as possible. I always slept like a baby: one of the anomalous ones that slept all night long without stirring. I missed my possessions and I thought of little else that night. I lay in bed with an empty stomach and decided I would set out for supplies first thing the following day. I’d forgotten it would still be in darkness, so unnatural the notion of a polar night was to a UK resident like me.

That night I tossed and turned and met all my greatest fears in the shadows on the panelling. It was like an old-fashioned projector, playing out every worst-case scenario my artistic mind could dream up. I had a long assignment ahead of me. My return flight wasn’t booked for weeks and weeks, and I knew I needed to bring a catalogue of pictures upon my return, so my boss would know that I had thrown myself into the experience rather than hiding out in a state of hibernation in my cabin. That was what I truly wanted to do.

So, the next morning, in a blanket of darkness, I set out for the local store. While I walked there, I jumped at every twig cracking under my tread captured before. I was glad I’d remembered to bring it with me. I pulled it from my shoulder bag and took as many shots of it as I could. I didn’t want to miss a second. The colours of the sunrise were like the backdrop to a fairytale. I’d never witnessed something like that in my whole life, and I’d captured hundreds of sunrises in my time as a photographer. I was floored by what I saw, but whenever it seemed to reach its peak; when the colours created a celestial effect and the sun crowned them with its regal splendour, there was no daybreak to follow. The sky was enveloped in darkness again and the whole scene before me vanished. I trudged through the snow. It was powdery and supple beneath my feet. I knew the local village was within walking distance; I just couldn’t see it in that moment.

I followed the light in the distance that I knew indicated the village’s location. It was so dark that any light, however distant, provided striking illumination. Whenever I got to the village, I felt relieved in a way that I only ever had after escaping the jaws of death on dangerous previous assignments, but no danger had presented itself – only darkness.

I opened the door of the store. It reminded me of an old town corner shop. So many snow-related implements were suspended from the ceiling, along with wicker baskets and signs of handmade crafts. The owner beamed at me and spoke to me in English. How did they know I was an English speaker? It was probably because I looked so lost and filled with wonder at the quaint contents of the store. I gathered all the groceries I needed. Most of them were unrecognisable to me, but I was too hungry to dissect the particulars of them. The owner greeted my purchases with a smile of amusement, and they set about bagging them up for me.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked me.

I nodded and smiled. Her demeanour would have made the sullenest of faces break into an irrepressible smile. The place was filled with twinkly lights and rose quartz lamps, the sight of which gladdened my heart. I thought of my own chandelier back home, and the fact that it didn’t hold a candle to those little lamps of hers. It didn’t make me feel like I was being held in a warm embrace the minute I walked in the door. Maybe all the luxuries I had were the items that reminded me of my loneliness and I hadn’t even realised it before.

“Are you coming to the event tonight?” she asked me, like it was universal knowledge. Maybe for the residents of the town, it was.

“What is it?” I asked, with childlike curiosity.

“It’s the Festival of Light. We gather together as a community to see the Northern Lights.”

“Where do you do that?”

“Just in the woods, near that holiday cabin you’re staying in.”

“You know it?”

“It’s the only one in the area. You’re the talk of the town.”

“I am?”

“

A famous photographer has arrived to photograph our everyday surroundings and to bring them fame too? Of course you are.”

I couldn’t believe how impeccable her English was, especially coming from such a small community. It put my (as yet non-existent) Norwegian to shame.

“I don’t know anyone here.”

“That doesn’t matter – everyone is welcome,” she said. “We just want to mark the occasion and appreciate it together. Looking at beautiful things alone is fine, but it’s something else with other people to appreciate it with – don’t you think?”

“Is this just normal to you?” I asked. “Polar Night, I mean.”

“Oh yes, I love it,” she said.

“You do? Don’t you find it a bit unnerving – or depressing?”

“Not at all. It’s one of the times of most light for us. We create our own light to counteract the darkness, we burn fires, we talk to friends, we drink hot drinks and wrap up warm for the outdoors and delight in the natural scenes. Not everyone gets to see them. Don’t you think the sunset and sunrise stand out more whenever there isn’t any daylight arriving or departing?”

“I didn’t think of it like that. The sunrise was pretty spectacular though.”

“Come along tonight,” she said, passing me my bag of very considerately packed groceries. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

I wondered how that could be the case, but I suddenly considered how barren my life back in England was, and I stopped regretting leaving it to come on that trip.

Later that night, under the glory of the aurora borealis, I couldn't believe the luck that had come my way. I was floored by its beauty, to the point that for a long time, I stared, transfixed, without even picking up my camera. Maybe, I thought, I could extend my trip, for who knew how long? Maybe when I captured the miracle before me the best a humble human being could, I would just send the photographs back in the post.