Incite Magazine - November 2007

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Photography by David Matyas

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Photography by David Matyas

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EDITORIAL

here exists an epidemic that plagues the McMaster community, and I’m not talking about the one certainly spreading by floor–cest in at least one residence on campus. This condition is not one of the body but of the mind, a force that seems to propel many, if not most, of the decisions the Mac administration makes. Like Hamilton and its unique stench, it’s a problem seemingly entwined with the fundamental structure of this school; but, where it takes just a few weeks to become acclimatized to the Hammer’s garbage and smoke stack–infused smell, three years after moving to university, this fact of Mac still stinks. Its marks are unmistakable: new labs sprouting up all over campus, professors who cannot clearly express themselves in front of a class. Let’s face it. McMaster is a research university.

And unapologetically so. As you wander through the university’s main entrance, maroon signs proudly proclaim this to be the Research University of the Year.

Of what year?—because I’m pretty sure that sign hasn’t changed since my Frosh week. It’s the Tuck Everlasting of the McMaster community: staff and students may come and go, but it seems McMaster will always be Research University of the Year.

Who, in fact, made this claim to Mac’s superiority? Was it Peter George? And in what region are we talking, because, while I’m sure that McMaster is tops in terms of

research in West Hamilton (although I’ve heard those Westdale High kids are pretty intense), I find it hard to believe that this mid–sized school in Central Ontario can bully the most over–funded private universities due South.

While McMaster’s claim to being the number one research institution certainly seems suspect, more troubling are its aspirations to inhabit this top spot. As a student, I entered McMaster looking to be inspired by engaging professors, yet fearing that I would be reduced, as it’s so often put, to just a number. Rarely did either of these actually occur. I have come into contact with some wonderful professors—some Dumbledores and McGonagalls—but I have also met some teachers who did not live up to my admittedly lofty expectations. My main concern with Mac’s drive to research is that, as an undergrad, it has seemed to do little to improve my education.

Being a research institution means that McMaster’s primary concern is with attracting top researchers, not the best teachers. The seeming benefit of this plan is that students will be privy to the most cutting edge research. In the sciences, however, it takes years before students are even able to comprehend what this research means: first– and second–year classes are concerned with establishing the basics, and even courses beyond that rarely tap into this “resource.” For the humanities, a kind of reverse phantom limb—ever–present but rarely acknowledged—attracting emi-

Editing and Production Co–ordinator

Rob Lederer Editors

Muneeb Ansari Chris Evans

Zsuzsi Fodor Ben Freeman

Katie Huth Kate Mackeracher Layout Co–ordinator

Ana Nikolic Graphics Co–ordinator

Erin Giroux Graphics

Amanda DeMelo Boram Ham

Ishani Nath Jenny Zhan Poetry Coordinator

Alexis Motuz Contributors

Jesse Bauman Teal Booth

Andrew Carreiro Justina Chong

Nick Davies Jeanette Eby

Oliver Edson Insiya Essajee

Robyn Guyatt Chris Hilbrecht

Nicholas Holm Adam Lewis

Elaine Logie Jordan MacKenzie

David Matyas Laura McGhie

Julia McIntosh Raman Nijjar

Caroline Olsen Lyndall Schumann

Will van Engen Assistant Editor

Elise McCormick Printing

Hamilton Web Printing

nent researchers in and of itself does little for undergrads. Education at this level is all about building a base so that, perhaps, a little ways down the road we’ll be able to contribute to major academic discourse.

While studying in the proximity of great researchers may be inspiring, or at least provide students with better lab placements or research positions in upper years, it seems to me that in an undergrad environment, the focus should be on teaching.

And at this research university, that simply is not the case.

This summer I chatted with a friend of mine whose sister is currently studying at a liberal arts college in the States. Her experience seemed sublime: small classes, interested students, engaging professors— education without the malaise that seems to be necessitated by McMaster’s learning environment. While degrees from large research universities may seem more impressive by their association with well–known researchers, an undergraduate from any university can, supposedly, gain acceptance to any graduate school program.

So why are we putting up with bad teachers, often ones who want nothing to do with the education system, just because they’re good at grant proposals? Well, for one, some of the most innovative discoveries, inventions that have aided millions, have come out of research institutions like McMaster. But universities cannot simply be covers for research operations; schools have to strike a balance, and I’m unsure of

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INSIDE FEATURES

6 Seedy Release 8 Socializing Science 11 Visions of Burma 16 Sleeping Lessons 17 Miscellany 18 Finding McMaster’s Hotbed of Hotties 20 Letter from the Arctic 24 In the Barrios A foray into Hamilton’s Central Spa Incite explores scientific literacy

Two people, two perspectives, one photo essay

Molecular Confetti

Dreaming up new sleep patterns Rare Lenience and Poetry

Discovering the best pick–up spots on campus Adventures in the Far North

Impact Youth Publications 119 South Oval Hamilton, ON L8S 1R2 incite@mcmaster.ca http://www.incitemagazine.ca

Incite is published six times per academic year by Impact Youth Publications. 10,000 copies are distributed in the McMaster University–Westdale area. Entire contents copyright 2007–2008 Impact Youth Publications. Letters up to 300 words may be sent to the above address; they may be edited for length and clarity and will not be printed unless a name, address, and daytime phone are provided.

Opinions expressed are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect the views of Incite’s staff or Impact Youth Publications.

whether Mac has done a good job at reaching this equilibrium. In this issue, Ben Freeman writes about sleeping patterns in North American, suggesting that we question what we think we know about the time we spend in rest; likewise, “Socializing Science” challenges us to ask if science is being sufficiently taught to today’s students. Recognizing that the university as an institution is not a constant—that it can and has changed, and that it can be challenged—is necessary if it is to evolve into a more meaningful space for students.

My displeasure with McMaster’s research–focused approach reminds me of The Search for Delicious, a book my fourth grade teacher used to read to the class; it’s about a Prime Minister who is compiling an official dictionary, but gets stuck at the word “delicious.” While he defines it as “fried fish,” every other government official and citizen has his own interpretation of the term. As with “delicious,” universities have different meanings for different parties; within the student population alone, there is incredible variation in approaches to education. But that doesn’t mean that universities should make large sacrifices for the good of just one group. Like the conclusion of Delicious, a definition can be found that appeases all groups; and, in the case of university education, that could mean supporting both high–quality teaching and progressive research, or finding another way around the problem.

Original Poetry

DEPARTMENTS

Cover by Amanda DeMelo

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Happenings: News from Near and Far Toolbox: You Got Game?

Wanderings: Bingo Dabblers Column: Myths

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Happenings

MINUTES FROM LAST MONTH selected news from near and far

Ecological Disaster?

A Match Made in Heaven?

More than Just a Timepiece

inside the bubble Trail trash While some may see binge drinking in the woods as a formative student experience, it sometimes has the unfortunate consequence of leaving an ugly garbage–strewn imprint on nature.

This past month, MacGreen and the Outdoor Club held their annual Cootes Paradise clean–up, tidying up the woods behind McMaster and reducing the environmental ramifications of a few uninhibited Friday nights. Along with the standard complement of beer cans and garbage, volunteers unearthed some more exotic junk, like patio chairs and dismembered bicycles. If you missed the chance to get your hands dirty, Cootes clean–up will return this spring.

Any volunteers interested in fresh air, communion with nature, and picking up empty forties can contact the Outdoor Club or MacGreen. But don’t arrive at their offices laden with designer shopping bags: Buy Nothing Day is coming up on 23 November, and you don’t want to court judgment from two of McMaster’s most vocal organizations.

Pimp my bike As the cold weather approaches, cyclists may feel compelled to leave their beloved

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bikes in the shed, thereby avoiding the slushy messes of winter cycling. But don’t lock up your wheels quite yet, says MACycle, McMaster’s bicycle co–op located in the basement of Wentworth House. Starting 6 November, MACycle will be launching its fender campaign in a bid to keep students riding throughout the winter. The co–op will be selling and installing inexpensive slush–guards to protect riders from the unpleasant spray of snow and grime that often flies from their wheels in the winter. After installation, they claim that biking in the winter will remain a clean, speedy, healthy, and cheap way to get around.

The right to food: Hungry for Change?

Food security—that is, reliable access to adequate amounts of healthy, nutritious food—is not a pressing concern to many of us at McMaster. For others, including many Hamiltonians, accessibility to food is far from ensured. On 27 November, the annual Hungry for Change event will attempt to shed light on this issue, on both local and international scales.

The event will be comprised of a dinner and discussion, focusing on the links between food security, poverty, and

social justice, and will suggest ways in which students and members of the Hamilton community can help. The event will take place at St. Paul’s church in Westdale; tickets are four dollars, or two dollars with a donation of food to Mac Bread Bin, and are available at Compass.

If it ain’t Baroque, don’t listen to it Appreciating European history isn’t just about going to Renaissance fairs, being served by wenches in corsets and homespun dresses. Flourishing during the Renaissance and later Baroque periods were works of music and art that heavily contributed to our modern age. In particular, Baroque music is full of lush harmonies and unique arrangements that interweave like the ornate textiles of this era. On 30 November, the School of the Arts is offering the chance to experience these warm sounds through the talents of three internationally–acclaimed artists: Tracy Smith Bessette (soprano), Philippe Magnan (Baroque oboe) and Luc Beausejour (harpsichord). Together, they will perform some of the best arias and concertos by Bach, Handel, and Mercello, along with several other

Baroque composers. Tickets for students are five dollars and 17 dollars for the public (corset and homespun dress optional).

Redefining DeGroote University The Faculties of Humanities and Social Sciences are thrilled that money is finally heading their way. McMaster grad Chancellor Lynton Wilson recently donated 10 million dollars to support liberal arts initiatives on campus. The money will fund existing initiatives like McMaster’s Institute for Music and the Mind, proposals like a possible “Big Questions” Institute, and the erection of a liberal arts building named in honour of the Chancellor. Deans of the recipient faculties praise this new emphasis on critical thinking in education and the development of interdisciplinary pursuits. At the end of a celebratory event in Convocation Hall on 29 October, Wilson commented that the importance of the humanities and social sciences at McMaster often goes unrecognized. Oh, really?

Compiled by Jeanette Eby, Chris Hilbrecht, Elaine Logie, and Raman Nijjar

It’s a Sex Party and everyone’s invited!

VANCOUVER—The Sex Party of British Columbia claims that it has been discriminated against by Canada’s postal service. The political party, which promotes sexual freedom and more lenient prostitution laws, was unable to distribute its flyer during the 2006 federal election after the Canada Post deemed some of its contents to be pornographic. The Sex Party brought its discrimination claim to federal court on 15 October.

John Ince, the party’s spokesperson, claimed that the pamphlets were meant only to recruit new members.

Canada Post claims that it has an obligation to refuse inappropriate material on the grounds that it could be seen by children or be found offensive. The Sex Party was founded in 2005, and claims to be the only party in the world dedicated solely to “sex–positive issues.” This sounds like the most serious sex party we’ve heard of in years.

‘Til death do us part WINNIPEG—Michelle D’Argis fulfilled her childhood dream of being wed in a nightmare–themed cer-

in canada... emony, complete with 180 costumed guests and a justice of the peace donning devil garments. “Our ceremony is actually more like a selling of souls than an exchange of rings,” said the bride of her morbid service. Her groom, Dean Bruneau, arrived at the ceremony decked out in a black and red suit and carrying a skull–topped cane. He even bought prescription red–lensed glasses to complete the undead look. D’Argis describes herself as a slight “freak” with an interest in anything “kind of ‘gothy’, and sort of dead.” She explained to reporters that she had dreamed of this macabre ceremony since the age of 12. We wonder where the happy couple decided to spend their honeymoon—someplace toasty, presumably.

Boxed in TORONTO—When you think of robbers, your mind likely jumps to images of black ski masks and lead pipes. On 26 October, police arrested three people responsible for over 200 fast–food–joint break–ins, whose success came neither from dark clothing nor weaponry but rather from a large cardboard box. The trio devised a system of breaking

and entering in which one burglar hid inside the box and, using specialized tools, removed the door’s pane of glass; meanwhile, the other two were on the lookout for the authorities. The team was caught when police responded to an unrelated call in the area, and they face 355 charges for their crimes. During their spree, the trio stole around 250 000 dollars and redefined what it means to be a “hamburglar” and a “dick in a box.”

Corn prices popping up PRAIRIES—Given that the cost of movie theatre popcorn currently lies somewhere between 4.79 dollars and 5.79 dollars, not many moviegoers would stand for a jack in prices.

Nevertheless, the buttery snack may be setting you back a little more in the near future. A sky–rocketing demand for eco–friendly ethanol made from corn has caused its market price to soar. Cinemas can justify raising the price only a half cent to cover the 40 percent increase in prices paid to farmers. The quantity of popcorn kernels currently sold by a farmer for five dollars can be turned into 1280 dollars worth of popcorn sold by a movie theatre at five dollars per bucket. This means

that there’s only about two cents worth of corn in that five–dollar tub of popcorn you scarfed down at last night’s showing of Sea Monsters: A Prehistoric Adventure.

Facebook bats away illness TORONTO—Every student’s preferred method of procrastination recently proved effective in instigating treatment of an otherwise fatal disease. Toronto Public Health put Facebook to new use in locating a woman who needed treatment after having handled a rabid bat. The only accurate information authorities knew about the woman was her name. After many failed efforts to contact her through conventional information sources, they logged on to Facebook.

Authorities tried out a few different variations on the name, and about an hour later they had located the individual. The woman has begun a series of rabies shots. Facebook has once more proven itself to be not only a source of late–night creeping but also beneficial to public health.

Compiled by Jordan MacKenzie, Julia McIntosh, and Raman Najjar

...and around the world Hot Wheels GERMANY—An 81–year–old woman took an odd joyride down Germany’s Autobahn. In an attempt to avoid an unpleasant detour, the woman careened her electric wheelchair onto the highway and proceeded to motor down it at the breakneck pace of four miles an hour. To add to the confusion, the woman was traveling the wrong way. Motorists were quick to spot the oddity and notified the authorities. Germany is known for its highways, which mandate a minimum speed of 37 miles per hour and often have no maximum speed limit.

Sweet Jesus NEW YORK—An anatomically correct sculpture of Jesus has risen again, and will finally be on display in a New York gallery seven months after an outcry from a Roman Catholic advocacy group forced another gallery to cancel its exhibition.

The sculpture, created by Cosimo Cavarello, was originally meant to be exhibited to passers–by in a street–level window of the Roger Smith Lab Gallery. It is now being displayed in a more private area of The Proposition Gallery. The Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights, which protested the show-

ing of the piece seven months ago, states that they will not take action against the sculpture this time around. The Chocolate Jesus will be shown at the Proposition Gallery from 27 October to 24 November alongside several clothed saints.

We wonder if this new mould will be available at Walkers in time for the holiday season.

Revenge of Daylight Savings Time PITTSBURGH—Turning your clock back this fall is riskier than you might think. A study conducted by Paul Fischbeck and David Gerard at Pittsburgh’s Carnegie Mellon University has revealed that pedestrians braving rush hour the week after time falls back an hour are three times more likely to be struck and killed than they are in the week prior to Standard Time. In the United States, there are 37 more pedestrian deaths in November than October, which the researchers attribute to pedestrians and drivers who are unaccustomed to commuting in the twilight or darkness.

Custom–Fit Condoms SOUTH KOREA—The one–size– fits–all attitude of today’s condom

industry just won’t prevail in a market so obsessed with size. The founder of the world’s first custom–fit condom company has determined, through research and experience, that there is a demand for greater variation in condom size, particularly from men of smaller length. More than half of men prefer special rubbers shorter than the standard minimum length of 6.3 inches long. The average adult penis is 5–6 inches long, and many men report not using condoms because they are too large to work comfortably and effectively. While men may not be bragging about size, they’re actually sincere when they say the condom won’t fit!

Dental or Mental?

SYRACUSE—As children, most of us are at least a little frightened of the dentist’s office. We have probably all been told that there is nothing to be scared of, but recent events seem to support our fears.

A woman in Syracuse was sent to the emergency room after her dentist lodged a drill bit up her nose near her left eye. This was no innocent mistake; while drilling, the dentist began to dance to the song “Car Wash,” which was playing on the radio. The woman underwent surgery and remained in the hos-

pital for three days. Next time you decide to go to the dentist it might be smart to forego the background music, or at least opt for a ballad and not a dancehall hit.

Good Vibrations?

NEW YORK—A phenomenon is striking the masses that live and die by their cell phones: “ringxiety“ or “fauxcellarm,” as dubbed by researchers. Self–described technology addicts‚ who feel that their phone is part of them, makes them whole, and connects them to the world‚ report that they are afflicted by odd sensations while their lifelines are charging in the corner.

Some feel vibrations when there are none, while others adjust their posture when sitting to accommodate a nonexistent device in their pockets. Many techies admit that these anticipatory vibrations are the result of wishful thinking; they constantly hope that their phone will ring. This sentiment seems strikingly similar to spending Friday night sitting wishfully by the phone, awaiting a lover’s call.

Compiled by Jordan MacKenzie, Julia McIntosh, and Raman Najjar

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PERSPECTIVE

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Seedy Release

hen desire strikes as with addiction, it admits of no gap in time, no pause for deliberation.

Tense but decisive, you find yourself at once halfway to fulfilling it. In your case, you might be stirring from a sleepless, sober weekend night. Or you might be bleary–eyed, hazy with hangover, stuffed with greasy diner breakfast, not quite ready to sleep away the afternoon. Or you might be on a bus headed downtown in rush hour, when you know how many men delay returning to their wives.

C heck yourself out in the bathroom mirror, tugging at your shirt. How desirable, for the next hour or two, wrapped only in a thin white cotton towel? Check your watch—is your roommate home? Scan for alibis: ran into a new acquaintance you haven’t yet met . . . Bases covered.

Take your bike so that there will be less time to reconsider, to fight the resistance put up by a chest so hollow it seems to push you backwards. Force yourself to ignore the risks, forget them or refuse to care. You shall not be denied.

Take the backstreets to avoid being spotted by headlights careening down Main West. See the building, pale, tied up in ribbons of vine, a few pink roses withering along the wall, the only windows striped with venetian blinds. How many cars in the parking lot? Eight, two minivans, a motorcycle—just enough to warrant a visit, though the pickings may prove slim. A stunted calculation after all . . . Lock your bike a block or so away. Then, eyes downcast, head wrapped in hood, you briskly sneak into the gravel parking lot, where the open door of the back entrance beckons you in.

T he front booth is empty. You ring two doorbells for service no less than to announce the fresh meat at the door.

A frail man of sunken face and empty eyes greets you. He ought not to look as old as he does. With dry mouth and quivering voice you ask for the student rate (half–price) on a regular room—these are underground, featuring no more than a wide black leather bench and adjustably dim lighting pouring over black cement. Some men opt for the deluxe room, with its double bed wrapped in clean white sheets, porn flashing on the TV screen overhead, but a cheaper option still would be a mere locker for storing your clothes as you make the rounds in your towel. But no, you need a home base, somewhere you can collect yourself, somewhere you can host another. In any case, six hours for your money, though you never stay for more than one.

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T he man of sunken face buzzes you through a second door, this one seeming leaden, needing a heave to open, and it shuts as though with a vacuum seal, ensuring the air inside stays stale. Sunken face meets you again at a counter, where he hands you that thin white towel and a key with a tag revealing your room number. Turn around, and a robust man of 50 years eyes you from the couch near the entrance, but you dart instead to your own room to settle your nerves and strip before checking out all that the underground has to offer. Weave your way down the stairs, eyes downcast while you are still clothed. Squint at the numbers on the doors while your eyes adjust to the dimness. Jiggle the key into the lock with shaky hands until you enter your room in obscurity.

Kick your clothes into a pile in the corner as adult contemporary radio lilts through ceiling speakers—as you realize you’ve lost count of your visits here. Condoms not included with the price of admission. Recall the first time you ventured underground, that summer night of your Christian friend’s engagement party, when the ache of solitude made it of all worth to know his touch inside you without barrier, no matter who he might be. Sometimes desire leaves you so desperate, so reeling with lust that you settle for what is least repulsive. But you’d have felt no less empty leaving as you had come. And then there was the time when you changed your mind, you renegued on your consent, only to be told, “You’re not going anywhere,” and so you waited, defeated but obliging, for him to finish.

H owever much it means, you’ve had enough good romps to keep returning, and desire drives these thoughts from your mind as you emerge from your room, bare feet on cement floor. Many men here jangle their key against its tag to alert those who might be around the corner, but you prefer to clench them, your right hand reeking of copper as you slink around in silence. This is a land without language, if you discount the heavy breaths and grunts filtering from every few rooms. Agreements, contracts of sorts, are forged instead with nods at an angle, gesturing toward one room or another, presuming to take place outside of history, in the stale air of this underground hideaway.

O nce you leave your room you cannot stop walking, pacing through the halls. A place to pursue and be pursued, though some men are content to lie in wait, the open doors of their rooms inviting visitors. You glide past the showers, stepping barefoot into a puddle as you watch three older men peer out at you. Pass by the hot tub,

A Foray into Hamilton’s Central Spa where a very fat naked man clambers out, reaching for his towel. Peek into a side room where porn unfolds on yet another screen, and a leather sling hangs by metal chains from the ceiling, empty. A few white towels droop outside the steam room, which you’ve always found too dark for comfort; you want the freedom to evade advances before having to resist them. The dry sauna is empty for now, you see through the window in the wooden door, and you step in, hoping the heat might relieve your tension, but you stay no longer than a minute or two, reluctant to be peered at from without.

You guess the average age of men who come underground to be 40 years. But already one or two young men about your age pass you by with hungry looks—wonder without words what they want from you. You pass them by, knowing that you’ve come underground to quench more shameful desires—those that have gone without satisfaction in the open air above.

Pad silently upstairs, evading the gaze of a short man of 55 who brushes against your arm as he passes you by in the stairwell, no doubt turning back to see if you will do the same. At ground level you find the hallways of the deluxe rooms. Two more rooms with TV porn, one empty but for the loveseats—you linger in the doorway, moving on as soon as you are spotted, approached—the other lined with black wooden bleachers, where one older man kneels before another. You whisk on by, pass the strange bulge in the black curtain which conceals the “dark room,” where men go, for whatever reason, to have blind sex, and which you have never dared enter—no notion of its size.

Try to find a married man, a father, for all that he has to lose above ground. But you look not for a ring—rather, for signs of health, a heavy strength and any sign in his face of another life. Wonder how he masks the stench of stale air, the musk of another man as he returns to his wife.

Wonder about the role the underground plays for a family man—to exorcise with guilt a desire beyond marriage, or to serve as a necessary complement, that life beyond marriage which goes hand in hand with family living.

You spot him at last, a firm unmoving paunch above the waist, a full head of hair, a moustache. Hope that your desire shows through a glare sustained, but keep moving for now, turn back though you might. Make half the rounds once more and return to find him again, if he has not yet dared to follow.

E nter your room or his, white towels dropping onto black cement, and you sink to your knees now toughened

. . . Then he orders you up on the bench on all fours for what never fails to make you wince, begging patience . . .

Change positions and wonder why he bothers granting you the pleasure you came here to sacrifice. Until finally . . .

A s you dress yourself he reclines against the wall, legs spread on the bench, fumbling for questions and a conversation born of courtesy, as though he were a long lost uncle. Language replaces desire. What’s your name?

Steve. Where do you go to school? Mohawk. What for?

Music. What do you play? Trombone. Each lie helping you to sever him from your real life above ground, although at other times with other men you’ve regretted not asking for a phone number. Ready to go, you nod him out at once, doubting his stay is done, and as you part ways, he thanks you.

T he man of sunken cheeks accepts your towel and keys as you make for the exit. “See you again!” he exclaims, but the door falls back already into its frame. Strange feeling, buttoning up a winter jacket as your beads of forehead sweat vanish dry. You feel a gust of cold as you leave, emerging into the waning sunlight of afternoon or the crisp chill of evening. Head wrapped in hood, eyes downcast once more, you light a cigarette and walk hurriedly into the night.

I f friends should come before sleep (which might make a dream of the underground) you will conceal that sinking hollowness—how, although you swallowed him up, he carried you away with him, leaving you skeletal. Yes, you feign the exuberance they’ve come to expect.

M onths later. You, splayed across the hardwood floor of your living room, immobile. Wait to hear from the clinic, which only calls if the news is bad. Phone rings—Freeze.

By Oliver Edson incite 7

FEATURE

Socializing Science

By Insiya Essajee, Nicholas Holm, and Katie Huth

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hile most McMaster students are probably aware that there’s a nuclear reactor on campus, a significantly lower number know how this affects their day–to–day lives. Caution even leads some students to hold their breath if their daily dash between classes leads them past the reactor. Incidentally, this might not be such a bad idea. Not because it will save you from “deadly radiation,” but rather because of Hamilton’s dubious air quality. Our point is that a little understanding of science can go a long way—it might help you breathe more easily when you’re charging round campus, or explain that persistent cough you’ve developed since moving to town.

But don’t worry—it’s not just you. The majority of Canadians and, in fact, the majority of people, aren’t really informed about today’s scientific issues. Upon graduating and entering the Real World, many of us are glad to doff the ‘science hat’ and leave behind matters of chemistry, physics, and biology for the more laboratory–inclined. For those who no longer spare a thought for electrons and mitochondria, science quickly becomes the stuff of nightly news reports and, more likely, science–fiction films. After all, when TV journalists covering the twentieth anniversary of the Chernobyl disaster on–site last year were somehow compelled to shield their genitalia from the radiation bogey–man, it was a pretty good sign that the public discourse around science was beginning to fray around the edges.

Yes, radiation can make you sterile; The Simpsons wasn’t steering you wrong on that one. However, the equation is a bit more complicated than radiation equals cancer. In fact, radiation from our everyday environment and even outer space is much more significant than what’s coming off the Chernobyl sarcophagus or even our very own McMaster reactor. And while this may seem just a pointless piece of trivia, it may become a lot more relevant once the debate regarding Ontario’s proposed nuclear power stations heats up. Nuclear power, genetic engineering, the HPV vaccine, and, everybody’s favourite, global warming, have all been the subject of intense debate in the print and television media. It’s much easier to sell papers when the headline hysterically proclaims the dangers of a nuclear plant rather than soberly recounting the mounting evidence that nothing adverse seems to be going on. So it’s not surprising that the media tends to amplify alarmist news. This problem is compounded by the lack of scientific understanding amongst media practitioners, who, when faced with a tight deadline and a naïve audience, are less likely to worry about presenting an unbiased and factual picture.

Okay, so in some ways this isn’t exactly groundbreaking; most of us have long since discarded any innocent notions about the media providing something as ludicrous as, say, the whole story. And most of us are also quite familiar with the “let’s blame the media” angle (pause for a moment to worry about how violence on TV is harming today’s children…). But even so, we do still rely on those not–so– perfect scientific accounts. As easy of a target as it may be, dismal scientific representation in the media is symptomatic of a much bigger issue: scientific literacy, or, more accurately, scientific illiteracy.

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“Scientific what?” you ask. Right, so many of us don’t really think about associating science and the ability to read unless we’re fretting about staying conscious to cram for tomorrow morning’s chem exam. (Again, a little understanding of science probably wouldn’t hurt when sleepily contemplating that third can of Red Bull.) And scientific literacy doesn’t necessarily mean curling up with the latest edition of Nature on a rainy day, either—although that certainly wouldn’t hurt. It’s really centred around how well someone can understand and think critically about scientific issues. It’s not about a certain level of knowledge—don’t worry if you’re hazy on the finer details of mitosis—but about the capacity to access and understand all that sciency stuff when you need to. And heads up: you probably need to.

Lucky for us, McMaster University knows a little something about science, and we’re paying the big bucks to access that knowledge.

Indeed, we are world–renowned for our advances in science and medicine; chances are you’ve noticed the banners hanging around campus, proudly declaring us “Research University of the Year”— they’ve been up since 2003. The problem we face is not an absence of information or the professional minds to provide it; rather, it is that memorizing lecture notes in a biology class does not shape our ability to think critically about the material or place it in a greater context. And if you’re not enrolled in the Faculty of Science, you don’t even have the benefit of those isolated facts on a PowerPoint slide.

Everyone has questions about science; curiosity about the world around us is part of being human, not just being a science student. This understanding is the rationale behind McMaster’s “Big Questions” course, Science/Origins 2B03. Part of the university’s infant Origins Institute—a transdisciplinary program that investigates the origins of life, the universe, and everything—Big Questions offers an overview of important scientific concepts to students in any faculty. Every faculty is represented in the course’s enrolment, which Dr. William Harris sees as a good indication of its accessibility.

A professor in McMaster’s Physics and Astronomy Department, Harris is one of the four 2B03 instructors, and has been a major force in developing and advocating its underlying philosophy. Speaking to the intention of the course, Harris says, “We would like students to hear about broad scientific issues in a coherent way from people who know the material, so students can assess what they hear later and put it into perspective.”

Perspective is also what Dr. Michael Egan is trying to provide for his students—historical perspective, that is.

A professor in the Department of History, Egan explains how, “If science created the modern world—as we are so apt to claim—it behooves us to ask how and why that is.” Through “Science and Technology in World History”, or History 2EE3, Egan challenges his students—who, like those in “Big

Many science students suffer from a kind of intellectual constipation; the thoughts are in them, but they are difficult to express in a way that is clear and flowing ingly important forms of power and have begun playing a bigger and bigger role in public policy. A quick and trusty Google search of “Canadian ethical issues” produces, circumcision, genomics, vaccines, HIV, safe injection facilities, biobanking—you get the idea.

Today’s ethical and controversial debates are dominated by scientific issues—issues, incidentally, that our government is trying to regulate. As democratic citizens, you would think these are exactly the types of decisions we should be influencing. Then again, it’s probably not good to be influencing these decisions without a critical understanding of science. Thus, it is understandable that governments rely heavily on information and advice from experts when developing policies and regulations, rather than on the opinions of an uninformed public. But this also points out how being misinformed about scientific advancements could mean effectively being cut off from the development of goals and regulations governing their use—in a sense, becoming politically disenfranchised.

Okay, so maybe you’re rolling your eyes and thinking this all sounds a little extreme. But ask yourself: do you really feel like you’re involved in influencing new scientific advancements? Or, like Michael Crighton’s out–of–control dinosaurs, are they something you’re just going to have to deal with when the time comes?

Let’s introduce another idea: technological determinism, the notion that the pace and direction of technological change is inevitable and irresistible (insert dramatic “duhn, duhn, duuuhn”). Once we abandon science as a subject, do we slowly begin to feel as though we are becoming subject to it? And if we aren’t staying informed and critical enough about scientific and technological issues to actively participate in their public discussion, then this feeling very well may be justified. Really though, doesn’t this all seem pretty relevant while immersed in the foreboding, ever–present black cloud of climate change doom and gloom? (Or maybe that’s just the sub–par Hamilton air quality again?) Are most of us making an effort to become informed and involved, or are we just waiting until we’re forced to address these issues?

Well, whatever the case, the rates of scientific literacy in North America don’t look so hot. Jon D. Miller, a political scientist at Northwestern University’s medical school, has spent the last three decades surveying the levels of scientific literacy in OECD countries.

Miller considers someone comfortable with “the Tuesday science section of The New York Times” scientifically literate. In 2004, after publishing his findings that in Canada, Japan, the United States, and Britain, the average number of scientifically literate adult citizens fluctuated around 15 percent, he commented that, “No pride can be taken in a finding that four out of five Americans cannot read and understand the science section of The New York Times.” And despite our Canadian tendency to credit ourselves as slightly superior to our southern neighbours, we actually fare worse in Miller’s study. Let’s face it: we have a problem.

While we’ve pointed out how the media can aggravate this problem, there is definitely an opportunity for redemption. The burden of stemming what appears to be a vast tide of ignorance and apathy, partially falls to the science reporters of this world: men and women such as McMaster’s current writer–in–residence, Stephen Strauss, an award–winning science writer, columnist, and editorial board member with The Globe and Mail. Strauss has more than 20 years of science and technology writing behind him, and is pretty sure that not only is Canada better equipped than ever to achieve mass scientific literacy, but that it looks like it is up to the challenge. He of all people should know, having made a career out of communicating and understanding science without ever having taken any higher–level instruction beyond a university chemistry course, which he only picked up to meet course requirements.

Considering how much the public relies on a reporter’s grasp of scientific issues, Strauss emphasises the reG RAPHIC BY Erin Giroux

Questions”, come from all academic backgrounds—to seek answers to these questions by exploring the historical interactions between science, technology and society. By trying to provide “a more generalist and accessible vision of science,” Egan’s course is an encouraging example of how, just as the consequences of science are by no means confined to laboratories, discussions about them should not be either.

So McMaster supports a couple of courses that make a conscious effort to provide a comprehensible, big–picture view of the basic ideas in science. Our eminent institution shouldn’t pat itself on the back just yet; it’s not exactly fostering scientific literacy for the masses, particularly when what’s important is not just understanding concepts, but also being able to communicate them to others.

Many science students suffer from a kind of intellectual constipation; the thoughts are in them, but they are difficult to express in a way that is clear and flowing. A proper university education should address this affliction.

A number of concerned McMaster professors, including Dr. Harris, are aware of these shortcomings in science education and are striving to redefine its teaching and curriculum. You may have heard the rumblings of a program called iSci—Honours B.Sc. Integrated Science: an elite, interdisciplinary, research–based program set to emerge at Mac in the next couple of years. It is designed to foster the thoughtful, scientifically literate community desperately needed to properly address modern scientific issues. Dr. Carolyn Eyles, professor in the School of Geography and Earth Sciences and co–chair of iSci’s Program Design Committee, says, “Training our students to be confident users, analysts, and communicators of scientific information is very important. We also need to recognise that a scientifically literate community needs to be able to effectively communicate with non–scientists.” She comments that scientists currently do a poor job of explaining complex issues like climate change to the general public. iSci’s core courses will have an intentional focus on literacy, emphasizing critical thinking and written communication right from the start. The program design document confidently proclaims that this focus on literacy—“characterized by thoughtful, well edited writing and by familiarity with the best writing in a student’s field”—will distinguish it from any other science undergraduate program in the country.

End glowing commercial. It sounds tremendous, a thoughtful and innovative curriculum that answers the cry of any scientific literacy advocate. But here is the issue: the program will be capped at 50 to 60 students per year. This enlightened community can comfortably fit in your average BSB classroom, hardly sizeable enough to launch an academic revolution. iSci designers argue, perhaps rightfully so, that limited enrolment is necessary for full engagement with the material and professors. But where does that leave the rest of Mac students and the rest of society? Eyles and Harris hope that iSci’s pedagogical approach will be adapted to other programs once its effectiveness is recognized. But is the resource demand on an engaging curriculum prohibitive? A true solution to scientific illiteracy must be widely applicable.

Whether we’ve realized it or not, our ability to think critically about science and technology has some pretty profound implications.

Granted, decisions like which iPod colour best brings out your eyes may not really be that consequential. But others, such as whether or not to consider antidepressants, aren’t quite as frivolous. What about birth control? McMaster’s recycling policy? Or whether or not it’s safe to breathe around the nuclear reactor? On a daily basis we make decisions that hinge on science; isn’t it unnerving to think that so many of us are doing that with a warped understanding of what’s really going on? Or relying on potentially unreliable news reporting, medical advice founded in Grey’s Anatomy, and genetics lessons from Jurassic Park?

This scenario becomes even more unsettling when we zoom out a bit and realize that our level of understanding about science affects those around us too. Like it or not—and sadly, based on the numbers of students going to the polls, it seems like we may not—we’re democratic citizens. And, while it may be idealistic, one of the basic principles of democracy is that the moral authorship of the government rests on the active, informed consent of the the public. So what then happens when the governed may not actually be that active or informed?

Today, a big part of being informed is being scientifically literate. Science, and the technologies it spawns, are becoming increas-

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sponsibility of science writers to be as clear and well–informed as possible. “Readers should not understand my CBC.ca columns as arguing, ‘here’s what I think,’ but rather, ‘here’s what I think after careful reading of background papers, original sources, etc.’”

And some of these reporters are definitely already out there—you just need to know where to look. While it’s true that much mainstream media reporting on science can be sensationalist or shallow on the details, there is also a lot of in–depth and accessible material. Strauss believes that the rise of Internet resources, such as Wikipedia, has created the opportunity for people to inform and empower themselves in a way that was previously unfathomable.

Back in the dark ages of the mid–1990s and prior, interested punters would have to go to a library in order to access scientific texts, and, in most cases, only university libraries stocked up–to–date resources beyond the most introductory level. The Internet has begun mounting the material to ensure we can all become experts, and the accessibility of sites like Google Scholar ensures that nobody gets left behind. Or does it?

Harris doesn’t see the Internet as such an all–encompassing good.

While he is hopeful about future forms and their ability to make it easier to find information, Harris cautions that scientific content online has problems with depth and reputability, and that there’s no certainty that the current proportion of junk to reliable material will be changing any time soon. “The media we spend the most time with—Internet, television, cell phones—are good for superficial fragmentary information,” he says, “but they don’t lend themselves to depth.” Mass media, according to Harris, encourages suspicion towards science, because people are less likely to trust those they only encountered through the television as opposed to those they talk to face–to–face.

It is advisable to confront any interpretation of current issues in the media with a degree of scepticism. This is the age of the blogosphere, as Strauss notes, where everyone can access information and offer his or her two cents. Defining expertise is no longer

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clear–cut, a matter of listening to whoever has a gold–sealed degree certificate hanging authoritatively in their office. While Strauss sees the benefit of such public sharing of knowledge and opinion, Harris is more pessimistic about our inability to discriminate between expert and amateur material. There is something upon which both perspectives—those of the science educator and the scientific journalist—agree: in the face of rapid technological change, society does not yet understand the rules for using and being critical of the vast amount of information available to it.

The individual cannot rely solely on the systems of education and media to sculpt the next generation into scientifically literate citizens. It is up to you to take an active role in accessing information, being critical of its reliability, asking questions, and challenging traditional ideas of authority. Harris’s advice is to read books—a source of deep, self–contained arguments in all fields of science.

Strauss encourages students to figure out the rules that must accompany the responsible use of information made available by the new media and technological developments that gave rise to them.

We believe in the benefit of asking questions of our professors and of the quality of science education on campus. McMaster will have to focus on nurturing scientific literacy if its students are aware and asking for it. Don’t hold your breath or genitalia as you scuttle by the nuclear reactor; instead, find out why such precaution is utterly ridiculous.

Graphic by Jenny Zhan

ESSAY

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Visions of Burma McMaster students Jesse Bauman and Will van Engen discuss their experiences in Burma over the past summer.

Abode

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he sun is dimming on the horizon as we enter the capital. The vast boulevards stretch out before us, empty and alone. In the evening glow we can make out the rows of samey apartment buildings, the bright blue paint still drying. Passing the roundabout we enter the “hotel zone,” an area designed to keep the tourists segregated from the general populace. There are five hotels spread out roughly evenly in the area. Opulent and grand, they stand in sharp contrast to the homes of the average Burmese citizen.

What is most striking about Burma’s new capital, Naypyidaw, is the sharp contrast to the rest of Burma. In Rangoon, the former capital, electricity is patchy at best, whereas Naypyidaw enjoys power 24 hours a day. In Naypyidaw, Burmese for “Abode of Kings,” the streets are newly paved and wide, yet in Rangoon we have to constantly watch our steps for fear of falling into gaping open sewers.

In November of 2005, the Burmese government surprised the world by moving its capital from Rangoon to an empty piece of farmland several hundred kilometres north. The move was heavily criticized, even by China, Burma’s largest trading partner and biggest political ally. They questioned the logic of spending millions on a new city when poverty is endemic and the economy lies in ruins. The government’s view is that the new location is more conveniently located between the two commercial hubs, Mandalay and Ran-

Thoughts

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goon, although some believe the move was based on fears of a US–led invasion.

Unable to sate our curiosity, we leave the hotel and begin the long, dark journey into town. A passing water truck takes us to the main traffic circle, saving us a lengthy walk. Here we clandestinely take photos, afraid of being arrested; all the articles we had read mentioned that the city was off limits to foreigners, and considering the strict government policies towards journalists, there is reason to stay discreet.

No direction in mind, we continue walking along the boulevard and manage to wander into a residential district. On all sides there are clean, modern apartment complexes, hiding the reality of life in Burma. The sight of the slums tucked behind the buildings quickly undermines this facade of grandeur. It is eerily quiet. We notice a strange sound in the distance. The sound of twisting steel groaning under pressure. Then a sudden crash. A loud clicking and a low moaning. These sounds of far–away construction immediately bring to mind some diabolical maniac tinkering away in his garage. It is the sound of an illegal regime trying desperately to prove its legitimacy. It is the sound of a nation struggling to survive in the face of oppression.

Burma

ou are the luckiest man in the world.”

I had no response to his statement—blunt, honest, and absolutely correct. I had just told my new Burmese friend a little about myself. I was 20 years old, just beginning my university studies, and on that day in his small shop, found myself on a three–and–a–half month bicycle trek through Southeast Asia.

So yes, Ko Ba Than had a valid point; I was ridiculously privileged and he was not. He said this with no ill will and perhaps a hint of jealousy masked by the genuine amazement on his serious but joyful face.

Feeling guilty, I tried to explain to him that I’m not really that wealthy, that in fact I was financing my trip with government provided student loans. This only made things worse. I soon found out that Burmese universities had only been fully open for 30 months of the past 25 years. He was genuinely unable to comprehend my government helping me, paying me to further my education.

Now feeling even guiltier, I tried to change the topic. I asked about the lone photo hanging on his shop wall. It was framed and clean, despite the large military trucks that rumbled past at regular intervals. They kicked dust into the open–air storefront that, after dark, became a home for six. The photo was for his university graduation, the “completion” of a chemistry degree. He explained that while the universities are closed, they continue passing students regardless of academic accomplishment. I soon found out Ko Ba Than doesn’t agree with the junta’s politics, and he explained that his only hope of relevant employment is with the military, meaning no real hope at all.

The next day he walked with me to the train station. I had only been in the country for a week at that point, but I already felt it. Palpable yet indescribable, it is the understated and overwhelming beauty of the Burmese people.

In the following weeks I continued to be amazed that a country, at times so

brutal, so poor, so seemingly awful could produce such beauty.

My last days brought more new friends, and experiences that personified the Burmese brand of loving kindness. Both experiences involved my bicycle, and the first started with a plea for help. I soon found myself in a small two– room house, having helped carry a woman’s bags home. I quickly learned she and her husband had moved to this small house to save money. Health problems had forced her to stop working, so she needed money for medicine, but also for airfare. Her sister had fled the country after organizing student demonstrations, and has remained a refugee for the past 20 years. With strength in her voice, she explained that she would, eventually, save enough to visit her sister in Bangkok. As I stood up to leave she insisted I take food and water, although I wanted nothing but a photo of the three of us.

On my second–last day, I got lost in the sweeping expanse of temples and monasteries called Bagan. I ended up in a small village as the sun was setting, unsure of how to get home. Poking around the village, I soon attracted every child under the age of 12, but with minimal knowledge of Burmese I received only smiles and waves, no direction home. Eventually, a man about my age wheeled a bicycle onto the street, and motioned me to follow. Snaking through goat paths and rice paddies we were soon on the main road. He smiled, shook my hand, and pedaled back the way we had just come.

Most of my conversations came back to a central question. What can a rich white kid like me do? And almost everyone responded the same way. Tell our stories; tell them as often as you can, to as many people as you can. So now I worry that anything I write will be horribly inadequate, thinking a few anecdotes can describe such a beautiful nation of people. But as Ko Ba Than told me, I am the luckiest man in the world, and I can only hope that this article will, in some small way, do those beautiful people justice.

Since returning to our comfortable lives in Canada, much has happened in Burma. Peaceful protests led by Buddhist monks were met with violence in the streets of Rangoon. At this point, no one knows the human cost of this repression, and more personally, we don’t know what has become of our friends. Repeated attempts to communicate with those we met this summer have failed, and we can only watch the news and wonder where they are now.

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icture this: you go over to your buddy’s dorm room and play a few rounds of Halo 3 on his new Xbox 360, establishing yourself as the top interstellar fighter Hedden Hall has produced in recent years. You feel ecstatic, finally having earned your peers’ respect. You think that the entire culture of gaming, including all of its sacred secrets, has been revealed to you in some blissful three–hour period of revelation? Think again. Gaming runs deep. Your experience was akin to riding a bus and assuming that you could drive one to street–race glory, based solely on your bumpy voyage.

Games and gaming mentality are more complex than the mainstream media gives them credit for. Gamers are not all Mario Kart junkies and caffeine pill abusers; games have come a long way since you first set natural disasters loose on your low–res–3D Sim cities. This article aims to acquaint the less–than–hardcore with gaming in the broadest sense, so you can finally achieve that dream of beating your little brother at Counterstrike, or at least begin to understand his obsession.

To begin, I believe I should really introduce what we play games on; before you consider attending your first LAN party or entering a Guitar Hero competition, you need to know what gaming system is the best fit for you. Every console has its strengths and weaknesses, and it’s important to be informed before laying down your hard–earned cash.

xxx Consoles xxx Sony Playstation 3 The PS3 is the most powerful console on the market today. It can crunch numbers and put out visuals like nobody’s business. It has Blu–Ray (simply put, a new movie disc format) playback right out of the box, as well as a motion–sensing controller. It’s a media powerhouse with free online gaming. Unfortunately, the appeal of PS3 is hampered by its high price tag. There are 90 PS3 games available at this time, and only two of these have scored 90 percent or higher on Metacritic—a website that compiles reviews from credible publications, averaging them into a grade.

The PS3 does not yet have force feedback controllers—controllers that give tactile response to the player’s onscreen actions (think N64’s Rumble Pack)—but they’ll be on the market soon.

Microsoft Xbox 360 The 360 is very close to the PS3 in terms of graphics, but outperforms its counterpart in several categories. It has the best online gaming available, but this feature requires a yearly payment of around 70 dollars. It doesn’t have motion–sensing controllers, although it offers rumble features right off the bat. The 360’s true strength lies in its expansive library of superb games. There are 279 of them, 10 of which Metacritic credits with at least a 90 percent score.

Nintendo Wii The Wii has a motion–sensing controller that you can wave about, having your actions copied on–screen by your character: imagine performing a victory dance in sync with Yoshi after winning Mario Tennis’s Wimbledon equivalent! The movement is hardly ever a 1:1 translation, but it definitely enhances the experience in a fun way. The Wii has an abysmal online component that is offset by its focus on offline multiplayer gaming. But it is more than just a gaming console; the Wii can read pictures from SD cards, tell you the weather and the news, and let you download games from old consoles such as Genesis, Nintendo Entertainment System, Super Nintendo, Sega Master System, and TurboGraphix–16 for a nominal fee. Right now, the Wii has 99 titles, three of which score 90 percent or higher on Metacritic.

PC Over the years, computer gaming has amassed a huge following, and, along with it, a massive selection of games. Many more computer games are put on the market every year than are produced for individual consoles, plenty of which are of high quality. Online gaming began with the PC, and that’s still where it finds its home. Unfortunately, you’ll need a cutting–edge and expensive computer to run

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the newest games.

Sony PSP The handheld PSP has music, movie, and game support right out of the box, so you can throw your iPod out, or give it to me. Unfortunately, its games are known for not scoring very high with reviewers. Its total game library count is a healthy 327, so you probably won’t get bored. PSP has graphics similar to those you can find running on your Playstation 2—definitely a step above other handheld systems.

Nintendo DS Forget about that bulky Gameboy you saved up two years’ worth of allowance to buy in 1993, the one with the colour of an oncoming rainstorm and graphics that are just as depressing. This new–school Nintendo handheld console has two screens, with the bottom one doubling as a touch interface. The 316–game library has three games lauded on Metacritic. Similar to the Wii, this system is graphically inferior to its Sony equivalent. Rather than focus on processing power and visuals, the DS tries to push innovative controls and fun games.

xxx Genres

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Like the 31 flavours Baskin–Robbins famously offers, there’s a kind of video game for everyone: from the dynamic rocky roads of racing games to the classic vanilla appeal of the strategy genre, there is something to suit the taste of even the greatest technophobe.

Shooter These games are shown either in first–person or third–person perspective. With gun in hand, you complete objectives and blow aliens, Nazis, and/or opposing team members’ brains out. A classic shooter game is Halo.

Strategy The ultimate goal of strategy games is usually to conquer your enemy in some shape, way, or form, either in real time or by a turn system. In the latter, players get to move their units a certain number of times during their turn, which is followed by their opponents’ turn. StarCraft is a popular strategy game, and is a fixture of LAN parties everywhere. A turn–based strategy staple is Civilization, perfect for those of us with aspirations for global domination.

Puzzle This is for those of you who thought that gaming was just the mindless button pushing; puzzle games force you very explicitly to use your noodle in a series of challenges. Tetris is the most notorious of these titles.

Adventure You type, “Get Ye Flask.” The computer responds, “You can’t get Ye Flask.” You respond with a string of obscenities, and the computer responds, “I don’t understand.” This is how adventure games began. Now they’re a bit more advanced and have mostly kicked the whole text–interface concept for a point–and–click method of checking stuff out. Exploration and investigation are key in this genre. So, if you ever wanted to be the lead in an Agatha Christie novel, this might be the genre for you.

Role Playing These games are often about grand adventures, which focus on character interaction and improvement. You will see your main character gain levels, abilities, spells, and new weapons or armour as the game progresses. When advancing to level 19, it’s always fun and rewarding to wax nostalgic, recalling the days when your warrior princess had only a wooden stick with which to defend herself, not the diamond–encrusted titanium assault umbrella she earned by eradicating a deeply–rooted ancient evil that had plagued the land since the dawn of time. It’s

like nursing a babe to independence (or an elf to world–destroyer status). Traditionally, these games featured a turn–based battle system, but this convention has recently begun to change. Also, RPGs are notorious for being time–consuming, if not life–consuming. Multiply any regular RPG playtime by 13 to get the average number of hours you’ll need to invest in the online version. Students beware!

Fighting Affectionately known as “beat–em–ups,” these games have you sparring against another character in a series of battles. In general, the fights rather than the world in which these battles take place are what’s important. The focus tends to be placed on advanced sets of moves and attacks, often achieved through intense sequences of button–pushing: left, left, p might appear to be directions to the nearest parking lot, but it’s actually a code for Virtua Fighter 5’s Shun Di. If you want to succeed in the cut–throat world of video game fighting, it’s time you started practicing the fine art of button mashing.

Simulation SimCity, The Sims, Roller Coaster Tycoon, and Spore are all examples of the simulation genre. They give you the god–like powers to change the course of something as epic as history, or something as banal as Ted and Margo’s relationship.

Racing This just in: you can drive cars in video games really fast.

Party/Minigame This is a relatively new breed of game, popularized by Nintendo and its Mario Party franchise. These games are compilations of short, high–action games that usually involve more than one person. Generally, if the Wii is involved, these games are designed to make you look ridiculous.

Gaming may be a hobby for most, but for some it’s much more. They’re called Cyberathletes, and their job is basically to be the best at a certain game. The chance of the average Joe becoming a Cyberathlete is on par with the chance of me going out and being the next Tiger Woods. To be honest, there isn’t much difference between a Cyberathlete and a traditional sports star. They both train for hours a day; they both make sure they eat right and balance their lives. Cyberathletes also spend time away from the console to keep their minds from being focused only on gaming.

It is definitely not all fun and games; Cyberathletes have been known to practice only one aspect their chosen game for hours on end. For example, in First Person Shooters, your weapon will usually suffer some recoil when you are firing it, and to avoid loss of accuracy in your shots, you are advised to crouch and fire in bursts. A Cyberathlete would load a

G RAPHIC BY Boram HAM

map in which many computer–controlled characters would rush the player from a distance, and the player would have to eliminate them as fast as possible. They would do this over and over until it was time for the next activity.

Speaking of which, the next activity might still be considered training, but it’s not done with controller, keyboard, or mouse in hand. Map or arena memorization and tactics are important as well to those who wish to excel at a certain game. In real–time strategy games such as StarCraft or WarCraft, you need to know exactly where the best places are to construct your buildings, when you should build them, and how you should manage your workers on the map. Not only is memorizing the arena necessary for professional real–time strategy gamers, but every action they complete in the first three minutes or so should be charted in their minds ahead of time. StarCraft games can finish in under five minutes, or they can last several hours. Your enemies can come fast and hard, so you better be ready—for anything.

Forget about the rough HSR trek to your local (and let me say, pricey) EBGames, Whether you want to go pro in one game, or you’re just looking to pick up a new diversion to eat up a few hours, there are alternatives to the 60–plus–dollar price tag typical of new games.

The Internet has given rise to a new method for purchasing games. It’s called digital distribution, and it poses a real threat to traditional brick–and–mortar stores.

One example (that I have the most experience with) is the content distribution platform Steam. Steam is a program designed to facilitate the purchase, download, and management of games, game tools, and game–related media. The games you purchase are tied to your account; so, no matter what computer you are on, you can install Steam and re–download them. Steam features both new and retro games, as well as modifications for existing games. In addition, Steam features a community option for all of its games and users. It has an instant messenger feature so Steam account holders can communicate with their other Steam friends, and a host of other benefits. Unfortunately, although it excels in some ways, Stream proves fallible in others. If your Steam account password is lost or stolen, you’re in trouble, and are as helpless as a victim of Sub Zero’s deep–freeze or the ever–dreaded FATALITY. You could possibly lose hundreds of dollars’ worth of games with the loss of a knapsack or an unexpected case of amnesia. Also, with the way that Steam is set up, it often requires you to authenticate your username with the server before allowing you to play your games. That means that if your internet connection breaks, you may be out of luck until a visit from your handy Cogeco repairperson. Digital distribution also eliminates any chance of reselling your games. Nevertheless, it has become my preferred method of game purchase, download, and management, for reasons that I think Ikea representatives would appreciate: the less physical clutter, the better.

I absolutely love eBay, because it provides a forum in which retailers offer a wide variety of used games. You can often snag a serious deal if you catch auctions at the right time. Of course, you could just go out to your local games store and purchase a used game for a few more bucks, and I totally encourage that. But what I want to stress is the difference that eBay presents. Since the eBay user that is selling the item might be 100 miles away from the buyer, the game must move from seller to buyer via postal service or courier. This is an annoyance to some, but for others it really is a callback to childhood. Remember when we didn’t have the option of buying a game on a whim: who had a double–digit weekly income? Remember the anticipation, the build up before Christmas or your birthday? I get that wonderful feeling of suspenseful expectation while waiting for each eBay delivery. Bottom line: avoid buying new games; most of the time they are a waste of money, since you can get practically the identical product for about half the price.

Although the Internet has certainly changed the (inter)face of gaming, probably forever, computer games definitely didn’t begin with the Web. They have a history that needs to be uncovered; so play the anatomically disproportional female archaeologist–treasure hunter, go out there and find it. If you weren’t able to experience gaming during your childhood, for whatever reason—Puritanical parents, controlling siblings, hours of classical piano practice—you should really consider a trip to the past. The Wii, Xbox 360, and Steam platform all offer retro games for purchase at discount prices. While this is the most reliable way to play old–school games, for every police–approved method there will always be an illegal route as well.

Emulators are out there for pretty much every older game system.

These are programs that run on your PC or Mac. Emulators (believe it or not) emulate a system, and allow you to run digital copies of the games (known as “roms”) for the console it was designed to mirror. You could have your own arcade on your laptop at any time! But beware: not only do these programs exist in a legal grey area, but they could also be harmful to your computer. Many rom sites are riddled with viruses, indecent ads, and all sorts of spyware and malware. Even on P2P clients, you might discover that the sweet “1200 games in one” rom file you were so excited to play was actually “1200 kinds of viruses.”

While the chain–warnings that your parents send you every week about the dangers of downloading do actually prove somewhat valid, not every gaming myth should be taken so seriously. For one, gamers are not scary basement dwellers. We are people like you. (We might even be that cute guy beside you.) Gaming is neither an occult practice nor riddled with voodoo tenets; it’s as normal a pastime as painting or bike riding, except with a slightly greater emphasis on zapping mutant time–traveling alien zombies.

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MUSINGS

F

or most of us, sleep is a pretty straightforward aspect of our lives. Some of us sleep more than others and some supplement late nights with afternoon naps; most of us probably don’t get enough—still these are mostly minor differences. Generally, we go to bed when we get tired and wake up when our alarm clock rings, without giving the cycle much thought. Many of us have certain sleeping routines, usually established during childhood, which we find difficult to break. Simply put, we sleep the way we’ve been taught to, whether through explicit parental rules or implicit cultural norms.

Considering we will spend about one–third of our lives sleeping, this obliviousness is surprising. We take our modern sleep patterns for granted, and do not realize how differently people in other societies and during other eras have treated sleep. But these differing practices obscure an even more fundamental question: why do humans even need to sleep?

It turns out there is no scientific consensus on this issue. We may go to sleep when we feel tired and need to rest, but the actual amount of energy saved by sleeping is tiny—roughly equivalent to eating one piece of toast. Worse, during rapid–eye–movement sleep, the two hours or so a night when we dream, our brain is often more active than it is when we are awake.

Some researchers believe that there exists a link between sleep and memory consolidation. It could be during sleep that our brain evaluates what it has learned during the day, either enhancing the information or moving it elsewhere in the brain. As evidence, these scientists point to studies that demonstrate improved performance in learning tasks with extra sleep. Other scientists, however, are less certain that memory is the essential function of sleeping, pointing to animals—such as newborn dolphins—who may sleep little or not at all. Sleep, then, could be just another period of living, having evolved as time the animal spent in relative safety, immobile and hidden from predators.

These hypotheses, while plausible, might still be missing the more fundamental point of what happens within the brain—in our neurons—while we are dozing. In particular, sleep may encourage brain “plasticity,” whereby changes in the brain that occurred during the day are reinforced. Not all of these neural connections will be beefed up, though; some will get weaker. Clearing out those synapses could be what allows us to start learning again every morning.

It would certainly explain why our mind feels bogged down by the end of the day, unable to retain any new information. So far only indirect evidence has been found to support of this idea, but its simplicity and intuitive explanation of that late–afternoon drowsiness are appealing. Rather than simply building on what happened while we were awake, sleep might clear away overgrowth in our mind. But why we sleep is only part of the question. Perhaps more intriguing are the questions of how we have structured our sleep and how these patterns can evolve.

In most scientific studies on sleep, it is assumed that people rest in one large chunk at night, by themselves or with a partner. But considering human social history, this setup is a recent, largely Western creation. “Siesta countries,” like Spain, Italy, and Greece, whose inhabitants usually take an afternoon nap to cope with the hot weather, appear to offer an alternative; in reality, though, this sleep pattern is not so different from the usual Western model. A much bigger contrast exists with pre–modern or traditional societies, especially those that lived without artificial light. For obvious reasons, sleep in these societies would be much more dependent on the day’s length and inhabitants would often complain of getting too much sleep, rather than too little. Not only would they sleep for longer, but these people would often sleep in two blocks of time separated by a few hours of wakefulness (a “first sleep” and “second sleep”). It would seem, then, that our preference for uninterrupted sleep is the result of adaption to technological changes rather than a “natural” predisposition.

Mid–day napping is usually associated with Southern Europeans, but it also has a long and controversial history in China. Called xiuxi, it is a three–hour break where work comes to a halt and people go home to have lunch and nap.

This tradition goes back thousands of years in China, originating with Taoists (and condemned by Confucians), but it came under attack in the early twentieth century, viewed by some as a sign of Chinese backwardness. China had suffered a succession of military defeats to foreign states in this period, and activists looked to Western philosophies for ways to “strengthen” the society.

This negative view of napping lost momentum in the subsequent Chinese Civil War and was ignored by the Communists, who came to power in 1949.

Mid–day napping was even enshrined in the Communist constitution of 1950, which proclaimed, “The working people have the right to rest.” Napping was seen as a means to a better society, and its practice became widespread.

But by the late 1970s, after Mao’s death, napping was again being questioned, once more within the larger context of Westernization. To some Chinese leaders, mid–day napping was incompatible with the country’s new goals of

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By Ben Freeman modernization and economic development. In 1984, the Chinese government announced that the mid–day break would be reduced from three hours to one hour. This decision encountered some resistance, however, which forced the government to re–emphasize the projected gains in efficiency, thus helping China “catch up” to the West. The resistance grew more pronounced in the late ‘80s, as China’s relations with the West became more strained after the Tiananmen Square protests, but it waned with the increased economic freedoms and rapid growth of the next decade. Today, mid–day napping is still practiced by some Chinese, but has shifted from a public matter to an individual concern.

Government involvement in sleep routines would be hard to imagine in Canadian society, since these patterns have been established as a profoundly personal choice. And, unlike in Chinese society, napping is largely seen as a sign of laziness in North America. Our culture, while apparently emphasizing the need for a good night’s sleep, still seems to resent those hours lost to sleep. We idolize those who can get by on just a few hours, who work late into the night and hit the gym at six AM the next morning. In reality, though, these people are the exceptions, living a life few of us could manage healthily. Unfortunately, these individuals are often perceived as the most successful in our society. Is it a coincidence that we know that people like Churchill, Kennedy, and Edison were short sleepers? It is telling that we do not remember other seemingly trivial facts about their lives, like how much time they might have spent in the shower every morning. By regulating mid–day napping, Chinese society seems to have arrived collectively at the same valuation of sleep as Western society did centuries ago. Seeing how ingrained these norms are in different cultures, the success in profoundly restructuring the average Chinese person’s day is impressive. Crucially, however, it had to be co–opted into the larger debate over Westernization before it could be enacted.

Although Western society’s deprecatory perception of sleep is troubling, it is likely the product of a more pervasive condition. Whether it is our increasingly frenetic lifestyles or the belief in the power of science and medicine over our bodies—perhaps explaining the growing sales of sleeping pills—is nearly irrelevant. On a social scale, our indifference towards sleep has deepened over the last few decades and is unlikely to reverse course. It would be unrealistic (not to mention irresponsible) to criticize our society indiscriminately, but a greater sense of perspective would be helpful.

Not that it would be easy, mind you. I often find myself admiring those who allot eight hours a night to sleep; at the same time, I obsess about whether I have done enough during the last day. But this distinction is an illusion: sleeping well is not an impediment to productivity—it may even help. And, more importantly, personal fulfillment is not necessarily linked to how many activities we can sleepwalk through per day.

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MISCELLANY

Rare Lenience

by

Nick Davies

fruit basket love is saving the biggest pear for your favourite sister.

By Justina Chong incite 17

REVIEW

Finding McMaster’s

Hotbed of Hotties Teal Booth and Caroline Olsen search for the best places to pick up guys on campus.

A

cross the lawns of McMaster University, students are pining for a little bit of romance. Well, pine no more; we, your dedicated investigative reporters, have documented our adventures as two young women in search of delicious male specimens, and, more importantly, in search of the most effective approach to picking up on campus. Our mission required a critical evaluation of the top spots for the busy McMaster student to meet prospective dates.

We sought out locations offering a reasonable selection of eligible and willing men without the obligation of a weekly rendezvous or long– term commitment. For instance, we decided that a packed exam room would be an excellent arena in which to ogle prospects, but worried that the minds of fellow test–takers might be concerned with other matters.

Be advised that our findings are not scientifically sound. Our ratings are a culmination of extensive, albeit highly subjective, statistical analyses of the quantity, perceived quality, and overall willingness of male specimens to be picked up. Below lies an account of our adventures and subsequent ratings of some of the best—and worst—places for women to pick up guys on campus.

Hook–ups just happen here. No conscious effort, and very little consciousness, required. It’s valid to worry that the person with whom you’re flirting might only be charmed by the bad lighting and tight crowds. But, hey, use that to your advantage: dress for dimly–lit halls and consider donning a large hat to stand out amongst the hordes of aggressively grinding patrons.

The pool table is a helpful area to migrate to if you’re looking to partake in conversation to evaluate whether or not you can actually stand your grinding partner. As unlikely as this might sound, if you try hard enough and have luck on your side, you may uncover the rarest of specimens: the Quarters–going guy who you actually want to hang out with in the Real World. Don’t worry: if you don’t feel like putting in that kind of effort, you can still have a good time with an idiot. One drawback to Quarters is that, just when you’re really “feeling somebody,” he will probably realize that he desperately needs to make a pit stop; upon return, he will either be unable to find you or forget that you ever met. Oh well, there are plenty of fish in this booze–soaked sea.

His comment on a girl’s band shirt evolved into a beautiful hour–long conversation filled with desire, tension, and French fries

The Phoenix

Rating: 4/5

We began our stakeout in the delightfully laidback atmosphere of The Phoenix, speculating that the social atmosphere, combined with a healthy dose of alcohol, would lull our targets into a false sense of security. While, in the end, the quarry escaped our nets, our unsuccessful forays at the Phoenix taught us some important lessons. Please note: it is hard to rouse the attention of beer–guzzling, sports–watching guys; these specimens, we found, are determined to remain glassy– eyed, despite the opportunity to chat with a couple of attractive ladies.

We quickly realized that standing together and making eyes at the boys across the bar was not going to work for us on a casual Monday night.

We also decided to abandon our prepared cheesy pickup lines as excessively creepy; after all, would you respond kindly to an inquiry about your criminal history (‘cause it’s a crime to look that good)?

Furthermore, we faced competition at this location, and another pair of women ended up stealing a very promising group of men we had been eyeing for most of the evening. While there was definitely a fair proportion of attractive and friendly men at The Phoenix, the constant onslaught of competition made us realize that this joint is best tackled by the most accomplished of cougars.

The MUSC Food Court

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Rating: 3.5/5 Quarters It is a common practice within any student body to congregate in a communal and trashy locale, drink heavily while committing acts of debauchery on the dance floor, and then guiltlessly return to textbooks while still under the influence. Our findings have demonstrated that a Thursday night pick–up requires about zero effort and about a week’s pay in beer.

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18 incite

Whether you’re grabbing a coffee or a quick bite to eat, this location affords any student an exquisite opportunity to swoop in on her potential soul mate. Things become a little trickier when it’s so crowded that approaching or sitting close to the man of your choice (or dreams) is logistically impossible: scaling a wall, stepping over three people, and climbing a tree is not the smoothest of approaches. But, unlike the ill–lit chaos of Quarters, people in the MUSC Marketplace are visible, making it simpler to gauge initial, physical interest.

We decided that the first two males we sat down beside would probably be a little difficult to mesh with. Fortunately, Teal exercised her radar vision to spot, from across the room, a subtly whimsical hat residing on a gent’s head. This man was in a conversation with a male companion who we must also describe as whimsical. Caroline picked up some newspaper props to disguise our intentions, and we sauntered over to the neighbouring table. Props are key. Making conversation was much easier when we could just look down to find something worth commenting on.

It was at this point that we discovered another essential component of our enterprise: eavesdropping. Teal made a brave interruption to their dialogue without so much as a proper pick–up line. What followed was a barrage of rushed comments, which seemed to confuse the guys, but resulted in the potential for a future meeting. On the other hand, their frightened eyes may have suggested that they were trying to appease us before running off, probably to switch into less attractive hats. On this note, a friend of ours, whom we shall call Jack the Candlestick Jumper, volunteered an anecdote detailing his experience in this same cafeteria. His comment on a girl’s band shirt evolved into a beautiful hour–long conversation filled with desire, tension, and French fries.

Because of the high amount of traffic that

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bustles through this busy area and its chill–out accommodations, we declare this to be one of the top places to pick up at McMaster.

Rating: 5/5 The Elevator This was one of our favorite locations to schmooze prior to conducting research, if only for its potential to facilitate romantic chance meetings (we give due credit for this technique to Grey’s Anatomy). An elevator presents an intimate setting in which one can make a quick impression. The difficulty with this spot, though, is that success relies principally on timing. It needs to be sufficiently busy so that you’re almost certain to at least meet someone. An optimal time might be when classes are let out, a 10–minute period when much movement takes place all over campus. Practicing your timing might allow you to run into a desirable target a couple of times before you feel comfortable asking for their number. It also lands you in a situation where you can surreptitiously stand very close to your object of desire, while having a nice conversation in a private, transient setting. There’s no harm in striking up a friendly conversation with that gorgeous hunk standing next to you, knowing that if things get awkward, you can part ways after less than a minute. Remember, good timing is useless unless you are going to make a move; so speak up!

Waiting for the elevator is the perfect opportunity to get things going. By far the easiest conversation starter is joking about the ridiculously long amount of time it takes for the elevator to arrive, but this is, apparently, not very enticing. If on–campus elevators featured light jazz music, we’d recommend this pick–up locale much more strongly.

After all, take a tight space and ambient ‘80s synthesizers, and you’re practically on a date already.

Rating: 2/5 Art Gallery

The Library

strangers. We could just imagine the scholar of our dreams spurting Olde English insults at us for cutting into his reading schedule. A ruder pair of ladies, more comfortable tearing a man from his studies, might have better luck in this setting.

Rating: 3/5

If you’re looking for a chance to show off your intellectual–creative side, play with a Rubik’s cube; if you’re looking for a guy, the art gallery is a prime bet. The McMaster Museum of Art is pretty much a giant conversation piece, with potential topics literally lining the walls.

If part way through your chit–chat you don’t know what to say, it’s always appropriate to just close your mouth, block out everything, and stare intently at the wall. You’re in the only place on campus where you can do this without looking like a potential threat to everyone around you. As a bonus, there will not be many people around, making this an intimate spot when you can find someone to bond with. Yet this feature can be taken too far: often the museum is simply deserted. We browsed the collections alone for a good half hour, and a man finally came in just as we were leaving.

Last year, Teal had a more successful experience where she bonded with a man over their mutual adoration for an interactive art piece consisting of a tent, an audiotape of cricket sounds, and a stack of psychology books from 1969 and 1970. At one point he exclaimed to her, “I thought I was the only one!” So, if you just take your time going through the gallery, you may run into somebody interesting. You will both be in such a vulnerable and moved state that you will be easy targets for each other’s lustful eyes. The gallery offers the potential to not only take in fascinating pieces of art, but also meet people and maybe even become exposed to some intimate piece of them. Unfortunately, most students seem reluctant to spend their limited free time taking a stroll through this hotbed of creative activity, so a few visits may be required to encounter a prospect. But we’d say the wait is definitely worth it.

After all, you know what they say about artists, don’t you? Skilled hands.

Rating: 4/5

Graphic by Erin Giroux

Willy Dog Cart We thought there could be no better place to meet men than at the most obvious phallic symbol on campus. We ignored some very important factors when making this decision, however. In waiting for eligible young men to approach the cart, our hunger grew to enormous proportions. Then, we found it very difficult to start a conversation with these gentlemen when we discovered that we couldn’t speak their language. Caroline’s lame mayonnaise remarks fell flat. Furthermore, we found that stuffing a hot dog of any variety in one’s face is a much messier and far less provocative process than we had originally presumed. All in all, our attempts were met with amused grins, rather than any hint of attraction. But at least we got a meal out of the deal.

Rating: 1/5

We discovered, in this brief survey of locations around campus, that approaching strangers and striking up a conversation need not be as terrifying as we’d been led to believe. The next time we run into these guys, both parties will probably be more inclined to carry on where we left off. Picking up a date, like wearing sexy shoes or dancing like a maniac, need not be relegated to a dedicated bar night, but can happen anywhere with just a little effort and some courage to match.

We aren’t advocating the harassment of every attractive guy who is twitching nervously while cramming through study notes (and won’t be held responsible for any injuries sustained during said attempts), but there is definitely some payoff in keeping an eye open to possibilities. Because we haven’t yet come away from this experience with any dates, some might call our research experience a failure. We prefer to think of it as our warm–up round.

We thought there could be no better place to meet men than at the most obvious phallic symbol on campus.

The overwhelming consensus when surveying fellow students was that the library is the number one place on campus for meeting men: it’s called Club Mills for a reason. There’s something to be said for at least the appearance of studiousness in prospective dates. So, with fantasies of argyle–clad herds of nerdy–cute guys ravenously devouring Shakespeare (HOT!), we entered Mills starry–eyed, ready to see and be seen. Needless to say, our expectations were not met. We immediately found a stakeout location, benefiting from the circumstantial study time. We realized pretty quickly, though, that the peak of the midterm season is not the best time of year to approach manically–studying

incite 19

FROM

LETTER

Letter from

The Arctic

“Dave, I need you to go to Kuujjuak.”

“Kuujjuak, Geoff?”

“Yeah Dave, Kuujjuak.”

It was mid–afternoon and I was standing by the payphones in the Iqualuit Airport, a small yellow terminal with three gates and a gift shop that sold plastic, made in China, polar bears. Around me, sprawled on backpacks and duffel bags were twelve youths from Northern Canada. About half of these high school students were from the Northwest Territories and the other half were from Nunavik (Northern Quebec). Most of our group had already flown south but these youth had stayed in Iqaluit an extra night, waiting for connecting flights to Inukjuak, Cambridge Bay, Inuvik, and a few other northern communities. I’d stayed in town as a chaperone, expecting to fly with the Northwest Territories students to Yellowknife. But, in the expedition spirit, where flexibility is key and a canceled flight to Tasiujak can leave two 13–year–old Inuit girls alone in the capital of Northern Quebec, a summer intern’s got to do what a summer intern’s got to do: Kuujjuak.

Three weeks earlier, we’d left Ottawa. We were an international group of high school students, politicians, scientists, artists, reporters, and cameramen from Canada and around the world. Students came from as far away as China, India, and Yamal Russia and staff members from Texas, Tasmania, and Norway. In the midst of the momentous 2007–2009 International Polar Year, our expedition team had assembled to explore the Canadian Arctic, study its history and science, learn from its people, and observe the changes affecting its future.

Since May I’d been working with Students On Ice (SOI). Based in Chelsea, Quebec, it’s an organization that takes high school students from around the world on expeditions to the Arctic and Antarctic. My boss, Geoff Green, started the organization in 2000 after many years working as a professional explorer. Seeing the dramatic changes that had been taking place in the Polar Regions, he decided to start a program that used glaciers as classrooms and penguins as classmates, and focused on educating youth to effect meaningful change in their communities.

I’d first gotten involved with the SOI in 2005. While working at a summer camp in Algonquin Park, I met the SOI Education Director. We really hit it off; she took me to Antarctica, and this past summer they hired me as the summer intern. Most of my summer was spent in the SOI office working on projects related to the International Polar Year. In August, though, I had the opportunity to buy some new fleece pants, pack my rucksack, and set off on the expedition.

Now some of you may have never heard of the International Polar Year (IPY). Living in a city where penguin and polar bear sightings come from Coca–Cola commercials, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. But, in the Circumpolar North and South, the areas above the Arctic and below the Antarctic Circle, the importance and influence of the International Polar Year is fantastic. Representing an international collaboration of scientists, Native organizations, governments, and artists, IPY symbolizes shared ideas, cooperative activities, and interdisciplinary initiatives. Bringing together thousands of scientists from over 60 nations, it’s a massive undertaking and easily the coolest project on the planet.

This IPY, 2007–2009, is the fourth chapter in a narrative dating back to 1882–1883. Occurring every fifty or so years, polar years have seen the study of flora and fauna, geophysics, and most recently climate change. As two of the most delicate ecosystems on the planet, the Arctic and Antarctic can be viewed as global barometers for understanding the changes affecting the Earth. But IPY isn’t just about research. A major aspect is outreach and education, and our expedition departed in this spirit.

From Ottawa, we flew to Churchill, Manitoba. Churchill is on the western coast of Hudson Bay, just below the tree line and situated at the mouth of the Churchill River. Known as the polar bear capital of the world, the town has a

20 incite

special police unit and jail for dealing with bears that stroll into town. While it’s charming in Southern Ontario to think of the great mammals as cuddly white teddies, polar bears are some of the fiercest predators on the planet.

We didn’t see any bears that day, although we did see mammals affectionately referred to as the “cows of the sea”: belugas. In the summer, the mouth of the Churchill River is a fantastic spot to play with these magnificent cetaceans and that’s exactly what we did. Hopping into Zodiacs, we puttered out into the middle of the river, cut the engines and watched the white and blue belugas swim elegantly around our inflatable boats. It’s hard to articulate the majesty of whales. After having a few good conversations with a few good whales, we boarded our ship to set sail across Hudson Bay. The ships that operate in the Polar Regions are by no means cruise ships.

Conditions are unpredictable, some waters remain uncharted, and ice is a constant concern. Vessels sailing in these waters need to have ice–reinforced hulls and the audacity to challenge the polar seas. As Carnival and Royal Caribbean cruise ships won’t fit the bill, tour operators get their ships from a great, polar nation no longer in existence: the Soviet Union. When the USSR fell, their fleet of polar scientific and cruise vessels came onto the market cheap—fantastic ships like the Akademik Shokalskiy and the nuclear powered Yamal. Ours was named after a famous Russian stage actress, Lyubov Orlova. Formerly operating in the Black Sea, the Orlova has a Russian crew and officers and still bears a handsome hammer and sickle crest on its bow.

In the early days of Antarctic tourism, it had the reputation of a “party ship,” perpetually celebrating someone’s uncle’s birthday with free–flowing vodka and nightly dance parties to “Mambo Number 5”. It was going to be a good expedition.

Sedna, the Inuit Sea Goddess, smiled on us during our voyage across Hudson Bay. Calm seas and blue skies. A few days earlier, when the Orlova crossed Hudson Bay from Iqaluit, they’d had storms and five–meter swells. A ship rocking violently in the waves, geriatrics hurled across the dinning hall and broken hips; we were fortunate.

On day two of our crossing, we came upon a pod of orcas. There were six adults and two calves. Given the size of Hudson Bay, the size of our ship, and the size of a pod of orcas, the probability of this encounter was like walking out of MDCL and running into a moose. It was extraordinary. Although orcas are known as killer whales, this popular name is a misnomer. Orcas are actually dolphins. Not only was our encounter special because of its spectacular improbability, the orcas put on a show for us, playing by the bow of the boat, spy–hopping (poking their heads out of the water), and showing us their flukes (lifting their tails in the air).

The first village we visited in the Arctic was Kimmirut. Southwest of Iqaluit, on Baffin Island, it’s a small, incredibly friendly community. On the beach I met a small Inuk boy. With an innocent smile, he reached out his hand and said “Hi, my name is Brandon. What’s your name?” Brandon took my hand and started showing me around town. We went to the school, Northern Store, and an art gallery. He then said he wanted me to meet his family, so we walked “uptown” to where the houses are located. Brandon’s father had just bought a new boat and was busy fiber–glassing. When Brandon and I arrived he stopped what he was doing and warmly shook my hand. One of the community’s top sculptors, Brandon’s father sold carvings to galleries in Ottawa and Toronto. He took me inside his house and showed me pictures of some of his sculptures, which had been featured in an Inuit Art Calendar. As we were leaving the house, Brandon’s younger brother Joanesie joined us and we headed “downtown” to the community centre.

Surrounded by an interested group of our students, an elder was carving up a seal for us to taste. As he worked, he explained how different parts of the animal were for the men to eat and other parts were for the women. Along with Bannock and Muktuk it was quite a feast. With one of our staff members translating, the elder went on to talk about the changing Arctic landscape.

For the Inuit, climate change is more than a scientific abstraction. It is an issue that already affects the social and physical wellbeing of their communities. Traditionally, hunters would go to the Floe Edge to hunt. But the Floe Edge has been retreating more and more quickly, making hunting increasingly difficult and less successful.

Climate change also means that ice roads, which serve as vital transportation routes in the winter, don’t freeze properly and aren’t safe to travel down. What is particularly striking is that elders have seen the changes over their lifetimes.

A few days after visiting Kimmirut we went to Auyuittuq National Park. There, we hiked through a breathtaking fjord with steep, glacier–peaked cliffs towards the Arctic Circle. The low rumble of melting ice surrounded us, and throughout the day we were forced to wade through glacial streams. The park seemed alive with ice transformed. In Inuktitut, Auyuittuq literally means “The land that never melts,” and the park is a stunning example of climate change in action. The elders say that in their early lives and in the lives of their parents and grandparents, the ice in Auyuittuq had never melted. But over the past 30 years, the glaciers have been gradually retreating. The park wardens showed us pictures of several glaciers in Auyuittuq, taken at ten year intervals. The retreat of the glaciers was shocking.

The last night of the expedition I went up to the top deck to send information back to the office. We had a small portable satellite system, which one of our cameramen and I called Jacques. I’d been doing this every night during the trip and it would be the last transmission: biting northern winds, sleet, and Jacques’ high pitched squeal.

On the plane to Kuujjuak, the people around me were abuzz, murmuring about Aqpiq. The terminal, filled with Americans in camo and hipsters with musical instruments, hummed with languages; English, French, and Inuktitut layered one on top of the other. At the Kuujjuak Co–op hotel I asked about Aqpiq. “Only the biggest celebration of the year,” the receptionist replied. It turns out that I’d flown into town on the night of nights, the annual Aqpiq Berry music festival. Musicians from across the North—Yukon, Nunavut, Nunavik, and Greenland—had flown in especially for the festival and, starting at 4 PM, they’d be playing till morning. Music mixed with the rumblings of 4x4 engines and fireworks lit up the night sky for hours on end.

In the coming years, the Arctic landscape will likely undergo dramatic changes.

Beyond the environmental impacts, the socio–political and economic changes will be sensational. Just as I was leaving Kuujjuak, the Premier and many Quebec ministers were arriving in town to discuss the political future of Nunavik. Climate change is effectively opening the North to trade, transportation, and mineral exploitation.

The Northwest Passage, Arctic sovereignty, and natural resources are rapidly gaining importance domestically and internationally. Recently, the Harper government committed to building a new deep–water naval port at Nanisivik and a northern army training base at Resolute Bay. Over the summer, Russia planted a flag on the seabed at the North Pole and tensions between northern nations appear to be rising.

But the North cannot be viewed as a purely military or political “object.” To effectively manage and govern this unique region, it must be understood socially. Just as the International Polar Year fosters cooperation between scientific and traditional knowledge, the future of the North requires important dialogue and cooperation between the national government and Inuit community leaders.

In many ways I believe our expedition engaged in this dialogue. When we arrived in Kuujjuak, the two Inuit girls took me outside of town to pick Aqpiq berries. They showed me where to find the best fruit and taught me what plants made good tea.

I’d been sent to be their chaperone, but I ended up learning more from them than I think they did from me. It was like that for much of the expedition. Breaking down binaries privileging age and ethnicity and recognizing that in different situations, different people are experts—understanding that effective solutions require holistic understandings.

Dave Matyas incite 21

WANDERINGS

Bingo Dabblers

By Robyn Guyatt, Adam Lewis, and Laura McGhie

O

f all the games associated with the fine sport of gambling, bingo is the most surprisingly seedy. Everyone knows the basic rules from grade school French, but this is no preparation for the poor soul thrust into the heart of a modern bingo hall. Our mission was to explore and rate the various bingo halls of Hamilton. We never came up with an actual rating system, nor did we technically visit more than one bingo hall, but what we experienced was far more intense than we could have ever imagined.

Our destination was Delta Bingo. Readers vaguely familiar with the Jackson Square area might know it better as “that building with the weird cartoons on pillars out front.” Those with better memories will recall that the cartoons are of a man and a woman joyfully shouting “HAPPINESS IS SHOUTING BINGO” to the sky.

This picture is misleading at best. Real bingo is played under a thick, oppressive silence enforced by a small battalion of retirees who eat youth and kittens. Picture a Wild West gunslinger walking into the wrong saloon, and you’ll have some idea of the tense atmosphere. Everyone seemed to know exactly what to do except us, which became particularly apparent when we attempted to buy bingo cards. There were about seven lines at different parts of the two massive rooms, and no signs to point us in the right direction. Eventually, we did find the right counter, but were unsure of what to buy and how to get the good times rolling. The Bulgarian ghoul behind the counter was of little assistance.

Robyn: “Can we get a receipt for the cards we bought?”

Scary Eastern European Woman: (laughs in Robyn’s face) Frank, a spunky octogenarian with a four–point cane and an attitude to match, was much more helpful. All memory of how we met has long been lost in a whirl of musk and devilish charm, but Frank turned out to be a fountain of bingo wisdom. He really likes bingo. By his own estimates, the game likes him right back, and has rewarded him with a cool 30 000 dollars in total winnings. We’re not sure if we believe his tales of fortune, but it does help explain how he became the one–man bingo army he is today, and the myth he is sure to become. Frank had four bingo dabbers, at least 20 cards (stapled together for easy playing), and some sort of specialized laptop with even more cards on the screen. Much later, we learned the purpose of the laptop: it was a bingo–playing machine, naturally. Apparently, it is a fairly common practice to buy more bingo cards than it is humanly possible to keep track of. People who choose this approach have the option of spending additional money on a computer to play the extra cards. Frank, in short, was hardcore.

We didn’t work out the implications of Frank’s drive for victory until it was too late. At the time, we were far too busy succumbing to the full force of the man’s charms as he explained the ins and outs of the game.

Frank plays bingo every day. Frank goes to the same bar to buy the same beer every time. Frank doesn’t play the first round, because nobody plays the first round. Frank certainly doesn’t play the Progressive Jackpot, which would require an extra toonie.

Armed with cards and Frank’s practical know–how, we went to find a place to sit. We had two rooms to choose from, separated by a glass wall.

After buying a couple of dabbers, we eventually settled in the area closest to the snack bar, figuring that if bingo was a bust, we could drown our sorrows in a bag of Fritos.

We didn’t anticipate struggling to understand the rules of the game.

Everyone knows how to play bingo: a ball marked with a random number shoots out of a magic tube. If the corresponding number appears on your card, you dab it. The winner is the first person to dab a complete line on their card (which is a five by five grid of numbers). As we all know, the correct procedure upon winning is to yell “BINGO!” at the top of your lungs and dance like a maniac.

Or so we thought! While this is more or less the case, the details proved to be somewhat more complex. The object of the game is only rarely to dab an actual line. Much more often, the heavyset, grease–ball caller demands sacrifice in the form of obscure shapes like “double postage stamps” or a “rotating block of nine.” It took a good four rounds before we had any idea what these patterns looked like. Much quicker was our realization that we had absolutely no chance of victory. Compared to the vast number of cards being played by the zombie hordes surrounding us, our puny three might as well have not existed.

Depression soon set in, and we began to understand the mindset of those around us. Even winning didn’t seem to break their gloom: “Bingo”

22 incite

was called with the intonation a teenager might use to ask if you want fries with that. Even so, the word summons an attendant (fresh from a neck massage by the Bulgarian ghoul) to make sure that you have, in fact, won. False alarms were common during the warm–up round, but nonexistent afterwards.

Robyn: “I want to be the person who gets to yell the numbers!”

Adam: “I want to be dead.”

Little of note actually happened for the next two hours. The caller yelled out “B4,” setting off a wave of the only laughter we heard all night—besides our own.

We could not understand how this lame pun produced such hilarity among the bingo zombies; far more amusing to us was the grease–ball’s insistence on consistently pronouncing “G50” as “gee fitty.” Adam was most affected by the monotony of the bingo experience: he began taking a strange, Freudian pleasure in pulverizing the card with his dabber. Eventually, the dabber responded with a euphoric up–jut of ink. This did little to ward off our apathy. By the intermission, we had mostly forgotten our lives outside the bingo hall.

We attempted to cheer ourselves up with a change of scenery. Unfortunately, the second room was pretty much the same as the first, with one major difference: it was inhabited by an insane, gibbering clone of Bertrand Russell. This fast–talker faded in and out of logical English, but we did glean that the faux Dr. Russell had spent last Christmas in Delta Bingo. Though it seemed like a sad winter destination, he looked pretty happy, so we left him alone.

Soon the time came for the Progressive Jackpot, which requires the purchase of an extra card. Frank had told us not to waste our time on this shot in the dark, so taking his sage advice, we sat back and took a well–deserved break, all the while chuckling smugly at patrons foolish enough to partake in a game we had been told is impossible to win. Then we looked at the prize card: the jackpot was 8000 dollars! Sure enough, Frank was merrily playing a Progressive card. A sense of horror dawned on us as we began to realize what cruel charade had taken place: Frank had duped us into thinking he was hitting on us, with the sole aim of slightly increasing his odds of hitting the jackpot. Disgusted, we accepted our fate. Laura leaked saliva.

Adam sang Daft Punk. Robyn swore like a sailor. Dr. Russell played it cool.

We left for the car.

Our time at Delta Bingo raised far more questions than it answered.

What is a rotating block of nine? How did Bertrand Russell defeat the grave?

Why do kids play bingo in French class? Unfortunately, a shifty–eyed patron frightened us into making a quick exit, leaving these and many other pressing questions unanswered. Perhaps some day we will return, and get to experience that elusive happiness that comes with shouting Bingo!

COLUMN

MYTHS The Mongrel

A

s I walked to university early one morning, a small white dog trotting next to me started calling my name. At first I tried to ignore it, but its cries became so insistent that, fearing embarrassment, I finally answered it.

“What is it?” I demanded.

“I have something important to tell you,” it replied.

“Well, tell someone else,” I said. “I have no time to be talking to a mongrel. What business does a dog have with talking, anyway? If you don’t stop bothering me, people will think I have gone insane. Go away, or I will call the police.”

“Calling the police will not do you any good. Give me five minutes of your time, or I will follow you for the rest of the day,” it said.

I stopped at a bench away from the sidewalk, where I would not be seen, and pulled out a newspaper and a bottle of water to make it look as though I were reading. “Well, go on then. Tell me what is so important. Meanwhile, I s hall be reading the editori als.”

“Put that newspaper away. Don’t be so rude!” said the dog.

“A dog lecturing me on manners? I must have hit my head, or inhaled some noxious fume. I should have my home tested for a gas leak. Fine, I am putting away the newspaper. Now what do you have to tell me, for heaven’s sake?”

The small white dog hopped up on the bench and, after mak ing a small cough as if to clear its throat, settled into my lap, resting its head on my knee. “Here is my story,” it began.

“I was not always a dog. That is to say, I have spent this life as a dog, but in my past life, I was a man. In fact, I was the fin est shoemaker in all of Canada.”

“How absurd,” I muttered.

The dog growled softly and turned its head to glare at me with its rheumy, clouded eyes. “It’s true! In my previous life, as a young man, I apprenticed with the best cobbler in my town. By my eighteenth year, I had far surpassed him in talent. By my twenty–first year, my shoes were in high demand across the province by all people of good taste.

“The reason for my success was the great care with which I made those shoes. I paid careful attention to the consistency and softness of every leather hide. I listened to the individual voice of all the materials I used, and refused to make a pair of shoes without first carefully measuring the wearer’s feet and observing his or her gait. Soon I was widely known

as the greatest cobbler in the country. I was nev er quite able to keep up with demand, but now I was refusing so many orders that I had to take on apprentices of my own.

“I needed some way to main tain the quality of the shoes that would be produced, so I sought out to find patterns in my past work, and settled upon a general set of instruc tions that could easily be followed by a journeyman cobbler. I convinced my self that the loss in quality was offset by the greater number of people I could provide with fine shoes.

“This only led to an increase in the number of orders my shop was receiving, and so I had to adopt a mechanized process to cut the leather.

Meanwhile I was running other shops out of business. Halfway through my life, my company started to produce various types of shoes specialized for hiking, running, comfort, and dress, but this only forced people to buy more types of shoes where previously a single pair would have sufficed, and made them feel constrained to the activity for which their shoes were intended.

“When I died, I was the last person who knew how to make shoes in the old way. No one knows what was lost. And so no one can fight to bring it back!”

“What rubbish,” I said. “Is there a point to your story?”

“Do you not see?” replied the dog. “This process is happening everywhere, all around you. Before I called your name today, were you not heading to a lecture hall to be stamped like a piece of leather?”

“Don’t be so dramatic!” I said, exasperated. “Stamped like a piece of leather? I should stamp you! Now shut up and leave me alone, you mangy cur!” And with that I picked up the dog, set it down on the grass, and continued walking.

By Nick Davies

incite 23

In the barrios Andre has a bike He can ride on the dirt road All the way through the dust to where drinks are sold Right through the bars of a little cage a hand sticks the freezie out to Andre, and he tries to ride and eat at the same time In the barrios Una runs and smiles but stop suddenly and closes up, curls up her face turned down We don’t understand why she rubs her eye Can’t be consoled or cajoled, sitting on the concrete slab in broken glass.

Broken glass we’ve tried to collect never to get all the shards, the one’s lost in the dust, even too small to shine in the bright sun light it’s very hot in the Barrios They’’ve been building a school for three years It’s still nothing but a skeleton And on Monday morning at eleven There’s no one here to fill it in only us But we’re picking glass out of the dust putting up sections of fence and leaving open spaces Cementing as if it will bring permanence As if we’d know.

By Lyndall Schumann 24 incite