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P H O T O G R A P H Y

Issue N1 September 2010 9

S UMMERby Hannah Wheatley

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10 Issue N1 - September 2010

EXCUSE ME, S IR!Or Being Very (Un-)UWC at theShanghai Expo 2010by Anders Malle HjortshjInspiration, innovation, intoxication, expectoration theations and the Asians abound in Shanghai,undoubtedly the most vibrant wannabe Hong Kong inthe world. Wandering through the districts as yetrelatively untouched by the common mans pressing needfor glass and concrete stacked impressively high, its stillpossible to see a glimpse of the old Shanghai the kindof place where hardened, wrinkled industrial workers,unfazed by the sudden appearance of a tall, handsomeforeigner in a Viking helmet, dedicate every ber of theirbeing to a pitched battle on the Chinese chessboard.

Its hard to say whether this old world is disappearingentirely, or perhaps just hiding better than before. In any case, its certainly not what the Chinese government isinterested in showing the outside world- for their visionof Shanghai and the worlds future, Ill have to cross theHuangpu river (by taking the ultramodern metro underit, of course) to the Expo grounds, where the truediversity of this planet unfolds before my eyes:

everything from shoddy, half-arsed shacks of pavillionslled with posters they must have ripped o ff from a cut-rate travel agent, to gigantic, horrendously expensive,line-generating extravaganzas screaming out tonewfound hordes of moneyed Chinese consumers.

e adventure begins at the gate, where I come to asudden realization: I am, indeed, the only foreigner in aqueue consisting of approximately four hundred people.

e world has begun selling itself to China on ahumongous scale; indeed, this event could be said tomark the turning point between made in China and aworld reliant on the Chinese market to keep itself a oat.

All these grand considerations of global a ff airs, however,quickly slip my mind as yet another vastness of crushingtruth engulfs me. Yes, ignorant white boy, you will haveto queue for a very long time to visit any pavillion of any size, because the richer half of the worlds most populouscountry had the same brilliant idea as you did.

And so I queue patiently at some minor pavillions,learning more than Ill ever need to know about Brunei

Darussalam and their charming sultan with a vaguely communistic fetish for 20-year plans, as well as seeing,touching and souvenir-shopping an admittedly impressive, near-exact partial life-size copy of AngkorWat in Cambodias modest, decent proposal.

e queue is daunting, but Indonesia certainly doesntdisappoint. Upon entering the stylish wooden entrancehall (reminiscent of an alpine chalet with palm trees), the visitor is stunned to see a huge white marble map of thecountry on a black marble background, behind a slim,shimmering waterfall. Not only that, they serve somegreat Indonesian kopi and let all visitors sign a petitionto save the Komodo dragon. I realize suddenly that,thanks to Indonesias unique assets and abilities, it ispossible for anyone with enough determination to savethe world one penstroke at a time, all while being too jittery from the caff eine to write ones Chinese name (thiskind of thing certainly doesnt happen to me, though)! Toround o ff my archipelagic experience, I run into an oldHong Kong couple, who, a er hearing some of my Cantonese, solemnly conclude Vay-lee good ar.

Standing in line for the UN pavillion brings back painfulmemories of MUN and my utter failure at doinganything more diplomatically ambitious than wearing asuit. e melancholy quickly wanes, however, when abeaming attendant notices my protruding foreignnessand dutifully drags me and two Canadian girls out of theline and into the building. Sometimes, being on thebusiness end of racism can have its advantages. Inside,though, the exhibition is equally sappy, monotone and

bureaucratic to all races and cultures, in that universally yawn-inducing way only diplomats of a very high caliberindeed can achieve.

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Even so, I can credit my time in the UN pavillion withone major, quite shocking development; the twoCanadians briskly tell me that I just have to tell the goodblondes at the Denmark pavilion that Im Danish andtheyll let me skip the queue. With that razor-sharpanalytical mind of mine, I quickly realize that I mightnever have to stand in another queue again!

e odyssey of fraud, however, begins with the simpletruth. Hi, Im Danish. Do I have any- Yes you do,come on in. Beyond the ribbon, Im greeted by anunusually well-lit Little Mermaid, as well as overpricedCarlsberg (of which I naturally buy a glass anyway) andtailor-made bike lanes. Not only that, there are picturesof Copenhagen in sunshine and self-satis ed blondepeople gleefully tending their sustainable suburbangardens. Just like home, minus the nice weather.

From here, I go on to my rst attempt at experimentalstreet-pavillion-theatre, at the pavillion of the GreatNorth strong and free: Hi, Im Canadian. Can I go in?Do you have an ID? is necessitated an honestresponse in the negative. Riiight. Where do you live,then? Uh-oh, time to think quickly. Vancouver! Whatdistrict? Even quicker. Richmond! It would be a grossunderstatement to say that he still seemed skeptical, eventhough I could name Western Canadas capital of Chinawithout skipping a beat. Alright, how about you nameme all the provinces and territories and Ill let you in?Having done so, I was let in somewhat begrudgingly.Either youre Canadian or you did your homework

Next up was Brazil, where an attempt to ba ffle theChinese attendant by rattling o ff everything I knew inPortuguese ended up not working out, and I insteadgracefully went in undetected through the gi shop, thusseeing South Americas largest country backwards. eRussians, faced with the same technique, managed tokeep me out with no small amount of former-KGBmuscle.

South Africa proved to be relatively easy: Hoy, oymSowth Efrican. Kin you let me een? Not realizing I wasactually doing a bad Australian accent, the Chinese mandutifully asked for some ID. In this regard, my Danishbus card (albeit with leopard print on it) showed itself tobe sufficient.

Chile had uniformed nationals at the front gate, thusnecessitating language skills and not just sleight of hand .

Hola, soy chileno, puedo entrar por favor? Ereschileno? Claro, bienvenidos! Once past the door, Iwalked briskly away to avoid revealing my insufficientEspanish. Similarly, Serbia needed little more than a

thick Slavic accent and a brisk pace once they startedengaging in Serbian conversation. e Pakistani pavillionrequired but a few Urdu phrases back and forth.Surprisingly, they neither asked for a bribe nor declared afatwa on me, even when I yelled Number 6, IndiaNumber 1! on the way out.

At the end of two very, very long days on the grounds, itwas still difficult to come to a conclusion about this place,this ephemeral bubble of pomp and commercialism inspace and time. But I still came away inspired by theextraordinary diversity of our planet, and the fact that aregional bus card, with just a bit of determination andtrue grit, can take you to another hemisphere.

A R IGHT TO D IGNITYby Michael RatliffIn a rare collision of school work and reality, my Extended Essay research this summer found me sittingdown in a homeless shelter at a table with men who hadbeen homeless ve, ten, even twenty years. I spoke tothirty men about their lives, their darkest moments andtheir deepest regrets, and I saw a side of the humancondition that few, if any, of us will ever be able to fully appreciate.

Driving into the heart of my city, I passed blocks of alcohol stores with barred up windows, derelict motelswith what I swore were bullet holes in the side of thebuilding. I had talked to the director of the NashvilleRescue Mission, a Christian homeless shelter, and heexplained that their policy was to admit the rst eighty men in line, regardless of how intoxicated or drugged upthey were, feed them a warm meal, and give them a bedand a roof for the night. If I said that I had no concerns

about walking into a room lled with men who from onelook at me could see that I knew nothing about them,nothing about the streets they call home, I would belying.

Volunteers enter through a door in the front of thebuilding that brings them to a carpeted room, lled withwarm light and inspirational Bible verses on posters. Iexplained to the guard that I was volunteering in thedining room, and he brought me to a service elevatorthat would take me down to the kitchen. As he closed thedoor behind me and hit the button, my heart was in my throat. All the preconceptions that capitalist society hadingrained into my mind ooded to the surface; alcoholicswith a violent streak, the mentally handicapped turned

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out by their families, addicts who would sell their body and soul for the next hit. All of these images runningthrough my head, I opened the door into the dining hall.

Two dozen men were calmly sitting at tables. All wereaveragely dressed, no one in tattered rags. One tablelaughed casually at someones story, others were alonetaking a respite from the days searing heat. I didntreceive any hate- lled looks from men annoyed by my presence. I was struck instead by how completely normalthis room of men were. ese werent the homeless thatsociety had told me about.

In my four days of interviewing, every man had his ownstory, but they all had the same ambition to stop eatinganother mans meal, to stop sleeping under another mansroof, to stop wearing another mans clothes. While thesemen have no material possessions, they still have theirpride, and the feeling that all comfort in life is a gi llsmany with a guilt that they cannot shake. All they want is

the chance to be independent.But thats not a chance that they receive. Gentri cation,the renovation of cheaper homes to bring up their price,

has pushed low income housing out of the city. Lack of transport and urban sprawl eliminate most jobopportunities, limiting them to employers withinwalking distance of a homeless shelter. ose employersdismiss applicants that list that shelter as their homeaddress. e shelters themselves, despite the service they provide, are also culpable; instead of o ff ering jobtraining, they o ff er Bible study. ose dependent on ahomeless shelter are the lucky ones. Others, whose prideprohibited them from turning to shelters, live underoverpasses and in forests on the outskirts of town. Policeuse obscure laws to justify the destruction of thesesettlements, usually without warning, leaving the peoplewith nothing but the clothes on their back.

Stigmatized and cast out by their own society, many toldme they ask themselves why they keep trying, why they

ght so hard to be accepted. Is the distinction betweenthose with a home and those without so sharp that it justi es their social segregation? e men that I talked to

were not so diff

erent from the rest of us. ey werentlazy, violent, or crazy. ey were human. But nothing isdone. ere is no bottom to the hole into which thesepeople are allowed to fall.

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Issue N1 September 2010 13

A FRIENDLYP UBLIC S ERVICEA NNOUNCEMENT/Rallying Cry/Frenzied Gushingfrom a Third Year Who Had OneMore Thing to Sayby Sonia Wurzel So, youre a student at Li Po Chun United World College.Good job! It was probably a long and arduous process to

get here. Now you have three awesome roomies, an evenawesome-er Block (Block 3 is the best), a stimulating andsupportive tutor group, an intense IB education and allthe Quan Cais you could ever want.

Any number of these things may have factored into yourdecision to apply to this wonderful school. But now as anold (not) and wise (not-er) third year I should tell youwhy I really wanted to go to LPC, and the reason that Iam still so grateful for the crazy time I had there.

e people, pure and simple. I was an expat kid livingoutside of her home country, going to internationalschools where, yeah there were people from multiplecountries, sure. But we shared the same background inbeing expatriates, and I think I can make a fair argumentthat the lifestyle shared was one of privilege, with a focuson Western (i.e. US American) media and pop culture.

Not so at LPC. In this small corner of Hong Kong you

will share living space and language and that will be allthe glue you need to bond you to the person whonormally lives halfway across the globe. Said person willhave grown up learning ve languages in a big city whileyou worked part-time on the family farm. You might bethe rst person to ever leave home to go to University while your friend has a long line of doctors in theirfamily. ey involve themselves heavily in politicalactivism back home while you could frankly care lessabout the governmental workings of your country. erichest discussions occur between those people withdiff erent opinions and lives and stories.

Hence, I have a simple instruction: ere is no such thingas Un-UWC and if someone tries to use this term toshut you up, then that is unfortunate and I believe they are the ones that are truly not adhering to the UWC values.

Con ict happens. People have opposing, ery opinions

and having sane, mature arguments is one of the moststimulating things that can happen in an environmentsuch as LPC. Here, I guarantee you that the bestmemories you will have will be those of heatedconversations late in the night when you really should bein bed because you have morning block tomorrow butyou have to prove that you have a point but they just.Dont. Get it and

Conversation is an art. Debate is an art. But sometimes

people like to take the easy route and just back down, orsay thats Un-UWC in order to try to get the opponentto back down. Youve struggled this far, completed testsand service projects, traversed oceans and continents.Dont give up the ght now that youre here.

Because if you can deliver and calm and collectedargument to someone that is just as adamant about theiropinion as you yours, then that will take you muchfurther than a simple cut-down. I wish you luck in yourstudies and service and speaking.

Its going to be an amazing ride.

[Sonia graduated with the Class of 2010. She was one of BTWs two editors last year]

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14 Issue N1 September 2010

S OUTH INDIANM AGIC

by Aarti Reddy

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S OUTH INDIAN M AGICby Aarti Reddy

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S OUTH INDIAN M AGICby Aarti Reddy

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P O E T R Y

THE R AINS OF KUNMINGby Anders Malle Hjortshj

e rains of Kunming seem to declare, in a way,e relaxed temperament of this distant city.

ey fall upon it with a slow, unyielding grace,Barely there yet all-pervading.

eyre seen as shades of shadows on a gray sky Falling, catching an emerging sunray on the way.

oughts of our deeper nature,Of terrible things, of kingdoms distant

From us now distantFall with them, and darken

A dull asphalt, which a erwards can shine.

e rains, emerging from a vibrant gray Call on us to read between the streets

See the ow of the Panlong quickenAs we pass its banks aimlessly.

Shops and towers, glass and concreteRise towards their model gray sky

Leaving a lone ornamental gate among the modernity,Too narrow to pass through,

Too old to tear downAnd it, too, is covered in rain-slick.

e rains, one moment there, the next a memory Would never dream of ferocity

eirs is a fall free from worriesFor who are the heavens

To fall upon the land with force?