Second Issue 3

WPI’s International & Intercultural MagazineWPI’s International & Intercultural MagazineWPI’s International & Intercultural Magazine

unpackedunpackedunpacked

Issue 2: Spring 2013

Inside this issue : Australia * France * Greece * Hong Kong

Indonesia * Jordan * Laos * Mongolia * Namibia * Nepal * and more!

My friends and I spent a

Nicolas Martinez

Aerospace Engineering

‘13, IQP London (D ‘12)

Picture taken

in Scotland

_____________________

weekend in Edinburgh

while conducting our

IQP in London, One day

after sightseeing in the

Scottish Highlands we

stopped by Forth Bridge

to have ice cream and

watch the sunset. The

illumination for the pic-

ture was perfect, the

photograph reflected

our mood after visiting

some of Scotland’s

most beautiful places.

To view more of Nico-

las’s photos see page 9.

Letter from the Editor

3 unpacked * Spring 2013

ON THE COVER: “A view of Paris Victor

Hugo could appreciate” taken by Nico-

las Martinez, Aerospace Engineering ’13,

London (D’12). For more of Nicolas’s pho-

tos see page 9

Do you have something to submit for

unpacked Fall 2013? a Submissions, questions and comments/letters-to-the-editor

can be sent to [email protected] a For more information visit:

wpi.edu/offices/ih/unpacked.html a

Next submission deadline: September 29, 2013 @ midnight

unpacked’s mission is to provide undergraduate students,

graduate students, faculty and staff of the WPI community

a space to share and reflect on international and intercul-

tural experiences. The magazine aspires to promote global

awareness, cross-cultural understanding and dialogue on

campus with the aim of informing, challenging, and ex-

panding the university’s views on culture and the global

community. The magazine hopes to both educate and

encourage community members to be interested and re-

sponsible global actors.

Spring 2013 marks the second issue of WPI’s new International and Intercultural magazine

unpacked. We are excited to share this latest issue with the campus community and we hope that

it inspires even more people to reflect on past and upcoming experiences and encourages you to

share these wonderful, adventurous, and sometimes even difficult or unusual experiences in future

issues. We are looking for thought-provoking pictures, reflective stories and articles, inspiring poetry,

or creative artwork of an international and/or intercultural nature. Keep unpacked in mind during

your summer adventures! Our next feature story or cover photo may be yours!

*

The editorial board would like to dedicate this issue of unpacked to the hardworking and helpful

spirit of the late Christine Drew. Even as Christine was battling her own challenging medical situa-

tion in the spring and fall of 2012 she still found the time and energy to support this up and coming

campus publication, serving as a member of the inaugural editorial board, offering design insights

and a keen editorial eye, and encouraging student contributors during the unpacked launch par-

ty. Christine was an important part of our campus community, and her talent, personality, and sup-

port will be eternally missed. Thank you Christine for helping us grow, your departure leaves a hole

on campus which will be very difficult to fill. We will keep you in our thoughts and hearts.

Colleen Callahan-Panday,

Editor-in-Chief

Assistant Director, International Students and Scholars

Editorial Board: Leanne Johnson (IGSD), Ulrike Brisson (Humanities & Arts), Sakshi Khurana (‘16),

Caroline Atteya (‘16), Ruobing Jia (M’14).

Table of Contents

Worcester Polytechnic Institute 4

7 Titans of Wadi Rum

Saraj (Jetro) Pirasmepulkul ‘16

9 Europe: Photo Series

Nicolas Martinez ‘13

13 Eights

Andrew Moscariello ‘13

14 The Poet Sandal-Maker

Caitlin Swalec ‘16

15 Namibia: Photo Series

Donal Boyd ‘13

21 Freedom

Monolina Binny ‘14

23 Wine and Cheese: A Weekend in Burgundy, France

Patrick Ford ‘13

25 Hong Kong: Photo Series

Shelby Miller ‘13

31 Precarious Flight to Shangri-La

Colleen Callahan-Panday, Assistant Director, International Students and Scholars

35 Fairbanks, AK: Photo Series: Sunset at 2pm

Aram Wool ‘14

37 Don’t Try This at Home

Robert Krueger, Associate Professor, Interdisciplinary and Global Studies Division

39 Mongolia: Photo Series

Dulguun Gantulga ‘16

41 France: Photo Series

Micaila Baroffio ‘16

44 My Charm

Rodrigo Calles ‘14

1, 5, 22, 34, back cover Pictures: Scotland, Indonesia, Namibia, Croatia, Scotland

Various Contributors

Viewpoint


These two orangutans,

Sakshi Khurana

Biotechnology ’16,

from Indonesia and

India

____________________

captured at Taman

Safari, a conservation

park located in the city

of Bogor, Indonesia,

relax on a tree in their

habitat. As someone

who considers Indone-

sia home, my love for

Orangutans is endless.

After spending hours

during my winter break

cradling the baby

orangutans and ob-

serving the adults I

have come to the

conclusion that their

fierce protectiveness

and creative minds

are just as prominent

as their silly antics and

playfulness. These gen-

tle and intelligent

creatures are among

the world’s critically

endangered species

with a heart-breaking

50% decrease in popu-

lation in the past 60

years.


Titans of Wadi Rum

By Saraj (Jetro) Pirasmepulkul

Robotics Engineering ‘16, Jordan (2010), from Thailand

My feet touched the ground below me. I let out a long groan of relief as I was finally able to

jump off the beast on which I was riding. The in-

tense rocking coupled with its rough hide did

not make the camel a pleasant ride. My desti-

nation on this particular camel was the great

Wadi Rum desert of Jordan. An endless stretch

of sand and gigantic sandstone formations tint-

ed orange from the afternoon sun.

Jordan was the destination for my sopho-

more year high school trip, known as the “Week

Without Walls.” As the name suggests, students

from the International School Bangkok learn or

conduct community service outside the con-

fines of the school fence. During the week our

group, consisting of 20 students, visited numer-

ous tourist sites such as the world heritage site in

Petra, as well as floated in the Dead Sea.

Those experiences were breath-taking

and the sights magnificent. Now I was in Wadi

Rum, where for four days I would live as a Bed-

ouin.

Ahead was our camp, dwarfed by the

giant sandstone that overlooked it like a little

boy sitting against the trunk of a large tree.

There were three large tents where everyone

crashed after each day’s seven-hour hike. Half

the group had already arrived and were mak-

ing themselves at home in the largest center

tent. As I joined them inside, the tour guides

served us each a small cup of tea, brewed to a

special sweetness and scent to soothe us after

our long day under the strong desert sun—a

taste that I would soon learn to associate with

each day’s well-deserved break.

Later that afternoon, a group of friends

and I went out to explore the large sandstone

formations. The gritty texture gave us grip which

made it easier for us to climb to great heights.

We were a group of monkeys. About ten meters

up, I found myself a little seat-like curvature in

the stone where I sat and took in Wadi Rum. The

air was dry and chilly, the sky clear blue con-

trasting the brilliant orange sand that came to-

gether at the horizon. The strong rays of sun re-

flected off meager patches of the desert plants’

waxy cuticles that my camel fed on earlier.

Looking around I observed the swirls of colors in

the sandstone: yellow, purple, pink, orange.

Sections of the sandstone had holes in them,

giving them window-like appearances. I could

have stayed up there and allowed my mind to

wander all afternoon.

That night, as we all gathered around the

camp fire in the center tent, our local tour

guides brought out our first desert meal. As

plates and other necessary utensils were distrib-

uted, the guides unwrapped the foil from each

pot unleashing the mouthwatering scent of ex-

otic Middle Eastern spices used in the food.

Chicken and rice, tender with all the juice still

contained in its meat, baba ghanoush salad

and mixed beans soup. Of course there was

hummus and pita bread—a staple in Middle

Eastern meals that never gets old. I wolfed

down the giant mound of food, completely in-

different to the fact that some people had trou-

ble getting used to the new cuisine. Being me, I

went for second servings.

In the evening, we climbed to the other

side of the sandstone that overlooked our camp

and lay down to look up at the sky. The sea of

bright shiny stars— as many as there were grains

of sand in Wadi Rum—juxtaposed against the

pitch black curtain of the endless universe. Back

home, I would only see the brightest stars like

Orion’s Belt and the Big Dipper on the clearest

of evenings. Star gazing in Wadi Rum was just so

much more beautiful. I felt so insignificant and

small for the first time in my life as our small

group lay there, our heads on our palms,

among this glittering night sky and infinite

stretches of gigantic sandstone formations.

When I returned to my tent, I did not care

if my friends’ smelly feet were next to my head

as long as we were all bundled up together to

keep warm. It was a long journey and I was

happy to get a good night’s rest.

Experience



Early the next morning, we bounced our

way through the desert in our guide’s rusty

pickup truck across hills of sand and passed by

large sandstone mountains rising like titans amidst

the sea of sand. The sides were smooth and

steep as proof of the desert wind’s weathering.

We stopped at the base of what I soon learned

was Jabal Umm Ad Dami, the tallest mountain in

Jordan; its cliff perched high like a leader among

the other desert behemoths. I learned its name

when I was already half way up the side of its

cliff.

I’d never imagined that it was possible to

climb up the side of a mountain. Somehow we

managed to do so, lodging our hands and feet

in the smallest cracks and steps on the rocks. I

thought of rock climbing back at adventure

parks, with the harness and other safety equip-

ment. I’d fallen off several times, felt the tension

of the sling supporting my weight, and attempt-

ed to climb up the course again. Here however,

the sediments below me crumbled and fell off,

the narrow path not much wider than my shoul-

ders. The strong desert wind blew against my

face to remind me of my elevation. But this time I

was clinging for dear life, because if I slipped

and fell, there was no sling to support me. We

stopped periodically

to allow people to

catch up and rehy-

drated ourselves with

the two liters of water

we each carried in

our backpacks.

The summit

looked as if someone

hurled a bunch of gi-

ant slates together to

add an extra meter

or two to the moun-

tain top. It was so

precarious it seemed

as if any more weight

or abrupt movement

would cause the

whole structure to fall

apart like a game of

Jenga, toppling us all

off the peak. Not

long after our group

picture was taken

with a lone Jordanian

flag which someone had planted earlier, the

rocks shifted underneath us. I desperately made

my way down to a more stable location.

By late afternoon we marched back to

the camp, trudging in the fine desert sand. Unlike

the white sand found in beaches, Wadi Rum’s

sand is like talcum powder against your skin that

gently slips away. The wind created waves on

the surface of the sand like ripples on a pristine

lake. I finally saw our camp, the only one I had

seen in the desert so far.

I came back to the large center tent and

took off my shoes, now dyed orange. The thick

smoke that lingered inside from the previous

night came out to embrace me. I did not mind

the stuffiness, not after such a day’s journey. After

I poured myself a cup of the special sweet tea, I

stretched my legs and groaned. Outside, a

group was playing soccer on the flat rocky plain,

while some others were throwing rocks at rock

stacks they’d created.

I have forgotten the taste of the tea al-

ready, of the sweet herbs that made it so special

to me. I know, however, that if I ever had a sip

again, I’d immediately recognize it and be

brought back once again to a little camp some-

where in the vast expanse of Jordan’s Wadi Rum.

ABOVE: Exploring the sandstone mazes of Arches National Park, Utah. Colleen

Callahan-Panday (2008).

Europe: Photo Series

By Nicolas Martinez

Aerospace Engineering ‘13, London (D ‘12)


Culture

ABOVE: The beautiful contrast between the buildings of the traditional Medieval architecture in Ed-

inburgh’s Old Town and the lively, trendy cafés and pubs of the modern city. (Edinburgh, Scotland).

RIGHT: The cathedral of Notre Dame is one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in the

world, it has a peculiarly mysterious as well as serene atmosphere. (Paris, France).

Male Lion—King of the Jungle

LEFT: Stunning gar-

dens that surround

the Coliseum, as well

as the better-

preserved side of the

structure. One can

almost imagine how

the building must

have looked during

the days of ancient

Rome. (Rome, Italy).


Eights

By Andrew Moscariello

Chemical Engineering ’13, Melbourne Australia (C ‘12)

Project

Missed our stop, get off next one, number 118

Trek back to the office, address 481

First ones in – American work preoccupation

Lunchtime, eat with our sponsors – it’s more Australian

Last ones to leave – project duties

8 hours are done, 1/3 the day

8 hours next, for relaxing and fun

Go to the market, hot tub, or pub

2/3 the day have now passed

8 hours left, for sleeping

3/3, the complete day

8 hours for working, 8 hours for sleeping, 8 hours for play – how Australians keep life balanced

Author’s Note: The people of Melbourne take the 8 hour workday and 40 hour work seriously,

especially since the city claims to be the home of the 40 hour work week. Yet an additional

important step is the division of the remaining 16 hours in the day. Eight hours are set aside for

enjoying life; you only have one to live. The other 8 are devoted to sleeping. The division leads

to equal thirds of the day. American work ethic is a major contrast with this philosophy, but the

division was an aspect of Australian life I came to value and enjoy.

The tramline that takes us to work heading to Moreland, 8


Culture

As I first glimpsed the Parthenon, resting on the Acropolis, high above the city of Athens, my

breath got caught in my throat. The afternoon

sun painted the marble pillars gold against the

deep blue sky dappled with pearly, white

clouds. No pictures or paintings could ever cap-

ture its majestic beauty or convey its spiritual

ambience.

Having come to Greece with a group of

students yearning to explore its history, I felt

compelled to dig deeper into the roots of the

Parthenon’s existence. Built at the height of the

Athenian Empire as a tribute to the goddess

Athena, the Parthenon

survives as a relic of the

religions and culture of

the ancient Greek em-

pire. Having always sep-

arated my education in-

to subjects of math, sci-

ence, language, and so

forth, I found the interac-

tion of ancient mytholo-

gy with politics and archi-

tecture fascinating.

Greece struck me as a remarkable coun-

try. Its rich history and traditions permeate every

aspect—physically, socially and culturally—of

everyday life. When walking around Monastiraki

Square, a flea market in Athens, I could look up

and see the spectacular view of the Parthenon

resting on the horizon of the Acropolis. Within

Monastiraki, amid department stores and street

vendors, stands an exquisite formation of

weathered stones, known as the Pantanassa

Church. Native Greeks pass by this 17th century

building and exhibit no exceptional sense of

awe at its presence – at least none visible to

me. I suppose the novelty of an impressive sight

such as the Pantanassa Church is lessened by

the experience of viewing it regularly while

commuting to work or buying lunch or merely

passing through the city each day.

Further down the streets diverging from

Monastriraki Square, in a small unassuming shop,

I came across a man known as “The Poet San-

dal-Maker of Athens.” He described his shop as,

“A crossroad of poetry, art, and home of the

ancient craftsmanship of sandal-making.” The

poet-sandal maker recited his life story to me

and my fellow travelers as we browsed his vast

selection of leather sandals which were each

modeled on authentic ancient shoes. As a

young man training in the army, he developed

a knack for writing poetry. His sharp wit and im-

mense knowledge of mythol-

ogy provided a strong back-

ground for creating verses.

As he told us, he desired to

be a poet, but his father in-

sisted that he take over the

family business of shoe mak-

ing. The sandal-maker

agreed, on the condition

that he would still be al-

lowed to fashion verses

among the scraps of leather. He united the tra-

ditions of his ancestors with his own individual

talents to form a unique future as a poet sandal-

maker.

From the poet sandal-maker’s shop, I left

with a new pair of beautifully hand-crafted

leather sandals, an original poem, and a spark

of inspiration which is unavoidable when a per-

son observes a man successfully pursuing both

his familial duties and personal passion. The po-

et sandal-maker embodied the Greek culture of

joining tradition and history with everyday life.

From famous symbols like the Parthenon, to

modest men like the poet sandal-maker, I hope

that I can learn how to revive and engage

anew with my ancestor’s traditions and histories.

“The sandal-maker agreed, on the

condition that he would still be al-

lowed to fashion verses among the

scraps of leather. He united the

traditions of his ancestors with his

own individual talents to form a

unique future as a poet sandal-

maker”

The Poet Sandal-Maker

By Caitlin Swalec

Major undecided ‘16, Athens, Greece (2012)

Namibia: Photo Series

By Donal Boyd

Chemical Engineering ‘13, Namibia (D ‘12)

Inspiration


ABOVE: Adult Cheetah on the Prowl.

RIGHT: Damara boy: The young Damara boy looked up at me, speaking the words, "John, John—

take my picture." The simple sticker on his forehead, "11.” Looking up at me with his eyes, so wide,

with so much joy, I could not help but think; "this boy is so happy, just to have water, to have his fami-

ly, the tattered clothes on his back—and that sticker." What does it represent? It represents: we

should never take what "we" have for granted—fancy cars, TV dinners, and sitcoms; because, this

boy knows none of what we have, he knows Tsumkwe.

A shy juvenile zebra is comforted

by its mother in Etosha National

Park, Namibia.



Children of Tsumkwe: Jessica pointed her camera at the Damara girl

who had loudly, yet politely, requested that Jessica take her picture

and snapped a photograph. The girl was uncontrollably excited with

the premise of seeing herself. When Jessica turned the camera dis-

play screen to the girl, her face lit up with adornment and she began

to glow with happiness.


Inspiration

Amidst the essence of bare silk

Those gleaming eyes sparkled,

The visions tell a tale-

Of fiery antagonistic sweetness;

Roving about in its prosperous province

Prevailed a figure of holy grandeur.

Its smile slightly bent,

Embraces the sealed heart

And unlocks the trapped Amor.

When it inhales, it fills with pride,

As it exhales, its placidness spreads.

The tenacious manifestation gives away to serene

While lips utter the melody.

When its motion is supple like butter,

Angels’ feathers seem coarse.

Boldly when the magnificence folds,

The knights bow to the stern inferno.

Aphrodite has granted her pelt

To this exquisite temperament;

Even the demons evolve to beauty,

As it touches upon them lightly.

When it flows over soil

The particles shine like krustallos.

Alas, it does not look beyond the horizon-

That is where she endures;

She waits to be befriended by the aura.

The essence passes by everyday

And she mourns at the distant,

Calling out to the luminosity,

Telling it to have belief in her,

Yet it flows by flouting the cries.

Now and then it provides ciphers

Making her deem it will someday approach,

Her liberty from wretchedness shall be accomplished;

She thinks and never surrenders.

Days came and went,

Nights were frosty, sometimes warm,

The disposition just smiled

As if relishing the torment she had to bear

And kept on passing by silently.

She still felt it will come to free her

From beyond the scope of span,

To where no glow reaches ever.

Her sanguinity was soaring,

She knew it will approach.

When the disposition will be in need of her,

She will offer her devotion.

For now, she counted the times it rejected the calls,

But thinking of the integrity

The essence might have in store-

Made her content to the possibility;

She relied on the ciphers,

Dreaming………….

And still waiting.

Freedom

By Monolina Binny

Biology and Biotechnology ‘14, written in Bangladesh, June 2009

The Windhoek Town Musicians: This taxidermist who is located between Windhoek—Namibia’s

Ulrike Brisson

Assistant Teaching Professor of German Studies, Humanities and Arts,

Namibia (B’10)

capital – and its airport, has clearly Africanized the theme of the Grimm’s fairy tale of the Bremen

Town Musicians, in which a donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster stand on top of each other on a

windowsill of a bandits’ house and scare away the villains with the frightening cacophony of their

voices.

Culture


Wine and Cheese: A Weekend in Burgundy, France

By Patrick Ford

Environmental Engineering ‘13, France (2012)

Culture

On the weekend of October 19, 2012, Amy Lo- omis, Mike Boyd, Donal Boyd, and I traveled to

Volnay, France in the heart of Burgundy and met

up with Professor Apelian and

Dr. Seta Apelian. Amy and I

had spent the last two months

working on the establishment

of a MQP site at Hautes

Etudes d'Ingénieur, an engi-

neering college in Lille,

France that Prof. Apelian had

initiated. While there, we had

the opportunity to take week-

end trips to Brussels, Paris, and

Lyon, but Burgundy was cer-

tainly the most amazing trip.

Our journey through Burgundy

took place on our last week-

end, and was the perfect

way to say goodbye to

France. Prof. Apelian serves

on the Board of the Cheva-

liers du Tastevin Foundation

(see:

23 unpacked * Spring2013

ABOVE: “...of course, any photo-shoot in Burgundy requires a

bottle of wine and a baguette.”

http://www.masstastevin.com) and had a

Board meeting that weekend in Burgundy

and was able to make arrangements with

winemakers to host (and house) us.

Our home away from home

for the weekend was La Pousse

d’Or Winery (pictured here; see:

http://www.lapoussedor.fr/en/

domaine/). Originating in the

1100’s, and settled within the vil-

lage of Volnay, we were wel-

comed warmly by Patrick Landan-

ger, the proprietor, Diran Apelian,

and two students from the Enology

School at UC Davis who were work-

ing at the winery as part of the

Chevaliers du Tastevin Foundation

Scholars. Throughout the weekend,

we took advantage of their exten-

sive knowledge of all steps of the

winemaking process as we visited

the cellars and the vineyards.

http://www.masstastevin.com

http://www.lapoussedor.fr/en/domaine/

http://www.lapoussedor.fr/en/domaine/

After we arrived on Friday, we traveled to

Burgundia Oenologie, a wine consulting agency

located in nearby Beaune. While there, we

learned the scientific side of the winemaking pro-

cess, and all the work that goes into creating the

perfect glass of red or white. Once we finished our

tour, we went to the local supermarket to pick up

food for dinner, and most importantly, Époisses de

Bourgogne, the runny cheese that the region is

known for. We proceeded to cook dinner with the

six of us, and enjoyed it with a glass of wine while

sitting by a huge fireplace that was built in 1678.

The next morning, we traveled into

Beaune for break-

fast and a trip to

the local market

outside of the fa-

mous Hospices. As

we purchased fresh

meats, cheeses,

breads, and vege-

tables from the lo-

cal vendors for din-

ner, we came

across a stand

boasting more than

15 different types of

oysters. In very bro-

ken French, we

managed to get a

free sample or two,


which were well worth the effort. We also

came across an old Citroen, and the owner,

an older woman whom we had met while at

the market, let us take a couple of pictures

around the car—of course, any photo-shoot

in Burgundy requires a bottle of wine and a

baguette. After that, the Apelians host-

ed a lunch at a local restaurant, and

we had the opportunity to try escar-

gots and Beef bourguignon. We fin-

ished our night by attending a tasting

of wines and cheeses from the region

in the center of town. We also got to

watch a local group perform a tradi-

tional dance while we walked around.

On Sunday, we spent the day touring

through the vineyards of Volnay and

the local villages. Because harvest had

just been completed a few weeks ear-

lier, the vines were green, orange, red,

and yellow, and looked more like a

painting than real life. We then en-

joyed a lunch consisting of a buffet of

fresh cheeses and breads, accompa-

nied by local fig paste and a bottle of

wine while overlooking the Clos de Vougeot.

There is something special about enjoying

some of the world’s greatest foods while look-

ing over the land where it was all made. This

was certainly a fitting end to the weekend of

a lifetime, but made it that much more diffi-

cult to say goodbye.

Hong Kong: Photo Series

By Shelby Miller

Environmental Engineering ’13, Hong Kong (C ‘12)

Experience


ABOVE: Rush Hour in the Heart of Hong Kong—The 7 million people of Hong Kong occupy a land ar-

ea of only about 426 square miles, approximately one third the size of Rhode Island. This led to many

crowded days, trying to ride the subway and walking down the streets. This photo was taken after

our first day of work when we got off the subway in Mong Kok. We had hoped to find some dinner

near the street markets and were jolted by the sheer volume of people that were crammed into the

streets. It took a while to get home in the crowds, but it was certainly a new experience and brought

great appreciation for US cities. Most days, we attempted to find the least crowded way home so

that we could just reach our apartment and relax after a day of work. On the weekends, it was fun

to find crowded areas and observe all the people. The interactions between people in such a

crowded space were different than the interactions that we experience in US cities.


BELOW: A Splash of Color on Lamma Island—Lamma Island is a unique place in Hong Kong because

on a landmass of 13.55 square kilometers, this island is home to a coal-fired power plant, a tradition-

al village, an array of hiking opportunities and a fishing community. On the North part of the island,

there is a coal-fired power station that supplies power to Lamma Island and Hong Kong Island. As

we hiked around the island, we had amazing views of the landscape and searched for a cave. On

the way, we found some lookout points, including a gazebo designed like a Buddhist temple. As we

rounded to the other side of the island, we approached the small fishing village that boasts some of

the freshest seafood in Hong Kong. This picture shows the village from afar. The buildings featured

many different colors. In the foreground, you can see the various fishing boats used by the residents.

After our hike, we ate a seven course meal at the Rainbow Restaurant - garlic scallops, seafood

soup, sweet and sour fish, seafood spring rolls, abalone, seafood fried rice, and salt and pepper

shrimp. While the meal cost $50 USD per person, a big sum, we all agreed that it was some of the

best seafood we have ever had.

RIGHT: Peaceful Gi-

ant at the Ocean

Park Animal Theme

Park—The panda in

this photo was one

of two giant pandas

that lived at the

park. Ying Ying is the

female panda and

was very captivating

to watch. Le Le, the

male panda,

napped the entire

time that we were at

their enclosure, but

Ying Ying moved

around, rolled in the

grass, and enjoyed a

meal of fresh bam-

boo leaves. Here

you can see her en-

joying some leaves

while still focusing on

her audience.

27 unpacked



LEFT: The shale-lined coast of Tung Ping Chau—An im-

portant realization of enjoying the work that we were

doing gave our group a pleasant surprise while study-

ing ecotourism in Hong Kong. Tung Ping Chau is a re-

mote island about 10 kilometers from any other point in

Hong Kong and 4 kilometers from the border of the

Guangdong Province of mainland China. The island

has an area of 1.16 km2 and is unique to Hong Kong

geography because of the shale rock formations that

can be seen in the photo. This photo is on the north-

eastern side of the island near the ferry pier. Due to lim-

ited ferry service, our group had the privilege of spend-

ing two weekends on the island at a hostel, interview-

ing the local people. In our free time, we wandered up

and down the beaches looking for beach glass and

fossils and taking pictures of amazing things. One day,

it was drizzling out so when we returned to our hostel

we sat around a fire that the locals had made for us

and we cooked our own food. We were given a varie-

ty of meats and fish, even hotdogs, as well as vegeta-

bles, corn, and bread to grill and cook in the fire. The

meal tasted great and with the company that we had

it was the most rewarding meal that I have ever eaten.

We had the opportunity to interact with the local peo-

ple in a unique way that we may not have been able

to experience on a day trip to the island.

Precarious Flight to Shangri-La

By Colleen Callahan-Panday

Assistant Director, International Students and Scholars, Nepal (2009)

The Dornier 228 turboprop sat eighteen passengers. It was just wide enough for a person to

stand in the aisle, both arms outstretched, finger-

tips touching the sides of the plane. I settled into

the dark blue fabric of my seat, as the stewardess

picked her way over hiking boots and backpack

straps, distributing hard candies that would help

our eardrums adjust to the altitude during takeoff.

The stewardess’s uniform mimicked a tradi-

tional Sherpani chupa—a full length red jumper

tied in the back over a white silk shirt that framed

her neck like the collar of a kimono. A colorfully

woven rectangular apron pinned to the front of

her dress completed the look. As I took my foil-

wrapped candy, I wondered if it was an Agni Air

policy for stewardess uniforms to include the

apron, or if it truly signified that the attendant was

married, as it would in Sherpa culture.

The two pilots completed their pre-flight

checklist, and asked the stewardess to sit in the

last remaining seat, next to fifty kilo sacks of rice

and other commercial goods wedged around

cargo netting that held passenger luggage at the

back of the plane. The propellers whirred to life,

and the tiny aircraft taxied down the Tribhuvan

Airport runway.

It was June of 2009 and I was traveling to

the Solukhumbu region of Nepal with my husband

Prajjwal, and our school friend Rory. Intent on hik-

ing the most famous of Himalayan treks, our jour-

ney started with the thirty minute plane ride from

Kathmandu to Lukla; a tiny airport-village

perched on the side of a high mountain cliff, act-

ing as the gateway to Shangri-La.

Lukla was both a beautiful destination, and

a treacherous one. It consistently appears on lists

of the “most dangerous airports in the world” as it

is positioned amid slender, snaking, high altitude

valleys, and is

carved from a

ledge 2,850

meters above

sea level. On

approach the

runway, which

is less than 460

meters long

and 20 meters

wide, looks

more like a

mountain-top

driveway than

a place to

land a plane.

To accommo-

date the short

length of the

airstrip, the

ground is

pitched at a

twelve degree

angle to de-

crease landing

speed, and

pilots

Experience


ABOVE: The airport runway in Lukla, the day we landed.


conduct ma-

neuvers such

as

“backwards

thrust on pro-

pellers” to

further de-

celerate the

aircraft. One

travel guide

noted, “If this

worries you,

one comfort-

ing thought is

that only the

most experi-

enced pilots

in Nepal are

flying to

Lukla.”

Our

Agni flight

departed

the Kathmandu Valley and sped toward the wall

of jagged snow-tipped teeth on the horizon. Fif-

teen minutes later we were gliding through a

constricting green gorge shaped by the raging

glacial river below. Mountain ridges were close

enough to count individual treetops from the

windows of the plane. The pilots were navigating

by sight; in such a claustrophobic environment

GPS units are not as trustworthy as a steady pair

of eyes, and flights can only occur in good

weather. Limited visibility meant grounded

planes, or potential crashes.

This route certainly has its share. Before our

arrival, four flights had ended in disaster during

the previous five years, including a 2008 Yeti Air-

line crash that killed eighteen. A German family

captured the accident on video as they stood

on the hill above the airport, camera trained on

the edge of the runway. The plane’s engine

hummed deeply on approach, but the valley

was cloaked in a dense wall of cloud. The family

waited for the Twin Otter to burst dramatically

from the puffy whiteness and complete its jour-

ney safely to the tarmac. And burst it did—as a

fireball—just below the edge of the runway.

Chunks of white metal, rubber wheels, and other

wreckage could be seen from both the ground

and air for months.

I tried to forget these images as the run-

way came into view. I reassured myself by noting

that it was Yeti Airlines that crashed, but that I

was flying Agni. I reasoned that the pilots had a

vested interest in landing safely. I chided myself

on seeking foolish adventures and putting myself

at needless risk. I promised myself that I wouldn’t

fly this route again.

The approach was quick—from sky to

earth with little change in altitude. The plane

bounced hard on touchdown, and I gripped the

back of Rory’s seat, bracing for the aircraft to

bank and flip, another gory headline for the

news. Instead the wheels rolled to a hard stop

before the pilot maneuvered the plane to the

tiny stone-built airport terminal.

A deep sigh escaped my chest; I hadn’t

realized I’d held my breath through the final mo-

ments of the flight.

*

Rory, Prajjwal and I spent the next few

days hiking in the beautiful mountain landscape

of the Everest region, and at the end of our trek,

we found ourselves inevitably back in Lukla. Un-

less willing to hike another five grueling days to

the closest wheeled-transport, a thirty minute flight from the tiny airport was the only way back to

Kathmandu. The choice was clear; we boarded

the same Agni flight—anxiety quickly forgotten in

lieu of a successful adventure.

*

ABOVE: Loading the airplane: cargo and people.


Fourteen months later, in August of 2010, a

news article caught my eye. The title mentioned a

“tourist plane crash” in the foothills of the Himala-

yas.

The flight departed from Tribhuvan Airport,

intending to fly to Lukla, but had turned back mid-

way due to inclement weather. My heart sank

when I saw the company—the Agni flight crashed

before reaching Tribhuvan. All on board

were killed including one Briton, one Japanese, four

Americans, five Nepali and three Nepali crew.

I searched Nepali news websites with trepi-

dation, eager for information. Unlike American

news, which censors more graphic photography, I

came across a series of grisly photos taken by the

Nepali army and released to The Himalayan Times.

The plane smashed into a rice paddy fifty

miles outside of Kathmandu, and the muddy, water

-filled crater was strewn with scraps of clothing and

metal. A crowd gathered in the rain, hiding under

umbrellas, watching the salvage work.

The most haunting picture in the series was

of two Nepali army troops wearing green fatigues,

wiping their hands on a dirty white cloth after load-

ing light blue plastic bags of human remains into

the back of a truck. There were five plastic bags in

the picture, each no larger than a backpack.

That meant the bodies had exploded on

impact. I had nightmares of small blue garbage

bags filled with human remains, waiting on the curb

outside my apartment, ready to be taken by early

morning garbage men.

It took time to connect the tail numbers. A

follow-up article mentioned 9N-AHE. I searched

through my album for the trek, and scrutinized

each photo from Tribhuvan and Lukla: A photo of

the white Dornier 228, with Agni’s black, yellow and

red stripes along the side. Another with Rory and I

sitting in our seats, toothy-smiles for Prajjwal the

photographer, excited to fly to the tiny airport in

the clouds. A third—Rory and I pose outside of the

plane upon landing in Lukla, as porters carry lug-

gage from the aircraft. A fourth, our plane taxis

down the short runway, new passengers aboard,

the tail number visible yet small. I zoom in on the

picture; one click, then two, then three. I make out

the characters: 9N-AHE.

I re-read the articles—severe weather, spa-

tial disorientation and loss of flight instruments, me-

chanical and pilot error, outdated crew checklists.

The flight was doomed from the start. A flight I had

travelled. That picture of Rory and me in the dark

blue fabric seats, smiling. Those seats are gone.

Someone sitting in the same chair became chunks

of flesh in a

blue plastic

bag in the

back of a

Nepali army

truck. It

made me

physically ill.

I

thought of

the beautiful

stewardess

wearing the

red chupa,

passing out

foil-wrapped

candies. I

wondered

again if her

uniform

apron meant

that she was

married. Did

she leave be-

hind a hus-

band, per-

haps a young

child? ABOVE: A closer zoom reveals the tail number: 9N-AHE.


Inspiration

Out of the roughly three months I spent in Europe this past summer, the day I spent at the Plitvice

Richard Beski Mechanical Engineering ’13

Post London-IQP (D’12), Plitvice Lakes, Croatia

Lakes in Croatia offered some of the most aesthetically pleasing sights of my entire trip. Blue skies

and clear lakes provided the perfect setting for a day trip in Croatia’s largest National Park. The

calmness in the air at Plitvice was a refreshing way to come off of the overnight travel from my pre-

vious location of Berlin, Germany. Being able to relax and enjoy these lakes was exactly what I was

looking for during my European backpacking trip. Visiting many different countries and doing many

different things in a short period of time is very enjoyable and rewarding, but nothing beats relaxing

and seeing what nature has to offer.


Fairbanks, Alaska: Photo Series: Sunset at 2pm

By Aram Wool

Master’s in Electrical and Computer Engineering ‘14

Inspiration

I took these photos while visiting my family in Fairbanks, Alaska during winter break. In the days prior I was cooped up indoors due to ice fog and the

concomitant hazardous air quality, so when things cleared up I was quick to saunter through the trails behind our house and capture the sunset at 2pm.


Fairbanks, Alaska: Photo Series: Sunset at 2pm

By Aram Wool

Master’s in Electrical and Computer Engineering ‘14

I took these photos while visiting my family in Fairbanks, Alaska during winter break. In the days prior I was cooped up indoors due to ice fog and the

concomitant hazardous air quality, so when things cleared up I was quick to saunter through the trails behind our house and capture the sunset at 2pm.


Viewpoint

Don’t Try This at Home

By Robert Krueger

Associate Professor, Interdisciplinary and Global Studies Division, Laos (2006).

has done something dangerous and records their

escapade on film: “Don’t try this at home.” This

story doesn’t take place in your kitchen, backyard,

or basement. The setting is outside the United

States. Yet, for the reasons I outline below the

same caveat applies.

Before I begin you need to know something

about me. The basic demographics are: middle-

aged, white, guy, receding hairline, two kind and

beautiful children, solidly middle class, environmen-

talist. Beyond these categories I am a human ge-

ographer whose research, professional, and per-

sonal life are dedicated to a sustained critique of so

-called sustainable development. Don’t get me

wrong, I want to make the world a better place

and I actively try to do so every day. I do this pro-

fessionally by calling out how our daily social prac-

tices create winners and losers. The losers, too of-

ten in my view, are the economically disadvan-

taged. If you haven’t figured it out yet, let me put it

succinctly: I am—unapologetically—a Marxist.

I am not a “bleeding heart liberal”. I don’t

give money to people on the street. I rarely give

money to charity, choosing instead to give my

time. To me, giving money to people on the street,

and possibly even to some charities, only serves to

placate those in need and thereby serving the

needs of the rich; i.e., those who preyed on our

neighbors with sub-prime mortgages, and got them

again when they had to sell their homes “short”,

and those who became wealthier as we watched

our retirement accounts drain towards empty in the

shadow of The Great Recession. Again: no apolo-

gy.

In 2006, I violated my policy of not giving

cash to people when my family and I gave over

$3,000 to a family in Luang Prabang, Laos. I did this

after advising at WPI’s Bangkok Project Center.

By that point we had gotten into the pace

of life that is Southeast Asia, we had taken on the

Thai phrase “mai pen rai” or “don’t worry about it”

as a guiding principle. We began walking slower

between destinations. We spent more time at the

table eating and enjoying better meals. We had

made friends in Bangkok.

I have seen the other side of Southeast Asia,

too. One IQP I advised helped undocumented

children in Bangkok’s slums, I’d seen teen-aged

prostitutes with geriatrics in Bangkok’s NaNa district,

and observed people drinking water from the same

river where they sent their untreated waste. More

broadly, in Siam Reap, Cambodia, I saw signs

placed by the UN warning people of hidden land

mines. Below those signs were peasants, mostly

women, harvesting rice for their families. I swear,

though I have no scientific data to prove it, one in

five Cambodians living in Siam Reap is missing at

least one digit, or a hand, or a limb—and these are

the survivors of landmines. Finally, for a few hun-

dred Cambodian “reel”, or well under $1, any child

in Siam Reap under the age of 15 can, on demand,

recall the name of every US state capitol. Can you?

At this point in my travels, I had been asked

by hundreds of people for money and said, “no”, a

word that is universal to those who are forced to

beg. I still receive emails from “Oda” in Siam Reap

asking for $250 to help his slow transport business.

In Bangkok, one of my friends fell ill and asked me

to take his two boys back to the US with me (he lat-

er recovered).

So why did we give the Houmphengs mon-

ey? Because he is our friend, we believed him, and

we believed he needed our help.

As I mentioned above, I am a social scientist

whose discipline is human geography. This means

that my scientific research often focuses on how

“place” or context shape social relationships and

conditions. As we geographers like to say, “we

study the why of where”. Context played an im-

portant part of our decision to help the

Houmphengs.

I met Mr. Houmpheng in 2006 when my fami-

ly and I found ourselves in search of a boat to take

us up river. A dozen willing captains approached

us offering slightly different options on the general

theme: a boat ride to a village, then lunch at a riv-

erside “restaurant”, back by sunset.

Despite what I suggested about being an

unaffected observer of Southeast Asia, I was over-

whelmed by the onslaught. So, as any tourist in a

similar situation would do, we looked ahead blankly

and scurried past the hoard of able captains and

You often hear it as a warning when someone


ducked into a shop. Mrs. Houmpheng was there,

she was the shop’s manager. The shop wasn’t

unique. We had seen many of the goods on offer

at the night market and, for that matter, the shop

one street over. I remember I was taking in an an-

tique of Lao tapestry when Mrs. Houmpheng ap-

proached me. Her husband had a boat and

would take us for 1,000 Thai Baht, or roughly $25.

Mekong River trips are amazing. The River is

so powerful; it is truly the source of life for the com-

munities that exist along it. You don’t have to be

an anthropologist to see how farming practices are

shaped by the different seasonal and annual flows

of water, the rotation of crops, and other climatic

variables. Houmpheng’s “long-tail” boat with its

350cc Chevrolet engine mounted awkwardly to the

back, which connected to a long drive shaft and a

prop, the boat’s signature “long tail”, whisked us up

river. The “long tail” is useful along the Mekong be-

cause it easily adapts to both deep and shallow

water effectively.

The village was fine and the meal was sim-

ple. We shared a bowl of sweet Lao fish curry and

sticky rice. The fish came from 25 feet away from

our seats and the spice mix was hand ground earli-

er that day. It was, however, the region’s staple

food—sticky rice—that was sublime. It was cooked

over an open fire; the rice soaked up the smell of

the burning wood and the jungle the wood came

from. Delicious.

The next day, after we visited wats, or tem-

ples, around the area we found ourselves throwing

stones into the Mekong near Mrs. Houmpheng’s

shop. Houmpheng wasn’t around but we chatted

with his wife. Soon, she got on her cell phone and

Houmpheng came chugging down the river in his

boat. We hung out on the river speaking broken

English, French, and Lao. We cruised up the river,

our families together, where Houmpheng taught

my son some French words, and showed my

daughter how to write the Lao alphabet on a sand

bar. The sun bonded with the land and our families

bonded, too.

Before we left Laos, I bought that antique

tapestry, which I learned was framed by

Houmpheng. We said our “good-byes” promising

to come back and to write. We had developed a

friendship.

We returned home. A few months later we

heard from Houmpheng’s niece—she’s the one in

his family who could write in English. Some time lat-

er we received a late night phone call. It wasn’t

the wrong number. It was a staticky, distant call,

not from this hemisphere, not from this universe.

Houmpheng explained that he had been

sick, that he had a “lump” in his kidney that need-

ed surgery. Unknown to Houmpheng, my close

friend’s father had just recovered from the kind of

cancer he described. At first, I was angry, suspi-

cious. I had to actively go back to that place, to

that context, where we had met to understand his

request. To perceive it as it was, not what I had

grown re-accustomed to.

The next day, I spoke to an MD I had met in

Bangkok, a surgeon at a hospital there. Dr. Thavat

agreed to treat Houmpheng in Bangkok. I calculat-

ed the costs. To have Thavat do the surgery, to pay

for a hotel, and return flights for Houmpheng and

his wife would be about $3,000. Initially,

Houmpheng agreed to go to Bangkok. Then, he

decided to go to Vientiane, the capitol of Laos, for

his surgery. There he had family, a brother who

could care for him after the surgery. He had never

been more than 200 kilometers from his home, a

“city” of about 16,000. Now, I wanted him to visit a

hospital that, to him, was itself a small city, in a

place of unimaginable size. In short, he went to

Vientiane, where a Chinese-trained doctor per-

formed the surgery for $2,500. When he was able

he returned home. We supported him and his ex-

tended family for months while he recovered.

The following year he showed my friend, an-

other WPI faculty member who visited Laos, a schist

preserved in a jar. He entertained that friend in his

home and invited village elders to perform a

“Bacri”, a ceremony performed by people who fol-

low Animism. When I visited later that year, they did

so for my family, too. No one asked for money. We

celebrated friendship and realigning our spirits

through an animist ritual.

You may think that I am crazy. Maybe I am.

I look back at my life over the past half dozen years

and, outside of my children, I think it is one of my

greatest achievements. For a couple of years, I

was able to see beyond cultural context, look out-

side simple economics, to see past what econo-

mists tell me is human nature (i.e., self-interest), and

live in a moment. Where friendship and kindness

ruled the day. Where understanding gave way to

cynicism. I miss those days.

I still give time over money to charity. I still

don’t give into a beggar’s request. And, at this

moment, I can’t think of a context that would ex-

ist where I would do this again. Then again,

through this experience, I know there is hope.

So, do what you want, but think twice

about trying this at home.

Culture

Mongolia: Photo Series

By Dulguun Gatulga

Biology and Biotechnology ‘16, from Mongolia


ABOVE: Naadam is a summer festival in Mongolia. Horse racing is the most traditional and touching

part of the festival which also includes wrestling and archery competitions. Horse racing shows

strength and the ability to travel long distances in a short amount of time as our ancestors did back

in the 13th century.

Mongolian yurts (tents) can be seen in the background of the picture and are a traditional form of

housing for the nomadic people of the rural countryside.


BELOW: Races are typically 15-30 kilometers long, and up to 1000 horses from across Mongolia can

be chosen to participate.

Surprisingly, the horse jockeys are children ages 5 to 13. They train for months preceding the races.

France: Photo Series

By Micaila Baroffio

Psychological Sciences and Mathematical Sciences ‘16, France (2011).

Inspiration


ABOVE: White marble crosses and stars of David mark the graves of American soldiers buried in the

American cemetery at Normandy, France. The cemetery rests overlooking Omaha Beach, one of

the invasion sites during the Day of Days. Of the 9,387 buried in the cemetery, over 300 have never

been identified—their gravestones simply read “Here rests in honored glory a comrade in arms

known but to God.”

RIGHT: The Winged Victory of Samothrace is one of the oldest and most striking sculptures housed in

the Louvre. Dating back to 200 B.C., Victory is an unknown sculptor’s depiction of Nike, the goddess

of victory. Her arms and head, once raised in triumph, have never been recovered.



The Eiffel Tower at sunset.


Inspiration

My Charm

By Rodrigo Calles

Management Engineering ‘14

An unknown world spins inside my mind,

where my essence of life lives deep within its spine.

Giving me the strength to spellbind

these shining lines.

My soul flows in these mindless lines,

where a lifeless dust spirit of mine

lives deep within these rhymes.

And no more will it become their dine.

Across the ancient land of mist I align,

where every shallow soul declines

and every divine spirit arise.

But within my mastermind,

these eternal lines of mine

lives now within your shallow divine eyes.

47 unpacked * Fall 2012

This issue of unpacked includes authors, stories, and photos from the below marked locations:

Do you have something to submit for unpacked Spring 2013?

Submissions, questions and comments/letters-to-the-editor can be sent to

[email protected]

For more information visit: wpi.edu/offices/ih/unpacked.html

Next submission deadline: February 3, 2013 @ midnight


This issue of unpacked includes authors, stories, and photos from the below marked locations:

Do you have something to submit for unpacked Spring 2013?

Submissions, questions and comments/letters-to-the-editor can be sent to

[email protected]

For more information visit: wpi.edu/offices/ih/unpacked.html

Next submission deadline: February 3, 2013 @ midnight

us for more stories of

travel and culture on

April 23rd!

If you like unpacked, join

Forth Rail Bridge is renowned as an engineering marvel and as an important Scottish landmark,

the bridge has 10 times more steel than the Eiffel Tower. Nicolas Martinez (Scotland, 2012).

Documents

Second Issue 3