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From The Danger of a Single Story, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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From The Danger of a Single Story, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

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But I must quickly add that I too am just as guilty in the question of the single story. A few years ago, I visited Mexico from the U.S. The political climate in the U.S. at the time was tense, and there were debates going on about immigration. And, as often happens in America, immigration became synonymous with Mexicans. There were endless stories 65 of Mexicans as people who were fleecing the healthcare system, sneaking across the border, being arrested at the border, that sort of thing.

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From A Passage to Africa, George Alagiah

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From A Passage to Africa, George Alagiah

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My reaction to everyone else I met that day was a mixture of pity and revulsion. Yes, revulsion. The degeneration of the human body, sucked of its natural vitality by the twin 35 evils of hunger and disease, is a disgusting thing. We never say so in our TV reports. It’s a taboo that has yet to be breached. To be in a feeding centre is to hear and smell the excretion of fluids by people who are beyond controlling their bodily functions. To be in a feeding centre is surreptitiously to wipe your hands on the back of your trousers after you’ve held the clammy palm of a mother who has just cleaned vomit from her child’s 40 mouth.

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From The Explorer’s Daughter, Kari Herbert

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From The Explorer’s Daughter, Kari Herbert

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The narwhal … is an essential contributor to the survival of the hunters in the High Arctic. The mattak or blubber of the whale is rich in necessary minerals and vitamins, and in a place where the climate prohibits the growth of vegetables or fruit, this rich 20 source of vitamin C was the one reason that the Eskimos have never suffered from scurvy. … For centuries the blubber of the whales was also the only source of light and heat, and the dark rich meat is still a valuable part of the diet for both man and dogs (a single narwhal can feed a team of dogs for an entire month). Its single ivory tusk, which can grow up to six feet in length, was used for harpoon tips and handles for other 25 hunting implements (although the ivory was found to be brittle and not hugely satisfactory as a weapon), for carving protective tupilaks , and even as a central beam for their small ancient dwellings.

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Explorers or boys messing about? Either way, taxpayer gets rescue bill, Steven Morris

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Explorers or boys messing about? Either way, taxpayer gets rescue bill, Steven Morris

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Ironically, one of the aims of the expedition, for which Mr Smith provided air back-up, 55 was to demonstrate how good relations between east and west had become. The wisdom of the team’s latest adventure was questioned by, among others, Günter Endres, editor of Jane’s Helicopter Markets and Systems, said: ‘I’m surprised they used the R44. I wouldn’t use a helicopter like that to go so far over the sea. It sounds as if they were pushing it to the maximum’. 60 A spokesman for the pair said it was not known what had gone wrong. The flying conditions had been ‘excellent’.

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From Between a Rock and a Hard Place, Aron Ralston

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From Between a Rock and a Hard Place, Aron Ralston

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Stemming across the canyon at the lip of the drop-off, with one foot and one hand on each of the walls, I traverse3 out to the chockstone. I press my back against the south wall and lock my left knee, which pushes my foot tight against the north wall. With my right foot, I kick at the boulder to test how stuck it is. It’s jammed tightly enough to hold my weight. I lower myself from the chimneying position and step onto the chockstone. It 25 supports me but teeters slightly. After confirming that I don’t want to chimney down from the chockstone’s height, I squat and grip the rear of the lodged boulder, turning to face back up canyon. Sliding my belly over the front edge, I can lower myself and hang from my fully extended arms, akin to climbing down from the roof of a house. As I dangle, I feel the stone respond to my adjusting grip with a scraping quake as my body’s weight applies enough torque4 30 to disturb it from its position.

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Young and dyslexic? You’ve got it going on, Benjamin Zephaniah

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Young and dyslexic? You’ve got it going on, Benjamin Zephaniah

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I never thought I was stupid. I didn’t have that struggle. If I have someone in front of me who doesn’t have a problem reading and writing telling me that black people are savages I just think, ‘I’m not stupid – you’re the one who’s stupid.’ I just had self-belief. For my first book I told my poems to my girlfriend, who wrote them down for me. It really took off, especially within the black community. I wrote ‘wid luv’ for ‘with love’. 50 People didn’t think they were dyslexic poems, they just thought I wrote phonetically. At 21 I went to an adult education class in London to learn to read and write. The teacher told me, ‘You are dyslexic,’ and I was like, ‘Do I need an operation?’ She explained to me what it meant and I suddenly thought, ‘Ah, I get it. I thought I was going crazy.’ 55 I wrote more poetry, novels for teenagers, plays, other books and recorded music. I take poetry to people who do not read poetry. Still now, when I’m writing the word ‘knot’, I have to stop and think, ‘How do I write that?’ I have to draw something to let me know what the word is to come back to it later. If I can’t spell ‘question’ I just put a question mark and come back to it later.

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From A Game of Polo with a Headless Goat, Emma Levine

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From A Game of Polo with a Headless Goat, Emma Levine

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Just as I was assuming that the race had been cancelled, we spotted two approaching 15 donkey-carts in front of a cloud of fumes and dust created by some fifty vehicles roaring up in their wake. As they drew nearer, Yaqoob revved up the engine and began to inch the car out of the lay-by. The two donkeys were almost dwarfed by their entourage1 ; but there was no denying their speed — the Kibla donkey is said to achieve speeds of up to 40 kph, and this looked close. The two were neck-and-neck, their jockeys perched on 20 top of the tiny carts using their whips energetically, although not cruelly. The noise of the approaching vehicles grew; horns tooting, bells ringing, and the special rattles used just for this purpose (like maracas, a metal container filled with dried beans). Men standing on top of their cars and vans, hanging out of taxis and perched on lorries, all cheered and shouted, while the vehicles jostled to get to the front of the 25 convoy.

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From Beyond the Sky and the Earth: A Journey into Bhutan, Jamie Zeppa

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From Beyond the Sky and the Earth: A Journey into Bhutan, Jamie Zeppa

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The next morning, I share breakfast of instant coffee, powdered milk, plasticky white bread and flavorless1 20 red jam in the hotel with two other Canadians who have signed on to teach in Bhutan for two years. Lorna has golden brown hair, freckles and a no nonsense, home-on-the-farm demeanor2 that is frequently shattered by her ringing laughter and stories of the wild characters that populate her life in Saskatchewan. Sasha from British Columbia is slight and dark, with an impish smile. After breakfast, we have a brief 25 meeting with Gordon, the field director of the WUSC program in Bhutan, and then walk along the main road of Thimphu. Both Lorna and Sasha have traveled3 extensively; Lorna trekked all over Europe and northern Africa and Sasha worked for a year in an orphanage in Bombay. They are both ecstatic about Bhutan so far, and I stay close to them, hoping to pick up some of their enthusiasm.

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Through all this the man was perfectly calm. He gathered up the hawk in one practised movement, folding her wings, anchoring her broad feathered back against his chest, gripping her scaled yellow legs in one hand. ‘Let’s get that hood back on,’ he said tautly. 35 There was concern in his face. It was born of care. This hawk had been hatched in an incubator, had broken from a frail bluish eggshell into a humid perspex box, and for the first few days of her life this man had fed her with scraps of meat held in a pair of tweezers, waiting patiently for the lumpen, fluffy chick to notice the food and eat, her new neck wobbling with the effort of keeping her head in the air. All at once I loved this 40 man, and fiercely. I grabbed the hood from the box and turned to the hawk. Her beak was open, her hackles raised; her wild eyes were the colour of sun on white paper, and they stared because the whole world had fallen into them at once.

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From Chinese Cinderella, Adeline Yen Mah

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From Chinese Cinderella, Adeline Yen Mah

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Timidly, I knocked on the door. Father was alone, looking relaxed in his slippers and bathrobe, reading a newspaper. He smiled as I entered and I saw he was in a happy 35 mood. I breathed a small sigh of relief at first but became uneasy when I wondered why he was being so nice, thinking, Is this a giant ruse on his part to trick me? Dare I let my guard down? ‘Sit down! Sit down!’ He pointed to a chair. ‘Don’t look so scared. Here, take a look at this! They’re writing about someone we both know, I think.’ 40 He handed me the day’s newspaper and there, in one corner, I saw my name ADELINE YEN in capital letters prominently displayed. ‘It was announced today that 14-year-old Hong Kong schoolgirl ADELINE JUN-LING YEN of Sacred Heart Canossian School, Caine Road, Hong Kong, has won first prize in the International Play-writing Competition held in London, England, for the 1951—1952 45 school year. It is the first time that any local Chinese student from Hong Kong has won such a prestigious event. Besides a medal, the prize comes with a cash reward of FIFTY ENGLISH POUNDS. Our sincere congratulations, ADELINE YEN, for bringing honour to Hong Kong. We are proud of you’. Is it possible? Am I dreaming? Me, the winner?