The End of my Semester Abroad

I need a break! My eyes are strained, my shoulders ache and my mind is crashing. I just wrote a porfolio of 241 pages of writing for my schoolwork this semester.

Some people think that my school is easy and slack because it is an alternative, international program. Writing a portfolio of 241 pages of good, solid, researched essays is not easy. I can hardly believe that I even wrote so much.

I think my school is a lot more difficult than traditional universities. I have to live in a culture other than my own while studying. I have to live in a place where people do not speak my native language. I have to develop my own curriculum. I have to decide what I am going to learn. I have to do my own, real live field work and research, doing interviews, making visits, finding contacts. I have to draw my own conclusions from my own experiences, and not just regurgitate what a teacher thinks or what some dude wrote in a book. No secondhand experiences here.

My school is challenging. My brain needs a break. I am glad it is summer.

Ethno-Tourism and Indigenous Communities in Costa Rica

So often tourism and an intrusion of outside influences have worked against indigenous peoples. They have been exploited as exotic savages, with explorers searching them out on expeditions to tell of their strange encounters. Stemming from this, indigenous peoples have altered their own cultures, playing into these stereotypes for the monetary benefits that tourism brings. From colorful turbaned gypsies in India, the Sichuanese putting on the attire of Tibetan nomads, and the Cuna parading their naked children dancing in the streets, people have found dollar signs where tourists seek culture.

A shell of tradition, a costume, a craft, a dance becomes bastardized, losing the intricate internal meaning and bowing down only for almighty money. A beaded necklace that once took weeks to fashion and years of skill to learn, is sloppily thrown together and sold for half the price at sub-par quality. A song that once described the universe is now forgotten, and only unintelligible humming is uttered for money on the street corner. All too much, the beautiful diversities of humanity have succumbed to this plague of tourism.

(Photo of indigenous mask artisan)

In Costa Rica, however, a very interesting movement in the indigenous communities is being developed and tested. They are using tourism as a way to revitalize and preserve their cultures.

I walked into the Namu gallery in San Jose, and my senses were blasted from all sides with vibrant colors and eccentric shapes. Every corner of the store displays baskets, masks, paintings, jewelry, textiles and all crafts imaginable made by the indigenous peoples of Costa Rica. The store is almost alive as these creatures crawl over the walls. It is so overflowed with such beautiful cultural works that I can hardly believe that less than 2% of the Costa Rican population is recognized as indigenous. Yet it is because of this colorful artesania that the indigenous people are finding a guiding light.

The Namu gallery was founded in San Jose almost a decade ago by an idealistic youth anxious to display the rich indigenous cultures of Costa Rica. At that time indigenous communities were hardly acknowledged and mostly unknown to the outside world. Conall French, after spending time volunteering with various tribes in the country, realized the need for these cultures to be rescued from extinction. The brightly painted masks, intricately woven baskets, and exquisitely designed handicrafts appeared to be just the eye-catching ticket to aid in the struggle.

As a family run effort, the Frenches now showcase work from all 8 tribes of Costa Rica in their fair-trade gallery. For the craftsmen this gives them an opportunity to sell their creations to a broader market for a better price than what they might earn selling locally on the side of the highway. The earnings are split 50/50 between the artisan and the shop, and the work is shown to international buyers. Some of the artists have even been able to solely rely on their crafts for income.

The Boruca masks are a very prime example of how tourism and Namu has affected the traditional culture. Originally these people carved wooden masks with demonic faces to be worn in the dance of the “diablitos.” They have now branched out in their craftsmanship. They have developed an “ecological” mask, which mixes the traditional style of iconology but now also portrays a medley of flora and fauna from the local region. The new mask forms express an indigenous cosmovision depicting an interconnectedness with nature. Because the diablitos masks were so popular the artists have been able to creatively expand and refine their skills.

A decade ago the mask-makers were mostly elders, and the tradition appeared to be in danger of survival. As the masks became more marketable to the tourists, the younger generations found importance, and a majority of the craftsmen are now young men. The involvement of these younger generations and pride in one’s traditional customs is integral for the continuation of cultural heritage.

In the Bribri reserve of the Talamanca region in southern Costa Rica, community efforts are striving to develop a system of sustainable tourism. The Finca Educativa is a network of 17 organizations of community, grass-roots tourism. It is used as a coordination base due to its close proximity to the outside and its access to phone, internet, and fax services. The Finca Educativa was formed to promote a kind of eco-ethnotourism. This is tourism that focuses on learning about ethnic groups and culture and also includes learning about environmental issues while communing with nature.

The Finca Educativa is very particular about the type of tourism that they allow into the community. The amount of tourists admitted must be ecologically sustainable for their area. They do not permit the tour companies from outside to bring in groups that may be culturally insensitive, such as the tourists coming in from the cruise ships in Limon. All guides must be local, and they prefer to take tourists in small eager-to-learn groups, rather than individuals. The Bribri do not want their towns to become a product of tourism, like so many other have, devoted to consumerism, partying, wiping out local traditions, foreign owned businesses, and an artificial “gringo” atmosphere.

In the indigenous pueblo of Watsi community members lead tours through the village to exhibit the way they live, how they farm, and how they make traditional crafts. Often other cultural events such as dances and storytelling are featured. The organization aims to include all members in the community from the youngest to the oldest. They believe that the more the wealth is spread the more of an aiding factor it will be. A theater group of children and teens has been created using the theory of indigenous theater developed by Pablo Presbere. Through theater arts they are portraying their indigenous culture with use of folktales, plays, and dances. The oldest person of the community of the ripe age of 107 is the grandfather and great-grandfather of a majority of the town’s population. He is often the leader of the traditional “Dance of the Vulture” as well as a storyteller during tours.

A major part of the Finca Educativa initiative is the women’s group ACOMUITA. This is a cooperative of 71 indigenous females started 19 years ago by Maria Lopez. Passed from her grandmother and founder of the community, Adela, she was instilled with the importance of continuing their cultural heritage. In the Bribri belief the indigenous bloodline is handed down by the mother and inherited by the girl-children. The females have supreme power over the family and household. In lieu of this, ACOMUITA was formed for helping community development by the traditional leaders, women. The women are usually enthusiastic about being a member of ACOMUITA because they can earn extra money to help their families and send their children to school while feeling empowered.

They have many projects already established and in the making for sustainable tourism development while preserving cultural values. One of the most elaborate projects is the making of organic chocolate. Cacao is a sacred plant chosen by the almighty deity Sibu to make human, and therefore, it is believed to be a representation of the mother of people. Traditionally the indigenous have grown cacao and made chocolate candy and drinks. Yet, the custom was failing due to lack of interest and a devastation of cacao plants caused by the Monilia fungus beginning in 1978.

In 2003 Maria Lopez and the other women initiated the chocolate project through ACOMUITA to revitalize it. They are establishing themselves as organic chocolate producers, farming the fruit and cooking the chocolate. So far, 25 locally involved farms have been certified as organic by the APTA. Tourists come to watch the chocolate making process and sample the delectable treats. It is also sold in nearby towns such as Cahuita and Puerto Viejo, and at other markets throughout the country. Their efforts are keeping tradition alive throughout the community as well as producing ways to gain a much needed income.

Quitirrisi is home to another indigenous community, the Huetar, whom are using tourism as a tool for revitalization to bring back their lost culture. Don Sanchez has started an agenda of tourism based on education and sharing of cultural experiences. Most of the tourists visiting his organization are school children or educational programs.

He showcases many traditions, such as the native style of building houses, an ancestor alter and a sacred corner placed in the farm. There is even a museum of Huetar archaeology of artifacts that he has collected from the region. Don Sanchez gives lectures on the indigenous cosmovision and the history of his people. Finally, he hosts a traditional sweatlodge in which his guests may participate in the sacred ceremony.

Although the Huetar people were once thought to be the largest indigenous group in Costa Rica, their population has dwindled and their culture has followed in the decline. Don Sanchez was raised in the indigenous community of Quitirrisi, but much about his own culture he has learned secondhand through books. Over the passing of time the Huetares has lost their language, customs and belief system. Don Sanchez is desperately struggling to rejuvenate his heritage before it is lost forever.

Tourism is a very weighty force in determining the fate of indigenous peoples. It has the power to destroy or the power to build. If it is regulated properly, it may be used as a significant tool to preserve culture. It must be, however, undertaken by the indigenous communities themselves in a sustainable manner. When this occurs it can be cultivated as a positive cultural exchange in which tourists are happy yet educated, and the indigenous societies may preserve tradition while breaking chains of poverty instilled by the first world.

Writing a Portfolio

I am currently finishing up my semester with Global College/ Friends World Program of Long Island University. This week I have a lot of writing to do, a lot of editing, and a lot of piecing it all together. Forgive me if I do not do too much blogging this week.
More stories will come soon! I promise!
Also, I have started a spanish language blog for the work I have written in my spanish class. If you are lingually inclined, check it out:
http://vagabundagringa.blogspot.com

Safe Journeys and Happy reading,
Mira

End of Semester Presentation

I made a short video for a presentation for the end of my semester at Global College in Latin America. It is kind of a synopsis of my projects, classes, and what I learned.
Enjoy!

Girls Underwear and Shady Hotels in Panama City

Embarrassing Unmentionables

Latin Americans, because of certain Catholic cultural values, are forced to make love in coveted, mysterious ways. They cannot bring their lovers home to show off to their families, so the common custom is to rent a room in a “love” motel. These unsavory places are also the frequent haunts of prostitutes looking for customers. These hotels are present all over the Latin world. They offer rates by the hour, and usually have the cheapest price in town. Sad to say, I have often stayed in these hotels out of sheer economics. Often there is no other affordable option for the traveler in more expensive cities.

Such a place is Panama City. Because of the vast historical heritage, the quaint restored colonial avenues of Casco Viejo, the lore of the largest canal in the world, and the rich culture of the land, Panama City has a large tourism infrastructure. There are hundreds of beautiful sky high resort type hotels in swanky, clean parts of the city. These huge white monstrosities, however, are far out of y price range. The youth hostels ran an average price of $10 per night. I thought this was also expensive for a bed without a lock open to robbery, sleeping in a room full of dirty, smelly hippie kids and sticky, fungus-floored communal bathrooms. Like the other tourist hotels, the hostels were on the outskirts of the center city, in nice quiet residential and business districts that utterly stank of America money. These places provided the comfort of ambiguity as to any indication of the region of the world, void of all cultural or uncomfortable aspects of the country. These blank places seem to comfort the rich tourist while on vacation. Yet then again what person with money to spend would want to stay in the loud, exhaust-filled, wild center of Panama City when they could sleep in silence?

I and my purse, however, were in for the center city. A few stops in seedy hotels, and I finally found a private room with a bathroom in a quaint hotel for a fraction of the price of a hostel dorm bed.

From my window I looked down upon the main drag where I had a clear view of all the action of the city; the wildly painted pimped buses, the street vendors selling cigarettes and gum from huge baskets and the Cuna women walking passed in their beaded and stitched garbs. The surging multitude was like watching a parade, complete with the honking of cars and blaring reggaeton, Latin and Caribbean rhythms. It was located amongst a wide range of local restaurants and bars, within a minute’s walk of the busy street markets on one side and a tranquil, lazy park on the other. This was far more exciting than being stuck up in the dead banking district.

It was, although, of the unsavory category of a love motel. The sidewalk in front was heavily shaded by thick bushes to obscure the view of entry through the front door. The paper thin walls in the interior did nothing to hide the nature of the hotel either.

Entering the afternoon of my check-in, I heard panting through the hallways. Stopping to wait for the elevator, I determined that the sounds were coming from the adjacent room from a couple obviously in the act of after lunch coitus. After hearing all too much of the shrill pleasure moaning and the bed-posts thumping against the walls, I scampered away up the stairs, too discomfited to wait longer for the elevator while forced to eavesdrop on the mating pair.

That night, unlike the activities of the other guests, I washed my clothes. I hung them over the windowsill in hope that they would dry in the cool night breeze before morning.

During the night I was roused by a strong wind blowing in my 4^th story window, banging the shutters against the brick exterior. Half asleep, and forgetting about my wet clothes, I shut the windows, bolting them against the harsh wind. The next morning I awoke to a wind-blown room with every item that could catch the wind strewn about the floor. My two clean shirts were tightly locked in the window, but shockingly my underwear was gone. The torrential gusts the night before must have blown them away.

They were not in the room, nor in my pile of luggage. I flung open the shutters and searched the street. I saw nothing. I dressed and went out to search the street. I ran, a little ashamed, around the surrounding blocks, but found not even the slightest sign of my panties. Gone. Disappeared. They were nowhere to be found. I let go of the notion of ever discovering them again and bid farewell.

The worst part is this underwear was not just any normal, ordinary pair. They were the well-hidden, unappealing period panties. Even uglier than the average granny panty, these are the ones only used when there is absolutely no likelihood whatsoever of being seen. They are a most clandestine secret of women, never to be revealed to the eyes of men. (For the reader’s sake I dare not go into further gruesome description as to the appearance of the well-worn garment.) My unmentionable secret had flown like a kite out of the window and was now on the loose in Panama City, exposed to the world.

My dirty secret was out there, but it did not match the dirty secrets of the other hotel guests. Because of the risqué location they had probably been identified and wrongly accused as those of a woman of the night. My mind ran through possible scenarios of what may have happened to my underwear. Had they been taken by someone? Were they now covering someone else’s nether regions? Was there a panty-sniffer on the loose? Would this panty-snatcher search me out? What kind of sick person would touch someone else’s period panties anyway? Would I ever find out the answers to this strange mystery?

I somehow forgot about the uncomforting experience, and moved on for the period panty is an utmost forgettable piece of one’s wardrobe. It is not an article of clothing that women often fret over in daily life. It is only donned once a month and with more contempt than delight. While traveling, a female does not often contemplate such matters with too much worry for the majority of weeks.

Thirty days later I was reminded of the incident, to my dissatisfaction and discomfort. In my absent-mindedness I have not gotten around to purchasing another adequate undergarment for the occasion. There are now four countries between me and my lost panties. I am left with frilly, stringy, lacy pieces that hardly cover anything worth mentioning. In my forgetfulness I have reduced myself to wearing my bathing suit, the only adequate piece of cloth to cover myself. This will have to do until a lingerie store in rural Honduras can be found.

Turrialba, Costa Rica

El 28 de enero

Hoy yo descubrí la belleza y la hospitalidad de Costa Rica de Nuevo. El Wade (mi novio quien está conmigo) no le gustó Costa Rica cuando estuvo aquí la última vez. El solamente visitó San José y Cartago y tuvo una experiencia mala.Ahora yo quiero mostrarle el otro lado de Costa Rica, como la gente amigable, la cultura divertida, la naturaleza bella, y todo lo que yo he conocido de este país.

Ayer salimos de Heredia y fuimos a Turriabla. Yo no conocía Turriabla, pero El Wade quería ir a las montañas y nuestro libro de guía se dice que allá las hay. Cuando llegamos, no vimos montañas ni senderos ni parques ni nada. Eso no estaba por las nubes tampoco. Yo le pregunté a la dueña del hotel y ella me miró como una loquita.

“Pues… se puede caminar hasta Santa Rosa, pero es muy lejos, como cuatro kilometros.”

Entonces Wade y yo salimos caminando por la calle a Santa Rosa y en pocos minutos empezó a llover. Nosotros regresamos al hotel después de mojarnos mucho. Estabamos tristes y desalentados.

Pero, por la mañana hoy no amanecimos con ganas de un buen viajecito. Salimos caminando otra vez. De Nuevo no vimos senderos por las montañas ni parques ni nada. Hasta casi una hora después , vi un campesino con una pala. Yo le pregunté si el conocía este lugar. Con una sonrisa muy grande el me dijo, “sí” y me llevó a su quinta. Lo seguí por cafetales y fincas y corrientes. Hablamos del ambiente y su vida y mi vida. El señor era muy amigable y nos mostró muchos senderos en las fincas privadas por las montañas. Vimos aves y mariposas e insectos. Wade y yo aprendimos como cultivar café, bananas y caña de azúcar.

Lo sentí muyrefrescante porque la gente de otros países no es tan hospitalaria y amigable. Los ticos del campo siempre rien y tienen tiempo para ser amigos.

(Yo con plantas de cafe, a photo of me with coffee plants)

Playa Gorgona, Panama

Getting There

Sometimes the best and worst part of any journey is getting to where you are going. I needed to get out of Panama City. The noise, the traffic, the smog, everything about big cities rubs me the wrong way after a few days. I picked a random beach on a big map of Panama and hoped for the best. All buses leave from the Albrook bus terminal, a cluster of honking beasts driving every which way. I asked around for a bus to Playa Gorgona, not entirely sure how to pronounce the word. I kept repeating it as gorgonzola (as in the cheese), but after a couple of tries a woman finally understood me and directed me to the Chame window. I bought a ticket and was aimed towards an exit. I left the building to find a mini-bus with Chame written in gangster letters across the windshield. I entered, weary that there was no driver to ask about the destination of the bus while the other passengers were throwing me unaccommodating hairy eyeballs.

As soon as I arranged myself for the trip my traveling companion got antsy. We were due back in Costa Rica in a couple of days and needed to buy tickets in advance. He kept mumbling something about this in an inaudible level, complaining, but not fully enunciating his concerns. After a few minutes of passive aggressive prodding and annoyed looks I gave up and agreed about buying the tickets in advance. We jumped off the bus and headed towards the turnstiles. The driver’s assistant from our bus cut us off, looking very worried. “Where are you going? What happened?”

I tried explaining in my rushed, broken Spanish, but he did not seem to understand. Time was burning short, so I broke through the barrier leaving him looking confused.

(Staring at the Sea in Panama)

I made it to the ticket window, huffing and puffing. Although I appeared obviously rushed, the ticket vendor took her dear old time in the transaction. Nothing goes fast in the tropics. After what seemed like an inordinate amount of time spent typing I decided to run back to our Chame bus to stall the driver while my companion waits for the ticket vendor to examine our passports and do some more typing. Breathless I returned to the bus just as our rotund driver was hobbling out of the station. Once again I attempted to explicate my situation to no avail. I am faced with more confused looks from both assistant and driver. I told them to wait, and the rotund driver shook a couple of chins and plopped into his seat.

Finally my companion jogged back, and we stepped into the crowded bus. I threw open a jumpseat and plunked down. I am suddenly aware that I am sweating profusely and am all too conscious of the ripe smell of my damp body. The chica next to me smiled shyly and aimed the air conditioner vent towards me. Is this for my sake or hers?

The ride is only about 60 kilometers from Panama City but within 10 minutes I am unbearably uncomfortable. I am smooshed between two people, my legs halfway cramped into the front seat and halfway over the center console. The bar is in the seat back is digging into my spine. Most treacherous of all, the bus is looping around precariously sharp bends at very high velocities. I have absolutely nothing to hold onto for balance and risk falling out of my seat at every curve. As we buck left my seat threatens to fold up with me still inside, and when we veer right it takes all my strength not to topple into the driver’s lap.

My pain is finally relieved as our driver drops us on the side of highway, pointing down a dirt road. Lately I have had a bought of rough journeys to the beach, and this is turning out to be no exception. Wade and I buy a couple of oranges and ask the Chinese shop owner how to get to the beach. Through her accent I understand that the playa is “cercita,” very close. I began walking around midday as the hot tropical sun beat on me as if I were roadkill on the pavement. The extreme humidity allowed no reprieve to profusely sweating. On foot, almost an hour later we arrived at another convenient store. I stumbled in to again ask the cashier for directions. I received the same reply as before, “cercita.” I am starting not to trust this “ita” business. It sounds like an excuse to say yes to everything.

(WAlking Man sign, I was in for a walk)

Another half hour of staggering in the sweltering heat and somehow we arrived at the beach. The black volcanic sand sparkled like diamonds strewn on the ground and the green waves calmly rolled over the unpopulated shoreline. I stripped to my bathing suit and plunged into the water. Nothing could feel better than the cool Pacific Ocean after such a sweaty adventure. Secluded beaches are empty for a reason: access is difficult.

Happiness and Globalization

(This little Bribri indigenous girl wants to learn English instead of her native language of Bribri. I think she looks happy living in her community.)

The article Gross National Happiness in Bhutan offers a very interesting view on country development. The king of Bhutan Jigme Siongye Wangchuck has developed a new theory called Gross National Happiness. Instead of only pushing for growth in economic sectors, industry and monetary means, he is implementing a social plan of happiness. This includes a push for better education, health care, environmental conservation, and governmental soundness. Most importantly he is stressing the pertinence of community and cultural preservation.

To me, this is most unusual because often economic growth details a complete destruction of cultural traditions. I think this is a very idealistic model. If it should work it may be a solution to many of the detrimental affects of globalization.


This theory could be helpful in many developing countries. For example, in the technology hub of Bangalore, India, only economic growth is being promoted. Because of the vast seas of call centers, the cultural heritage of India is being viewed as ignorant, hackneyed, backwards, and not as “good” as Western culture. As a result, it is being rejected by a majority of the youth, as they adopt Western attitudes, media, ways of dressing, etc. Yet correlating to this, it seems that there is also a growth in social problems, depression, and loss of community, even though people may now have a greater income. Definitely plans like Gross National Happiness could aid developing countries facing such realities.


I feel that this concept, however, cannot be universally applied. Already developed countries, especially in the West, may be too far gone into “money making” mode to return to find happiness in the same sources as the Bhutanese. For instance, the consumer culture and separation of church and state in the USA is so great that culture often seems hard to find. The country is so obsessed with dollar signs that it would be a difficult habit to break. The secularism in state affairs would not allow for the promotion of cultural preservation, or such healthy growth of social programs.


All in all, I would like to see the future outcomes of Gross National Happiness in Bhutan. As a student of anthropology who has seen the traumatic devastation of globalization on culture, it is thrilling to see an implementation of preservation. All too often economic growth is valued over culture, thus destroying tradition. This plan aims to embrace both in a sustainable manner for a holistic vision for improvement in Bhutan.





This was a paper written for my Junior research class on Concpets and Research.

Baby Boomers Smoke Up

February 6, 2008

Baby boomers are now reaching the ripe ages between 40-60 when the risk of cardiovascular disease drastically jumps. This article suggests that these former hippies are in greater danger of heart attacks if they are marijuana users. Research for this study included interviews with almost 4,000 individuals aged 20 to 92 who recently suffered myocardial infarctions. The average marijuana smoker in this sampling was around 44 years old.

The independent variable is the use of marijuana and the dependent variable is the related heart attack. The external validity of this study is addressed by including many other possible independent variables that need to be examined before this study is proved conclusive. For example, the author proposes that the marijuana users were mostly men, obese and also smoke cigarettes. These three variables are all known causes of heart attacks as well. As marijuana consumption is not isolated as the only variable in a patient’s life that was able to cause a heart attack, it is difficult to conclude that it was the marijuana alone which triggered the attack.

Also, only 124 of the patients had smoked marijuana in the year before the heart attack, while only 9 of these had smoked within an hour of the attack. This sampling is rather small for any conclusive, diehard evidence to be drawn. Just because of the small numbers, the study needs more participants and research before it can be convincing.

This study will be difficult to research because of the vast number of variables that can influence a heart attack. The external validity due to the sheer number of possible independent variables is so extensive that isolation of marijuana smoking alone is nearly impossible. Clinical studies that inspect the exact effects of smoking marijuana in a controlled situation may be a more effective way to study its impact on heart attacks, rather than conducting interviews.



This is another paper written for my Junior Research class. The assignment was entitled making a stament and providing evidence. The information for this assignment was about Baby boomers smoking pot.

Derby Suave Costa Rican Cigarettes

January 31, 2008

Driving along the highway from San Jose to Heredia I noticed a huge billboard advertisement for Derby brand cigarettes. There was an image of a very attractive young woman dancing in what appeared to be a nightclub, party, or other situation that young people would typically enjoy. Behind her was a young man admiring the girl with a “wow” expression plastered across his face. Neither of these people was smoking and the only indication of an ad for cigarettes was the oversized, red and blue labeled package of Derby cigarettes in the bottom corner. What struck me as most unusual about the ad was the words of caution neatly printed along the bottom of the billboard; “Smoking is bad for you health.”

On a whole, the company was using a very simple advertising scheme, with roots as deep as our species; physical attraction. Males will look at the sign because it pictures a pretty girl. Females will look at it because it has a boy admiring a pretty girl, and most females want to feel “sexy” and be admired likewise by the opposite sex. Using intuitive knowledge and common sense, an average onlooker would come to the conclusion, “If it works for these two people portrayed in the advertisement it should work for me.” Can it really be so simple that one will have more fun and become more sexually desirable if they smoke Derby brand cigarettes?

I will state my opinion as no, placing distrust in the advertisers. The company is trying to sell their product, but at the same time is denouncing it for its potential health risks. These are obvious contradictory statements. Why would I trust a company that does not even trust itself? Why would I buy a product from a company that so observably is aware that it is physically harming its consumers?

Through some sort of traditional knowledge, i.e. cultural ideals, the media, and peer pressure, we are led to believe that smoking is “cool.” James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Danny from Grease, and countless other teenage American heartthrobs and role models of cool have asserted that smoking is attractive. Through advertising, this still appears to be the most weighted gravitational pull to entice smokers.

On the other hand, the “Smoking is bad for your health” statement is an authoritative projection of the experts. Through scientific research these experts have come to the conclusion that this knowledge is truth. Empirical evidence, systematic research, and quantitative data have proven that cigarette smoking is dangerous to the health of humans.

However, a century ago medical experts believed just the contrary. Cigarettes were widely thought to have beneficial health effects. Tobacco cigarettes were even prescribed as treatment for many pulmonary problems such as asthma and used by athletes to “open the lungs.”

Clearly, this advertisement for Derby cigarettes portrays an important aspect of information intake. It plainly illustrates that not all sources are trustworthy. Information should be scrutinized and sorted, rather than directly accepted as truth.


This is an essay written for my research class. The assignment was titled ¨What is research?¨ and asked the student to critically look into the information being presented in popular advertisements.