University study is a major commitment and is quite different to high school. This big new phase of life can feel both daunting and exciting.

But many first years don’t have anyone they can ask for advice on transitioning from school to uni, or may be the first in their family to go to uni.

Reaping the benefits of uni doesn’t happen through hope or just turning up to lectures – you need to ask questions, and be an active, independent learner.

Over the last two decades, I have taught thousands of first year students from various disciplinary backgrounds. I regularly teach a large first year academic writing class, and have designed and managed undergraduate arts courses for nearly half a decade. Providing these evidence-based tips in the early weeks of study helps students take control and set them up for success.

Uni lecturers generally expect students to devote ten to 15 hours of study to each subject each week.

If you’re enrolled in three or more subjects, your studies are almost equivalent to a full-time job.

You might spend this time:

• reading the subject materials (study guides, textbook chapters, set readings)
• going to lectures
• attending tutorials/seminars/workshops
• working on assessment tasks
• reading widely and reflecting on what you’ve read
• regularly checking online learning management systems (such as Blackboard, Moodle or Canvas) for updates and discussion.

So, what do you need to know to survive and thrive as a first year at uni?

1. Do the readings before class, and attend

Reading ahead of time will help you get familiar with what will be taught and identify tricky things to listen out for.

Prepare some questions on these trouble spots to ask in class. It’s likely your classmates will have the same queries.

Just because you have newfound independence, or haven’t done the readings, does not mean it’s OK to skip class.

Showing up helps you stay informed about the subject content and housekeeping, like due dates and how to tackle assignments. Some classes require you to attend or participate to pass.

Going to lectures and tutorials, and having dedicated study hours gives structure and purpose to your day, which help you adjust to university life and stay on track.

2. Keep up. It’s easier than catching up

The study timetable outlines what topics and readings will be covered weekly. Put that timetable somewhere you can see it often. Letting your readings and work pile up can become pretty scary. Missing lectures and ignoring your work will make life harder than it needs to be.

Much of uni study success is about being organised. Your lecturers will have devised the most appropriate order in which to teach you new information.

Prioritise your readings and remember you might have to read them a few times to grasp the content – this is normal in academia.

3. Take notes in class and on your textbooks

This means you can record your interpretation and understanding of what the lecturer is saying while it’s being said.

Your understanding of a topic is really tested when you paraphrase it into your own words.

Once you’ve made your in-class notes, write them up while they’re fresh in your mind. To improve retention, opt for handwriting these rather than typing. You might have to block out some time directly after class for this.

Your textbook and readings are not designed to remain pristine. Write notes in the margins, circle important words and phrases, and use sticky notes.

4. Use positive reframing

When you’re working through new material, it’s easy to succumb to the overwhelm and start directing a lot of negative energy towards it.

Rather than “I can’t do this” and “This is too hard”, try “I can’t do this yet” and “This is challenging. It’ll be such an achievement when I nail it.”

Learning a new skill involves shifting from controlled processing to automatic processing. Initially it takes lots of time and mental effort to develop a new skill. With practice, it gets easier.

Your time at uni is about more than just achieving good marks. It is about cultivating your curiosity.

5. Keep a glossary of terms and practise what you’ve learnt

Each week you’ll be learning new terms and concepts. Keeping a log of these as you learn them, giving a brief definition and example or two, will make revision easier.

Work these new terms into your assignments to show your marker you’ve engaged with the subject materials.

Some subjects have weekly exercises and activities to help you understand and consolidate the topic. Take these seriously and use them to revise.

6. Know what’s expected

Yes, you need to know when assignments are due. But you also need to know the university policies and guidelines around things such as asking for an extension, plagiarism, AI use, and conduct. If in doubt, ask your lecturers.

Overall, self-reliance and independence are crucial.

Part of becoming a good student is about taking responsibility for your learning, showing initiative and independence.

Sophia Waters, Senior Lecturer in Writing, University of New England

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The head of the International Monetary Fund, Kristalina Georgieva, has warned young people will suffer the most as an AI “tsunami” wipes out many entry-level roles in coming years.

Tasks that are eliminated are usually what entry-level jobs do at present, so young people searching for jobs find it harder to get to a good placement.

Georgieva is not alone. Other economic and business experts have warned about AI taking entry-level jobs.

As young people prepare to start or continue their university studies, they may be feeling anxious about what AI means for their job prospects. What does the current research say? And how can you prepare for a post-AI workforce while studying?

The situation around the world

At the moment, the impact of AI is uneven and depends on the industry.

A 2025 report from US think tank the Brookings Institution suggests, in general, AI adoption has led to employment and firm growth. Most importantly, AI has not led to widespread job loss.

At the same time, consulting firm McKinsey notes many businesses are experimenting with AI and redesigning how they work. So, some organisations are seeking more technically skilled employees.

Crucially, AI is affecting each industry differently. So, we might see fewer entry-level jobs in some industries, but more in others, or growth in specialist roles.

For example, international researchers have noted agriculture has been a slow adopter of AI. By contrast, colleagues and I have found AI is being rapidly implemented in media and communications, already affecting jobs from advertising to the entertainment industries. Here we are seeing storyboard illustrators, copywriters and virtual effects artists (among others) increasingly being replaced by AI.

So, students need to look carefully at the specific data about their chosen industry (or industries) to understand the current situation and predicted trends.

To do this, you can look at academic research about AI’s impacts on industries around the world, as well as industry news portals and free industry newsletters.

Get ready while studying

Students can also obviously build their knowledge and skills about AI while they are studying.

Specifically, students should look to move from “AI literacy” to “AI fluency”. This means understanding not just how AI works in an industry, but also how it can be used innovatively in different contexts.

If these elements are not already offered by your course, you can look at online guides and specific courses offered by universities, TAFE or other providers.

Students who are already familiar with AI can keep expanding their knowledge and skills. These students can discover the latest research from the world’s key publishers and keep up to date with other AI research news.

For students who aren’t really interested in AI, it’s still important to start getting to grips with the technology. In my research, I’ve suggested getting curious initially about three key things: opportunities, concerns and questions. These three elements can be especially helpful for getting across industry developments: how AI is being used, what issues it’s raising, and which impacts still need to be explored.

Free (online) courses, such as AI For Everyone and the Elements of AI, can help familiarise virtually anyone with the technology.

Strengthening other skills

All students, no matter how familiar they are with AI, can also concentrate on developing general competencies that can apply across any industry. US researchers have pinpointed six key “durable skills” for the AI age:

• effective communication, to engage with others successfully

• good adaptability, to respond to workplace, industry and broader social changes

• strong emotional intelligence, to help everyone thrive in a workplace

• high-quality creativity, to work with AI in innovative ways

• sound leadership, to help navigate the challenges that AI creates

• robust critical thinking, to deal with AI-related problems.

So, look for opportunities to foster these skills in and out of class. This could include engaging in teamwork, joining a club or society, doing voluntary work, or getting paid work experience.

Don’t forget ethics

Finally, students need to consider the ethical issues this new technology creates. Research suggests AI is bringing about changes in ethics across industries and students need to know how to approach AI dilemmas.

For example, they need to feel confident tackling questions about when to use and not use AI, and whether the technology’s environmental impacts outweigh its benefits in different situations.

Students can do this through focused discussions with classmates, facilitated by teachers to tease out the issues. They can also do dedicated courses on AI ethics.

Lukasz Swiatek, Lecturer, School of Arts and Media, UNSW Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The deep sea is cold, dark and under immense pressure. Yet life has found a way to prevail there, in the form of some of Earth’s strangest creatures.

Since deep-sea critters have adapted to near darkness, their eyes are particularly unique – pitch-black and fearsome in dragonfish, enormous in giant squid, barrel-shaped in telescope fish. This helps them catch the remaining rays of sunlight penetrating to depth and see the faint glow of bioluminescence.

Deep-sea fishes, however, typically start life in shallower waters in the twilight zone of the ocean (roughly 50–200 metres deep). This is a safe refuge to feed on plankton and grow while avoiding becoming a snack for larger predators.

Our new study, published in Science Advances, shows deep-sea fish larvae have evolved a unique way to maximise their vision in this dusky environment – a finding that challenges scientific understanding of vertebrate vision.

The nightmare of seeing in the twilight zone

The vertebrate retina, located at the back of the eye, has two main types of light-sensitive photoreceptor cells: rod-shaped for dim light and cone-shaped for bright light.

The rods and cones slowly change position inside the retina when moving between dim and bright conditions, which is why you temporarily go blind when you flick on the light switch on your way to the bathroom at night.

While vertebrates that are active during the daytime and predominantly inhabit bright light environments favour cone-dominated vision, animals that live in dim conditions, such as the deep sea or caves, have lost or reduced their cone cells in favour of more rods.

However, vision in twilight is a bit of a nightmare – neither rods nor cones are working at their best. This raises the question of how some animals, such as larval deep-sea fishes, can overcome the limitations of the cone-and-rod retina not only to survive but even to thrive in twilight conditions.

Starting where the fish start

To understand how newly born deep-sea fishes see, we had to start where they do: in the twilight zone of the ocean.

We caught larval fish from the Red Sea using fine-meshed nets towed from near the surface to a depth of around 200m. This way we got hold of three different species – the lightfish (Vinciguerria mabahiss) and the hatchetfish (Maurolicus mucronatus), both members of the dragonfishes, and a member of the lanternfishes, the skinnycheek lanternfish (Benthosema pterotum). Next, we studied what their photoreceptor cells looked like on the outside and how they were wired on the inside.

First, we used high-resolution microscopy to examine the cells’ shape in great detail. Then we investigated retinal gene expression to identify which vision genes were activated as the fish grew. Finally, we got some experts in computational modelling of visual proteins on board to simulate which wavelengths of light these tiny fishes may perceive.

By combining all the approaches, we were able to piece together a picture of how these animals see their world. This sounds relatively simple, but working with deep-sea fishes is anything but easy.

While these animals are generally thought of as monsters of the deep, in reality, most reach only about the size of a thumb – even when fully grown. They are also very fragile and difficult to get.

Working with larval specimens that are only a few millimetres long is even more difficult. However, by leveraging support from the deep-sea research community, we were fortunate enough to combine specimens from multiple research expeditions to piece together an unusually complete picture of visual development in these elusive animals.

So, what did we discover?

For decades, scientists have thought that, as vertebrates grow, the development of their retina follows a predictable pattern: cones form first, then rods. But the deep-sea fish we studied do not follow this rule.

We found that, as larvae, they mostly use a mix-and-match type of hybrid photoreceptor. The cells they are using early on look like rods but use the molecular machinery of cones, making them rod-like cones.

In some of the species we studied, these hybrid cells were a temporary solution, replaced by “normal” rods as the fish grew and migrated into deeper, darker waters.

However, in the hatchetfish, which spends its whole life in twilight, the adults keep their rod-like cone cells throughout life, essentially building their entire visual system around this extra type of cell.

Our research shows this is not a minor tweak to the system. Instead, it represents a fundamentally different developmental pathway for vertebrate vision.

Biology doesn’t fit into neat boxes

So why bother with these hybrid cells?

It seems that to overcome the visual limitations of the twilight zone, rod-like cones offer the best of both worlds: the light-capturing ability of rods combined with the faster, less bright-light sensitive properties of cones. For a tiny fish trying to survive in the murky midwater, this could mean the difference between spotting dinner or becoming it.

For more than a century, biology textbooks have taught that vertebrate vision is built from two clearly defined cell types. Our findings show these tidy categories are much more blurred.

Deep-sea fish larvae combine features of both rods and cones into a single, highly specialised cell optimised for life in between light and darkness. In the murky depths of the ocean, deep-sea fish larvae have quietly rewritten the rules of how eyes can be built, and in doing so, remind us that biology rarely fits into neat boxes.

Fabio Cortesi, ARC Future Fellow, Faculty of Science, The University of Queensland and Lily Fogg, Postdoctoral Researcher, Helsinki Institute of Life Science, University of Helsinki

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The expression is: “handed to you on a silver plate”. But a recent breakthrough came to me on a painted ceramic one. Following the clues on that plate led me to solve a small historical puzzle: who once owned a Renaissance manuscript now held in Paris.

Known as a maiolica, the plate features three different imprese: that is, emblems used during the Renaissance as personal badges. Under a coat of arms is a music scroll bearing pauses and rests; on a balustrade in the foreground, the Latin motto Nec spe nec metu (neither by hope nor by fear), and, repeated twice, the most unassuming of all: a Latin numeral, XXVII.

I had seen that number years earlier, inside an embellishment on the first page of a manuscript at Paris’ Bibliothèque nationale de France, not far from where the plate was being shown, on a temporary loan from the V&A to the Al Thani Collection Foundation. The manuscript was a partial copy of a lost one, and I had been trying to figure out where it came from.

The coat of arms and the different imprese were all Isabella d’Este’s (1474–1539), Marchioness of Mantua, daughter of Duke Ercole I d'Este of Ferrara and Eleanor of Aragon. The answer was suddenly obvious: the Parisian manuscript was originally in her personal library.

Despite marrying at just 16, Isabella was an extremely well-educated woman. This likely helped her to play her part in ruling Mantua, especially when her husband Francesco Gonzaga was away fighting in the Italian wars and then taken prisoner. She also had considerable personal financial resources, and was free to spend her money as she wished, enabling her to become the most significant female collector of the Italian Renaissance.

A patron of the arts, Isabella was portrayed in medals, paintings and drawings by several artists, including Leonardo da Vinci. To house her antiquities and artworks, she adapted some rooms within her apartments. One of them was known as her studiolo, a room dedicated to private reading and writing. Many leading artists were commissioned paintings to adorn it, as well as her new apartment in Mantua, where she moved after her husband’s death in 1519.

Isabella’s considerable library was also housed there. A partial inventory drawn up after her death reveals that it was more akin to the libraries of Renaissance elite men than courtly women. It consisted mostly of contemporary books and secular works, instead of inherited volumes and religious texts, and it contained an unusually high proportion of handwritten books.

During her lifetime, Isabella used at least eight different imprese. These could be marks of possession, as seen with the Parisian manuscript and the V&A plate, as well as the other 23 surviving pieces of its dinner service. However, they were also intended to convey coded messages.

A Renaissance impresa contained some sort of personal statement, concerning its bearer’s situation, philosophy, aspirations, personal qualities. Unlike coats of arms, which were inherited, it expressed nothing related to family lines or social standing, could be used by anyone who decided to design one and altered or discarded at will.

Since its true meaning required interpretation, an impresa was often ambiguous. Isabella’s pauses and rests on a musical scroll could signify silence, a traditionally feminine virtue, but also, being symmetrical, a visual representation of the principle of balance – not unlike her Latin motto. Whatever its meaning, it was one of those Isabella chose to adorn the gowns she wore for special occasions, namely, her brother Alfonso’s wedding to Lucrezia Borgia in 1502.

The marchioness did not appreciate overly complicated explanations of her imprese. In 1506, when the author Mario Equicola wrote a booklet on her Latin motto, she stated in a letter to the noblewoman who was protecting him at the time that “we did not have it created with as many mysteries as he has attributed to it”.

Isabella’s Latin motto was, unusually, reused by others, including one of her sons and a Spanish king. Not so the enigmatic XXVII. Its presence on the first page of the Parisian manuscript is therefore proof of Isabella’s ownership.

Other evidence was already known. The Parisian manuscript is a partial copy of the lost Raccolta Aragonese, an anthology of rare early Italian poetry, gifted by the statesman Lorenzo de’ Medici to Federico d’Aragona, son of the king of Naples, around 1477. The last sovereign of his dynasty, Federico went into exile in France with his books.

After his death, most of them passed to his widow, who settled in Ferrara under the protection of Isabella’s family. Her letters reveal that in January 1512 she managed to borrow the collection:

“The book of the first vernacular poets that Your Majesty was so good as to lend me I will hold in all due respect and reverence, and it will not fall into the hands of anyone else. As soon as I have finished with it, I will send it back to Your Majesty, whom I thank for her great humanity toward me.”

Isabella was not lying. She wanted the book because of the rarity of its contents, and she liked to be the sole or near-sole owner of texts. We could already hypothesise that she had commissioned a copy, and we now know this to be true. Thanks to her initiative, these rare poems enjoyed wider circulation; but this is a result neither she nor her correspondent could have anticipated.

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Maria Clotilde Camboni, Honorary Research Fellow, History, University of Oxford

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Bathhouses are making a wave in Australia and overseas. And it’s not an isolated trend; it reflects the broader advancement of the global wellness economy, which some reports suggest is outpacing even IT and sport in growth.

The Australian wellness sector, too, is booming. According to a report from the Global Wellness Institute, Australia has one of the world’s fastest-growing wellness economies, growing at an annual rate of 7.5% from 2019 to 2023 – with bathhouses, thermal springs, ice baths and saunas playing a key role.

Bathing together for leisure

Despite consumers’ recent heightened interest in saunas and bathhouses, these activities have a long history.

In Finland, sauna bathing – where water is thrown on hot stones to release steam – is a ritual believed to date back as far as 7000 BC.

One of the first known saunas took the form of a pit dug into the ground. In this “pit sauna”, a pile of stones at the bottom was heated with a campfire.

Sweat houses from the Bronze Age have also been found in Britain and Ireland, as well as ancient Islamic civilisations, and among Indigenous groups in Mexico and North America.

The practice of onsen (hot spring) bathing in Japan also has a history dating back more than 2,000 years.

In Australia, First Nations peoples have bathed in rock pools, waterholes, and billabongs for millennia, viewing fresh and salt water alike as vital cultural, spiritual and agricultural resources.

These ancient bathing practices stand in stark contrast to the modern bathing culture taking over our cities.

The Australian context: indecency and necessity

Sea bathing had become popular in Europe by the 18th century, prior to Australia’s colonisation. In England, Queen Victoria (1819–1901) further popularised the activity by bathing regularly on the Isle of Wight, getting changed in a wooden cart called a “bathing machine” to preserve modesty.

It was also in Britain during Queen Victoria’s lifetime that swimming for sport – as opposed to relaxation, military training or survival – became common practice. Bathing for leisure and hygiene has a much longer history than swimming for sport.

In 1810, New South Wales governor Lachlan Macquarie prohibited the “indecent and improper custom […] of soldiers, sailors and inhabitants of the town” bathing at the government wharf and dock yard in Sydney.

Subsequently, Ralph Darling, NSW governor from 1825 to 1831, had one of the country’s first private bathing houses constructed by Woolloomooloo Bay. Successive governors’ families are thought to have made regular use of the bathing house in the summers.

Melbourne City Baths opened in 1860 and remains operational today. The complex’s original purpose was to discourage people from bathing in the polluted Yarra River, which was believed to have caused an epidemic of typhoid fever. Alongside the “swimming” baths, facilities at the site originally included slipper baths (freestanding tubs) and later included Jewish mikvah (ritual) baths and Turkish baths.

Municipal baths were a key feature of daily life in early Melbourne, as many houses had little provision for private bathing. As of 1943, hot-water systems were installed in just 2% of homes in inner Melbourne, while more than a quarter of residents were still boiling water on stove tops for bathing.

From the late 1940s, however, many homes began installing gas or electric hot-water systems. And by the early 1960s the majority of Australian households had access to running hot water for washing and bathing. This contributed to the decline of public baths.

Historically, access to public baths wasn’t equal for all. Women’s access to the Melbourne City Baths was restricted to just a few hours a day until a major redevelopment in 1904.

The facility was also initially gender-segregated and had “second-class” (working class) patrons relegated to the basement, with first class amenities on the floor above. Mixed-gender bathing was introduced in 1947.

Bathing gets a glow up

Today’s urban bathhouses are sites where water, architecture and shared experience intersect. They typically feature heated pools, cold pools, spas and steam rooms, with purported health benefits for attendees.

The efficacy of using spa-based therapy as a form of treatment is increasingly being studied in various contexts, including for post-operative recovery. Recent research has shown it to be promising, demonstrating potential in reducing inflammation, alleviating pain and promoting motor recovery.

In one study of about 500 sauna users, reduced stress, reduced muscle pain and improved sleep and social connection were among the key therapeutic benefits cited by respondents.

More research is needed to establish the full potential therapeutic uses of spa-based therapies.

From connection to capitalism

The current bathhouse culture taking hold in Australia and New Zealand has emerged in part, as an antidote to pandemic isolation.

Many bespoke spa facilities market themselves as spaces for reconnection – and are proving to be popular (and healthier) alternatives to pubs, bars and nightclubs.

But developing these spaces demands significant investment. Industry experts report construction costs of about A$5–6 million for bathhouses, and $3–4 million for sauna clubs. They are also expensive to operate, manage and clean – and visitors can often expect to pay hefty entry prices.

Something we already have

Despite the desirability of contemporary bathhouses, these spaces are hardly egalitarian. Their focus is turning a profit.

One could instead visit one of the existing 1,300 public aquatic centres in Australia, many of which have spa, sauna and steam room facilities. A casual visit to most of these costs A$10–$20. So why are so people forking out more than twice the amount for a luxury bathhouse?

In 2016, writer and translator Jamie Mackay suggested bringing back public bathhouses could help combat the isolation many city dwellers face by creating spaces for people to come together. He saw bathhouses as truly public places — affordable, flexible and open to all — unlike today’s upscale spa and wellness centres.

Dalva Lamminmäki, a doctoral researcher of sauna culture at the University of Eastern Finland, observes that the resurgence of saunas sometimes neglects a core element of what makes the sauna experience meaningful: that the “sauna is a place of equality”.

Luxury bathouses, meanwhile, could be viewed as yet another case of neoliberal commercialism.

Jennifer E. Cheng, Researcher and Lecturer in Sociology, Western Sydney University and Michelle O'Shea, Senior Lecturer, School of Business, Western Sydney University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In 1532, in the city of Cajamarca, Peru, Spanish conquistador Francisco Pizarro and a group of Europeans took the Inca ruler Atahualpa hostage, setting the stage for the fall of the Inca Empire.

Before this fateful attack, Pizarro’s brother, Pedro Pizarro, made a curious observation: other than the Inca himself, the Lord of Chincha was the only person at Cajamarca carried on a litter, a carrying platform.

Why did the Lord of Chincha occupy such a high position in Inca society? In our new study published in PLOS One, we find evidence for a surprising potential source of power and influence: bird poo.

A potent and precious resource

Chincha, in southern Peru, is one of several river valleys along the desert coast fed by Andean highland waters, which have long been key to irrigation agriculture. About 25 kilometres out to sea are the Chincha Islands, with the largest guano deposits in the Pacific.

Seabird guano, or excrement, is a highly potent organic fertiliser. Compared to terrestrial manures such as cow dung, guano contains vastly more nitrogen and phosphorus, which are essential for plant growth.

On the Peruvian coast, the Humboldt/Peru ocean current creates rich fisheries. These fisheries support massive seabird colonies that roost on the rocky offshore islands.

Thanks to the dry, nearly rainless climate, the seabird guano doesn’t wash away, but continues to pile up until many meters tall. This unique environmental combination makes Peruvian guano particularly prized.

Our research combines iconography, historic written accounts, and the stable isotope analysis of archaeological maize (Zea mays) to show Indigenous communities in the Chincha Valley used seabird guano at least 800 years ago to fertilise crops and boost agricultural production.

We suggest guano likely shaped the rise of the Chincha Kingdom and its eventual relationship with the Inca Empire.

Lords of the desert coast

The Chincha Kingdom (1000–1400 CE) was a large-scale society comprising an estimated 100,000 people. It was organised into specialist communities such as fisherfolk, farmers and merchants. This society controlled the Chincha Valley until it was brought into the Inca Empire in the 15th century.

Given the proximity of historically important guano deposits on the Chincha Islands, Peruvian historian Marco Curatola proposed in 1997 that seabird guano was an important source of Chincha’s wealth. We tested this hypothesis and found strong support.

A biochemical test

Biochemical analysis is a reliable way to identify the use of fertilisers in the past. One experimental 2012 study showed plants fertilised with dung from camelids (alpacas and llamas) and seabirds show higher nitrogen isotope values than unfertilised crops.

We analysed 35 maize samples recovered from graves in the Chincha Valley, documented as part of an earlier study on burial practices.

Most of the samples produced higher nitrogen isotope values than expected for unfertilised maize, suggesting some form of fertilisation occurred. About half of the samples had extremely high values. These results are so far only consistent with the use of seabird guano.

This chemical analysis confirms the use of guano on pre-Hispanic crops.

Imagery and written sources

Guano – and the birds that produce it – also held broader significance to the Chincha people.

Our analysis of archaeological artefacts suggests the Chincha people had a profound understanding of the connection between the land, sea and sky. Their use of guano and their relationship with the islands was not just a practical choice; it was deeply embedded in their worldview.

This reverence is reflected in Chincha material culture. Across their textiles, ceramics, architectural friezes and metal objects, we see repeated images of seabirds, fish, waves, and sprouting maize.

These images demonstrate the Chincha understood the entire ecological cycle: seabirds ate fish from the ocean and produced guano, guano fed the maize, and the maize fed the people.

This relationship may even be reflected today through local Peruvian place names. Pisco is derived from a Quechua word for bird, and Lunahuaná might translate to “people of the guano”.

Poo power

As an effective and highly valuable fertiliser, guano also enabled Chincha communities to increase crop yields and expand trade networks, contributing to the economic expansion of the Chincha Kingdom.

We suggest fisherfolk sailed to the Chincha Islands to acquire guano and then provided it to farmers, as well as to seafaring merchants to trade along the coast and into the highlands.

Chincha’s agricultural productivity and growing mercantile influence would have enhanced its strategic importance for the Inca Empire. Around 1400 CE, the Inca incorporated the Chincha after a “peaceful” capitulation, creating one of the few calculated alliances of its kind.

Although the “deal” made between Chincha and Inca remains debated, we suggest seabird guano played a role in these negotiations, as the Inca state was interested in maize but lacked access to marine fertilisers. This may be why the Lord of Chincha was held in such high esteem that he was carried aloft on a litter, as Pedro Pizarro noted.

The Inca came to value this fertiliser so much they imposed access restrictions on the guano islands during the breeding season and forbade the killing of guano birds, on or off the islands, under penalty of death.

Our study expands the known geographic extent of guano fertilisation in the pre-Inca world and strongly supports scholarship that predicted its role in the rise of the Chincha Kingdom. However, there is still much to learn about how widespread it was, and when this practice began.

Jo Osborn, Assistant Professor of Anthropology, Texas A&M University; Emily Milton, Peter Buck Postdoctoral Fellow, Smithsonian Institution, and Jacob L. Bongers, Tom Austen Brown Postdoctoral Research Associate, University of Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Valentine’s Day is traditionally a time of heart-shaped balloons, overpriced roses and fully-booked restaurants. Couples kiss and hold hands, smiling selfies celebrate a day of public displays of devotion.

Why do so many of us feel such pressure to offer grand gestures, buy pricey gifts, and go through elaborate displays of affection? Presumably, to prove our love. Valentine’s Day is a showy, one-day-a-year demonstration that promises to do just that.

For the ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle (384-322BC), however, this approach misunderstands the nature of love. For him, the true form of love wasn’t intense passion or grand gestures on one day of the year. Instead, it’s a steady commitment to help your beloved grow into their best version through everyday practices of care.

Aristotle wrote extensively about love, friendship and their place in a good life. His main book on ethics, the Nicomachean Ethics (350BC) – affectionately named after his son – is a classic work on virtue and happiness.

As a keen observer of human life, Aristotle’s philosophy was based on a real understanding of human beings – our emotions, needs, habits and the ways we live alongside each other. Humans are social animals, he argued, so we must live in a society and work toward a common good. More than this, we are “pairing” creatures. Coupling and sharing a life matters deeply. Interestingly, he believed this means learning to love ourselves, as well as others.

The five steps to love

Aristotle said we should love ourselves the most. This could sound like a celebration of narcissism, a gospel for the selfie age. But Aristotle meant that truly loving someone means loving them as another self, extending our self-love to another – a process with five parts.

First, loving yourself means desiring and promoting your own good. Do the same for your loved one. Desire and promote whatever is in their interest. Second, work for their own safety and security as you would your own. Third, self-love means enjoying your own company and taking pleasure in reminiscing about past times and looking forward to good times to come. Desire and enjoy their company, too, in a shared life of interests, commitments and hopes.

Fourth, make sure your desires are rational, and only desire things that are part of a “fine and noble life” – a life that is virtuous, rational and filled with meaningful relationships. Fifth, openly express and experience your pains and pleasures. Consistently pursue what brings you pleasure and avoid whatever brings pain. For your beloved, recognise and share in their pains and pleasures, as if they were your own.

Love, Aristotle says, comes from the sense that the lover is “mine”. If that sounds icky to a modern ear, the point isn’t about ownership. When I say “my beloved is mine”, I mean “we belong together in a shared life”. I do not own my finger, it belongs to my hand, which is a part of me. Likewise, I don’t own my beloved, but they belong to our loving relationship, of which I, too, am part.

Love, friendship and skill

Aristotle also described lovers as friends – not any old good friends but each other’s other halves. Like friends, lovers hang out, have each other’s back and support one another. As lovers, they treat each other as a part of themselves. Aristotle thinks it’s a big red flag if your lover doesn’t care as much about your feelings and needs as their own, no matter how grand their gestures and gifts.

Love was not a passive feeling for Aristotle, but a practice requiring skill. A lover, he argues, makes themselves better for their beloved, unlike a carpenter who makes a table for himself. Loving is a practice of constant self-improvement for the sake of another person. Being a good lover means striving to be a better person, so that you and your beloved bring out the best in each other.

For Aristotle, love is not about how your Valentine makes you feel on a single night of the year. Gifts and gestures are nice, but the real proof of love is nothing you can buy. Loving another as much and as well as you love yourself is the real proof, one that takes time and practice. To quote Aristotle, “one swallow does not make spring” – nor does one magical night really show our love.

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Janset Özün Çetinkaya, Teaching Associate in Philosophy, University of Nottingham and Ian James Kidd, Assistant Professor of Philosophy, University of Nottingham

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

In 18th- and 19th-century Ireland, it was common for courting couples to exchange gifts to mark their developing relationships. Many of these items are familiar gifts today: books, cards, items of clothing, jewellery and sweet treats. Others, however, are less familiar. In fact, some of the gifts exchanged by couples in the past might give many today the dreaded ick – especially those items of the hairier variety.

While you might be familiar with the tradition of mourning hairwork jewellery that was made and worn to remember deceased loved ones in the Victorian era, hairy tokens were traditionally a gift exchanged between couples in love. In my new book, Pious and Promiscuous: Life, Love and Family in Presbyterian Ulster, I explore the tradition of gift-giving among courting couples in Ulster – from hairy tokens to food and clothing. The book reveals for the first time the personal stories that shaped the rituals of Presbyterian family life in 18th- and 19th-century Ulster.

Gift-givers thought deeply about what to gift that special someone. Items exchanged in courtship were carefully chosen because different gifts had different meanings. Whereas shirts were understood to symbolise friendship, items like gloves – which covered the hands and fingers – were associated with marriage.

Those on the receiving end also had to consider whether or not to accept these tokens. Accepting a gift from a would-be suitor indicated that the receiver shared their romantic interest. Refusing a gift communicated the opposite. The tradition of gift-giving could also be used to break off relationships. When a relationship failed, people were expected to return any gifts that they had received.

The most special token that a person could gift was their hair. As a physical piece of a person that would outlast their human life, a lock of hair symbolised immortal love. Locks of hair were generally gifted by women to men and sometimes at the request of their male suitors.

Men might write to their beloveds and request that they enclose a lock of hair in their next letter as a token with which to remember them. Locks of hair could be tied into neat plaits and fashioned with a ribbon, enabling the lock to keep its shape. Hair could also be pressed into jewellery or placed in the back of miniatures.

The recipients of these hairy tokens would engage with them both physically and sensorially. Locks of hair could be rubbed, stroked, sniffed and gazed upon as the recipient thought about the person who had sent it. Given their size, these little hairy tokens could also be secreted inside of clothes and worn next to the heart, or placed under a pillow and slept upon, enabling the recipient to dream of its hairy bestower.

A hairy fetish

Some people appear to have had a real appetite, perhaps even a fetish, for hairy gifts and tokens. Robert James Tennent (1803–80), a middle-class man who came of age in 19th-century Belfast, is one such example. Catalogued among his papers at the Public Record Office of Northern Ireland, Belfast, is an extraordinary archive of hairy treasures, each seemingly representing a woman with whom he had some sort of romantic connection.

What makes Tennent’s collection so intriguing is its size. It contains 14 locks of hair, each wrapped individually in a small handmade envelope. At one time the collection may have been even larger. Among the items is an envelope, now empty, bearing the label “Hair”, which possibly held a lock of hair that has since been lost.

The hair itself varies dramatically in colour, condition and care: wisps of fine blonde hair; neatly tied plaits of brown hair, fashioned with pink string; and unshapen masses of dark hair streaked with grey. The collection also contains a broken ring.

In 2022, I published a paper on Tennent’s hairy treasures in which I theorised that he kept and curated the collection as a trophy cabinet of his past romantic (and sexual) adventures. I argued that the collection served the purpose of a handmade and homemade pornographic archive that Tennent could revisit to transport himself back to pleasured memories and experiences.

Evidence for this view is inscribed in the collection itself. Twelve of the locks are labelled, telling us the name of the woman to whom the hair belonged. We can identify ten women in total. Eleven of the locks are also dated, recording the day, month and year that they were received by Tennent. The collection was assembled between 1818 and 1827, when Tennent was between 15 and 24 years of age.

Tennent’s archiving efforts betray his philandering lifestyle when a younger, unmarried man. There is a considerable overlap in the dates that the different locks of hair were collected. In fact, at least two locks of hair were received into his collection at the same time that Tennent was courting his future wife, Eliza McCracken. The pair were involved in a rather bumpy courtship from 1826, eventually marrying in 1830.

Whereas item nine in the collection labelled “Hair of Lucretia Belfast” is dated December 13 1826, item 15, belonging to Ellen Lepper, is dated June 26 1827. A lock of McCracken’s hair is also included in Tennent’s collection; a partly unrolled plait of brown hair bears the label: “Eliza, Where is the Bosom friend dearer than all.”

That Tennent returned to these tokens to revisit his bachelorhood is suggested by the physical state of some of the items too. A lock of hair attributed to Miss Catharine Louise Lawless (dated November 10/11 1820), may have once been tied into a neat little plait. It is likely that the plait has come undone overtime due to excessive touch.

So, if you find yourself stumped, browsing the shelves this Valentine’s Day for the perfect gift for your other half, perhaps the answer lies atop of your head. Hairy tokens might not suit everyone’s taste today, but they remind us that love and how we express it has always been intensely personal.

From locks of hair twisted into plaits and encased in jewellery to chocolate hearts and handwritten love notes, the tokens we give carry meaning and memory. Love and affection, then as now, is an expression of our intimate sides and can occasionally be a little hairy.

Leanne Calvert, Assistant Professor in Irish History, University of Limerick

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Puerto Rican singer Bad Bunny (Benito Antonio Martínez Ocasio) made history this weekend as the first Superbowl halftime headliner to sing only in Spanish – that too at a moment when the United States is facing a hostile anti-immigration climate.

The show’s message of love and togetherness has reverberated across countries and cultures. It is also chock-full of symbolism and messaging that represents an alternative America to the one taking shape under Donald Trump.

A fiesta celebrating Puerto Rican culture

The performance took place in a noticeably Puerto Rican setting. Fresh coconuts and piragua (snow cone) carts led the way to domino players and boxers (Puerto Rico is the world’s largest contributor of boxing champions per capita).

Bad Bunny opens with the viral hit Tití me preguntó (Tití asked me). He walks through a crew wearing costumes typical of Puerto Rican peasants, with traditional straw pava hats and string ropes for belts.

This sugarcane field set is a nod to an important aspect of Caribbean history, wherein sugarcane plantations represent a shared history of slavery. At the same time, they signify an immediate link to land, hard work, national identity, and Puerto Rico’s agricultural roots.

The nation’s sugarcane industry was aggressively changed under Operation Bootstrap, a series of economic projects pushed by the US federal government from around 1947. This encouraged the establishment of factories, and private and foreign investment, to the detriment of the island’s economy and infrastructure. It provoked mass unemployment and migration to the US and, by the 1950s, had forever changed Puerto Ricans’ way of life.

While some audiences criticised the choice to sing the songs Tití me preguntó and Yo perreo sola (I twerk alone), due to their sexual lyrics, others lauded their inclusion as a form of LGBTQIA+ inclusivity. These were followed by the party-pleasers Safaera, Eoo, Party and Voy a llevarte pa PR.

Lady Gaga made a surprise appearance, singing a salsa-style version of her hit song Die with a Smile, atop a stage replica of the famous El Morro fortress in San Juan.

Gaga wore a light blue dress of the same shade that once featured in Puerto Rico’s original flag. This flag, however, was banned in 1948 under an American gag law (which ended in 1957) that tried to stifle the island’s independence movement.

During Gaga’s song, the scene of a live wedding (yes, the couple actually got married) cements Benito’s message of togetherness.

A show loaded with symbolism

Apart from matching the wedding theme, the prominence of white clothing in the show reflects a reality of Caribbean daily life, wherein white was often worn to combat the harsh heat.

It also recalls various attire customarily worn in local music genres such as bomba and plena, as well as in Afro-Cuban religious traditions such as santería.

Benito’s own white shirt is emblazoned with the name “Ocasio” and the number 64. This is an homage to his late-uncle, who was born in 1964. The tribute offers a tender lesson on Spanish naming customs, as well as the cultural importance of family.

At one point, we see Benito hand his recently-won Grammy trophy (his album Debí Tirar Más Fotos was the first-ever Spanish-language album to win Album of The Year) to kid actor Lincoln Fox. Viewers were quick to point out Fox’s resemblance to Liam Conejos, the five-year-old boy whose detention by ICE agents last month caused national outrage.

Ricky Martin sang the heavily political track Lo que le pasó a Hawaii (What happened to Hawaii). This song pleads for Puerto Rico to not share a similar fate to Hawaii – the last state to join the union, at the cost of significant cultural loss, land, language and tradition.

Martin is framed by sparks coming from electrical poles in the background. They symbolise Puerto Rico’s poor electrical infrastructure, which was worsened in the aftermath of hurricanes María and Irma in 2017, and the electrical grid’s privatisation in 2021.

The show closes on a lighter note, with songs that highlight Puerto Ricanness. The track Café con Ron (Coffee with rum) takes the audience back to island customs, and the opening cañaveral (sugarcane fields).

Meanwhile, DtMF/Debí tirar más fotos (I should have taken more photos) evokes nostalgia for the past, and serves as a reminder of intercontinental unity.

Behind the crowd of pleneros (Puerto Rican drum players), a background screen reads: “The only thing more powerful than hate is love” – a direct challenge to the the anti-immigration policies currently permeating the US.

Benito also pays tribute to iconic reggaeton predecessors with the inclusion of tracks by Tego Calderón, and Daddy Yankee’s 2004 hit Gasolina, among others.

Freedom in the face of oppression

President Donald Trump described the event as “one of the worst, EVER!” and a “slap in the face” to the US. I never thought I would agree with Trump, but a slap in the face it was – one that reminded us all of the fabric of American culture.

Bad Bunny’s performance not only provided visibility to the significant Latinx/Latine population that holds the US together, it also served as evidence that accommodating to Anglo culture is no longer a requirement to fit in – especially for younger generations.

As Bad Bunny pronounced the famous line “God Bless America” – going on to list multiple countries and territories, including Puerto Rico – he imparted a lesson all Spanish-speakers have been given at least once in our lives. For us, “America” is not limited to the land that lies between Canada and Mexico, but rather extends across continents.

Benito’s geography lesson ends with the parting words “seguimos aquí” (we are still here) which, due to the Spanish language’s use of the present tense as future, can also be translated into “we will continue to be here”. A powerful message indeed.

Consuelo Martinez Reyes, Senior Lecturer in Spanish and Latin American Studies, Macquarie University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.