It’s more than the genes that feed us.

Some have dubbed it the “doomsday vault“; others, taking a more positive tone, call it a repository of biodiversity. However you look at it, the Global Seed Vault is a fortress. Buried under almost 500 feet of Arctic permafrost, secured against bomb blasts, earthquakes, and potential thieves, this massive seed bank, which will ultimately include samples of a large portion of the world’s plant varieties, is our high-tech hope for preserving the genetic diversity that underlies the world’s food supply. But despite its scope, the seed vault isn’t enough.

Why a seed bank in the first place? Because industrial farming approaches have made what was once a plethora of diverse crops into something more like a set of monocultures, carefully bred to meet our standards for long distance travel, high yields, and resistance to bug and weed killers. Many scientists fear that climate change will threaten these crops, which provide us with a huge proportion of our food.

To keep growing enough food, we’ll have to breed new plant varieties that fare better in higher temperatures, or in depleted soil, or under whatever challenging conditions a particular crop faces. For that, plant breeders will need to tap the genetic diversity that exists among the many varieties of any given plant. A gene that makes one kind of rice grow well in sandy soil, for example, can be transferred to another kind of rice. This is why preserving each and every variety of plant food is essential to securing our food supply.

But a seed bank, vital as it is, falls short. Why? Because how and what we eat is as much about who we are as it is about the seeds we put in the ground. We’re missing something if we believe we’re saving ourselves simply by saving seeds.

Don’t get me wrong: Genetic diversity in edible plants is the toolbox nature gives us to feed ourselves with, and preserving it by saving seeds is central to our ability to grow and develop new crops. But, as Michael Pollan articulates in his latest book In Defense of Food, the way we eat is attached to our cultures, beliefs, languages, and rituals. We learn about growing and eating food from people who came before us, and that knowledge is as important as the food itself.

The (necessary) sterility of a seed bank doesn’t capture the messy, many-threaded ways in which food and agriculture are incorporated into a society. A seed bank doesn’t preserve the knowledge of how to grow its precious population, or how farming crops cooperatively might produce different results than farming them individually, or even how to make the plants into edible dishes.

If we want to ensure our food supply, we need to do more than freeze seeds. We need to also take careful notes about culture.

I began thinking about this several years ago, when I had the privilege of visiting a seed bank operated by a group called Native Seeds/SEARCHin Tucson, Arizona, when I was working on a piece about seed saving for our Science of Gardening Web site. Native Seeds/SEARCH Native Seeds/SEARCH (NS/S) was founded in 1983, when Native Americans in the region wanted to grow traditional crops and couldn’t locate seeds. Since then, the organization has grown to include 4500 farmers and thousands of seed varieties developed by Native Americans in the Southwest.

NS/S doesn’t just save seeds: they save the knowledge that goes with them. NS/S farmers continually plant and grow handfuls of the seed bank’s reserve, refreshing the seed stock and passing along knowledge of how to best grow a particular plant. NS/S employees also collect stories from and share knowledge with Native people in the region.

Now, I’m no farmer, but it seems to me that safeguarding both the “agri-” and “-culture” of plant varieties will help us get the most out of the seeds we’ve saved. Otherwise, we end up seeing the security of our food as little more than a sterile set of seeds stored in a deep freeze, ready to be accessed for answers when our old farming technologies get us in trouble. But feeding ourselves is hardly a sterile affair: we grow, prepare, and consume food in a complex context of environment and humanity. I, for one, think our tendency to dismiss that larger picture is what’s gotten us into this biodiversity problem in the first place.

Robin Marks is a journalist and science writer who current serves as a Multimedia Projects Developer for the Exploratorium in San Francisco, CA.

Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station

As the sun shines and the air warms in the Bay Area, take a moment to consider a place where it’s always cold–the South Pole. Thanks to some local folk, we can get a taste of the science at the bottom of the earth without leaving balmy San Francisco.

Berkeley graduate student Michaelangelo D’Agostino blogs about his trip south for the Economist. D’Agostino chronicles the stages of his journey, from New Zealand to the station, and what day-to-day life is like at -24 degrees Celsius.

SF’s own Exploratorium brings Antarctic scientists, live, to your computer monitor. In the webcasts, archived so you can watch any time,
scientists explain their research on everything from penguins and glaciers to neutrinos. The also have dispatches, updates from the scientists as they go about their work.

Amber Dance is the Quest Intern and a science communication student at UC Santa Cruz.

latitude: -90, longitude: 0

I had the privilege this week of interviewing Isabel Hawkins, an astronomer and director of the Center for Science Education at Berkeley’s Space Sciences Laboratory. We talked about how people use evidence in science, how it is that we know what we know.

Hawkins isn’t your ordinary astronomer. She began her career in an ordinary way: Ph. D. in Astronomy from UCLA, using mathematical models and computer simulations to give meaning to her observations. Along the way, she began to learn about how ancient people studied the sky. She’s worked with us on our Ancient Observatories website, and hosted an equinox webcast from the top of the Mayan pyramid in the ancient astronomical site of Chichen Itza. And she’s devoted a considerable amount of time and energy to understanding and appreciating how the knowledge of ancient people complements what modern scientists study today.

Most scientists today don’t learn much about ancient knowledge. Observations such as measurements of the sun’s movement across glyph-crusted temples don’t usually meet the rigorous criteria of the scientific process: observe, create hypothesis, test, reproduce results.

In some instances, ancient people followed similar practices that were very similar to those used by modern scientists, observing things systematically and trying to devise explanations that will result in correct predictions. And sometimes the knowledge they gathered was, in fact, so “scientific” that modern researchers use it in their work today.

Take, for example, the knowledge of the Aymara Indians in Peru. The well-being of these adept weather-watchers was dependent on knowing how to time the planting of their vital potato crop with the arrival of the season’s first rains sometime between October and December. They did this by making observations like meteorologists might today. They watched the Pleiades, or Seven Sisters constellation rise each night, and noted how fuzzy or clear it looked in the sky. Fuzziness caused by cirrus clouds high in the sky, meant rains were a ways off, and potato planting should be postponed. A clearly visible set of Sisters meant rains would come soon.

In 2002, Ben Orlove an environmental scientist at UC Davis, published a paper about the accuracy of the Aymara’s observations of the Pleiades. It turned out that these ancient observations could be used by modern scientists to discern El Nino patterns in the past. Fascinating, since these measurements were taken long before there was a formal science of meteorology. Ancient knowledge becomes data points in modern research.

Hawkins cited another example: Ruth Ludwin, a seismologist at the University of Washington, has used generations-old folk tales of the Coast Salish Indians to help inform her computer modeling of earthquakes. The tales recount a serpent that knew where and when an earthquake would strike. By adapting location information from the stories into her computer models, Ludwin has found several small faults in the Seattle area that may have been active hundreds of years ago when the stories were created and may still pose a risk to local communities.

“It’s interesting that what we call evidence can come in many forms,” Hawkins says. “It might be part of a song, or a glyph writing or an artistic piece or a story.”

And sometimes the records we keep and the stories we tell have more meaning than we can imagine when we create them.

Robin Marks is a journalist and science writer who current serves as a Multimedia Projects Developer for the Exploratorium in San Francisco, CA.

How can you tell when someone’s smile is fake?

See if you can tell from the 2 images below:*

A real, spontaneous smile incorporates tiny muscles around the eye that are nearly impossible to contract at will. You can see this for yourself in an exhibit called “Polite Smile, Delight Smile” part of the Exploratorium’s new Mind exhibition.

This corners-of-the-eyes giveaway, as well as many other subtle, yet revealing, facial gestures, was discovered by Paul Ekman, now a professor emeritus of psychology from the University of California, San Francisco. Ekman’s been studying the universality of facial expressions and the secrets our faces reveal for over four decades. The notion that certain expressions of emotion are programmed into us wasn’t so well received when he proposed it in the 1960s. At that time, social scientists believed facial expressions were cultural. Then, in 1967, Ekman embarked on an expedition to Papua New Guinea, where he asked people belonging to an indigenous tribe that had virtually no contact with the developed world to imitate the expressions they would have in certain situations, such as meeting an old friend or discovering a decaying animal. Ekman found that the ways these people’s faces expressed sadness, fear, surprise, anger, and disgust involved the same eye and mouth muscle movements that people from Western cultures displayed. The collection of photos he took there will be on display at the Exploratorium from January 22 –April 27, 2008.

Today, Ekman is lauded by psychologists. He’s considered the leading expert on detecting deceit, and his ideas are used to train CIA, Homeland Security, and other law enforcement officers to detect when they are being lied to by someone they’re questioning and to spot unusual behavior. He devised a tool known as the Facial Action Coding System (FACS), which catalogues the musculature behind thousands of facial expressions. Some of the most subtle of these Ekman calls “microexpressions,” fleeting muscle movements that reveal emotions the subject is trying to suppress. With the knowledge that these revealing expressions are universal, FACS allows a trained person to “read” someone’s emotions by observing their facial muscles.

When Ekman’s book Emotions Revealed came out in 2003, I thought it would be great to master the subject matter. Who wouldn’t benefit from learning to understand the fleeting messages people send oh-so-subtly? But the more I thought about it, the more uneasy I began to feel. Something didn’t sit right with me about the practice of decoding people without their knowledge. Then again, isn’t that what any of us do when we “sense” that someone was nervous or untruthful or secretly overjoyed? It’s not like our microexpressions are hidden. We express them in plain sight. They may be the source of an intuitive person’s “sixth sense.” But to formally study these expressions with the intent of detecting emotions that the subjects themselves are unaware of–is that a violation of privacy? Ekman would say no. He insists that he can’t read minds, only emotions, and that leaves out most of the personal details. Still, there’s something unsettling about the idea that feelings I’ve long considered private are written all over my face.

* BTW, the real smile is image 1. Did you guess correctly? Leave a comment to tell us how you knew.

Robin Marks is a journalist and science writer who current serves as a Multimedia Projects Developer for the Exploratorium in San Francisco, CA.

latitude: 37.8041, longitude: -122.448

I love my cell phone. We have a serious relationship. One that may be biologically predetermined.

Let me explain. On New Year’s Eve I brought my phone with me to San Francisco’s Ocean Beach, where I traditionally go, rain or shine, to watch the year’s last sunset. I was by myself, but I wasn’t alone.

Oh no. I took snapshots of shimmering colors on the waves and sent them to faraway, landlocked friends who miss the sea. Another friend called to say she was also watching the sunset from her rooftop. Text messages flowed in.

I was connected.

Well, duh,” you could say.

And this “duh” is exactly what seemed kind of profound: we take communication for granted. Of course we can talk to each other and share things with each other. And of course we create new devices to make talking and sharing easier. Of course.

But why do we do this, seemingly to no end? And why is it that communication is such a vital and defining aspect of our experience as humans? Why, really, do I love my cell phone so much?

I think it’s genetic.

It’s probably not news to most of you that we humans appear to be wired to talk to each other. We’ve got that FOXP2 gene that keeps making the news, contributing to our linguistic capacity. In fact, many researchers believe that language was central to our success as a species and allowed a small group of humans to expand across the globe about 50,000 years ago.

Our genetic design for interaction seems to go beyond talking amongst ourselves. A University of Michigan study slated to be published next month found that social interaction has a positive affect on memory and on cognitive functioning. The people who had the most conversations with others seemed to be the sharpest, and this was particularly true among young people. This may mean that more socially-oriented humans had a bit of an advantage over those who tended to keep more to themselves.

We may be such social animals that we’re even hard-wired to simply need company. After all, isolation is one of the most universal methods of punishment. Another set of researchers at the University of Illinois at Chicago found that mice isolated from their comrades have lower levels of hormones that control anxiety, depression, and aggression. They believe that these responses are similar in humans. In other words, it’s possible that our brains keep us happier and functioning better when they’re interacting with other brains.

It makes sense that our predecessors who figured out how to play well with others and share their thoughts were the ones who got the best shot at passing on their genes. And it’s no wonder our species devotes such enormous reserves to inventions that make communication easier. The most basic systems of rock painting and alphabets have allowed groups to share stories or warn others of impending trouble. And creations that help disseminate these symbols–papyrus, the printing press, even the simple pen and paper–have had a major impact on how we exist with one another, as individuals and as societies.

These days, many of our communication technologies have gone beyond “watch for hungry bear” or “here’s my idea” into doing a kind of doubly-human duty. We not only use technology to convey thoughts, but also to extend our opportunities to create bonds with other people and to form social groups. Thus the popularity of the likes of Facebook, personals ads, and Flickr. In fact, if you leave a comment about this little ditty I’ve written, you’ve hopped on this double-duty train by becoming a part of Quest’s blogging community.

And so now, as my thumbs feverishly tap out text messages, I see my cell phone as more than a gadget. It’s the latest cousin of cave drawings and hieroglyphics. What it says about my own evolution I’m not quite certain. But no doubt my wireless admiration results from something buried in my chromosomes.

Robin Marks is a journalist and science writer who current serves as a Multimedia Projects Developer for the Exploratorium in San Francisco, CA.

latitude: 37.7595, longitude: -122.51

Dave Barker of the Exploratorium
gets some batting tipsWhen I think of baseball and science, I always remember poor Sammy Sosa. In 2003, he was suspended from seven games with the Chicago Cubs for using a bat that had cork in it–an illegal move, according to Major League Baseball rules. I certainly don’t feel sorry for him for cheating (though he claims it was accidental), or for having to warm the bench for a while. But I do pity him for making a maneuver that probably never would have helped him anyway.

The idea behind “corking” a bat is that the bat will be lighter and the batter will be able to swing it faster, hopefully imparting more power to the ball. If you watch QUEST’s TV feature on the physics of baseball, you’ll see my Exploratorium colleague David Barker learning from the CalBears batting coach that getting the bat going fast is a key to whacking the ball as far as possible. In fact, today’s players use bats that are lighter and shorter than the ones swung decades ago, for just this reason.

Unfortunately for Sammy Sosa (and others before him who pulled the same stunt), corking the bat to make it lighter is a flawed approach. A wooden bat is a close-to-perfect swatting tool: it’s solid enough to resist absorbing much impact from the ball, but not so hard that it overly deforms the ball when hitting it. A bat with cork in the middle will be squishier, and won’t hit the ball as hard. Imagine the difference you’d expect if the bat were made of pillows. That’s a little extreme, but you get the idea. According to a recent Mythbusters show, corked bats don’t improve the power of a hit.

See for yourself what a difference swing speed can make. Check out our online “Scientific Slugger.” You can choose different swing speeds and pitches, and see which combinations go farthest (if hit perfectly).

Did Sammy know he was swinging a corked bat the day he was caught, or was it truly an accident? We’ll probably never know. But what’s clearer is that, in terms of a baseball career, it probably wasn’t worth the risk.

Robin Marks is a journalist and science writer who current serves as a Multimedia Projects Developer for the Exploratorium in San Francisco, CA.