IELTS Academic Reading Practice Test 103

The English word umbrella comes from the Latin umbra, meaning shade, and for most of their long history umbrellas had nothing to do with rain. The earliest versions were fixed canopies carried above the head to block the sun, and they appear in the art of ancient Egypt, Assyria and Persia. Only much later did anyone think of treating them with oil or wax to shed water. Even the shape was different: many early canopies were flat or conical rather than domed, and some were rigid structures that could not be closed at all.

In Egypt, carved reliefs show servants holding parasols over the heads of pharaohs and high officials. These canopies were often made from palm leaves, feathers or stretched papyrus, and their size announced the rank of the person beneath them. A large shade carried by a servant was a symbol of authority, and the bigger the canopy, the greater the status of its owner. Similar customs appear in Assyrian sculpture, where the king is shown sheltered while his attendants stand in the sun.

China produced the most sophisticated early umbrellas. Craftsmen built frames from bamboo, which is light, strong and easy to split into thin strips, and covered them with paper soaked in oil or lacquered to repel water. Because the ribs were jointed, the canopy could be folded shut, an advance that made the umbrella portable. Tradition credits the invention to the wife of the legendary carpenter Lu Ban, who is said to have copied the design from a child's toy; whatever its origin, folding umbrellas were in use in China many centuries ago. Travellers carried them to Korea, Japan and Southeast Asia.

In Rome, by contrast, the parasol became a distinctly female accessory. Women carried shades of leather, cloth or papyrus to protect their skin from the sun, while men who adopted such cover risked ridicule: Roman writers mocked men who used parasols at the games or in the forum, treating the habit as soft and unmanly. Umbrellas seem to have had no ceremonial role in Roman public life, and the association with shade rather than rain survived in the Latin word umbraculum, which could mean either a shady place or a sunshade.

Umbrellas remained rare in medieval Europe and were mainly ceremonial, carried in religious processions to shelter holy objects rather than people. They reappeared in the households of the wealthy in sixteenth-century Italy and France, where servants held them above their masters. By the late seventeenth century, rain umbrellas covered with oiled silk were appearing in Paris, but they were heavy, costly and considered eccentric. A traveller who raised one in a crowded street could expect stares, and a generation would pass before such objects were accepted as ordinary equipment for wet weather.

The man usually credited with making the umbrella respectable in London was Jonas Hanway, a merchant and philanthropist who had travelled in Persia. From about 1750 he carried an oiled silk umbrella through the streets in all weathers, and he is said to have used one for the rest of his life, some thirty years. Coach drivers and pedestrians jeered at him, yet by the 1780s umbrellas had become ordinary among well-off Londoners, and their use was spreading in other European cities. Hanway's contribution was not the object itself but the social example: he showed that a gentleman could carry one without shame.

Early English umbrellas were awkward pieces of equipment. Their ribs were made of whalebone, cane or wood, and a good example was heavy enough to tire the arm; it was also expensive enough to be repaired rather than replaced. The canopy, usually silk or waxed cotton, had to be dried carefully to stop it rotting, and a wet umbrella was not welcome in a drawing room. Because a large frame of whalebone was costly and sometimes hard to obtain, manufacturers began looking for a cheaper material with similar spring.

In 1852 the Sheffield steelmaker Samuel Fox patented a frame made from thin steel ribs, marketed under the name Paragon. Steel was strong, could be rolled thin and held its shape better than whalebone, and the new frames were lighter as well as cheaper to produce. Sheffield makers were quick to take up the design, and heavy curved handles gave way to lighter styles. Steel ribs became standard in the industry, and Fox's firm continued to make umbrella frames for generations.

The next change came in the late 1920s, when patents for telescopic frames allowed the shaft to slide inside itself. A telescopic umbrella folded small enough to fit in a pocket, and the design gradually became the standard travel model. The result was an object that could be kept in a handbag and opened in seconds. After the Second World War, nylon canopies replaced silk because nylon was cheaper, dried quickly and could be dyed in bright colours; later polyester coatings improved water resistance. Aluminium and fibreglass ribs made frames lighter still, though very cheap models bend easily in strong wind.

Manufacturing is now concentrated in a few places, above all in eastern China, where clusters of factories specialise in particular components. Automation has cut costs, and a basic folding umbrella sells for the price of a sandwich. A single umbrella, however, combines fabric, metal and plastic, which makes it difficult to recycle, and millions are discarded each year after a rib snaps.

The term perovskite originally referred to a calcium titanium oxide mineral found in the Ural Mountains, but modern solar cells use a wide family of synthetic crystals with the same atomic arrangement. These synthetic perovskites can be made from inexpensive ingredients and printed as thin films, characteristics that make them attractive for solar panels. The mineral was named in the 1830s after a Russian mineralogist, Lev Perovski. By changing the chemical mix, researchers can tune the colour of light the material absorbs. This flexibility is one reason the field has grown so quickly.

In 2009, researchers led by Tsutomu Miyasaka at the University of Tokyo reported using a lead halide perovskite as the light-absorbing layer in a photovoltaic cell. The first device converted only 3.8 percent of sunlight into electricity and lost performance within minutes because the liquid electrolyte attacked the perovskite. Nevertheless, it demonstrated a principle that would soon be developed rapidly. At first, the result drew little notice, but within a few years the efficiency figures began to climb, and other laboratories joined the effort. The paper showed that a cheap material could work in a solar cell, even if it did not last long.

A perovskite solar cell typically consists of a thin perovskite film between two charge-transport layers and electrodes. When light hits the film, it excites electrons, leaving behind 'holes'. The charges travel through the transport layers to produce an electric current. Because the perovskite can be deposited from solution by printing or coating techniques, it promises very low manufacturing costs compared with silicon wafers. These wet processes are simpler and use less energy than the high-temperature methods needed for silicon. In addition, the raw materials are widely available and cheap. No high vacuum or clean room is needed.

Within fifteen years, the efficiency of laboratory perovskite cells rose from that initial 3.8 percent to more than 25 percent, a pace of improvement unmatched by any other photovoltaic technology. Perovskite cells now rival the best silicon cells in the laboratory, despite being made from much less refined materials. Some researchers have reported tandem devices with efficiencies above 30 percent. This rapid rise is all the more striking because silicon took several decades to reach a similar level. This speed has encouraged both academics and companies.

However, silicon modules are sold with performance warranties of twenty-five years, and perovskite devices are far from that standard. Early cells decomposed when exposed to air or moisture, and later devices still degrade under heat, bright light and electrical stress. Encapsulation and new chemistries have extended lifetimes, but independent tests show that most perovskite cells still lose several percent of their output after a few thousand hours, whereas silicon typically loses little in that period. In other words, a perovskite panel that works well on day one may fail long before its owners expect.

The most efficient perovskites contain lead, which poses environmental and health risks if devices are broken or disposed of carelessly. Researchers have produced lead-free perovskites using tin or other elements, but these alternatives generally achieve lower efficiencies and degrade even more rapidly. Work continues on trapping lead inside the modules so that it cannot leak into soil or water. Some companies are testing recyclable designs, but no safe, efficient lead-free recipe has yet been found. Public acceptance will depend on safe disposal.

One near-term application is not to replace silicon but to sit on top of it. In a tandem cell, a wide-bandgap perovskite layer absorbs the blue part of the spectrum while the silicon layer below absorbs the red and near-infrared. Because each material specialises in a different range of wavelengths, the combined cell can exceed the theoretical limit of a single silicon cell. Laboratory tandems have already passed 30 percent efficiency, and this design may reach the market sooner than a pure perovskite panel.

Commercialising perovskite cells is harder than making a laboratory champion. The recipe must be reproduced on large panels without pinholes or cracks, and the finished panels must pass industry-standard reliability tests under damp heat and temperature cycling. A number of pilot production lines have opened in Asia and Europe, but products remain rare, and investors have become cautious after some early companies collapsed. Factories must also solve problems of scale and quality control, because a tiny defect can ruin an entire panel. Scaling up from a tiny lab cell to a full panel is not simple.

Despite these obstacles, the field is maturing. Standardised test protocols for perovskite stability are being developed, and manufacturers are learning to encapsulate modules so effectively that indoor tests now resemble those for conventional panels. If these trends continue, perovskites may finally turn their laboratory success into a commercial reality. A real product would need to last for decades outdoors under sun and rain, which is a test no laboratory can fully copy.

Few democratic countries compel their citizens to vote. Australia has done so since 1924, Belgium since 1893, and a number of Latin American states have followed. Elsewhere the idea is usually dismissed as an interference with liberty, yet turnout in many established democracies has drifted downwards for decades, and the parties that win power are sometimes supported by barely half of those entitled to choose them. In my view compulsory voting is defensible, but only if the law requires attendance at the polls rather than the act of choosing a candidate.

In practice, compulsion is gentler than the name suggests. Citizens are obliged to have their name marked off at a polling station or to return a postal vote; they are not obliged to mark the paper at all. A blank or spoiled ballot is counted as informal, and in Australia it carries no penalty. Those who fail to appear without a good reason receive a modest fine, which can be waived on medical or religious grounds. In Belgium the penalty rises for repeat offenders, but prosecutions are rare.

Australia is the most studied case. Before compulsion was introduced, turnout at federal elections had fallen to under sixty per cent; in the election that followed it rose above ninety per cent, and it has remained high ever since. Comparative studies across many countries generally agree that compulsory voting raises turnout, although the size of the effect depends on how strictly the law is enforced. High turnout, however, is a means rather than an end. A parliament elected by ninety per cent of adults is not automatically wiser than one elected by sixty per cent.

Belgium offers a useful comparison. Compulsory voting was adopted there in 1893, yet turnout at recent elections has slipped as enforcement has become sporadic, which suggests that the law works only while it is visibly applied. Brazil also fines those who fail to appear without an excuse, and its turnout is high, though voters who cannot read or write are not required to take part.

The case for compulsion rests on legitimacy. A government chosen by nearly the whole electorate can claim a mandate that a government chosen by a bare majority of a half-interested public cannot, and the knowledge that everyone will vote changes the way parties campaign. They must appeal to the whole country rather than to the groups most likely to turn out, and expensive campaigns to mobilise supporters matter less when the supporters would have voted anyway. Compulsion may also reduce the temptation to design policies for marginal seats alone.

The obvious objection is that compulsion interferes with individual freedom. Choosing not to vote can be a considered act of protest, or an expression of contempt for politics, and a state that punishes it is punishing a form of speech. Compulsory voting does restrict freedom, and it is dishonest to pretend otherwise. My answer is that the restriction is small and the freedom that matters is preserved. The voter who attends the polling station and hands in a blank paper has expressed a view more clearly than any abstention, and that paper is counted and published. What the law forbids is not dissent but silence.

Critics also argue that compulsion drags the ignorant to the polls and rewards the irresponsible. There is little evidence for this claim. A voter who knows nothing about the candidates can leave the paper blank, and informal ballots, which are published after every Australian election, are more often the result of confusion about the rules than of a refusal to choose. Nor is the alternative a nation of philosophers: people who care nothing for politics are already free to stay at home, and their absence does not improve the quality of the result.

Enforcement matters more than the letter of the law. A statute that is never applied becomes a statement of expectation, which may be enough: in several countries the fine is small, and the real penalty is the mild social disapproval that follows an unexcused absence. Modest fines of the kind used in Australia are, in my view, proportionate. Heavy financial or criminal penalties would be another matter, since a democracy should not jail people for staying at home.

Another charge is that compulsion conceals dissatisfaction. When turnout falls, governments are warned that something is wrong; when everyone votes by law, that warning is lost. This is a fair point, but the information is not destroyed. Informal and protest ballots provide a running measure of disaffection, and surveys in Australia track trust in politics as closely as anywhere else. Nor is it clear that compulsory voting favours one side: studies of Australian elections disagree about which party, if any, gains from it, and that uncertainty weakens the claim that compulsion is a partisan device.

Compulsory voting will not repair a broken political system, and it is no substitute for schools that teach civics or parties that offer real choices. It is, however, a reasonable rule for a democracy that expects participation to be a duty as well as a right, in the same way that jury service and taxation are duties. My conclusion is therefore cautious but firm: states should require their citizens to attend the polls, permit them to abstain on the paper, and keep the penalty small. A democracy that asks its people to turn up, and then lets them say nothing, is stronger than one that asks for nothing at all.