Corfu

By Peter Kelly

From thelocal.de comes this piece about German PMs suggesting that Greece sell its uninhabited islands to help shore its tattered economy. It contains this gem:

“We give you cash, you give us Corfu.”

Two years into the global economic unfooting, the suggestion that Odysseus’ stomping grounds be auctioned off is no longer shocking. It comes as just part of the large narrative, that all of civilization is connected and that nothing is above economics. We were lucky to have once, not too long ago, had the privilege of forgetting this.

What’s shocking about the article is: How does Greece still have uninhabited islands?

I mean, this is Greece, a nation of nearly unrivaled historical prestige which also just happens to host impossibly pleasant weather about 365 days a year. How many millions are lost each year by not opening these islands to tourists?

It reminded me of a comment by my coworker: “I hate national Parks. All I see is wasted potential.”

I hope he was kidding. I love national parks – the very idea that we decided to conserve just because, even in the face of obvious economic incentives to the contrary. We have quite a few of them in New York, and they are essential to our cultural identity. What would Manhattan be without the wide strip of protected green at its heart?

For that matter, we also have uninhabited islands in New York. Brooklyn’s Jamaica Bay contains dozens of tiny specks of land, in the shadows of skyscrapers and completely undeveloped. I hear they’re covered in trash from storms and passing boats, but hey – no humans. Perhaps these islands are federally protected land, sanctuaries for migrating birds or vacationing sewer Alligators. Or maybe there’s just nobody who wants them: fitting condos on 12’x15’ of sand and rock is tough. Maybe that’s why nobody has yet suggesting selling these islands to help right the state budget.

Not to say they couldn’t sell the islands, if they really wanted to. Any place can be sold. Every spec of land on Earth, no matter how remote or miniscule, is owned by some nation. Just this past week an island in the Indian Ocean disappeared under the waves, ending a 30 year ownership dispute between India and Bangladesh. It appeared after a typhoon, and was sunk by global warming, thus absolving the debate. Few people fight over underwater rocks – it’s stuff you can walk on that people want.

Even Antarctica has been thoroughly carved up by the world’s Imperial powers: a political map of the frozen continent looks like a pie chart.

And of course, every territory with an owner has been mapped down to the tiniest detail. 400 years of profit-driven exploring covered the world in flags, and then the rise of GPS and satellite imaging handed the known world to the masses, extending the reach of humanity to every little patch of moss on the planet. There may still be uninhabited islands out there, but there is nowhere on Earth where humans are not.

We got to this point because we had to know it all. But something was lost. There is no more wilderness. Those National Parks that I love, which I grew up exploring, which cover vast swaths of our country, which I now jog in on the weekends – they are the illusion of wilderness: forest and mountain and water whose dimensions were envisioned by man, planned by man, and now allowed to thrive by the will of man alone. The vistas of the Grant Canyon, and Yosemite, are not Nature, unchallenged; they are the property of the United States, and there is nothing but fortunate circumstance preventing the US government from turning them into highways and shopping malls. They exist primarily to look nice for us. As scenery they are signifiers of a kingdom that was conquered centuries ago, as much artifacts of a past dominion as the pyramids of Egypt. They’ve got “people” written all over them – who cares if nobody lives there?

Is there anything left to find? Well, there’s the deep ocean. And of course there’s always space, which according to my credible sources is the final frontier. Imagine the untouched worlds out there. Imagine what we still don’t know about the place we see through telescopes, and how learning about these places will expand our understanding of the universe and in turn, of ourselves. The possibilities of such untouched realms seem endless.

But here’s what I’m imagining: The year is 2410. Citizens across the galaxy are tightening their space belts to make ends meet during the Great Galactic Financial Crisis. Neptune’s local economy has been devastated by debt, and one forward-thinking, Earth-based politician has devised an ingenious plan to keep Neptune liquid:

“We give you cash, you give us Triton.”