Extreme Heritage Management: The Practices and Policies of Densely Populated Islands 9780857452603

Table of contents :
CONTENTS
FIGURES AND TABLES
ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Foreword: Geography at Risk
Preface: Geography, Land Use Conflict and Heritage Management Th e Instructive Role of Densely Populated Islands
Introduction. Vantage Points: Observations on the Emotional Geographies of Heritage
Chapter 1 Prince Edward Island, Canada
Chapter 2 Malta
Chapter 3 Guernsey, Channel Islands
Chapter 4 Jersey, Channel Islands
Chapter 5 Corsica, France
Chapter 6 Favignana, Italy
Chapter 7 Hawai‘i, USA
Chapter 8 Majuro Atoll, Marshall Islands
Chapter 9 The Bahamas
Chapter 10 San Andrés Island, Colombia
Conclusion: Lessons from Islands, or Islands as Miners’ Canaries
NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS
INDEX

Citation preview

E H M

Space and Place Bodily, geographic, and architectural sites are embedded with cultural knowledge and social value. The Anthropology of Space and Place series provides ethnographically rich analyses of the cultural organization and meanings of these sites of space, architecture, landscape, and places of the body. Contributions to this series will examine the symbolic meanings of space and place, the cultural and historical processes involved in their construction and contestation, and how they are in dialogue with wider political, religious, social, and economic ideas, values and institutions.

Volume 1 Berlin, Alexanderplatz: Transforming Place in a Unified Germany Gisa Weszkalnys Volume 2 Cultural Diversity in Russian Cities: The Urban Landscape in the post-Soviet Era Edited by Cordula Gdaniec Volume 3 Settling for Less: The Planned Resettlement of Israel’s Negev Bedouin Steven C. Dinero Volume 4 Contested Mediterranean Spaces: Ethnographic Essays in Honour of Charles Tilly Edited by Maria Kousis, Tom Selwyn, and David Clark Volume 5 Ernst L. Freud, Architect, and the Case of the Modern Bourgeois Home Volker M. Welter Volume 6 Extreme Heritage Management: The Practices and Policies of Densely Populated Islands Edited by Godfrey Baldacchino

E H M The Practices and Policies of Densely Populated Islands

[•] Edited by

Godfrey Baldacchino

Berghahn Books New York • Oxford

First published in 2012 by Berghahn Books www.berghahnbooks.com ©2012 Godfrey Baldacchino All rights reserved. Except for the quotation of short passages for the purposes of criticism and review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without written permission of the publisher. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Extreme heritage management : the practices and policies of densely populated islands / edited by Godfrey Baldacchino. p. cm. — (Space and place ; v.6) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-85745-259-7 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-85745-260-3 (ebook) 1. Islands—Environmental aspects. 2. Cultural property—Environmental aspects. 3. Tourism—Environmental aspects. 4. Economic development. 5. Real estate development. 6. Overpopulation. I. Baldacchino, Godfrey. GB471.E97 2011 304.20914’2—dc23 2011020087 British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Printed in the United States on acid-free paper. ISBN 978-0-85745-259-7 (hardback) ISBN 978-0-85745-260-3 (ebook)

$

Island Studies Press


Published in association with Island Studies Press, Institute of Island Studies, University of Prince Edward Island, Canada

[ CONTENTS ]

List of Figures and Tables List of Acronyms and Abbreviations

vii x

Acknowledgements

xiv

Foreword. Geography at Risk Mark B. Lapping

xvi

Preface. Geography, Land Use Conflict and Heritage Management: The Instructive Role of Densely Populated Islands Godfrey Baldacchino Introduction. Vantage Points: Observations on the Emotional Geographies of Heritage Elaine Stratford   Prince Edward Island, Canada Karen E. Lips   Malta Marguerite Camilleri, Monique Hili, Joseph Magro Conti, René Attard, Darrin Stevens, Marie Therese Gambin and Roberta Galea

xxv

1

21

47

  Guernsey, Channel Islands Heather Sebire and Charles David

75

  Jersey, Channel Islands John T. Renouf and Tim A. du Feu

96

  Corsica, France Jean-Marie Furt, Marie-Antoinette Maupertuis and Dominique Prunetti

116

vi

Contents

  Favignana, Italy Eleonora Cassinelli

134

  Hawai‘i, U.S.A. Luciano Minerbi

152

  Majuro Atoll, Marshall Islands Irene J. Taafaki, Caleb McClennen, Frank R. Thomas and John Bungitak

175

  The Bahamas Heather Cover and Nicola Virgill

198

  San Andrés Island, Colombia Marion Howard and Elizabeth Taylor

218

Conclusion. Lessons From Islands, or Islands as Miners’ Canaries? Stephen A. Royle

246

Notes on Contributors

260

Index

264

[ FIGURES AND TABLES ]

Figures Map showing location of territories covered in the case studies

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I.1. Sullivans Cove with Hunter Street Wharf, Hobart Town, Tasmania

2

I.2. From inner city wharf to island world heritage

3

I.3. Hobart Town 1879 (Hunter Street Wharf in lower right corner)

8

I.4. Henry Jones Art Hotel, Hobart, Tasmania

9

1.1. Park Corner area lot, 1880

26

1.2. Park Corner area lot, 1935

27

1.3. Park Corner area lot, 1990

27

1.4. 1990s vista

28

1.5. Lone farmhouse, 1990s

28

1.6. Branders Pond, 1997

31

1.7. Branders Pond, if current trend persists

31

1.8. Branders Pond: Testing new scenarios

32

1.9. Limits of Charlottetown, 1997

34

1.10. Limits of Charlottetown, if current trend persists

35

1.11. Limits of Charlottetown: Testing new scenarios

35

1.12. Cousin’s Shore, 1990s

39

1.13. Cousin’s Shore, if current trend persists

39

1.14. Cousin’s Shore: Testing new scenarios

39

1.15. French River, 1990s

41

1.16. French River, if current trend persists

42

1.17. French River: Testing new scenarios (1)

43

1.18. French River: Testing new scenarios (2)

43

2.1. Map showing 2006 land cover by type

48

2.2. Dwelling units granted planning permission, 2000–2008

49

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Figures and Tables

2.3. Total number of vehicles, 1990–2008

50

2.4. Number of nights spent by tourists in the Maltese Islands, 1990–2008

51

2.5. Map showing designated and managed areas, 2007

56

2.6. Map showing designated Natura 2000 sites

57

2.7. Location of site for proposed golf course, outskirts of Rabat

63

2.8. Map showing proposed landfills and three sites of archeological importance: Mnajdra Temples, Ħaġar Qim and Misqa Tanks

64

2.9. Mnajdra Temples

65

2.10. Map of Salini area, limits of St Paul’s Bay

69

3.1. New office buildings to the north of St Peter Port

77

3.2. SNCIs in the rural area (dark shading) and the urban area (light shading)

81

4.1. Outline and Summary Relief by Hachures of the Island of Jersey on Main Map. (Inset: Position of Jersey and Other Channel Islands with respect to France and England)

98

4.2. Island population by decade from 1821 to 2001

99

5.1. Number of approved building permits on Corsica, 1994–2007

120

6.1. Map of Favignana, Produced by the Marine Reserve

144

6.2. Map of Favignana, Produced by Gustavo Bertolino

144

6.3. Map of Favignana, Produced by Taxi Blu

144

6.4. Map of Favignana, Produced by the Aegusa Hotel

144

8.1. Aerial view of main section of Majuro Atoll

181

8.2. Visual evidence of opposition to the building and location of the dry dock

189

8.3. Visual evidence of opposition to the building and location of the dry dock

189

9.1. A model of a second home FDI strategy and the links to social exclusion

203

10.1. San Andrés: Population distribution

223

10.2. San Andrés: Unplanned urbanization

232

10.3. San Andrés: Cliff shantytown

233

C.1. Island holidays in a Belfast travel agency

247

C.2. FLNC graffiti in Corsica

254

Figures and Tables ix

Tables P.1. The thirteen jurisdictions with the highest population density (of more than 2,000 persons per square mile) for base year 2010

xxvii

P.2. Discrete (unbridged) islands with very high population densities (over 2,000 persons per square mile)

xxviii

2.1. Scheduled properties, December 2008

54

2.2. Scheduling notifications, reconsiderations and appeals

61

3.1. Area of land available for public amenity

87

5.1. Ratio of permanent population to tourist visitations during peak season in selected Mediterranean islands, 2008

116

5.2. Evolution of tourism demand in Corsica

117

5.3. Tourism pressure on select Mediterranean island destinations

118

9.1. Basic statistics: Comparison of New Providence and Eleuthera

206

9.2. Analysis of the economic impact of the second home market in the Bahamas

210

9.3. Comparison of number and value of New Providence properties advertised by Bahamian real estate companies

212

10.1. Draft population policies for San Andrés Island, Colombia

239

[ ACRONYMS AND ABBREVIATIONS ]

AAAS: American Association for the Advancement of Science AAV: Area of agricultural value ABCDE: Association Bonifacienne comprendre et défendre l’environnement (Corsica) AD: After Christ (Anno Domini) AEI: Area of ecological importance AFIT: Agence Française de l’ingénierie touristique AGRESTE: Agency for Agricultural Statistics (France) AHLV: Area of high landscape value AIDS: Acquired immunodeficiency syndrome AOSIS: Alliance of Small and Island States ATC: Agence Tourisme Corsica (Corsica Tourism Agency) B&B: Bed and breakfast BC: Before Christ BLNR: Board of Land and Natural Resources BMP: Best management practices BP: Before present CAR: Regional autonomous corporation (Colombia) CBD: Convention on Biological Diversity CBED: Community-based economic development CIA: Central Intelligence Agency (U.S.) CIP: Capital improvement programming CLT: Community land trust COP: UN ‘Conference of Parties’ series of meetings CORALINA: Corporación para el desarrollo sostenible del archipelago de San Andrés, Providencia y Santa Catalina (Corporation for the Sustainable Development of the San Andrés Archipelago, Colombia) CORINE: Coordination for Information of the Environment DANE: Departamento Administrativo Nacional de Estadística (Department for National Statistics, Colombia)

Acronyms and Abbreviations xi

DATAR: Délégation à l’aménagement du territoire et à l’action régionale (Delegation for Land Management and Regional Action, France) DBEDT: Department of Business, Economic Development and Tourism (Hawai’i) DFID: Department for International Development (UK) DHHL: Department of Hawaiian Home Lands DLNR: Department of Land and Natural Resources DUD: The linked islands of Delap-Uliga-Darrit, Majuro Atoll EIA: Environment impact assessment EIPP: Environmental initiatives in partnership program EIS: Environmental impact statement EPA: Environmental Protection Authority (Marshall Islands) EPPSO: Economic Policy, Planning and Statistics Office (Marshall Islands) EU: European Union FDI: Foreign direct investment FLNC: Fronte di Liberazione Naziunale Corsu (Corsica National Liberation Front) GDP: Gross domestic product GEF: Global environment facility GIS: Geographical information systems GPS: Global positioning system GSP: Gross state product (U.S.) HRS: Hawai’i Revised Statutes (State of ) ICEM: International Centre for Environmental Management IDC: Island Development Committee (Guernsey) IGAC: Instituto Geográfico Agustín Codazzi (Colombia) INAP: Integrated National Adaptation Programme (Colombia) INSEE: Institut national de la statistique et des études économiques (National Institute for Statistics and Economic Studies, France) LESA: Land evaluation and site assessment LIA: Landscape impact analysis LLCP: Legacy Land Conservation Programme LR: Land readjustment LUC: Land use commission MAB: Man and the Biosphere Programme MEDDAT: Ministère de l’écologie et du développement durable (French Ministry for Ecology and Sustainable Development)

xii

Acronyms and Abbreviations

MEPA: Malta Environment and Planning Authority MIRAB: Migration, remittances, aid and bureaucracy MKSC: Moloka‘i Community Service Council MOU: Memorandum of understanding MPA: Marine protected area NAO: National Audit Office (UK) NGO: Non-governmental organization NPI: National protective inventory (Malta) NRAS: Natural resources assessment surveys NRM: Natural resource management NSO: National Statistics Office (Malta) OCCRE: Oficina de control de circulación y residencia OEQC: Office of Environmental Quality Control OHA: Office of Hawaiian Affairs PADDUC: Plan d’aménagement et de développement durable (Corsica) PEI: Prince Edward Island, Canada PLU: Planification local urbain (Local town planning, Corsica) RMI: Republic of the Marshall Islands SAC: Special area of conservation SIDS: Small island developing states SINA: Sistema nacional ambiental (National Environment System, Colombia) SNCI: Site of nature conservation importance SPA: Special protected area SSI: Site of scientific importance TDR: Transfer of development rights UCA: Urban conservation area UIF: Urban improvement fund U.K.: United Kingdom UKOT: United Kingdom Overseas Territory UN: United Nations UN-IACHR: United Nations Inter-American Commission on Human Rights UNCTAD: United Nations Conference on Trade and Development UNEP: United Nations Environment Program UNESCO: United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization U.S.A.: United States (of America)

Map of the World, highlighting the island locations that feature in this book.

´

[ ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ]

Most of the papers appearing in this volume had earlier drafts presented at an international conference on the theme Sharing the land: heritage management in island jurisdictions, organized by the Institute of Island Studies (IIS), University of Prince Edward Island, and held in Loft #1 at ‘the WhY’, deliciously converted condos in downtown Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island (PEI), Canada. This conference critically discussed the tensions surrounding spatial planning and land use conflict on island jurisdictions from a multi and inter disciplinary perspective. It attracted presentations from cultural and economic geographers, civil architects, environmentalists, national trust officers, land use planners, island studies specialists, heritage personnel, civil society representatives, and public officers engaged in environmental stewardship and development planning. In focussing on islands with higher population densities, the context upped the stakes: therein, land is a critically more finite resource and where pressures to develop, maintain, restore or rehabilitate ‘assets’ or ‘resources’ may be stronger, and starker, than elsewhere. The wholehearted assistance of my colleague Dr Irené Novaczek, Director of the IIS, in ensuring the success of this conference, is hereby most gratefully acknowledged. I also thank the generous sponsors of this event: the Office of the President and of the Dean of Arts at the University of Prince Edward Island (UPEI), the Architects Association of PEI, architect Ole Hammarlund, landscape architect Karen E. Lips, the PEI Department of Tourism, and—especially—the PEI Department of Environment, Energy and Forestry, the latter through the tangible support of John MacQuarrie, Deputy Minister. Kathleen Stuart and Andrew Lush were involved as members of the conference organizing committee, while Crystal McAndew Fall, a Master of Arts (Island Studies) student at UPEI, was an exemplary, hardworking conference coordinator. Acclaimed Island photographer John Sylvester provided one of his stunning photos to grace the cover of the conference program booklet, and served as keynote speaker during a wellattended public forum that accompanied the event. I owe some special thanks to Janice Pettit, another Master of Arts (Island Studies) student at UPEI. Were it not for her solid encouragement and

Acknowledgements xv

support against all odds at a critical time, the Sharing the Land conference would not have materialized. But the idea for the book’s theme goes back even further. It really started with a brief article, suggestively titled ‘Crabs in a barrel’, that I penned, rather casually, for a local weekly newspaper in Malta, in August 2000. Therein, I tentatively suggested how ‘land rage’ may exacerbate the tensions for access and control of space and for the definition of place, even in visibly manifest ways. I must thank Mario A. Grixti for continuing to prod, encouraging me to pursue this research subject more amply and assiduously. My heartfelt appreciation extends to all the contributors of this volume, who have borne my various editorial demands with patience and perseverance, over many months. I hope that they are pleased with this final product and that they will find it useful and timely in pushing forward and informing the debate on heritage management in their locales, just as it would hopefully do in many other jurisdictions. I must also thank Mohamed, commonly known as Muha, one of the most acclaimed photographers from the Maldive Islands, for his permission to reproduce his photograph of Malé, capital of the Maldives, as the cover of this book. Meanwhile, Maura Pringle, cartographer/map curator at the School of Geography, Archaeology and Palaeoecology, Queen’s University Belfast, Northern Ireland, U.K., designed the world map highlighting locations featured in this text. Thank you also to Marion Berghahn, of Berghahn Books, who quickly warmed up to the idea of publishing this book; and Ann Przyzycki, my assiduous publishing coordinator at Berghahn, later joined by Caitlin Mahon and Melissa Spinelli, as well as copyeditor Jaime Taber. All were infinitely patient yet courteous with me as they made sure that the text and all its accompanying artwork and images for this volume were up to the task. I explicitly targeted Berghahn to publish this text, having much admired their excellent work on previous publications on similar themes, and as was also recommended to me by my good old friend and colleague, Professor Jeremy Boissevain. I also wish to acknowledge the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC). So much of the work that has gone into this book has been supported by my SSHRC Standard Research Grant (SRG) titled ‘Offshoring Strategies from/for Sub-National Island Jurisdictions’: SRG Application No. 410–2007–0577. Finally, an acknowledgement to the copious support extended by my wife Anna and my son Luke, my cherished companions in our home away from home. Charlottetown Prince Edward Island, Canada October 2011

[ Foreword ] Geography at Risk MARK B. LAPPING

Survival in Question In many ways, the old adage that ‘geography is destiny’ is a truism for places defined by extreme environments, most especially small islands. By their very nature, small islands are limited and finite in significant ways. Their land masses are fixed, the availability of potable water resources is generally limited, arable land may well be minimal, and many traditional livelihoods are declining while reliance upon an emerging single industry, such as tourism or financial services, continues to grow. The very survival of island populations has often been in question, though perhaps at no time more so than today. Two recently published newspaper articles attest to this. Global climatic change is threatening the very existence of the Carteret Islands northeast of Papua New Guinea because of rising sea levels. But, as one news reporter has observed, islanders ‘do not want to abandon their homelands or to be absorbed into cultures where indigenous people already struggle for acceptance’ (MacFarquhar 2009). Meanwhile, the president of the archipelagic state of the Maldives, Mohamed Nasheed, worries about the possible need to relocate his whole country’s population because of the ongoing destruction of the coral reefs that mediate varying sea levels and weather (Schmidle 2009). Global warming is a serious concern, even where the existence of islands is not currently in question. Some island communities will invariably be displaced as salt water intrusion becomes an increasingly salient issue, while traditional fishers will see their livelihoods imperiled as both the quantity and quality of the fishery are increasingly eroded and access to marine resources is curtailed. The rich and diverse set of chapters that constitute this volume suggest several other themes that also constitute ‘risks’ – at least, to some extent – for small islands with dense populations. These include issues of land

Foreword

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tenure and access to resources, the deep ambivalence over the growing tourism sector among natives – along with the rise of gated communities – as well as other aspects of environmental stress. This synthetic prologue reviews these issues conceptually and comprehensively.

Tourism Many of these chapters make it profoundly clear that tourism has emerged as a very important sector for many island economies. In many places tourism has become the island industry, bringing along with it all of the vulnerabilities of places whose economy is defined by a single export commodity, industry or firm. In a number of cases, such as Jamaica, Barbados and the Seychelles, the tourist sector is the largest source of hard currency (Harrison 1992: 12). For islands, tourism capitalizes on their fundamental comparative advantages; they are portrayed and branded as being far from the ordinary; they have easy and broad access to the sea and its alluring beaches; they represent sites with significant heritage and ecological resources and are held to have somehow held on, thanks to their peripherality, to cultural integrity and authenticity. Tourism has numerous forward and backward linkages in the island economy and can bring with it both benefits and challenges. These consequences are rarely evenly distributed, thus increasing social tensions; problems may arise at the very same time that overall economic growth is occurring. Yet, tourism can be a truly transformative set of experiences: ‘Tourism has a genuine potential to deliver on its promises: travel can change the spiritual as well as the physical existence of both the visitor and the host. Even the packaged tour, the business trip, and the stay in a standard hotel represent a break from the routine and the possibility for new experience’ (Fainstein and Gladstone 1999: 21). Good planning and implementation can attempt to mitigate some of the more negative aspects of development, but as some of these chapters illustrate, local capacity is often lacking or, when part of a larger administrative regime, as in the case of Howard and Taylor’s contribution on San Andrés Island with respect to Colombia, the idiosyncratic needs and realities of islands may not be well recognized by distant and largely indifferent metropolitan regimes. This is also the case of the French island of Corsica as underscored in the chapter by Furt, Maupertuis and Prunetti, who write that ‘implemented rules actually impose protection measures that ignore local concerns.’ Tourism provides income-generating opportunities to those normally engaged in farming, fishing, craft production, service provision or light industry. And, as several of the chapters in this volume document, local peo-

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ple may well rent out their homes or cottages or provide specific skill sets during the ‘high season’ and thus accrue substantial earnings that supplement, or even surpass, normal income-generating activities. Surplus labor may also be absorbed in the economy during the tourist season(s). It may well be the case that various aspects of ‘heritage’ are rediscovered by the local community, as their uniqueness or quality may initially be perceived as more valuable to those coming to the island to visit rather than to longterm residents who live there. Finally, tourism has the potential to bring traditional and isolated island populations within the global orbit, so to speak. But ‘modernization’, often a byproduct of tourism investment and development, also has the potential to commodify and degrade heritage, social norms and the environment as well as cause a shift from historical subsistence lifestyles to consumerism (Hall 1998). As has been pointed out, ‘[i]ndigenous art, dance, carving, painting, weaving, basketry, and other handicrafts, which may have been functional and even sacred within traditional societies, may become changed or even cheapened when pressed to serve as mere entertainments and curiosity for tourists’ (Shepard et al. 2009: 537). Places other than islands have also seen tourism emerge as the dominant economic sector. In my own U.S. state, Maine, this has been the case as manufacturing has declined sharply, while agriculture, the forest products industry and even fishing have lagged as growing sectors. Some time ago, so the story goes, a Maine governor only half-jokingly asked the people of the state to be ‘nice’ to and solicitous of tourists, not to give them inaccurate travel directions and to treat them with courtesy. Whether this really happened or not is largely irrelevant. The critical point is that tourism development often brings with it a certain degree of ambivalence, or even outright hostility. Thus, giving inaccurate driving directions may well be indicative of these sentiments, even while it is recognized that tourism has brought with it a degree of growth and prosperity, at least for some. Scott (1992) argues that the powerless demonstrate resistance and opposition to the hegemonic authority of the powerful in many subtle but profound ways. While the facts of domination may not be in dispute, the powerless display opposition to oppression and a consciousness of their inequality in their non-official or ‘hidden transcripts’, which the powerful may neither see nor comprehend. Might this be the reason why Mainers habitually give wrong directions to those who ‘come from away’? As indicated in several of these essays, most especially Cassinelli’s chapter about the Italian island of Favignana, in their dealings with tourists local people may not share with others their own ‘maps’, or beaches, or various other special places or traditions. Such behaviour can be a clear manifestation of the locals’ ambivalence towards, or outright displeasure with, their

Foreword

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situations and servile position within a tourism-dominated economy. In his typology of various forms of resistance, Scott (1989: 54) might well recognize the actions of these islanders as constituting a form of disguise and subterfuge in that certain things are hidden or kept from those who are more dominant. Meanwhile, Minerbi’s chapter on the Hawaiian experience with land use issues demonstrates to an exceptional degree that such matters remain highly contested with the traditional ‘tapestry’ population of the Hawaiian archipelago, at odds with the more dominant modernization thrust. This is a powerful subtext to the approximately one hundred ‘land struggles’ since the mid 1970s that Minerbi cites. Island tourism, then, brings with it the potential for real conflict between on one hand local people, especially indigenous groups and communities, and on the other hand the forces of modernization that employ tourism. The same could perhaps be said of the financial services sector as documented by Sebire and David in the case of Guernsey, another significant agent of global integration and economic development. It is, at best, a ‘mixed bag’.

Enclaves and Privatopia Certain forms of land development, such as gated communities, are especially poignant examples of how island tourism may create potential or actual flashpoints for resistance that can take the form of new policy and planning initiatives. Gated communities are growing in popularity on islands with high amenity value. Such developments may be seen as ‘the new enclavism’ (Atkinson and Blandy 2005) or an extension of the quest for ‘privatopia’ (McKenzie 1994). Gated communities appear to be a particular issue in the Bahamas as well as many other high-amenity islands, whether the concerns are motivated out of fear of crime or the desire to capture certain prized resources – such as beaches – for private use, or both. In the case of the Bahamas, Virgill and Cover argue that the emergence of gated communities reflects specific government policy and is part of a larger economic development strategy. Some have argued that gated communities are not necessarily spatial expressions of elitism or social inequality. Rather they are seen to constitute calculated responses to risk and to the availability of finite resources that residents are willing to pay for in order to protect them for their exclusive use (Smith Bowers and Manzi 2006). For example, Csefalvay (2006: 10) argues that ‘people moving to gated communities do so because they want to use the amenities offered by the residential parks, and not because they

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want to segregate themselves from society more generally. People wish to use the facilities of the community, financed by themselves, and therefore move into gated communities not to practice their exclusionary behaviour. People want to live in a safe environment, and therefore pay guards and have walls, not to militarize the urban space and fortify environments.’ Still, gated communities must be seen as patterns of spatial separation, segmentation and the privatization of resource utilization that imposes social costs and environmental externalities on others. In the case study of the Bahamas, the social costs have been high, especially in terms of denying locals their traditional access to the sea and sea views. Protests, political agitation and other forms of opposition have been the result. Gated communities appear to be particularly problematic in New Providence, as Cover and Virgill make clear, given the relatively small size of the island and its very dense population. Denied access to the sea, native islanders are pushed ever deeper into the middle of the island for their residences and thus further away from the ocean. Policy makers apparently are aware of a number of the social problems engendered by gated communities as well as the resulting crowding in other parts of the island and other examples of environmental stress, such as soil erosion. They balance these with the benefits new investment makes to the economy, including jobs in the various sectors that are affected by the construction, servicing and financing of new development. A similar situation emerged earlier in the Caribbean islands of Barbados in the post-independence period. This led to an indigenous, grassroots protest movement known as Windows to the Sea, one that successfully agitated for ‘openings’ to the ocean and new oceanfront facilities for all. These reforms were eventually incorporated in the development plan for the island (Town and Country Development Planning Office 1983). In neighboring St. Vincent and the Grenadines, locals’ disaffection and anger over one large resort development at Godahl Beach led, in 2000, to outright violence. Old cemeteries were desecrated during the construction phase, traditional beach access was denied, and it was judged that far too much land was coming to be owned by foreigners (Cambers et al. 2002: 9). These issues have yet to be suitably resolved.

Land Tenure While land use planning and mitigation policies can attempt to soften, reduce or compensate for some of the most extreme problems generated by such development, more fundamental questions concerning the very na-

Foreword xxi

ture of land tenure must be raised and confronted. Land tenure refers to the nature of rights and obligations that govern and accompany the ownership, control and use of land. In market economies, where private land ownership is the basic principle for the entire system, tenure is defined by outright ownership subject to the rules and norms of society. Islands, reflecting many traditional and communal societies, have evolved numerous land tenure systems. Islands within the same geographic region may display different land tenure and land use systems. In the case of Trinidad and Tobago, for example, the relative abundance of land, together with access to a significant amount of state-owned land, has made for little political support for land reform. The opposite has proven to be case in other, much smaller and much more densely populated islands of the Caribbean. Elsewhere, the adoption of Western legal systems, when combined with increased population growth, brings about pressures that render some traditionally adaptable tenure systems largely irrelevant. As customary land rights are eroded, the ‘loss of the commons’ and the alienation of coastal resources in island societies will often result. This is especially the case on those islands where absentee ownerships have become prevalent (Namai and Crocombe 1987). This is not to say, however, that all traditional land tenure systems are not without their own compromises and problems. Indeed, the maintenance of some traditional land tenure systems has actually perpetuated the old plantation agricultural system and its associated historic inequities (Rodman 1984). Generally speaking, islanders have regarded beaches as public resources. When tourism development threatens public access to the ocean, conflict is bound to emerge. As a flashpoint, the privatization of access constitutes an assault against heritage. Indeed, as Cambers (2000) has pointed out, in some Caribbean islands the very term ‘beach access’ was until recently largely unknown as access was a right that was traditional and age-old. In their contribution to this study, Camilleri and her associates from Malta join du Feu and Renouf from Jersey to illustrate some of the tensions that invariably arise where archaeological sites and heritage properties are seen to obstruct the modern residential or commercial construction demanded by economic growth and expanding populations. Meanwhile, in her contribution to the collection, Lips suggests a method of visual preference analysis that holds the potential to generate greater degrees of citizen participation in land use planning than has traditionally been the case in Prince Edward Island (PEI), Canada’s smallest, and fully island, province. What has emerged over the generations in PEI is a landscape that is the product of specific types of rural land usage, especially as they relate to agriculture. In a very real sense, PEI is a true ‘working land-

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scape’ in that it is the product of certain patterns of agricultural production, forest resource use, fisheries and community settlement patterns (Lapping 1982). What underlies all of this, of course, is a land tenure system of widely dispersed individual ownerships that reflects the politics of land in PEI as perhaps nowhere else in North America. And while this is not the place for a protracted discussion of land politics in PEI, the point must be made that, over the years, islanders have attempted to limit the alienation of coastal and inland resources by non-residents, and the size and magnitude of corporate ownerships. As Lips makes clear, they also continue to struggle to maintain a land tenure and land use system that encourages and enhances a unique ‘island way of life’ (see also Lapping and Foster 1984; Mage and Lapping 1982; Misek and Lapping 1985). To date, these efforts have only been partially successful, and a recent Commission on Land and Governance has recommended possible new policy initiatives for PEI (Commission on Land and Local Governance 2009).

Conclusion The non-alienation of land remains a powerful issue for islanders everywhere. Greater attention to land tenure issues is inevitable since they are often flashpoints around which local people and traditional cultures confront the forces of globalization and modernization. Indeed, as Taafaki and her colleagues conclude in their study of the Majuro Atoll of the Marshall Islands, positive change on the islands could only occur ‘with the reclaiming of ownership over the natural resources that are inherently at the heart of Marshallese culture.’ Land use planning, on the other hand, must be oriented to sustainability; this can only be done when the concept of ‘carrying capacity’ becomes the linchpin for planning decisions large and small. Clearly there are issues, like global warming, the destruction of coral reefs, the decline in the fisheries and rising sea level, whose successful resolution is beyond small islands’ ability. Together with others, especially those nations that have the ability and responsibility to reduce their carbon footprints and move to more sustainable resource use, islands must strongly advocate for their very survival. Where they do have the capacity to address a number of their own problems, islanders may wish to practice a degree of selective exclusion, or selective closure, that will allow them to determine the nature and degree of development, cultural integration and global participation they will accept as they struggle to maintain their integrity. The future of small islands lies in the balance.

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B Atkinson, R. and S. Blandy. 2005. ‘Introduction: International perspectives on the new enclavism and the rise of gated communities’, Housing Studies 20(2): 177–186. Cambers, G. 2000. ‘Access to our beaches: A right or a memory?’ Sea Grant in the Caribbean (July–September), 1–3. Cambers, G., A. Muehlig-Hofman and D. Troost. 2002. Coastal land tenure: A small island’s perspective. Paris: UNESCO. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http:// www.environnement-propriete.org/english/2002/download_pdf/Troost.pdf Commission on Land and Local Governance. 2009. New foundations: Report of the commission on land and local governance, Charlottetown, Canada. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http://www.gov.pe.ca/photos/original/ReportEng.pdf Csefalvay, Z. 2006. ‘The demystification of gating’, European Journal of Spatial Development, Debate, February (online). Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http:// www.nordregio.se/EJSD/debate200902.pdf Fainstein, S. and D. Gladstone. 1999. ‘Evaluating urban tourism’, in D. R. Judd and S. S. Fainstein (eds), The tourist city. New Haven: Yale University Press, 261–272. Hall, D. R. 1998. ‘Tourism development and sustainability issues in Central and Southeastern Europe’, Tourism Management 19(5): 423–431. Harrison, D. 1992. Tourism and the less developed countries. New York: Wiley. Lapping, M. B. 1982. ‘Toward a working rural landscape’, in C. Reidel (ed.), New England prospects: Critical choices in a time of change. Hanover, NH: University Press of New England, 50–84. Lapping, M. B. and V. Foster. 1984. ‘From insurgency to policy: Land issues in Prince Edward Island’, in C. Geisler and F. Popper (eds), Land reform, American style. Totawa, NJ: Allenheld and Rowman, 245–270. MacFarquhar, N. 2009. ‘Islanders fearing climate change press a UN debate’, New York Times, 29 May, A7. Mage, J. and M. B. Lapping. 1982. ‘Controlling absentee ownership in Canada’, Agricultural Law Journal 4(3): 364–389. McKenzie, E. 1994. Privatopia: Homeowner associations and the rise of residential private government. New Haven: Yale University Press. Misek, M. and M. B. Lapping. 1985. ‘Making land policy: Prince Edward Island’s strategy to control corporate agriculture’, Plan Canada 24(2): 114–119. Namai, B. and R. G. Crocombe (eds). 1987. Land tenure in the atolls: Cook Islands, Kiribati, Marshall Islands, Tokelau, Tuvalu. Suva, Fiji Islands, University of the South Pacific Press. Rodman, M. 1984. ‘Masters of tradition: Customary land tenure and the new forms of social inequality in a Vanuatu peasantry’, American Ethnologist 11(1): 61–80. Schmidle, N. 2009. ‘Wanted: A new home for my country’, New York Times Magazine, 10 May, 38–43.

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Scott, J. C. 1989. ‘Everyday forms of resistance’, Copenhagen Journal of Asian Studies 4(1): 33–62. ———. 1992. Domination and the arts of resistance: Hidden transcripts. New Haven: Yale University Press. Shepard, E., P. W. Porter, D. R. Faust, and R. Nagar. 2009. A world of difference: Encountering and contesting development, 2nd edition. New York: Guilford Press. Smith Bowers, B. and T. Manzi. 2006. ‘Private security and public space: New approaches to the theory and practice of gated communities’, European Journal of Spatial Development, no. 22 (online). Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http:// www.nordregio.se/EJSD/refereed22.pdf Town and Country Development Planning Office. 1983. Barbados physical development plan. Bridgetown, Barbados: Government of Barbados.

[ Preface ] Geography, Land Use Conflict and Heritage Management The Instructive Role of Densely Populated Islands GODFREY BALDACCHINO

Geography, Heritage and Environmental Management [I]t is not too much to say that, when we have mastered the difficulties presented by the peculiarities of island life, we shall find it comparatively easy to deal with the more complex and less clearly defined problems of continental distribution. (Wallace 1880: 234)

Being born and bred on the island state of Malta, it would be quite impossible for me not to observe, in the span of just a few recent decades, the merciless advances of industrialization, real estate, tourism and transportation infrastructure, and the rearguard action that has been waged – especially since 1992, with the advent of a Structure Plan and a national Planning Authority – to contain or minimize the impact on natural and cultural assets and resources from these developments, all encapsulated on a national territory of just 120 square miles. According to Boissevain (2004a: 235), an intricate network of nepotism, patronage and political clientelism is significantly to blame for a general failure in that country’s environmental stewardship. These societal features, in turn, are predicated on the country’s ‘small scale, population density and strong family ties’ (ibid.; also Boissevain 2004b). The implied relationship between heritage and environmental management (or lack thereof ) and human geography is a beguiling one. Why should matters regarding land use – which may appear, at first sight, to fit squarely within the realm of planning and regulation – be influenced by small scale and population density? And how exactly would conflicting and

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competing claims over the utility, function and imagining of land and sea be exacerbated on islands with high population density, if at all? To address such questions, we are reminded of other situations for which a resort to islands may be pertinent and productive. This would not be new: a whole army of natural and social scientists, from anthropologists to conservation biologists, have been visiting and monitoring islands to seek inspiration and information about ‘the broader picture’, such as the transformation of cultures in the face of creeping globalization or the particular dynamics of biotic evolution (e.g., Quammen 1996). Similarly, islands serve as useful and convenient sites for observing the impact of land use planning – including impact assessments – or of its absence or non-enforcement. The dynamics in such extreme scenarios are likely harbingers of what the future may hold for other places. It is in this respect that islands present themselves as ‘extreme environments’ (as also documented in Baldacchino 2007). The management of culture and heritage is particularly tested in island environments where space is especially finite. It may appear somewhat ironic that the importance of managing heritage on islands has become a stronger policy priority in recent decades following the exponential growth of ‘warm water’ island tourism (Beller et al. 1990; Lockhart et al. 1993; Conlin and Baum 1995; Briguglio et al. 1996a, 1996b; Apostolopoulos and Gayle 2002) and, more recently, its ‘cold water’ island variant (Baldacchino 2007).

Influences of Population Density The impact of population density, all too obvious in the natural sciences, is rarely acknowledged in social science. Food chains and predator-prey ratios affect, and are in turn affected by, population growth (e.g. Mithen and Lawton 1986). However, any extensions of such arguments – which remain quite current and accepted within biology – to Homo sapiens generally meet with hesitation and reserve. Perhaps understandably so: the application of allegedly scientific and biologically grounded models of human behaviour – as, for instance, Social Darwinism and the Eugenics movement, as well as the concept of lebensraum (living space) – have alas been used to justify and legitimate various (typically right-wing) ideologies throughout recent history, including colonialism, fascism, racial superiority and anti-immigrant sentiment (Wilson 2004: xv–xvi).1 Aspects of physical geography, particularly relating to climate, have also been used to explain away culture and behaviour, or the rise and decline of civilizations (e.g., Semple 1911; Gallet and Genevey 2007). Some of these theories – say, the equatorial paradox2 – have also been subsequently debunked for having served to prop up Western imperialism (e.g., Parker 2000). But the proverbial baby may have been thrown out with the bathwater. Other scholars have not merely

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looked at humans responding rather glibly to environmental changes but finessed the role of cultural variables, political leadership and strategic decisions in behavioural outcomes (e.g., Diamond 2004; Nunn 2007). Population density is another quantitative geographical trait, calculated as the mid-year resident population per unit of land area. Gross mean figures of population density can, however, be misleading, since various regions in the world are inhospitable to human life and populations tend anyway to cluster around coastal regions, riverbanks, seaports and fresh water. Nevertheless, several of the most densely populated territories in the world are city-states and small jurisdictions (see Table P.1). The residents of all these territories share a relatively small land area, high levels of urbanization, and relatively high levels of economic prosperity. Many tend to be mountainous or island jurisdictions – physical and jurisdictional enclaves of sorts, preventing a natural spillover of population across contiguous borders.3 Many are also popular tourist destinations, aggravating the Table P.1 The Thirteen Jurisdictions with the Highest Population Density (More than 2,000 Persons per Square Mile) for Base Year 2010 (Rounded Figures). Resident Area Density Rank Jurisdiction Population (mi2) (/mi2) World (land only) 6,908,688,000 57,510,000 120 1 Macau* (People’s Republic of China) 546,200 11.3 48,450 2 Monaco 33,000 0.75 44,000 3 Singapore 5,077,000 274.2 18,510 4 Hong Kong (People’s Republic of China) 7,008,900 428 16,380 5 Gibraltar (U.K.) 31,000 2.6 13,260 6 Vatican City /Holy See 1,000 0.17 5,880 7 Malta 410,000 122 3,360 8 Bermuda (U.K.) 65,000 20 3,250 9 Bangladesh 164,425,000 55,598 2,960 10 Bahrain 807,000 280 2,880 11 Maldives 314,000 115 2,730 12 Guernsey 65,726 30 2,180 13 Jersey 91,533 45 2,040 Sources: Figures for population and population density figures are extrapolated from base year 2005 data in United Nations World Population Prospects (2010 revision). *The entries in italics represent subnational (or non-sovereign) jurisdictions.

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crowding and pressure on basic resources (transport, water, energy, foreshores, etc.) as well as introducing an additional and different set of land use and sea/landscape stakeholders. The glaring exception is Bangladesh, the only country with a large (and relatively poor) population and a high population density. Some of these jurisdictions, like Jersey, are single island entities. Others boast a number of island units, in which case a mean national population density often conceals more extreme statistics at the substate level. This is perhaps no more evident than in the cases of Malé (capital island of the Maldives), New Providence (capital island of the Bahamas and the location of Nassau), Moen (capital island within Chuuk, one of the four Federated States of Micronesia), Majuro (capital island atoll of the Marshall Islands), Malta (main island within the Maltese islands) and San Andrés (a subnational island jurisdiction of Colombia). In each of these, population densities are much higher than their respective national mean figures. With some 120 million residents, Java, Indonesia, is the world’s most populated island; however, many of the world’s most densely populated islands are to be found amongst South Pacific archipelagic microstates (see Table P.2). Table P.2 Discrete (Unbridged) Islands with Very High Population Densities (Over 2,000 Persons per Square Mile). Population Density (per square mile) 2,110 2,120 2,150 2,150 2,300 2,350 2,560 2,560 2,900 3,230 6,310 13,260 80,000+ 200,000+

Island Unit Oreor (Palau) Losap (Federated States of Micronesia) Kili (Marshall Islands) New Providence (Bahamas) Moen (Federated States of Micronesia) Java (Indonesia) Tarawa (Kiribati) Funafuti (Tuvalu) San Andrés (Colombia) Malta (main island only) Majuro (Marshall Islands) Malé (Maldives) Ebeye (Marshall Islands) Santa Cruz del Islote (Colombia)

Sources: Global islands database held by the United Nations Environment Program, available at: http://islands.unep.ch/Tidensit.htm; and U.S. Census Bureau, International Data Base, available at: www.infoplease.com/ipa/A0934666.html. For the Marshall Islands, 1999 Population Statistics from: www.spc.int/prism/country/mh/stats/CensusSurveys/area_density.htm.

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Land Rage Various studies have confirmed that confined space, or the scarcity of its associated resources, impacts significantly on the demographic characteristics of various animal populations, as with deer, or rats (e.g., Kruuk et al. 1999; Calhoun 1962 respectively). Thomas Malthus’s influential ideas concerning the key role of scarcity in social life have become the linchpin of neoclassical economics and inspire the current principle of ‘sustainability’ (Malthus 1798). One readily understands how high population density has an impact on the escalating cost of land and property. However, scientific research has hardly been able to establish a relationship between population density and human behaviour. The anecdotal evidence here, meanwhile, is nevertheless broadly disseminated and considerable. There is casual but widespread reference to ‘cabin fever’ to describe nagging feelings of claustrophobia when a person or group is or feels isolated and/or shut in for an extended period of time. ‘Road rage’ and ‘air rage’ are now recognized patterns of explosive behaviour that can be catalysed by feelings of being held in a confined space. Perhaps human beings should also be speaking of ‘land rage’ (Baldacchino 2000)? The high population density of small island societies may be complemented by low thresholds of privacy, excessive familiarity, intensive networking and rampant gossip flows. These conspire together to contribute to psychological claustrophobia and an inability to escape parochialism other than via exile (Barnes 1954; Baldacchino 1997: 67–79). Prince Edward Island folklorist and storyteller David Weale (1992: 9) aptly calls this ‘a straitjacket of community surveillance’. This experience – having your individual personality and ambitions overwhelmed by the oppressive and weighty baggage and demands of envious peers, social mores and local expectations – is also referred to as ‘crabs in a barrel’ or ‘the tall poppy syndrome’ (e.g., Baldacchino 1997: 118). It is too much to expect that manifestations of these dynamics – reminiscent of goings on inside ‘total institutions’ like prisons, boarding schools, mental hospitals and other largely confined spaces (Goffman 1961) – can be discerned in some aspects of human behaviour, including the principles and practices of heritage management?

Land as Commodity Tourism, heritage conservation, nature preservation, industrial development, residential construction, transport infrastructure, commercial space, indigenous people’s rights: these are only some of the driving forces in

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shaping, or preserving, our natural and cultural environments. What to do, and not to do, with a piece of land, a derelict property, a stretch of coast, or a particular vista has become inherently contestable. This is increasingly so with the advance of multiple stakeholder interests, the emergence of environmental/green lobbies, the appeal and attraction of ‘the past’, and the valuable – but diametrically opposed – contributions to economic activity made by construction, real estate and property development on the one hand, and pristine locales and heritage on the other. Why this should be so is, significantly, a consequence of the unfolding conceptualization of space and governance in the contemporary Western world. Our current and implicit understanding of space – as a distinct and immutable thing, one that has an independent existence and can contain objects – owes much to the influence of Euclidian geometry, Galilean astronomy and Newtonian mechanics (e.g., Latour 1988: 25). Space, like time, emerged as a fundamental physical and reified absolute in the cartographic, post-Renaissance world view (e.g., Richardson 2005). In parallel there emerged the notion of the sovereign state in the wake of the Peace of Westphalia (1648), the acceptability of the rule of law and of individual proprietary rights, and the emergence of legality-rationality as the basis for institutionalized competence and authority in society (e.g., Weber 1947). Thus, regulation (the legal aspect) and planning (the rational aspect) emerged steadily as the preferred and respected complementary instruments deployed by a secular state (federal, provincial, municipal) in the context of democratic politics for the ‘management’ – itself a very recent term – of land, its parcellation or zoning dependent on prescription, and the very designation of its uses. Thus land became a commodity; in association with territory, it is synonymous with the material expression of the materiality and unity of ‘the body politic’ (Hobbes 1951: 81). These rubrics have now been extended to the sea (by means of the concept of the exclusive economic zone under the United Nations Law of the Sea) and the air (the vertical extension of a national boundary to 50.55 miles above sea level) (Palan 2004: 95–98). For a time, as suggested by the English political economist David Ricardo, it was land (rather than capital) that may have been considered as a more stable and reliable basis for long-term wealth (Ricardo 1817). True enough: whereas rents today are not generally considered superior vehicles to profits for wealth maximization, significant revenue can still be derived from them. The property market (with associated mortgage payments) remains a significant contributor even in contemporary economies: this has been all too well manifested in the financial ‘credit crunch’ that has ushered in the latest economic recession. Islands emerge as interesting candidates for promoting the importance of rentier revenue: as tax havens and offshore finance centers (Hampton

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and Abbott 1999); as tourism economies (McElroy 2006); as sites of other, geographically anchored or inspired investments and monetary flows, as are military services and remittances (Kakazu 1994). But land per se comes across as perhaps the most important of such revenue generators. The construction and real estate industries typically loom large in the local economy. Property is recognized and respected as a safe, prized, prudent investment by islanders, one that will hopefully ride economic downturns unscathed. Moreover, combining smallness with islandness significantly increases the stakes: competition is heightened over what to do on, and to, what is not just a reified but also a scarce and finite resource. Many small island governments – in Åland, Bermuda, Jersey, Malta, etc. – seek to discourage, or even prohibit, non-residents or foreigners from gaining ownership rights over their land.4

A Tragedy of the Commons The common argument goes that free access and unrestricted demand for a finite resource sooner or later doom or degrade that same resource through overexploitation. This line of reasoning is one that legitimates the strict management of common ‘goods’ by means of the increased involvement of a regulatory body. The cumulative effects of individual greed and self-interest in the face of a limited resource supply are cogently explained in ‘the tragedy of the commons’, and have perhaps been best articulated by Hardin (1968): his journal article published in Science is one of the most quoted ever. As the model explains, competition for land, and over the uses of that land, in situations of high population density exacerbates resource degradation: such settings – more easily found on island jurisdictions – may thus help to demonstrate the excesses resulting from policy laissez-faire while at the same time showcasing some interesting policy solutions. Conceptually, there are three possible solutions to the ‘tragedy of the commons’, beyond the resort to a regulatory regime. These are schematically reviewed below. Some overlap across these ‘solutions’ is unavoidable. Island examples are proffered for illustrative purposes. The first solution is a resort to technology, which may help explain, for example, why agricultural productivity has continued to outpace population growth. Technical or technological solutions in relation to land include the engineering expertise to construct tall buildings that can accommodate large numbers of residents or workers on a relatively small land area, thus also reducing their environmental footprint. Islanded spaces, like Long, Manhattan and Staten Islands, increase the scarcity of physical land, obliging the vertical growth of New York City and resulting in a very high

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population density (some 23,000 persons per square mile) in that pioneer of ‘skyscraping’ and its regulation (e.g., Weiss 1992). Hong Kong and Singapore would be other, notable examples of this trend. The second solution is an expansion of the resource. When applied to land, the main approach for expansion is via land reclamation, including the building of artificial islands. While the masters of this technique have historically been the Dutch, the approach has been used to good effect in such island jurisdictions as Singapore5 and the Maldives,6 particularly in relation to the threat of sea level rise. There are, however, serious physical constraints to the extent to which safe land reclamation is possible in most environments. Various aspects of resource expansion – such as availability of more parking space, or more roads – are not always a solution and may merely postpone the taking of harder decisions curtailing use in due course. The third solution is privatization – a contentious issue, no doubt, especially where it affects what are seen to be public goods. With its more direct relationship between inputs and outputs, private ownership may have every interest in caring for and maintaining a resource for which it may have paid to enjoy. The difficulties that arise here are essentially two: the introduction of restricted or prohibited access to most non-owners; and the (often physical) transformation of the privatized environment to enhance the enjoyment of the proprietors. Various archipelago states (like Fiji, St Vincent and the Grenadines), or continental states with various island territories (like Australia, Canada and the U.S.), have looked at the privatization of whole islands;7 other island jurisdictions (like Mauritius) have considered the development of gated communities.8 Others still (like the Bahamas) have considered both approaches as components of an allegedly viable economic development strategy. Of course, ‘Private islands, accessible mainly by private jets and private yachts, are becoming the preferred sites for ungated luxury development, the island situation itself providing a protective barrier against the outside world and an open prospect of the seascape (preferably devoid of troublesome refugees)’ (Sheller 2009: 1399, emphasis in original). Hardin’s neo-Malthusian ideas have been very controversial. They champion limits on individual freedom and advocate for state control over an individual’s reproductive rights, a principle that has been so far endorsed and adopted by only one state: the People’s Republic of China. However, human actions are not always a result of greed (e.g., van Ginkel 1995). Moreover, there are other land use co-management options that are not fully considered, or not considered workable, by Hardin (1968). These include both indigenous and cooperative governance (i.e., ‘bottom up’, rather than ‘top down’) models and practices, which variously depend on: a respected

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and legitimate, and not necessarily autocratic, authority structure at any scale – from tribal to international – that influences or determines to whom, how and when to grant access (if at all) to valued resources; limits and quotas imposed by respected scientific experts; communal or collective ownership that forestalls individual property rights; and sustainable user conservation practices such as ‘resource and habitat taboos’ (Colding and Folke 2001) that privilege long-term environmental considerations over shorter-term economic ones (also Ostrom 1990). One good example that combines some of these models is that of the Icelandic fishery, with its transferable quotas set by scientists on the basis of reliable catch data (The Economist 2009). Other examples – such as the plights of, on one hand, the Grenada dove and, on the other hand, the Tasmanian wilderness, which led to policy shifts in favour of habitat protection on those two island jurisdictions – show how developments may be shelved, overhauled or pared down in consideration of the negative impact they would otherwise have had on the habitat of nationally symbolic biota (Rosenberg and Korsmo 2001) or sites deemed worthy of world heritage status (Hay 1994).

Space as Symbolic Construction Hardin’s analysis epitomizes the tensions in the use of finite resources, and land use planning often goes about its task in the implicit understanding that it needs to accommodate or balance different land uses, deploying a combination of managerial and technical skills that gain legitimacy from their legal-rational foundations. But such an explanation is only bound to satisfy the empiricists. Otherwise, one simply cannot fail to appreciate that space and place – as ‘things’ – are themselves socially constructed, born of interrelations, embedded in a more complex nexus of imaginings and representations that go beyond the strictly spatial and material (e.g., Massey 2005: 9). It is thus pertinent to understand and critique the very process of the production of space and place to come to better and much more nuanced terms with the dynamics of planning. Here, a key theoretical resource is Henri Lefebvre. In The Production of Space, Lefebvre (1991) contends that space is really a social product – a complex social and ideological construction, based on values and the social production of meanings, which in turn affect spatial practices and perceptions. As a Marxist philosopher (though highly critical of economic structuralism), Lefebvre argues that this social production of lived space is fundamental to the reproduction of society, hence an ‘active moment’ of capitalism itself (Harvey 1982: 390). The social production of space is contentious but typically commanded by a hegemonic class or élite as a tool to

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reproduce its dominance. To change life is to change space: architecture is conformity, but can also be revolution (Merrifield 2000: 173). We are thus faced with at least three interpretations, or identities, of space. First, straddling the physical with the ideological, is represented space, which includes maps, plans, roads, models, designs, rubrics and similar forms, as well as the space constructed by the practice of such professionals as architects, urban planners and civil engineers; it also includes the built environment. These spaces are fleshed-out interpretations of how space should be disciplined and designed for the sake of smooth communication – but also surveillance, policing and control (e.g., Foucault 1975). Such space is what emerges from the process of land use planning, with its colour-coded maps, blueprints and sketches. The second is representational space, which also overlies physical space, making symbolic use of its objects. At the periphery of mainstream culture and regulation, chaotic and elusive, it is the space where new and counterhegemonic ideas and practices, from graffiti to squatting, from skateboarding to cycling – to mention a few of its most visibly manifest contemporary expressions – take shape, and it includes the appropriation and use of (private or public) space for public protest. As the (largely mental and intuitive) space that the imagination seeks to change and appropriate, it is dominated by counter/subaltern theories and ideologies (Lefebvre 2000: 135) The third is experiential space, or the lived and situation-specific version of space, revealed through the physical and experiential deciphering of space in everyday life and practice, such as journeying to and from work (Lefebvre 1991: 38–41). Such everyday cultural anthropology is the site of, and the crucial condition for, the ‘reproduction of the relations of production’, including how space, and time, are engineered and presented (Aronowitz 2007: 135); mobility/ties and transportation options and their infrastructure equate thus to ‘socially reproduced motion’ (Cresswell 2006: 3). And so, space is formed by the dynamic interrelationships of its conceptualizations as an object and product of perception (in Lefebvre’s French original, le perçu), in theorization or representation (le conçu), and as a particularly lived, space-time phenomenon, or praxis (le vécu) (Shields 1991: 50–58). Thus, the tensions and contestations that typically surround land use issues do not merely represent zero-sum games, or competing, performative interpretations of what a space should ‘do’ or what a place should ‘be’. They represent a struggle over ideas and values about how space is re/produced and re/presented (Johnson et al. 2004: 109). The very principles and procedures of planning, and the ontology of resource planning and management, are imbued with ideology: the notionally scientific is so deeply political.

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Islands as Spaces for Control An island, therefore, cannot be naïvely understood simply in its strict material, reified form: a delineated, predetermined, bordered space where scarcity is a ‘given’. The island is also so thoroughly steeped in ‘emotional geography’ (e.g., Stratford 2008) that it is perhaps impossible to disentangle its ‘realities’ from its ‘dreams’ (Royle 2001: chap. 1) or dissect its geographical materiality – including its apparently self-evident finiteness – from its metaphorical allusions. This messiness is the basis for the symbolic usage of islands as premier sites, and models, for carefully designed and manicured spaces: Thomas More’s (1516) rationally ordered Utopia and William Golding’s (1956) wilderness-like dystopia in Lord of the Flies; millenary narratives about Paradise, Eden and Shangri-la, especially in the Western imaginary (Gillis 2004); pirate bases, religious shrines, maximum security prisons and quarantine sites. Island life rides piggyback on what Bruno Latour (2008: 2) explains as ‘the spread in comprehension and extension of the term design’, since an island can so much more easily be conceived or transformed into a gated community, given the imagined relative ease of controlling access. The nature of the island residents can change with context – from prisoners to lepers, from rich and reclusive millionaires to monastic communities – but the key premise often remains that of crafting the island as a malleable platform for the practice of some form of exclusivity that needs to be protected from mainland interaction or contamination. To island is to control. Such absolutist plans are easier to implement when islands are ‘cleansed environments’ and the developers do not meet any opposition. Unlike mainlands, one can actually buy and own a whole island. But in many other cases, island residents exist, and they are themselves party to a plurality of interpretations about the place they call home, about what they consider to be ‘heritage’ and thus about the ‘best use’ of their (limited?) space. These arguments provide a rationale for reviewing the unfolding of the exercise of heritage management in such extreme, island environments – extreme in both the reified sense triggered by the consequences of acute population density, and in the more representational sense of battling over symbolic constructions of what, and how, space and heritage are to be conceptualized and defined, and only then contested in their apportionment. While any sample of featured islands cannot presume global representativeness, any careful discussion based on relevant case material can offer a broad and update account of critical issues concerning heritage management in the twenty-first century.

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Such case material would consider various intervening factors and processes. These would include the respective role and leverage played and enjoyed by such ‘third parties’ as international organizations, including the impact of new requirements for stakeholder inclusion by such diverse funding agencies as the World Bank, the World Wildlife Fund, and the Global Environmental Facility. Then there is the role of the national (federal and provincial, in some cases) as well as the municipal/local state, arm’s-length local development agencies, historical heritage societies, nature trusts and business interests in framing and shaping the contours of planning and management practices, or in seeking to arbitrate disagreements over these. Next is the conceptualization of island space by different social coalitions, concerned citizen associations and other interest groups from civil society, and their respective emotional geographies. Add in the newspapers, television channels, radio stations, Internet blogs and other purveyors of opinion and information that craft and broadcast their own interpretational twists of space and any associated conflict, while alongside these one cannot discount the role of ‘public opinion’, local churches and charismatic individuals in the definition of ‘heritage’ and in the construction, unfolding and resolution of conflict over land use and natural/cultural assets. The outcome of such scrutiny is a study of not just the dramatic unfolding of conflict situations but also policy lessons for more effective environmental management, on and for both islands and mainlands. We have, in each of these cases, an insightful study of life as geography; of its ‘struggles for power over the entry of entities and events into space and time’ (Hägerstrand 1986: 43). Nowhere, and no one, is really exempt from these. Although the dense populations on small islands may be the ones most glaringly aware of the negative impacts and effects of population density, they may nevertheless lack the policy capacity, the organization, the motivation, the imagination or even the interest to halt the slide into collective ruin, poverty and resource scarcity. That stark observation in itself is a situation worthy of serious comparative analysis. Alfred Wallace’s earnest hope, expressed more than a century ago, has yet to materialize: we have yet to master the (allegedly comparatively easier) difficulties presented by the peculiarities of island life. The road to hell, as the aphorism goes, may be paved with the best of intentions. N 1. In 1897, Friedrich Ratzel claimed that the expansion to fill available space was a natural and necessary feature of any healthy species. The idea of a race without sufficient living space, and thus starved of ‘self-expression’, was brought to prominence during the Meiji Restoration in Japan and by Adolf Hitler in Germany (e.g. Herwig 1999).

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2. The question being: why do countries closer to the equator and the tropical zone have, as a group, lower levels of income per capita than do more temperate countries? 3. Ap Lei Chau, off the southwest side of Hong Kong Island, is credited as being the world’s most densely populated (albeit bridged) island, with 80,000 residents on half a square mile for a density of 160,000 per square mile (Island Superlatives 2009). Manhattan, another bridged island, comes in second with 71,200 residents per square mile. Its population density reached a historic peak in 1910 (Demographia 2001). 4. The prevention of the purchase of property by non-Ålanders (and non-Swedish speakers) in Åland is a safeguard in Finland’s Treaty of Accession to the European Union in 1995. Foreigners in Bermuda are more or less unable to buy land or property, other than one of some 300 houses with an annual rental value in excess of U.S.$43,800. Some concessions were granted in 2002 to nonBermudians with over twenty years of continuous residence who have demonstrated good character and conduct, but only some additional 400 persons are thus eligible (Low Tax Web-site 2008). With half the population of Jersey having been born elsewhere, housing rights are a hot political issue. The island’s housing laws render the right to buy and rent property dependent on birth and are therefore intentionally ‘discriminatory’ (Le Rendu 2004: 60). Neither the European Union nor the United Kingdom has challenged these regulations, appreciating that they allow Jersey the option to maintain measures to limit population (Le Rendu 2004: 73, note 33). In 2002, Malta successfully negotiated a permanent derogation with the European Commission, preventing non-Maltese, non-resident EU citizens from buying property in Malta (The Economist 2004). 5. Land reclamation in Singapore began modestly in 1962. Much larger areas have since been reclaimed, most notably 4.5 square miles for various phases of Changi International Airport and the joining of seven islands to form Jurong Island for a vast petrochemical complex. Reclamation projects have resulted in Singapore growing from a land area of 227 square miles at independence in 1965, to 266 square miles by 2001 (Lim 2002), and to 274 square miles by 2009 (Statistics Singapore 2010). 6. The artificial island of Hulhumale (195 hectares) was constructed to absorb population from the congested Maldivian capital island of Malé (DEME 2009). 7. For various examples of the sale or rent of whole and ‘habitable’ islands, visit: www.vladi-private-islands.de/tunnel.html. 8. For more about the ‘Integrated Resort Schemes’ of Anahita and Tamarina in Southern Mauritius, consult Corydon (2009).

B Apostolopoulos, Y. and D. J. Gayle (eds). 2002. Island tourism and sustainable development: Caribbean, Pacific and Mediterranean experiences. Westport, CT: Praeger.

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Aronowitz, S. 2007. ‘The ignored philosopher and social theorist: On the work of Henri Lefebvre’, Situations: Project of the Radical Imagination 2(1): 133–156. Baldacchino, G. 1997. Global tourism and informal labour relations: The small scale syndrome at work. London: Mansell. ———. 2000. ‘Crabs in a barrel’, The Malta Independent on Sunday (Malta), 27 August, 13. ——— (ed.). 2007. Extreme tourism: Lessons from the world’s cold water islands. Oxford: Elsevier. Barnes, J. A. 1954. ‘Class and committees in a Norwegian island parish’, Human Relations 7(1): 39–58. Beller, W., P. d’Ayala and P. Hein (eds). 1990. Sustainable development and environmental management of small islands. Paris: UNESCO. Boissevain, J. 2004a. ‘Hotels, tuna pens and civil society’, in J. Boissevain and T. Selwyn (eds), Contesting the foreshore: Tourism society and politics on the coast. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 233–260. ———. 2004b. ‘Contesting Maltese landscapes’, Journal of Mediterranean Studies 11(2): 277–296. Briguglio, L., B. Archer, J. Jafari, and G. Wall (eds). 1996a. Sustainable tourism in islands and small states: Issues and policies. London: Pinter. Briguglio, L., Butler, R., Harrison, D. and Leal Filho, W. (eds). 1996b. Sustainable tourism in islands and small states: Case studies. London: Pinter. Calhoun, J. B. 1962. ‘Population density and social pathology’, Scientific American 206(3): 139–148. Colding, J. and K. Folke. 2001. ‘Social taboos: ‘Invisible’ systems of local resource management and biological conservation’, Ecological Applications 11(2): 584–600. Conlin, M. V. and T. Baum. 1995. Island tourism: Management principles and practice. New York: Wiley. Corydon, J. 2009. ‘Island of Mauritius beckons upscale foreign guests who may want to stay’, Global Writes: The insider’s guide to travel, food and wine. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www.global-writes.com/islandnations/ index.html?-Token.article=77&-Token.index=1 Cresswell, T. 2006. On the move: Mobility in the modern western world. London: Routledge. DEME. 2009. Maldives—Hulhumale. Belgium, Dredging Environmental and Marine Engineering. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www.deme.be/Projects/ hulhumale.html Demographia. 2001. ‘City of New York & Boroughs: population and population density from 1790: six tables’. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www .demographia.com/dm-nyc.htm Diamond, J. 2004. Collapse: How societies choose to fail or succeed. New York: Viking. Foucault, M. 1975. Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York: Random House.

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Gallet, Y. and A. Genevey. 2007. ‘The Mayans: Climate determinism or geomagnetic determinism?’ EOS: Transactions American Geophysical Union 88(11): 129–130. Gillis, J. R. 2004. Islands of the mind: How the western imaginary shaped the Atlantic world. New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Goffman, E. 1961. Asylums: Essays on the social situation of mental patients and other inmates. New York: Doubleday. Golding, W. G. 1954/1978. Lord of the flies: A novel. New York: Putnam. Hägerstrand, T. 1986. ‘Den geografiska traditionens kärnområde’, Svensk Geografisk Årsbok 62(1): 38–45. Hampton, M. P. and J. P. Abbott (eds). 1999. Offshore finance centers and tax havens: The rise of global capital. New York: Macmillan. Hardin, G. 1968. ‘The tragedy of the commons’, Science 162(3859): 1243–1248. Harvey, D. 1982. The limits to capital. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Hay, P. R. 1994. ‘The politics of Tasmania’s world heritage area: Contesting the democratic subject’, Environmental Politics 3(1): 1–21. Herwig, H. H. 1999. ‘Geopolitik: Haushofer, Hitler and lebensraum’, Journal of Strategic Studies 22(2): 218–241. Hobbes, Thomas. 1651/1951. Leviathan. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Island Superlatives. 2009. ‘Population Density’. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www.worldislandinfo.com/SUPERLATIVESV2.html Johnson, R., D. Chambers, P. Raghuram, and E. Tinknell. 2004. The practice of cultural studies. London: Sage. Kakazu, H. 1994. Sustainable development of small island economies. Boulder, CO: Westview Press. Kruuk, L., T. Clutton-Brock, S. Albon, J. M. Pemberton and F. E. Guinness. 1999. ‘Population density affects sex ratio variation in red deer’, Nature 399: 459– 461 (3 June). Latour, B. 1988. The pasteurisation of France. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. ———. 2008. ‘A cautious Prometheus? A few steps toward a philosophy of design (with special attention to Peter Sloterdijk)’. Keynote lecture for meeting of the Design History Society, Falmouth, Cornwall, U.K., 3 September. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www.bruno-latour.fr/articles/article/112-DESIGNCORNWALL.pdf Lefebvre, H. 1991. The production of space, trans. D. Nicholson-Smith. Oxford: Blackwell. ———. 1947/2000. The critique of everyday life. New York: Verso. Le Rendu, L. 2004. Jersey: Independent dependency? The survival of a microstate. London: Ex Libris Press. Lim, L. 2002. ‘Bigger Singapore from sea and swamp’, StraitsTimes (Singapore), 30 March. Lockhart, D., D. W. Drakakis-Smith and J. A. Schembri (eds). 1993. The development process in small island states. London: Routledge.

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Low Tax Web-site 2008. ‘Bermuda residence and property’. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www.lowtax.net/lowtax/html/bermuda/jbrres.html Malthus, Thomas. 1798. An essay on the principle of population. Oxford: World’s Classics reprint. Massey, D. 2005. For space. London: Sage. McElroy, J. L. 2006. ‘Small island tourist economies across the life cycle’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint 47(1): 61–77. Merrifield, A. 2000. ‘Henri Lefebvre: A socialist in space’, in M. Crang and N. Thrift (eds), Thinking space: Critical geographies. London: Routledge, 167–182. Mithen, S. J. and J. H. Lawton. 1986. ‘Food-web models that generate constant predator-prey ratios’, Oecologia 69(4): 542–550. More, Thomas. 1516. Utopia. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: http://etext.lib .virginia.edu/toc/modeng/public/MorUtop.html Nunn, P. D. 2007. Climate, environment and society in the Pacific during the last millennium. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Ostrom, E. 1990. Governing the commons: The evolution of institutions for collective action. Cambridge MA: Cambridge University Press. Palan, R. 2004. The offshore world: Sovereign markets, virtual places and nomad millionaires. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Parker, P. 2000. Physioeconomics: The basis for long-run economic growth. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Quammen, David. 1996. The song of the dodo: Island biogeography in an age of extinction. New York: Scribner. Ricardo, David. 1817. Principles of political economy and taxation. London: John Murray. Richardson, B. W. 2005. Longitude and empire: How Captain Cook’s voyages changed the world. Vancouver, B.C.: UBC Press. Rosenberg, J. and F. L. Korsmo. 2001. ‘Local participation, international politics, and the environment: The World Bank and the Grenada Dove’, Journal of Environmental Management 62(3): 283–300. Royle, S. A. 2001. A geography of islands: Small island insularity. London: Routledge. Semple, E. C. 1911. Influences of geographic environment: On the basis of Ratzel’s system of anthropo-geography. London: Constable. Sheller, M. 2009. ‘Infrastructures of the imagined island: Software, mobilities, and the architecture of Caribbean paradise’, Environment and Planning A 41(6): 1386–1403. Shields, R. 1991. Places on the margin. Oxford: Routledge. Statistics Singapore. 2010. Key annual indicators. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: http://www.singstat.gov.sg/stats/keyind.html Stratford, E. 2008. ‘Islandness and struggles over development: A Tasmanian case study’, Political Geography 27(2): 160–175. The Economist. 2004. ‘Smallness pays’. London: The Economist magazine, 26 February. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www.economist.com/displayStory .cfm?story_ID=2461814

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———. 2009. ‘An Icelandic success: A model way to catch and keep fish’. London: The Economist magazine, Troubled waters: Special report. 3 January. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: www.economist.com/specialreports/displaystory .cfm?story_id=12798518 United Nations. 2009. United Nations world population prospects: The 2008 revision population database. Geneva: UN. Retrieved on 8 February 2011 from: http://esa.un.org/unpp/ Van Ginkel, R. 1995. ‘Fishy resources and resourceful fishers: The marine commons and the adaptive strategies of Texel fishermen’, Netherlands’ Journal of Social Sciences 31(1): 50–63. Wallace, A. 1880/1975. Island life, or the phenomena and causes of insular faunas and floras, including a revision and attempted solution to the problem of geological climates. New York: AMS Press. Weale, D. 1992. Them times. Charlottetown, Canada: Institute of Island Studies, University of Prince Edward Island. Weber, M. 1947. The theory of social and economic organization, trans. A. M. Henderson and T. Parsons. New York: The Free Press. Weiss, M. A. 1992. ‘Skyscraper zoning: New York’s pioneering role’, Journal of the American Planning Association 58(2): 201–212. Wilson, E. O. 2004. On human nature. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

[ Introduction ] Vantage Points Observations on the Emotional Geographies of Heritage ELAINE STRATFORD

The maritimity of Hobart’s Hunter Street Wharf is hidden by neither the bitumen’s flat expanse, nor the sharp verticality of four-storeyed Georgian warehouses that now serve as boutique ‘this-and-that’. Diesel odours from fishing boats bobbing in harbour waters lace the air but cannot disguise the brine-smell. Cars squat on concrete piers over the dark moving mass of the Derwent River. Embedded in the sidewalk and running the length of the wharf is a bronze line symbolizing the curvature of the original shore of Hunter Island. It is a complex thread of cultural and natural heritage particular to here and yet woven through a larger tapestry whose motif – how to value the is-ness of place – manifests in many elsewheres. Near a large brown marble edifice marking the sesquicentenary of colonial and postcolonial expansion (1804–1954), it is possible to turn on one’s heel a full 360 degrees. From this vantage point, dwell upon the land, and sea, and sky scapes that are this site. Witness a world of associations and transformations inscribed upon them. Feel how these move out, into the world, backward and forward in time and space. Any one point on the arc of a circumnavigatory gaze of such scapes offers up rich insights on the palimpsest that is place. Points lead to lines, and lines to transects; wedge-like slices of narrative, they are instructive.1 Like thin scratchings on vellum, some such stories trace prehistoric or colonial moments whose significance is now difficult to gauge; others are bold statements whose recency renders less ambiguous various authorial intentions of modernity and progress (Figure I.1). Much of what is apprehended in the gaze appears local, of this place, but scrutiny reveals otherwise. A wharf now site to the sale of luxury goods, professional services and higher education once churned with the noise

2 Elaine Stratford

Figure I.1 Sullivans Cove with Hunter Street Wharf, Hobart Town, Tasmania Source: Carswell (1823). This image was created in Australia and is in the public domain.

and pulp-sweet smell of apple processing and jam making. Filaments of that past stretch out across the water of Sullivans Cove, over the southwestern foothills of proximate suburbs and down to the Huon Valley, once a southern hemispheric locus of apple production for the mother country – once, meaning before the United Kingdom joined the European Union in 1973 and the Australian government financed the wholesale pull of the valley’s orchards, leaving entire communities and townships like empty pockets in its path.2 From that same point on the wharf, gaze 90 degrees up a transect that takes in the gracious Victorian proportions of a general post office whose presence is a reminder of a world long internationalized, and of connections of cultural and natural heritage that span the globe (Figure I.2). Look again – past a central business district that has almost avoided the symptoms of downtown-anywhere, past inner and outer suburbs dotted with houses of refreshingly quirky diversity – colonial English, Dutch gable, California bungalow. Above the foothills that frame those suburbs, apprehend the massive dolerite extrusion that is Mount Wellington, and know that beyond it lies the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area – fully one third of this island place. Vantage points: islands might productively be conceived as vantage points, graspable and able to inscribe ‘the permanent consciousness of being’ on a particular geographical form (Péron 2004: 328). Focusing on the islands of the Ponant that dot the northwest coast of France from Brehat

Introduction 3

Figure I.2 From Inner City Wharf to Island World Heritage Source: Elaine Stratford.

to the Ile d’Yeu in the English Channel and Atlantic, Péron explores the apparent strangeness, distinctiveness and difference of the island form. The sea is omnipresent, the island’s surface invoking limit, an ‘involution [that] assigns added value to all local, and obviously finite, assets … For those living on an island, it is clearly the centre of the world’ (Péron 2004: 330). But Péron is curious about the idea of island for mainlanders too, for those islands seem somehow not quite of the world though in it: sensually disorienting, compelling inventory, exploration, seduction, or revelation. In imperialist expansion, islands have been stepping stones to other islands or to continental prizes. Serving such functions they also serve others: anchorage, rest, larder, foothold and resource. More than points on a trajectory to elsewhere, however, islands invoke a desire to settle in particular ways. Péron remarks on the art of island life as ‘private and communal … characterized by subtle internal divisions between inhabitants … never dull’ (ibid.). Exogenous threats may be greeted by united fronts. Territoriality may be profound. Here, perhaps, is inscribed the idea of islanderas-place and the cultural individuation of islands by islanders themselves:

4 Elaine Stratford

îleité; islandness. If such is the case, Péron argues, it is an identification whose material basis ‘is seriously threatened’ since islanders’ differences from mainlanders ‘are increasingly intangible’ (ibid.: 335). In the end, her thoughts on the contemporary lure of the island circle back to the idea of its form as a whole, where attention must be paid to coastline, land/ sea relations, circumference and interior – between different groups who come and go at different paces. Last, ‘the dialogue between the real and the imaginary must be capable of being undertaken in concrete terms of what an island is … The threat of loss is real’ (ibid.: 338). Loss. Hobart’s Hunter Street Wharf is a site of diverse and highly contingent political and economic behaviours. Here, as elsewhere, the complex government of place pulls upon and activates varied ways of being and doing, among them risk management and the constitution of prudent citizenship, or the corporatization or privatization of once-public spaces (Dean 1999; Barraclough 2006). Such governing practices give effect to changes that are often at others’ cost – that displace, contain and deconstruct at the same time as they embed the signifiers of progress. So look again to the bronze line marked upon the Hunter Street Wharf and see, beyond this mute tool of heritage interpretation, the shore upon which once walked members of the Mouheneener tribe, a subgroup of the Nuennone, of the island’s southeast. The echoes of brutal dispossession reverberate in site upon site – here, there, around the globe. Or stare, incredulous perhaps, at the massif that is the Sheraton Grand Chancellor Hotel at the land-end of the wharf, built to accommodate tourists who flock to the island to see internationally renowned cultural and natural heritage sites. Its construction in the mid 1980s stomped a crushing footprint over the remnants of a working-class neighbourhood, causing great grief among those committed to a defence of the local. Know that near this place a gibbet once glowered over Empire’s unwanted masses,3 and sense that between the gallows of then and the hotel of now only limited shifts have occurred in the logic of capital – strategies in a political economy of displacement and replacement. Acknowledge, perchance, that ‘economic ideas and behavior [are] not … frameworks for analysis, but … beliefs and actions that must themselves be explained’ (Maier 1987: 6). Ponder the complexity of the site as a set of contingent processes of ‘development over’ that are particular to here, yet through which larger and resonant meanings are made or circulate. Consider the site as enmeshed in the co-production of emotional geographies that come to be naturalized such that conflict in the face of change and the experience of loss both seem inevitable. Never evenly distributed, such loss seems to invoke power-geometries of time-space compression, ‘[f ]or different social groups and different indi-

Introduction 5

viduals are placed in very distinct ways in relation to these flows and interconnections. This point concerns not merely the issue of who moves and who doesn’t, although that is an important element of it; it is also about power in relation to the flows and the movement. Different social groups have distinct relationships to this anyway-differentiated mobility: some are more in charge of it than others; some initiate flows and movement, others don’t; some are more on the receiving end of it than others; some are effectively imprisoned by it (Massey 1993). Yet, even – or most especially – in conditions of entrapment and oppression, diverse material practices of everyday resistance still circulate, among them ‘foot-dragging, dissimulation, false compliance, feigned ignorance, desertion, pilfering, smuggling, poaching, arson, slander, sabotage, surreptitious assault and murder, anonymous threats, and so on’ (Scott 2008: 34). These and other less colourful forms of everyday resistance are enacted repeatedly to protect [interests in] place, alongside more organized struggles and structural forces in the political-economy. In cumulative fashion they give effect to place over time, and thus are ‘the specifics of each placemeaning open to contestation … at any locality’ (Carter et al. 2007: 755, emphasis in original). Such insights are writ large in the chapters that follow. How, then, do place-meaning, locality, and subjectivity gain expression in relation to contestations about heritage? Various internationally agreed instruments govern the practice of heritage protection across numerous scales, although such governance is not without challenges. UNESCO’s World Heritage Center (2009) constitutes time as multidirectional, describing heritage as a way to value legacies from the past, the things and places lived with today, and those left for future generations. At first blush, its international mandate to protect heritage may warrant strong focus on sites and properties ‘considered to be of outstanding value to humanity’ that ‘belong to all the peoples of the world, irrespective of the territory on which they are located’ (ibid.: n.p.). Yet perhaps ‘too much is asked of heritage. In the same breath, we commend national patrimony, regional and ethnic legacies and a global heritage shared and sheltered in common. We forget that these aims are usually incompatible’ (Lowenthal 1997: 227). Perhaps, in a double movement between the specificity of site and universalism of ‘humanity’, locality is first unravelled and then entangled in the commodification of heritage as property under the Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural and Natural Heritage (UNESCO 1972: Art. 11; Blake 2000). After all, international heritage governance is enmeshed in those forms of globalizing practice it seeks, at times, to hold at bay. So, too, the governance of heritage at the local level is not without economic impulse, and ‘to assume that any use of heritage is an inherently ideological project … is to overestimate the intentions of the

6 Elaine Stratford

business leaders and development officials … searching for an economic tool that will differentiate one location from another. Focusing solely on the ideological meanings behind the use of heritage leads one to overlook the agency of local actors in manipulating the past for contemporary purposes’ (McMorran 2008: 337, emphasis added). Certainly, these sorts of tension also emerge in the chapters to follow. Harvey (2008: 1) describes heritage as a present-tense process and discursive construction with material consequences for individual and collective identities – one given effect via ‘developing technologies, modes of representation and levels of access and control’. It comprises the grand and global, the everyday and banal, and is characterized by dissonance related to agency, motivation, values, memories of and memories for, claims, context, power relations, and the crystallization of meanings and dominant or subaltern readings. In similar vein, Olwig (1999) suggests that the past is a resource whose negotiation is informed, at different times, by specific systems and processes of power; only certain forms of heritage are deemed either believable or legitimate. Certainly, a prevailing theme explored by colleagues in many of the chapters that follow is that public and officially recognized heritage is often difficult to protect because of limited human and financial resources, and inadequate political will. Equally, other, less publicly acknowledged forms of heritage secure little or no protection – often because they are seen as inconsequential (too local) or unrepresentative (oppositional/subaltern/marginal). Indeed, ‘the very existence of such [heritage,] communities and their cultural identity may thereby be denied publicly’ (ibid.: 374). It seems axiomatic that place – and the heritage found in and of place – matters, is vested with significance: people grow attached to place, form identities around, and then reify it (Pratt 1998). It follows that the natural and cultural artefacts, sites, practices, stories, and events of place are inseparable from locale. But what is the influence of the subject here (and how best to theorize subjectivity in this regard)? And does the geographical form of particular places matter in the constitution of understandings of heritage, and in the management strategies that are informed by such understandings? If so, does island status matter in how those understandings and strategies are applied where, indeed, such geographical form adheres? These questions might be extended to other geographical forms such as forests or mountains, but it remains a foundational assumption of this volume that yes, island form matters (vide Baldacchino, Preface). So let us remain with the vantage point of island. Take, for example, two related studies of place attachment and place identity among nearly 300 people in Tenerife, who either were native to that island or to the Canary Islands more generally, or were non-natives. In two surveys, Hernán-

Introduction 7

deza et al. (2007) questioned participants about their origins, engagements with, and intensities of feelings for their neighbourhood of residence, the city of Santa Cruz de Tenerife, and the island. Their findings suggest first that people readily develop affective bonds to place – they develop place attachments. However, there is another ‘process by which, through interactions with places, people describe themselves in terms of belonging to a specific place’ (ibid.: 310). Known as place identity, this takes longer to emerge and is more profound among natives in the study by Hernándeza and colleagues. Moreover, feelings for the city and most especially for the island are more pronounced among native-born. The authors explain these findings by positing the relative unimportance of the neighbourhood in small cities, and by constituting both island and city as ‘strong, stable and comprehensible environments … heavily charged with content and relevant meaning’ (ibid.: 318; emphasis added – see Péron, above). While limited in scope, and questionable in terms of others’ scholarly conceptions of the knowability of the neighbourhood, their work does point to the apparent importance of the geographical form of island – inscribed by coast(line), boundedness and size – which does have salience here. Other evidence points to the likelihood that populations long distant from now also experienced contestation about place, place values and people, and it may be inferred that geography was also important in how these phenomena were understood. For instance, in one examination of archival records from fifteenth-century Britain, Griffiths (2003: 179) has concluded that perceptions of people’s geographical roots – the places where they came to be who they appeared to be – ‘may influence behaviour, decisions, even social movements, including relationships between countries and peoples’. As one example of that, Griffiths wryly notes that it was actionable ‘to accuse a man unjustly of being a Scot, and aggrieved Englishmen mustered shoals of witnesses to prove an impeccably English parentage in the later fifteenth century’ (ibid.: 189–190). In another study of the roots and routes of British naval tradition as an island tradition, Law (2005: 275) cites earlier work by Wright (1985), who observed that ‘as the “routes” of migration, cultural networks and capital mobility transform the ideological “roots” of the “island race”, maritime identity is losing its deeply felt collective character. It now circulates as a shallow nostalgia in waterfront heritage and economic regeneration strategies.’ Arguably, however, it is possible to negotiate and even partly avoid the fate of place and the reduction of heritage to commodity lamented by Wright and reported by Law. * * * * * One of the most prominent contemporary features of the Hunter Street Wharf is the Henry Jones Art Hotel. Back in 2003, the Vos Group, which is

8 Elaine Stratford

wholly Tasmanian owned and operated, announced that it had appointed a consortium – Sullivans Cove IXL Nominees Pty Ltd – to manage part of the redevelopment of the Henry Jones IXL buildings. These Georgian warehouses lined the peninsular form that Hunter Island became through the nineteenth century and had functioned as a jam factory and warehouses (Figure I.3). Hobart’s heritage townscape was relatively well protected during the twentieth century, when Tasmania continued to experience economic growth below the national average and, like a mendicant, was unable to change its downbeat inner city clothes for the modern(ist) garb of concrete towers – except in odd spots now the object of demolition-desire. By the time Vos announced its redevelopment, those Georgian edifices – in a state resembling genteel poverty – were ripe for conversion to an international art hotel of first-class restaurants, a bar, meeting and function facilities, and a business centre. The design of fifty luxury suites was influenced by a leading local furniture designer and senior students at the University of Tasmania Art School, located at the end of the wharf (Vos and Crawford 2003).4 The management consortium comprised three locals with presti-

Figure I.3 Hobart Town 1879 (Hunter Street Wharf in Lower Right Corner) Source: A. C. Cooke, Allport Library and Museum of Fine Arts, State Library of Tasmania; in the public domain.

Introduction 9

gious international records in tourism and business, and the facility they were to operate was designed by local architects Morris-Nunn and Associates. That firm was also known for working on historically sensitive sites on the island in ways that have proved respectful to fabric, narrative, and contemporary needs and functions. Unquestionably, shifts in the use of the site have been significant; so too have shifts in the use, exchange, instrumental and intrinsic values adhering to it. The development attempted to capture them all. At any given time, but especially on warm, still autumn days, it is pleasant to meander to the wharf and stroll along the stretch of cement until whiffs of cappuccino beckon. The lap of water against wooden piers becomes audible as one sits, sipping, under one of the ubiquitous canvas umbrellas (Figure I.4).

Figure I.4 Henry Jones Art Hotel, Hobart, Tasmania Source: Elaine Stratford.

10 Elaine Stratford

Settling into a presence of being in the space, sitting quietly to contemplate the ‘is-ness’ that is the wharf of now, it may be altogether too easy to suggest that this newness over the old is mere pastiche. There are those who have and continue to lament the loss of a Hunter Street that they deem more authentic, but this land- and sea- and skyscape has long been hybridized and, as Clark (2004: 290) has observed of islands in relation to globalization more generally, cultural innovation ‘is stimulated more by … the crossing of borders than by splendid isolation’. In the case of the Henry Jones, descent into shallow nostalgia has been averted – at least on ‘my’ Hunter Street Wharf. It is worth remarking on the point that place is often represented in such a way that entire geographical forms seem largely absent from a collective’s psyche. This paradox is noteworthy in Australian work by Jones and Shaw (2007), whose introduction to a volume on heritage in the ‘sunburnt country’ consistently (and not unreasonably) refers to Australia as continental. This geographical orientation both underscores and contrasts with Evans’s (2006) observations about the lack of a maritime psyche in Australia, which comprises 35,877 km of coastline and some 8,200 islands, islets and rocky outcrops (Geoscience Australia 2009). Yet, in Jones and Shaw’s account, islandness does not seem to register in the consideration of Australian heritage. One is reminded of Baldacchino’s observation (2006: 5) that ‘the small, remote and insular … suggest peripherality, being on the edge, being out of sight and so out of mind.’ In turn, Hache (1998: 31) has suggested that insularity serves multiple purposes: it underscores distinct identity and asserts various political, economic and social problems such as ‘lack of understanding by the central authorities, cost of living, under-development of the economy’ (ibid.: 52). It also allows the argument that constraint and vulnerability are permanently imposed on island/ers by geography, and further that ‘prosperity does not eradicate the implications of insularity’ (ibid.: 53), among which are three consequences. First, island policies – and here one might enumerate policies related to island cultural and natural heritage – must not be granted or refused on account of socioeconomic indicators alone. Second, permanent effort is needed in relation to legislation, taxation, transport subsidization, development funds and so forth – and again, these resonate in relation to heritage. Third, vulnerability is a constant, and forms of political and administrative autonomy are needed to optimize resilience. In this vein, one of the main forms of exposure that islanders face, in dealing with the question of how best to manage cultural and natural heritage questions, is the openness to conflicts that arise from different senses of place, placemeanings and identifications, and various machinations in the operation of diverse political economies.

Introduction 11

That much is clear in the following chapters, to which I now give closer attention on the basis of the foregoing dialectical conversation between my Hunter Street Wharf and a larger theoretical discourse on emotional geographies, cultural and natural heritage, islandness and change. Lips’s work on layered landscapes of Prince Edward Island underscores the pervasiveness of human activity in remaking natural, and creating cultural, heritage in iterative fashion. She notes, however, that particular kinds of landscape – in this instance, the rural – are endangered in a scenario often called ‘death by a thousand cuts’. Drawing on the idea of place identity in ways reminiscent of the work by Hernándeza et al. (2007) reported earlier, Lips suggests that the ‘same qualities of proud individuality that characterize the islanders’ approach to their own land must be appealed to and harnessed as a means of protecting the character and individuality of the community landscape as a whole.’ Her subsequent analysis examines subdivisions; building and planning works around ideas of physical limits, boundaries, aesthetics and design; questions of authenticity, fit, comfort, function, form and pattern(ing). In their work on Malta, Camilleri and her colleagues consider the salience of urban development for an island; ponder how to identify and then evaluate the worth of heritage scapes in order to manage, change and/or protect them; and examine the planning and policy domains available for such ends given national and international commitments. These concerns are exemplified in six case studies: the Verdala golf course at Rabat near Mdina, a landfill development near the Mnajdra Temples, the demolition of the Palazzo de Fremaux at Żejtun, the demolition and reconstruction of a residential building in the Sliema Urban Conservation Area, the conservation of salt marshes at Salini, and a flood relief project at Marsa involving historic relicts. Among the insights they share is that different people and groups experience different ‘thresholds of acceptable loss’ as places and times change, themes reminiscent of Péron. Guernsey is the focus of work reported by Sebire and David, who elaborate on the development of the nineteenth-century markets in St Peter Port that overlay an important Roman site. They also examine the construction of a golf course at La Grande Mare in the island’s west, describe the challenges of maintaining and protecting a site at King’s Road that includes an Iron Age and Roman settlement and cemetery, and refer to the preservation of historic wrecks off the island’s coastline. Guernsey has significant cultural and natural heritage sites; but Sebire and David suggest that these are neither well protected nor well served by existing legislative or policy frameworks. Significant work has fallen to, and depends upon, individual volunteers with foresight and public spirit, among which La Société Guernesiaise is mentioned in particular. Community capacity (time, resources and

12 Elaine Stratford

expertise) is at issue. Intriguing, too, are a ‘strong anti-planning culture’ and the desire to uphold long-standing private property rights, embedded in which Sebire and David see a psychological mindset of ‘do as I please’. On neighbouring Jersey, the island’s natural and cultural assets are described by Renouf and du Feu as subject to long-standing governance structures undergoing change on an island also subject to significant and rapid growth in population and prosperity since the end of the Second World War. In particular, development pressures are severe, especially in relation to housing – despite stringent housing qualifications and planning laws. Renouf and du Feu also examine testing questions about where to put housing, how to manage greenfield sites, whether to convert farmlands to other purposes, and how to manage solid waste and other flow-on effects. Several case studies follow, among them the role of community organizations in saving La Rocco Tower in Saint Ouen; controversy over the fate of tourist facilities near natural and Neolithic cultural heritage sites on the island’s northwest coast; legal conundrums arising from the unauthorized demolition of a heritage site, Janvrin Farm, without planning permission; a long-running dispute over the conservation, restoration and development of Mont Orgueil Castle and sites such as the Neolithic tomb of La Hougue Bie; and controversy about protecting the L’Etacq geological site, again in the island’s northwest, from skyline developments. On the French island of Corsica, the subject of Furt and colleagues’ attention, population density is a major challenge for heritage management. Tourism exacerbates this pressure seasonally; for example, 27 million bed nights were logged in 2008, of which three-quarters were from France, with most coming in summer and most going to the coast. Development has been constrained by topography, land scarcity and competition, inflation, and the pace of demand versus the pace of capacity to provide infrastructure. Environment-development conflicts are frequent, and damage to natural and cultural heritage is reportedly on the increase. Furt et al. suggest that certain factors may be complicit in these outcomes, among them absentee landlordism (resulting in limited in situ care) and failures of governance. It is noteworthy, too, that residents are suspicious of heritage protection measures that seem to deny private property rights or customary access to sites and routes, and rules are seen to ‘impose protection measures that ignore local concerns … [or be] left to sectional interests’. Such matters raise a key problem in heritage management, namely how best to consult and create structures and systems for meaningful participation in decision-making based on good governance. Still in the Mediterranean, Cassinelli’s research is based on Favignana, an island off the western tip of another (and much larger) island – Sic-

Introduction 13

ily, Italy. A significant summer tourism destination, it is also the subject of tactics to preserve local places for local residents. In a manoeuvre that harks back to Scott (2008) and his ideas about everyday resistance, but in ways that are perhaps more benign, locals have generated maps as a kind of ‘fencing strategy’ to manage the flow and impact of visitors. These socalled ‘back region preservation strategies’ provide privacy, galvanize local culture and protect locally significant places. Locals’ negotiations of the realities of the political economy, and their capacity to engage in global tourism without being fully compromised by its effects, are noteworthy. As Cassinelli observes, maps and ‘oral directions, including the use of the local dialect, help to keep the location, and very existence, of some places tacit, quiet and/or undiscovered.’ Their use, which encapsulates ‘symbolic and political struggles of the definition of (is)landscape’ avoids what might otherwise be an inevitable conflict between local and ephemeral populations over the use of particular places on this very small island. According to Minerbi, Hawai‘i had the first statewide land use planning system in the United States, one based on conservation, agriculture, rural and urban zones. He notes that the system drives general and development plans, zoning, capital improvement programming, infrastructure and hazard maps. Nevertheless, his research suggests that the same system is poorly implemented. Population growth and increasing density have complex relations to indigeneity, land use, speculation in development, economic growth, and local, national and international trade. For Minerbi, the rejuvenation of the ahupua‘a – described by him as a ‘viable unit for cultural and natural resource management’– may provide mechanisms meaningful across a range of cultural registers to advance more sustainable land use planning for the island group. Continuing in the Pacific, the work by Taafaki and her collaborators focuses on Majuro in the Marshall Islands, a locale whose colonial and postcolonial experiences have involved the Spanish, Germans, British, French, Japanese and Americans. The last of these powers subjected the islands to a massive nuclear testing programme over the 1940s and 1950s, and compensation and modernization agendas are part of a compact of free association with that government. A prevailing analytical theme in this chapter is that various conflicting values typify debates about what constitutes heritage, as well as about how to protect, interpret and represent it. As a corollary to that observation, Taafaki et al. also identify the need to value different kinds of knowledge. Their research raises the difficult challenge of dealing with scapes that are redolent of pain, loss, conquest and atrocity; for example, how to work with ‘Japanese anti-aircraft guns and bunkers on Wotje Atoll among other relics of the Second World War, sunken aircraft carriers from

14 Elaine Stratford

the world’s first nuclear explosion on Bikini Atoll and even the current Kwajalein intercontinental ballistic missile testing range … they are very much the antithesis of the true inherent cultural assets of the Marshallese people.’ On to the Caribbean, where Cover and Virgill’s research on the Bahamas provides another example of foreign direct investment as key to an economy (see also Bertram 2006). Their particular focus is the form of gated communities and second residences in the foreign-buyer housing market, as well as tourism and offshore banking. They describe the sorts of conflicts that emerge between natives and non-natives, better and less well off individuals and groups as ‘emotive and … highly politicized’. This affect is especially pronounced because of land scarcity and conflicting land use imperatives, particularly around New Providence, the capital island of the archipelagic nation. Notably, Cover and Virgill suggest that the protection of natural and cultural assets, and the creation of conditions for longterm social and economic development among Bahamians, rest with policy makers for whom the need to encourage investments appropriate to local futures is seen as vital. Finally, regard for the natural assets of Colombia’s San Andrés Island is a focus for Howard and Taylor, who view the locale’s high unemployment and widespread poverty as confounding elements in the puzzle of how to protect international biodiversity and a coral reef hotspot. In recognition that key economic activities in tourism, fishing and agriculture directly depend on the state of the environment, a National Environmental System was established there in 1993. Among the outcomes of that system was the creation of the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve and a regional environment authority, CORALINA, to protect it. Nevertheless, the integrity of the protected area is threatened by population pressures, growing poverty, illegal housing projects and the degradation of environmental values. Problems include ‘weak enforcement [of legislation and regulation], lack of financial and human resources, lack of political will and failure to base policy and management on small island limitations’. However, while lack of funding is a major problem, the civil unrest characteristic of the mainland is (so far) not. Even so, Howard and Taylor posit that Seaflower is at risk without good governance that recognizes the crucial role of local autonomy, capacity building and subsistence – especially, in the absence of policy and institutional frameworks backed by the power of enforcement, and better resources. My engagement above with the chapters that follow suggests there is much that is distinctive about each case and much to share in common. Co-contributors to this volume universally note the unevenness of contestations about how to plan for island places; how to register, value, interpret and protect their diverse natural and cultural heritage; how to avoid the

Introduction 15

nostalgic fossilization of place or its brutal makeover (Hay 2006). They variously refer to land, land use and conflict over how to value land, especially in response to the effects of population density. In particular, they remark on the significance of fluctuations in population numbers experienced as a result of ephemeral or seasonal influxes of non-residents – mostly tourists. Their own case studies highlight tensions about how things – places, views, sites – are designated as useful and then mined (in the broadest sense) or preserved and used differently. There is constant pressure to ‘develop’: to create big-ticket infrastructure, and to insert into place forms of economic activity that may displace or disrupt existing rights, claims, values or practices. Significant consideration is given to the question of how to govern and to governance strategies that draw on the range of technologies of agency and performance noted earlier. Concern exists about human, fiscal, organizational and social capacity, and about how to move beyond legislation to meaningful regulation and enforcement that is sensitive to complex issues such as scale, sense of place, sense of identity and the realities of any given political economy. In these diverse explorations of the challenge to manage cultural and natural heritage, the island as a geographical form is always more than mise en scène. It is a coherent and distinct picture. It has unique character and characteristics. Its topological and topographical features influence and sometimes determine the fate of governing, of place and of people’s sense of well-being in place. This chapter has used a conversation, informed by the work of my colleagues, between ‘my’ Hunter Street Wharf and the challenges of cultural and natural heritage to think through the relationships among a range of emotional geographies, a variety of political and economic contexts, and several geographical forms, the island chief among them. What remains to be drawn from this work? Heritage is real and imaginary, striking and commonplace, constitutive of individual and collective identities across scales. Of necessity, it is valueladen, dissonant and riven through with complex power geometries. The evidence suggests that natural and cultural relics, places, performances, narratives and events are indivisible from their milieu: geographical forms are key to understanding heritage and its management. The refrain remains that for those who live on islands, or for those who gaze upon this form from beyond their boundaries, their comprehensibility and richly textured emotional geographies render them points of elucidation along lines of inquiry about how best to protect their heritage from increasingly complex pressures. Challenging questions of good governance and of human and community capacity receive increasing attention on islands where, inter alia, population densities, small land area or diverse political and economic

16 Elaine Stratford

activities affect/effect such a task. It is conceivable that these issues receive notice because they are discernible in overt social and institutional settings, whether formal or informal. Less clear is whether, how and to what extent sufficient and sufficiently well-theorized attention is paid to the relationships between the more obvious social and institutional domains on which much of the work of this volume has focused, and the less obvious dynamics of subjectivity, affect, emotion and everyday forms of resistance. In light of the foregoing, one key insight I have drawn from reading the works that follow is that much conflict over heritage occurs in the interstices between the explicit and the tacit. Much happens between what is intended officially and meant subliminally, what is agreed formally and valued implicitly. Much is left unsaid in the tussle about what is acceptable loss or change for instrumental purposes, and what is tolerable when people account for the intangible and intrinsic worth of place and of heritage. Various visible tools of governing proliferate in relation to heritage: legislation, regulations, conventions, agreements, understandings, business practices, market mechanisms, strategic plans, compacts and so on. Yet heritage is also, and differently, constituted by narratives and material practices invoking loss, nostalgia, possession, ownership, displacement, replacement, heroics and deep and abiding care: these are more likely to be implicit, unspoken – even unconscious; Hunter Street Wharf illustrates such storylines and performances. Yet their affect and capacity to support or undermine intentions to manage heritage may be profound. Accessing them directly in order to understand that influence may be impossible or unethical or both. After all, if one’s research reveals forms of resistance through which disempowered people have agency, has one been complicit in undermining their capacity for self-determination? So an intriguing conundrum unfolds. We cannot abandon explicit, existing governing practices, and should not discourage emergent forms that refine or replace them. But these practices may be doomed to fail. Since governing practices are, in part, defined in relation to their objects, and so in relation to the particular ways in which things are taken up within those practices, a particular practice can be seen to be defined in part by reference to what it excludes from its sphere of operation … Governing practices can, then, be defined in terms of their always partial appropriation of things. Failure arises precisely because of this necessary partiality or incompleteness of governing practice … In this sense, failure is not, as such, governable, since it marks precisely the limit of governing practice and not something that lies within its bounds … Governance thus sets the stage for its own failure, just as failure sets the stage for governance. (Malpas and Wickham 1997: 93–94, 97; italics in original)

Introduction 17

Failure’s inevitability here exists not least because many practices of being that inform governing practices are never fully revealed; nor are they likely to be disclosed, since that would jeopardize particular subjectivities and collectivities, specific positions, locations and claims. In short, in trying to resolve the sorts of challenges to heritage management explored here, we cannot abandon governing practices and we cannot access key concealed influences on them. In effect, those challenges are incessantly produced by the particular relational dynamics just described. In heritage management, as in most if not all governing practices, subjects are understood as embodied, stable and capable of accumulating and giving meaning to different experiences. Contestation over heritage, place and identity is therefore conceived of as conflict between individuals and/ or communities of place and interest. Threats to heritage and to place are also often documented as unsettling at best and disruptive of one’s sense of self at worst. Such understandings are evident through this volume, and they inform much of my own recent work on island governance, planning, political geography and belonging as an ontological resource (Stratford 2006a; 2006b; 2008; 2009). But perhaps these stories and accounts become circuitous, constantly reinscribing governance-failure-governance-failure. Perhaps they cannot account for how subject status and sense of place may form and reform, taking on very highly complex spatial and temporal patterns. In this regard, Thrift’s work provides some tantalizing pointers to a notion of subjectivity as lines or fields of concernful and affecting interaction taking place in time … geographies [that] can carry the interests of vast numbers of bodies and last for years, vast numbers of bodies but last for just a few days … can pass in to and out of existence in very short timescales in large or very restricted spaces … can glide from one register to another and be felt as literal shocks to the body. They are quite literally geographies of concern that can crop up in what we think of as a person’s life before moving on to the bodies of others (Thrift 2008: n.p.).

It may be time to develop a more theoretically challenging narrative of subjectivity by which to try and understand the impulse to defend cultural and natural heritage, place and place identity. N 1. Conversations with Natalie Smith, undertaking her doctorate on the subject Mapping Mapping: Drawing the Betweenness of Place, have been rewarding in relation to this point. Musings on the work of George Perec (1974) have been additionally insightful.

18 Elaine Stratford

2. I am indebted to Denbeigh Armstrong, whose doctoral work is on local governance in the Huon Valley, Tasmania, for sharing information about this matter with me. 3. Elizabeth Jones, a fifth-generation Tasmanian who has extensively photographed Sullivans Cove, advised me of the location of the gibbet in passing conversations during a discussion about her own doctorate on King Island. 4. That complexity has been captured creatively in an animation of change

at the wharf over time that is part of the hotel’s website at http://www.the henryjones.com/history.html. Readers may find this resource illuminating.

B Baldacchino, G. 2006. ‘Islands, island studies, Island Studies Journal’, Island Studies Journal 1(1): 3–18. Barraclough, J. 2006. ‘Sullivans Cove: Authentic place or theme park?’ School of Geography and Environmental Studies Postgraduate Seminar Series. Hobart, Australia: University of Tasmania. Bertram, G. 2006. ‘Introduction: The MIRAB model in the twenty-first century’, Asia Pacific Viewpoint 47(1): 1–13. Blake, J. 2000. ‘On defining the cultural heritage’, International & Comparative Law Quarterly 49(1): 61–85. Carswell, A. 1823. Hobart Town. Hobart: n.p. Carter, J., P. Dyer and B. Sharma. 2007. ‘Dis-placed voices: Sense of place and placeidentity on the Sunshine Coast’, Social & Cultural Geography 8(5): 755–773. Clark, E. 2004. ‘The ballad dance of the Faeroese: Island biocultural geography in an age of globalisation’, Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie 95(3): 284–297. Dean, M. 1999. Governmentality: Power and rule in modern society. London: Sage. Evans, M. 2006. ‘Island-Consciousness and Australian strategic culture’, IPA Review 58(2): 21–23. Geoscience Australia. 2009. ‘Education - Geoscience Basics - Islands’. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http://www.ga.gov.au/education/geoscience-basics/ landforms/islands.jsp Griffiths, R. 2003. ‘The island of England in the fifteenth century: Perceptions of the peoples of the British Isles’, Journal of Medieval History 29(3): 177–200. Hache, J. D. 1998. ‘Towards a political approach to the island question’, in G. Baldacchino and R. Greenwood (eds), Competing strategies of socio-economic development for small islands. Charlottetown, Canada: Institute of Island Studies, University of Prince Edward Island, 31–68. Harvey, D. C. 2008. ‘The history of heritage’, in B. Graham and P. Howard (eds), The Ashgate research companion to heritage and identity. Aldershot: Ashgate, 1–36. Hay, P. 2006. ‘A phenomenology of islands’, Island Studies Journal 1(1): 19–42. Hernándeza, B., M. C. Hidalgob, M. E. Salazar-Laplacea and S. Hessc. 2007. ‘Place

Introduction 19

attachment and place identity in natives and non-natives’, Journal of Environmental Psychology 27(4): 310–319. Jones, R. and B. J. Shaw. 2007. ‘Introduction: Geographies of Australian heritages’, in R. Jones and B. J. Shaw (eds), Geographies of Australian Heritages: Loving a sunburnt country? Aldershot: Ashgate, 1–8. Law, A. 2005. ‘Of navies and navels: Britain as a mental island’, Geografiska Annaler: Series B, Human Geography 87(4): 267–277. Lowenthal, D. 1997. The heritage crusade and the spoils of history. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Maier, C. S. 1987. In search of stability: Explorations in historical political economy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Malpas, J. and G. Wickham. 1997. ‘Governance and the world: From Joe di Maggio to Michel Foucault’, The UTS Review (Australia) 3: 91–108. Massey, D. 1993. ‘Power-geometry and a progressive sense of place’, in J. Bird, B. Curtis, T. Putnam, G. Robertson and L. Ticher (eds), Mapping the futures: Local cultures, global change. London: Routledge, 59–69. McMorran, C. 2008. ‘Understanding the ‘heritage’ in heritage tourism: Ideological tool or economic tool for a Japanese hot springs resort?’ Tourism Geographies 10(3): 334–354. Olwig, K. F. 1999. ‘The burden of heritage: Claiming a place for a West Indian culture’, American Ethnologist 26(2): 370–388. Perec, G. 1974. Species of spaces and other pieces. London: Penguin. Péron, F. 2004. ‘The contemporary lure of the island’, Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie 95(3): 326–339. Pratt, G. 1998. ‘Grids of difference: Place and identity formation’, in R. Fincher and J. M. Jacobs (eds), Cities of difference. New York: Guilford Press, 26–48. Scott, J. C. 2008. ‘Everyday forms of resistance’, The Copenhagen Journal of Asian Studies, July, 33–62. Stratford, E. 2006a. ‘Isolation as disability and resource: Considering sub-national island status in the constitution of the “New Tasmania”’, The Round Table: Commonwealth Journal of International Affairs 95(386): 575–588. ———. 2006b. ‘Technologies of agency and performance: Tasmania Together and the constitution of harmonious island identity’, Geoforum 37(2): 273–286. ———. 2008. ‘Islandness and struggles over development: A Tasmanian case study’, Political Geography 27(2): 160–175. ———. 2009. ‘Belonging as a resource: The case of Ralphs Bay, Tasmania, and the local politics of place’, Environment and Planning A 41(4): 796–810. Thrift, N. 2008. ‘I just don’t know what got into me: Where is the subject?’ Subjectivity 22(1): 82–90. UNESCO. 1972. Convention concerning the protection of the world cultural and natural heritage adopted by the General Conference at its seventeenth session. Paris: 16 November 1972. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http://whc.unesco .org/en/conventiontext/ UNESCO World Heritage Center. 2009. ‘World Heritage’. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http://whc.unesco.org/en/about/

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Vos, H. and R. Crawford. 2003. ‘Media Release: The Henry Jones Hotel, Hunter Street, Hobart, 8 July’. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http://www.thehenry jones.com/pr01.htm Wright, P. 1985. On Living in an old country: The national past in contemporary Britain. London: Verso.

[ Chapter 1 ] Prince Edward Island, Canada KAREN E. LIPS

Prince Edward Island (PEI), Canada’s smallest and most densely populated province, is an arc-shaped land mass of 2,185 square miles nestled on the eastern seaboard in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. The island’s heritage landscape is made up of a rich layering of natural and cultural forms in distinctive patterns and arrangements. The natural landform pattern of gentle hills carved into the sandstone bedrock by glacial streams has evolved into a cultural landscape of rolling fields framed by parallel hedgerows, with farmsteads settled in wooded groves. Coastal roads dip into forested hollows and open up to wide ocean views on the hills, while traversing the deeply indented coastline of bays and inlets across a patchwork of hedgerow-lined fields and rivers running to the sea. This rich natural mosaic, with its well-developed fit between the visual and the functional, is largely an artefact of the British colonial settlement patterns of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries (Clark 1959: 214–223).1 An interwoven layer of coastal fishing harbours and riverside settlements originated under the influence of the earlier inhabitants, including the aboriginals and the French settlers, the Acadians. With hard work and ingenuity, the Acadians adapted the seventeenth-century French style of dyke construction to reclaim coastal salt marshes for agriculture; this extended field pattern was often maintained by later settlers. The landscape features of the island’s Malpeque Bay area are rich in Mi’kmaq symbolic imagery, based on 10,000 years of enduring use for hunting, fishing, gathering and spirituality. The PEI landscape and culture have been both idealized and popularized around the world through the vast number of images (Epperly 2007, 174–176)2 in the writings of Lucy Maud Montgomery (1908) in her series of books based on a well-loved fictional character, the red-haired orphan Anne of Green Gables. The island is also well known as the site of the Charlottetown meetings of 1864 that led to the founding of the Canadian Confederation. Today, in Prince Edward Island as in many other endangered rural heritage landscapes of the early twenty-first century, the character of the pas-

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toral landscape is in rapid transition. On this island of 140,000 year-round inhabitants, where the locals relish their ‘quality of life’ and tourism is the second largest industry after agriculture, the impact of change could be more far-reaching than many residents drawn into the large-scale land clearing of modern mega-farming and land development are currently able or willing to visualize. The idyllic island vision of distinctiveness, a separate reality characterized by a slower pace of life and authentically different cultural patterns, is very much under pressure. There is a clear risk that the sense of romance and adventure associated with both visiting and living on the island may be gradually and inevitably lost. Island studies scholar Baum (1997: 22–23) has discussed the ‘fascination’ of islands, referring also to Butler (1993: 71) as providing one of the few academic references to the appeal of islands. While Butler describes their appeal to tourists, the same motivations could easily be applied to island residents, who are often known to pride themselves on their individuality and vigorous sense of independence: ‘Their appeal may relate to the very feeling of separateness and difference, caused in part by their being physically separate, and perhaps therefore different from adjoining mainlands. Where such physical separateness is accompanied by political separateness, the appeal can be expected to increase, and given people’s desires for the different while in pursuit of leisure, different climates, physical environments and culture can all be expected to further the attractiveness of islands as tourism destinations’ (Butler 1993: 71). From a landscape conservation point of view, the issue has become one of protecting and enhancing the authentic historic patterns while successfully managing new approaches to land development. The question to address throughout the process must be ‘What attracts people here in the first place?’ And the answers must include strategic planning to sustain the often difficult-to-define distinctiveness that makes the benefits of island living and tourism outweigh the drawbacks of separateness and isolation. By definition, authentic answers must arise and be accepted from within the community. The same qualities of proud individuality that characterize the islanders’ approach to their own land must be appealed to and harnessed as a means of protecting the character and individuality of the community landscape as a whole. But how does a new planning process deal with the selective blindness of familiarity? How can a landowner be expected to automatically see beyond the everyday economic pressures of a farming and tourism business? A key to the answer lies within our universal willingness and ability to perceive an island as a coherent distinct ‘picture’. In his collection of PEI anecdotes Them Times, Weale quotes Governor-General of Canada Lord Tweedsmuir speaking in Charlottetown in 1939: ‘What is it that gives an island its special charm…? I think the main reason is that an

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island has clear physical limits, and the mind is able to grasp it and make a picture of it as a whole’ (Weale 1992: 93). This chapter argues that a successful planning process can be put into place by educating and developing the residents’ innate capacity for visualizing their landscapes. The acquisition of new skills in ‘reading’ the visual cues of their own stories and memories in the landscape will deepen the community’s awareness of how the images and patterns have been woven together over the generations. This recognition would empower them, in turn, to choose and conserve the visual narratives that best express the spirit and ‘picture’ of the PEI culture they wish to pass on to the next generation. ‘So the land must first exist as a concept in the mind [in order to be perceived]?’ muses a character in Songlines (1987: 14), Bruce Chatwin’s literary exploration of the Australian landscape. In a similar process, visual planning challenges landowners to develop their own ideal land concepts, to perceive the consequences of impending change and to work together in balancing different points of view. A landscape conservation goal based on intangible values, a seeming contradiction of conventional profit economics, may at first glance be considered naïve. There is a lot of money at stake. The ‘pretty picture’ is judged as an impractical luxury if a hardworking farmer is going bankrupt, or retiring without an heir to take over the farm. It is common knowledge of late that, while an acre of good farmland in PEI Queen’s County is typically selling at some Can$1,500, the same acre sold for development in the most scenic zones could bring as much as Can$60,000: forty times as much. This can happen because there are no clear planning laws in the province. PEI residents are very protective of their ‘right’ to do what they want with their land, and will look very suspiciously at any initiatives that may curtail that right. While they may collectively treasure and value viewscapes, they will react differently if their own private plans are thwarted. However, an approach of appealing to and drawing out residents’ attachment to their personal stories, memories and meaning of the spirit of place throughout the planning process, rather than simply imposing new development regulations, is much more likely to encourage their sense of land stewardship and responsibility. The inhabitants’ sense of ‘islandness’, or the community feeling of living on an island, can be a distinct advantage in encouraging the conservation of the landscape. On a small island, the ‘court of public opinion’ often reigns supreme, and media coverage of any issue can make more of a difference than in larger, less distinct settings. In this context, there is potential for significant progress, if landscape conservation efforts and solutions are promoted in the local, regional and national media, and landowners are duly rewarded for their efforts with recognition and acclaim. Both academic research and simple observation of human na-

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ture indicate that the key to building support for landscape conservation does indeed rest in recognizing stakeholders’ intangible as well as tangible values, and validating their connection with the land. Australian geographers Brown and Raymond (2006: 22) observed in their landscape values research that the more knowledge survey respondents expressed of a region, the more significantly they identified with the place. They also found that the values most strongly linked with respondents’ attachment to place are closely associated with their perception of the landscape’s spiritual and symbolic values. In conclusion, they recommend that planning should acknowledge ‘the spiritual bonds that people form with a landscape, which are rooted in place, and that symbol management may be as important as land management’ (Brown and Raymond 2006: 27). Creating an innovative planning framework that is personally meaningful to island landowners may be a more involved process, but by protecting the island’s distinctiveness, and its continuing appeal to tourists and residents alike, it will ultimately lead to longer-term societal profits than will the sale of scenic land for random development. At the local ‘grass-roots’ level, the knowledge of the local land user and the landscape professional can be effectively combined to guide sustainable development. Through a process of assembling and analysing all the visual tools, narrative imagery and landscape representations possible for a particular locale, the community learns to look at itself at different scales, in different time periods and from varying angles of point of view. The finite, densely populated geography of the island landscape, with its inevitably contested scarce resources of land, vistas and waterfront, can be used to clear advantage in such a community-centred, imagery-based planning process. In Prince Edward Island, arguably the province most visibly altered by human impact, the inhabitants treasure the landscape and yet resist the perceived imposition of land use controls. With a new emphasis on landscape visualization, the two-dimensional restrictive approach of conventional land use planning can jump from the page to become a multi-dimensional experience of community self-discovery. The kinds of visual tools that are helpful in this process can be assembled from both private and public collections as well as government sources. In Prince Edward Island, the provincial archives and Meacham’s historical atlas of 1880 are a rich source of illustrations, maps, plans and photographs. The provincial departments of forestry and agriculture have air photo coverage of PEI for the years 1935, 1958, 1974, 1990, 1994, 2000 and 2010, and an evolving Geographic Information Systems (GIS) visual database of forestation and settlement patterns over the years. Local professional and amateur photographers have shot aerial oblique panoramas as well as more conventional ‘view from the road’ scenic photos. On-site interviews with

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local inhabitants invariably generate family photographs and memories of individual land holdings. Aboriginal tradition can contribute ‘creation stories’ that identify sacred places of power where spirit beings have contoured the landscape. All of the above visual tools, once organized and presented systematically and effectively in visualization techniques, can serve to draw the community participants into a necessary first stage of exploring in depth the evolution of their natural and cultural landscape patterns over time.

Application of Visualization Techniques The effective application of visualization techniques is essential. The simplest and most accessible method is to juxtapose or overlay actual images of the same location in different time periods, which can be called ‘historical overlay analysis’. Air photos and view from the road photos or drawings are ideal for this comparison. Aboriginal myth analysis is a powerful technique for assigning symbolic values and images to specific landscape features. Landscape visualization can also borrow from the aboriginal tradition to communicate the intangible spirit, memory and myth of place. On a more factual level, GIS data analysis of overlays of GIS data representation over time of forest cover patterns, soil classes for agriculture, and settlement and drainage patterns can also yield startlingly visual observations about the progression and suitability of land subdivision practices. The system of overlaying transparencies of different natural attributes of the same piece of land as a design tool was pioneered by the American landscape architect McHarg in his seminal work Design with Nature (McHarg 1969).3 ‘Viewscape analysis’ is a worthwhile but more difficult exercise that attempts to define and manage the scene unfolding as the viewer moves through the landscape. Controls are recommended in order to protect and frame the cone of vision from key vantage points. In ‘landscape values mapping’, developed by Brown (2005), survey participants are asked to place sticker dots of varying ratings on a site map to indicate both the location and importance of landscape values ranging from ‘aesthetic’ to ‘therapeutic’. ‘Landscape impact analysis’ (LIA) is a technique developed by Emmelin (1982) for analysing the spatial impacts of land use policy in Northern Europe. One of the most influential applications of this approach in North America is a design manual for conservation and development in the Connecticut River Valley (Yaro et al. 1988). The method consists of producing a comparative sequence of at least three perspective drawings or computer simulations of the landscape scene in question. The first one shows the existing conditions, the present picture. A preliminary drawing may illustrate

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the historical view, if it differs significantly from the present. The second illustrates the probable future outcome and consequences of current development trends. Additional illustrations are used to test new scenarios by showing the potential outcomes of various interventions. Emmelin developed LIA as a means of moving beyond the generalized descriptions of typical visual impact analysis of land use policy: ‘A transformation of knowledge from a [policy] system to a spatial or “arena” perspective is needed. We need to develop a method which disaggregates policy into local-level effects and analyses and describes these in concrete and spatial terms’ (Emmelin 1996: 19). Prince Edward Island is an ideal laboratory for such an exercise in landscape-level visualization and planning, and not only because of its ‘imageable’ size as a small island. Through its largely intact eighteenth- and nineteenth-century patterns of hedgerows and land divisions, the perceptive or trained viewer can still see the past and is able to trace transitions in the landscape picture. For example, the Park Corner area lot plan illustrated in the Meacham’s atlas of 1880 is remarkably similar to the land division patterns visible one hundred years later in the 1990 air photo. However, comparing the 1935 air photos of the same area to the 1990s, one can see how there is now much less field division than in the 1930s, within the same property lines. There has been a significant reduction in the variety of field crops and usage, and a marked increase in typical field size since the historic pattern first illustrated in the 1880 Meacham’s atlas (see Figures 1.1, 1.2 and 1.3).

Figure 1.1 Park Corner Area Lot, 1880 Source: Meacham’s atlas of 1880. Public domain.

Figure 1.2 Park Corner Area Lot, 1935 Source: Air photo 1935, from the collection of the National Air Photo Library. Natural Resources Canada. Public domain.

Figure 1.3 Park Corner Area Lot, 1990 Source: Air photo 1990, Department of Environment, Energy and Forestry, Province of Prince Edward Island.

Air photos and aerial obliques from the twentieth century show farmsteads at the climax of long lanes, protected by groves of trees on the windward side, closely matching landscape drawings from the Meacham’s atlas. A well-adjusted ecological fit between the form and function of the farm cluster and its woodlot setting contributes to the ongoing self-sufficiency of the ensemble (see Figure 1.4). By the late twentieth century, many lone farmhouses sitting in expanded fields have lost this meaningful landscape context (see Figure 1.5).

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Figure 1.4 1990s Vista Source: Barrett and MacKay Professional Photographers, P.E.I.

Figure 1.5 Lone Farmhouse, 1990s Source: Barrett and MacKay Professional Photographers, P.E.I.

There has historically been a distinctive division, or transition, between farmscape and townscape in the rural landscape. Farms are set well back from the road on long lanes, and town and village buildings cluster next to the road to provide accessible services. In this way, the pattern of development naturally widens and narrows in the view from the road, and there is a clear delineation between the experience of open countryside and the welcoming embrace of a friendly town. However, since the late twentieth century a marked disruption in this pattern has begun. It is now difficult to find a country road without a suburban bungalow located right next to the road for easy access. While enjoying the view themselves, the owners of these houses dramatically alter its basic composition with an out-ofcontext prominence. Even in heritage farm landscapes, new barns are being erected independently of planted cluster patterns. Functional but unattractive industrial plants pop up in the rural landscape without context and appropriate setting. Cottagers desiring to be alone with the view can become a visual barrier for everyone else.

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New farming techniques have begun to create dramatic changes in hedgerow and woodlot patterns. Island producers face enormous challenges in choosing to maintain locally supportive landscape systems rather than adopt those imposed by larger outside trends in monoculture and forestry. A strategic planning initiative is clearly necessary in order to conserve, reclaim and strengthen the authentic character of the island’s landscape patterns (Lips 1997, 2009).4 The next section of the chapter will illustrate how the community can put the proposed landscape visualization process into practice by using the tools and techniques described, in four case study areas: hedgerows, farm clusters, cottage clusters and viewscapes. The aim in each case is to rediscover historical patterns, analyse the effects of modern development, test new scenarios and guide future policy direction. Finally, a conclusion reviews the contribution of visual landscape planning to the overall planning process.

Hedgerows Historical Pattern One unique feature of the PEI landscape is the system of hedgerows. This pattern of strong parallel lines is not only visually but historically meaningful, as the direct outcome of the original survey of the island by Captain Samuel Holland in 1764, the first land survey carried out in British North America (Bolger 1973: 34–35). The original 67 lots were laid out to all have water access, evolving with subdivision over time into the visible pattern recorded in 1880 of long narrow forms perpendicular to the shore and main roads. As the fields were cleared, trees were left at the edges to form natural fence lines and windbreaks. The result was such a good fit between form and function, socially, economically and ecologically, that the pattern has persisted, largely unchallenged, until the current generation. Aside from visual beauty, the naturally regenerating hedgerows have provided interconnecting green pathways for wildlife and shelter to the enclosed fields, decreasing wind erosion and windburn. Birds flourish in the mixed tree growth. The parallel rows show off the rolling PEI landscape in a unique fashion. On a bare hill, or one that is completely wooded, the curvature is barely noticeable. With the addition of the hedgerow pattern, there is perceptible depth and perspective in the picture. Unfortunately, where they are parallel to the slope, the windbreaks do not help much against water erosion. But severe field erosion has become a major problem only with the advent of large monoculture fields. The historic pattern illustrated in the 1880 Meacham’s atlas reflects the crop rotation and mixed farming of the times, with cross-lot fencing (Allen 1880:

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137). Up to the mid twentieth century, air photos continue to show division of the long fields by the cross-planting of hedgerows and mixed fields.

Modern Development By 1990 the new pattern of parallel plowing along the slope of larger monoculture fields by larger machines had begun to cut the roots and decimate the hedgerows, while increasing field erosion. Some hedgerow plantings were weakened or killed by the introduction of herbicides and high-nitrogen fertilizers in the postwar period (Stewart 1999: 2). Many rows have been trimmed in width, thinned or eliminated altogether. GIS data can also be used to illustrate the prevalence of a new pattern of woodlot clear-cutting for forestry, new blueberry production and land development. The scale of destruction by large machinery also disrespects the existing patterns by eliminating dividing lines and connected wildlife corridors in the landscape. In response to the growing threats of field erosion, new practices in strip cropping, or contour farming, have become more popular. While effective for erosion control, the implementation of this method often causes more destruction as the new field strips follow the contours of the land, in longer turn-saving lines, cutting across hedgerows. However, on scenic coastal land, the uncontrolled subdivision of fields into cottage lots has begun its own assault on the landscape pattern. A multitude of small lots are laid out ‘cookie cutter’ style with an eye to maximum profit and little consideration of existing natural features. The result is an expanding pattern of little boxes dotting coastline fields devoid of windbreaks and woodlots.

Landscape Scenarios Landscape impact analysis can be applied to help local and new stakeholders visualize the possible effects of integrating hedgerow conservation and restoration with cottage development. On Branders Pond, along the Malpeque Peninsula, the existing view still maintains a largely heritage feel, with a nestled farm in the foreground. However, a few cottages are making an appearance on the background hillside, clearly visible due to the lack of vegetation in the subdivision (Figure 1.6). As more and more of the cottages are built within the existing lot pattern, the background view will become increasingly chaotic and eventually dominate the heritage feel of the foreground farm (Figure 1.7). The reintroduction of hedgerows along the original lot lines leading to the water would serve to camouflage the cottage development and inte-

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Figure 1.6 Branders Pond, 1997 Source: Karen E. Lips.

Figure 1.7 Branders Pond, if Current Trend Persists Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

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Figure 1.8 Branders Pond: Testing New Scenarios Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

grate it into the landscape, without significantly interrupting water views (Figure 1.8).

Policy Directions A series of policy recommendations follow from these critical observations. First, the reintroduction of hedgerows could be successfully visually applied as a new pattern to the existing cottage development all along the similar coastline of the Malpeque Peninsula. Due to the gradual rise in elevation from the shoreline, longitudinal hedgerows will not significantly impede water views. Second, policies in provincial forestry land mapping could promote identification and conservation of existing hedgerows. For example, there could be a commitment to the more time-consuming representation of hedgerows by their width and component species, rather than by the simple line used between 1980 and 2000. Recorded hedgerows could be designated as heritage features, and protected and enhanced with the use of tax credits and land development covenants (Round Table on Resource Land Use and Stewardship 1997: 128–129).5 Third, new contour farming policies could safeguard hedgerows as necessary wooded ‘frames’ around new strip cropping patterns.Finally, in special scenic impact areas, types of farming that can more easily conserve heritage landscape and

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hedgerow patterns – for example, dairy farms and smaller organic farms – could be promoted and protected.

Farm Clusters Historical Pattern While displaying a tremendous variety, the scenic heritage farmsteads of Prince Edward Island share some important common features. Most importantly, the farm buildings are laid out in a cluster, or collection of house and outbuildings, often around a central courtyard or farmyard. The farm cluster is typically characterized by one or more unifying architectural elements: the use of wooden shingles on roofs and walls, a steep 12/12 pitch on all rooflines, and the application of a contrasting paint colour such as red to the building trim. The historic farmstead is well landscaped. Many of the surrounding trees and woodlots are over a century old and now provide a majestic protective setting for even the most modest buildings. Access to the farm is typically down a long narrow red dirt lane, lined with a planted allée of trees, wild hedgerows or painted fence posts.

Modern Development By the late twentieth century, lack of rural zoning controls had resulted in too many of the scenic farm clusters being hidden behind new bungalows constructed either singly or in rows right off the highway. Some of the oldest nineteenth-century homes are abandoned and sinking into the ground, with a mobile home upstaging them. Most often, however, even well maintained buildings begin to suffer from a lack of context and setting as their surrounding plantings are lost and not replaced. Without its woodlot and hedgerows, the farmstead looks very bleak. An overzealous farmer may even leave a house sitting visually abandoned in the middle of a large potato field. Modern styles of metal barns and mobile homes look even more out of place when they are added to farms in a linear fashion along the road without creating a new-planted farmyard cluster for the benefit of future generations. While the memory-rich images of winding laneways leading into cosy groupings of outbuildings and gabled farmhouses nestled into protective tree groves still tell the story of generations of Prince Edward Islanders and help define the ideal PEI rural landscape for many viewers, such heritage scenes are becoming increasingly endangered. The current trend is for retiring farmers to sell their land for conventional lot subdivision. This loss of agricultural land and heritage cluster farm patterns is facilitated by the lack of planning in unincorporated rural areas. The out-

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come is a suburban residential area that rarely contains farmers and does little to reflect the cultural history or scenic value of the landscape and local community.

Landscape Scenarios Landscape impact analysis can be applied to help local and new stakeholders visualize the possible effects of conserving abandoned or economically unviable heritage farm clusters or incorporating new family units into existing clusters by integrating low density multi-family housing into their existing buildings and landscape pattern: Farm clusters such as this one, located on the highway just a few miles outside the capital city of Charlottetown, are under intense development pressure. While some of the planting has been lost, the buildings are in reasonable condition, and the setting still retains a feeling of heritage integrity (Figure 1.9). As current trends continue, this farm will either be lost entirely and the land developed into a conventional subdivision, or it will be lost behind the foreground of a new home, built for a son or daughter, with easier access to the roadway (Figure 1.10). The carefully designed adaptive reuse of the heritage farm cluster into a small multigenerational or multifamily housing cluster can make use of the existing buildings and setting, while conserving and enhancing them (Figure 1.11).

Figure 1.9 Limits of Charlottetown, 1997 Source: Karen E. Lips.

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Figure 1.10 Limits of Charlottetown, if Current Trend Persists Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

Figure 1.11 Limits of Charlottetown: Testing New Scenarios Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

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Policy Directions The first priority that emerges from these observations deals with the preservation and support of existing viable scenic farm clusters and family farmsteads,– such an essential feature of the visual heritage landscape of Prince Edward Island – through the establishment of programmes to conserve and enhance their economic viability along with their architectural and landscape architectural elements. Second, tax credits and grants for heritage planting renewal and architecturally sensitive repair and restoration, and the purchase of development rights, could create much-needed capital. Forward-looking business plan assistance could explore updated forms of farm tourism and niche agriculture for additional income. With the addition of appropriate benefits and incentives, zoning as a scenic area could be turned on its head to be perceived as an advantage rather than a restriction. Third, the register of heritage sites could be expanded to include smallscale vernacular heritage farm clusters, and their designation should be made attractive with accompanying recognition and honours. Fourth, as conserved farms become more stable economically and aesthetically, and once again become more attractive life investments for the next generation of farmers, a planning system for incorporating the next generation into the existing cluster pattern could avoid the visually intrusive addition of new houses along the highway frontage. However, even where the farmsteads have already lost their viability, or face development pressure for economic reasons, there is still present, in these sheltered vestiges of buildings and courtyards, an exciting potential for simultaneously restoring and creating a new sense of rural community. Herein the fifth recommendation: that a new form of farm cluster residential development could accommodate either extended family units or completely new investors within the existing heritage farmstead layout and context. The new farm cluster would not simply be a visually enhanced pocket of suburbia whose replication would continue the ongoing loss of agricultural land. Rather, the concept would be to create a new form of supportive rural infrastructure and lifestyle. The new residents would invest in their own clustered units at a considerable saving due to shared access and services, freeing up funds to buy shares in the common ownership of the farmstead’s surrounding agricultural land. In a form of ‘rural condominium’ ownership, they would participate as a decision-making board in the management of their farmlands. The management style of different clusters could range from leasing the land for traditional crops to collaborating among small-scale resident companies in specialty organic crops, animals and artisan products. The resulting exploration of sustainable landscape and economy could also attract the growing niche market of tourists and

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students seeking authentic learning vacation experiences. In this new cluster approach, the conservation of the heritage landscape pattern also addresses some of the many economic and social factors or layers underlying the successful visual picture. The goal is to redefine and reinvigorate the functionality of the scene in modern ways, while conserving its essential visual character and meaning. Sixth, a well thought-out planning system and design guidelines should be put in place for directing the appropriate conservation and reuse of existing settings into small-scale multifamily clusters. The essential pattern must be retained – the courtyard pattern of a cluster of structures designed to work well with each other and the landscape around them, reinterpreting the story of generations of families and their stewardship of the land. Designs should evoke in new ways the historic period’s attention to aesthetic detail, marvellously adapted to the isolated rural landscape of a distant, once-colonial island. Seventh and lastly, individual frontage road requirements could be eased for settlements of two to eight houses set well back from the road within existing farm clusters, in order to encourage this heritage pattern of development. The cluster of homes could be created by renovating barns and sheds as dwelling units, or by integrating new structures of appropriate scale and detail into the site. New clusters could also be built in old farmyards where buildings have deteriorated, in order to take advantage of and reclaim the mature planted settings. Each newly conserved farm cluster could take on its own character with a specific selection of colours, materials, building forms and details that complement the heritage pattern with a mix of new and old in the architectural design. The multifamily occupants of the new cluster could afford to maintain the long laneway for year-round access, and share sewer, water and power service at a lower cost while taking advantage of advanced sewage treatment technologies.

Cottage Clusters Historical Pattern Until the mid twentieth century, coastal development on Prince Edward Island retained the local flavour of fishing wharves and hedgerow-protected farmsteads that had been established in earlier times. During the 1950s and 1960s, many farmers began to put up ‘one or two’ cottages on the waterfront edge of their properties in order to profit from the newly developing tourist industry. The land parcels’ form of long narrow strips, each with its own water access, created the opportunity for a broad range of the population to increase their summer incomes. The eventual outcome of this trend

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is a typical pattern of sequential development on waterfront farms. The waterfront acreage has been subdivided into many small lots and sold off for cottages. A house for the next generation, with its own access lane, has been built along the road in the foreground of the heritage farm cluster. In the best examples, the new house is sited back from the highway and offset from the perspective of the heritage home, and the mature planted setting of the farm cluster has been maintained. However, the hedgerows below the farm have often been obliterated for the cottage development.

Modern Development By the 1990s, water view and waterfront land were under intense development pressure. The dream of a solitary cottage on the shore with wide-open views had deteriorated into bare, unimaginative small lot subdivisions with uneven quality of cottage design, some owners putting up the cheapest box possible or a trailer, while others built their dream retirement home. This odd assortment of structures, combined with a complete absence of planting, has begun to seriously interfere with the historic pattern of spectacular views of pastoral landscape meeting the ocean. The superimposition of approved lot plans on the 1990 north shore air photos indicates that, even if no more land is subdivided, an astonishing number of cottages could still crop up if only the currently approved lots proceed to construction. There is also a disturbing trend of extending the subdivision pattern right over remaining pond-side woodlots, without any protective controls.

Landscape Scenarios Landscape impact analysis can be applied to help visualize the impact of conserving coastal landscapes and views with specific new approaches to cottage development: A close-in view of the Cousin’s Shore coastline retains much of the traditional pattern of seaside farm clusters, although the protective woodlots and hedgerows have been lost (Figure 1.12). A widening of the aerial view displays, however, the drastic changes that are already in progress. A variety of cottages have been scattered on lots above the dunes. The presence of power poles indicates that the adjoining fields may repeat the pattern. On the cliff-side peninsula, the presence of white stakes and a newly constructed cottage show that even this fragile shorefront has been conventionally subdivided (Figure 1.13). If approval for the unbuilt lots is rescinded and no further construction takes place, the heritage landscape could be partially restored by the reintroduction of hedgerows and landscape screening of the existing structures (Figure 1.14). Ideally, development rights could be repurchased on

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Figure 1.12 Cousin’s Shore, 1990s Source: Barrett and MacKay Professional Photographers, P.E.I.

Figure 1.13 Cousin’s Shore, if Current Trend Persists Source: Barrett and MacKay Professional Photographers, P.E.I.

Figure 1.14 Cousin’s Shore: Testing New Scenarios Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

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the peninsula, leaving it untouched by cottages. However, grouping the cottages into small cluster development rather than scattering them as in conventional development could protect more of the shoreline. Even conventional development makes less of a visual impact if alternating lots are kept open for traditional agricultural purposes and hedgerows are reintroduced. However, grouping the cottages into small landscaped clusters can also minimize the area of development.

Policy Directions At least four policy opportunities present themselves here. First, new coastal multi-cottage subdivision approvals could be limited to small cluster development with closely spaced buildings and a consistent architectural concept of shapes, materials and colours. Next, the cluster concept is not intended to increase the overall density of development, but rather to preserve a large portion of land for natural or controlled agricultural uses, to conserve water views, and to provide practical and environmental advantages in relation to access and technical services. Current half-acre minimum lot requirements, introduced in response to the proliferation of small cottage lots, do not encourage this type of development: the houses are simply too far apart. If, alternatively, the overall development density is one-half an acre per unit, and the units themselves are concentrated on lots of a few thousand square feet, a large majority of the land could be left undeveloped. Next, planning regulations could be put in place to guide the layout design of new cottage subdivisions, conserving traditional land patterns and views by preventing the development of consecutive adjacent lots and mandating the protection or reintroduction of woodlots and hedgerows. Finally, a combination of planning regulations, grants and tax incentives could be applied to conserve particularly important viewscapes, as well as sensitive ecological areas such as erosion-prone coastal cliffs, from development. To discourage further land speculation in these areas, approvals for unsold lots could be rescinded, and/or development rights could be repurchased. This repurchasing system is currently being tested on a small scale on the north shore by the L.M. Montgomery Land Trust.6

Viewscapes Historical Development Scenic viewscapes, which can be defined as either the gradual or dramatically sudden unfolding of an attractive scene before your eyes as you move along the road into the landscape, are traditionally abundant on Prince Ed-

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ward Island roads. Generally, the viewer appreciates the seasonal change of working landscapes with animals and crops, and the wide views of coastline, harbours and pastoral landscapes framed by woodlots and hedgerows. This is the landscape fabric that adorns the tourism posters and encourages drivers to stop, admire and take photographs.

Modern Development Precise identification and protection of the viewscape experience has become increasingly problematic with the proliferation of strip development of houses, cottages, farms and industrial structures on island highways. The areas within the cone of vision of the scenic view are typically large, and the scope varies constantly as the viewer moves. However, since the foreground is dominant in any picture, the visual control of roadside development is especially critical in the framing of views.

Landscape Scenarios Landscape impact analysis can be applied to help visualize the dramatic effects on the viewscape of different approaches to development within its frame. What is it that makes the French River Wharf so unique that the viewer must stop to take a picture? The attractive features of the scenic wharf enjoy a consistency similar to that of the farm cluster: closely spaced structures of similar sizes, shapes and materials, defining in this case not a farm yard but a wharf. Someone started painting the sheds in bright colours, and others followed suit with either matching or complementary tones. With a few lobster boats in front, and the reflection in the still waters of the river, the scene becomes complete (Figure 1.15). However, careless obliteration of this view is only too possible. Already, development of houses in the back-

Figure 1.15 French River, 1990s Source: Barrett and MacKay Professional Photographers, P.E.I.

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ground field has begun to interfere with the definition of the wharf outline, so that it no longer stands out as clearly in the landscape. If uncontrolled subdivision continues in the background, the wharf will eventually lose its dominance in the visual composition. Keeping the wharf structures painted in brighter colours than the background could help somewhat, as could the screening of new structures with trees. The total effect, however, is no longer a ‘postcard perfect’ picture (Figure 1.16). Protection of the foreground view is absolutely essential. This is one place where new structures, even with adjoining hedgerows, would seriously impact the scene. The view of the wharf from the road vantage point could disappear (Figure 1.17). Ideally, in order to maintain the clearest and most dramatic picture, the fields behind and alongside the wharf could be kept free of visually competing development. Trees could be planted to screen any existing structures (Figure 1.18).

Policy Directions Clearly, the selection and designation of key and representative viewscapes is necessary to prevent their disappearance by thoughtless development within the view frame. Moreover, particular attention is required to con-

Figure 1.16 French River, if Current Trend Persists Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

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Figure 1.17 French River: Testing New Scenarios (1) Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

Figure 1.18 French River: Testing New Scenarios (2) Source: Karen E. Lips and Ole Hammarlund.

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serve the defining features of the view, such as, recognizing the dominance of features on hills and in the foreground, and promoting appropriate development and planting schemes. Viewscapes can also be protected by zoning controls that limit new roadside building construction to within village limits, to conserve the traditional change in panorama from open pastoral views to closely spaced village structures. And new rural construction could be limited to farm and cottage cluster-style development that maintains mature plantings and reintroduces selected planting in the traditional patterns. Restoration of hedgerow and tree planting can generally enhance viewscapes, as long as key vistas are identified and kept open. Last but not least, imagery matters in the protection of the viewscape. Design guidelines could ensure that new buildings of appropriate form and detail can complement, rather than detract from, the heritage village and rural landscape. Incentives could be put into place to conserve and restore existing heritage buildings and details.

Conclusion The challenge and goal of the proposed community-based visualization exercises is to develop an effective process at the local level for recognizing the essential values of the landscape. Ideally, the ‘site-specific’ picture-oriented practice of public participation and education will further anchor islanders’ attachment to place and inspire support for new forms of land stewardship. With this all-important support at the grass-roots level, politicians and government departments can confidently introduce new development policies and guidelines to direct the preservation and enhancement of the special, authentic character of the PEI landscape through the changes of the twenty-first century. Ongoing care must be taken to keep policies and guidelines effective in the creation of the actual visual sense of place, and to avoid the pitfalls of conventional word-based general land use planning. While the visual pretesting illustration of various landscape scenarios can aid in decision-making and policy direction, demonstration projects on a variety of scales can make the process come alive. Specific pilot projects with easily visualized results can be established at differing, complementary levels of viewer experience and participation within the communitybased planning zone. For example, for a ‘wide viewscape’ pilot project, the community designates a short scenic route within the planning zone and applies the visual process and policy to protect and enhance the sweeping views of coastline or hedgerow-lined fields. For the ‘middle viewscape’ project, the community chooses and visually frames one or two particular cultural landscape vistas within the zone, such as farmscapes, using visual process and policy. In the ‘personal viewscape’ initiative, the community

Prince Edward Island, Canada 45

chooses individual sites within the zone for detailed conservation, such as the planting of laneways or adaptive reuse of farm cluster outbuildings for agro-tourism or local food marketing. A planning process that relates to the actual landscape and its changes over time can be a valuable tool in bridging varying interests, by shifting the focus back and forth from small-scale issues and immediate conflicts to a broader perspective and a longer time horizon. Conserving the distinctive pattern creates a framework for layers of meaningful, non-destructive new development. As we become more aware of the landscape patterns we create, we can see how they are profoundly and directly linked to how the landscape works, socially, economically and ecologically. While visualization is the key to its success, effective visual landscape planning can be much more than a pretty picture. Notes 1. Historical geographer Clark analyses the PEI landscape over time, although his ‘patterns’ are not actual landscape features but visual representations of statistical census data onto island maps, showing the interrelationships over time of cultural settlement and crop and animal distributions, interpreted against a discussion of natural setting and sociopolitical history (Clark 1959). 2. ‘The reading of the land indirectly or directly through [Montgomery’s] images by the millions of tourists who have since visited PEI adds multiple layers of meaning to any cultural perception of the place,’ states Epperly (2007: 174). She also points out that the choice of Cavendish (the site of Anne’s fictional home) for PEI’s National Park was due to the success of Montgomery’s writing. 3. By overlaying transparencies of graphic data such as landform and vegetation for a specific region or land parcel, McHarg (1969) developed a powerful design tool long before computers and digitization made such an exercise more accessible. 4, The 2009 Commission on Land and Local Governance decried the lack of progress in viewscape protection planning, and recommended that a “communitybased approach has the greatest potential to provide tangible results” (2009: 58). 5. A major recommendation of the Round Table was to provide individual farmers with incentives and environmental education in order to improve existing hedgerows and establish new ones. 6. L.M. Montgomery Land Trust was established in 1994, funded in part by the estate of the artist Marc Gallant.

Bibliography Allen, C. R. 1880. Illustrated historical atlas of the province of Prince Edward Island: From surveys made under the direction of C.R. Allen. Philadelphia: J.H. Meacham & Co.

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Baum, T. G. 1997. ‘The fascination of islands: A tourist perspective’, in D. Lockhart and D. Drakakis-Smith (eds), Island tourism: Problems and perspectives. London: Pinter, 21–35. Bolger, F. W. P. 1973. Canada’s smallest province: A history of P.E.I. Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island: 1973 Centennial Commission. Brown, G. 2005. ‘Mapping spatial attributes in survey research for natural resource management: Methods and applications’, Society & Natural Resources 18(1):1–23. Brown, G., and C. Raymond. 2006. Mapping spatial attributes for conservation and tourism planning: A survey of residents and visitors. CRC for Sustainable Tourism, Griffith University, Gold Coast, Australia. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http://www.crctourism.com.au Butler, R. 1993. ‘Tourism development in small islands: Past influences and future directions’, in D. G. Lockhart, D. Drakakis-Smith and J. A. Schembri (eds), The development process in small island states. London: Routledge, 71–91. Chatwin, B. 1987. Songlines. New York: Penguin. Clark, A. H. 1959. Three centuries and the island: A historical geography of settlement and agriculture in Prince Edward Island, Canada. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Commission on Land and Local Governance. 2009. New foundations: report of the commission on land and local governance. Charlottetown, Canada. Emmelin, L. 1982. Painting the future: Visual impact analysis of changes in the Swedish landscape. Stockholm: Forskningsradsnamnden Rapport No. 15. ———. 1996. ‘Landscape impact analysis: A systematic approach to landscape impacts of policy’, Landscape Research 21(1): 13–35. Epperly, E. R. 2007. Through lover’s lane: L. M. Montgomery’s photography and visual imagination. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Lips, K. E. 1997. The pattern in the landscape. A presentation to the Round Table on Resource Land Use and Stewardship, Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. ———. 2009. A community-based landscape visualization process. A presentation to the commission on land and local governance. Charlottetown, Canada. McHarg, I. L. 1969. Design with nature. Garden City, NY: Natural History Press. Montgomery, L. M. 1908. Anne of Green Gables. Boston: L. C. Page. Round Table on Resource Land Use and Stewardship. 1997. Cultivating island solutions. Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island: The Queen’s Printer, August. Stewart, P. S. 1999. Hedgerows for Prince Edward Island farms. Charlottetown: P.E.I. Adapt Council and Agriculture and Agri-food Canada. Weale, D. 1992. Them times. Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island: Institute of Island Studies, University of Prince Edward Island. Yaro, R. D., R. G. Arendt, H. L. Dodson and E. A. Brabec. 1988. Dealing with change in the Connecticut River Valley: A design manual for conservation and development. Amherst: Center for Rural Massachusetts, University of Massachusetts.

[ Chapter 2 ] Malta MARGUERITE CAMILLERI, MONIQUE HILI, JOSEPH MAGRO CONTI, RENÉ ATTARD, DARRIN STEVENS, MARIE THERESE GAMBIN AND ROBERTA GALEA

Introduction: A City on an Island The Maltese archipelago occupies 120 square miles and contains three inhabited islands and a number of small islets. Based on end-of-year estimates, Malta’s total population reached 410,300 in 2007: this makes Malta one of the most densely populated archipelagos in the world, with some 3,300 persons per square mile (NSO 2008a). As a result of these conditions, land – which is Malta’s primary, non-renewable natural resource – is in short supply and undergoing rapid change. Indeed, conflicts over humaninduced land use change are central to environmental issues in Malta. As Boissevain (2004: 234) notes, ‘Malta is the most densely populated state in Europe. Awareness of this density and the small geographic scale is basic to understanding the environmental problems facing the Maltese.’ The current land cover of the Maltese Islands is described in Figure 2.1. In 2006, 48 per cent of the land area was taken up by agriculture, with natural vegetation making up 22 per cent and found mainly in coastal areas in Malta and Gozo. Urban fabric, covering 23 per cent of the land area, was found mainly in Malta, as a conurbation around the two main harbours, and scattered on the hills of Gozo. Forests, found only in three areas in Malta, made up 0.8 per cent. Another 4 per cent was taken up by dumping sites, green urban areas, mineral extraction sites, port areas and sports and leisure facilities. Between 1990 and 2006, approximately 2.5 km2 (0.8 per cent) of total land area, consisting of sclerophyllous vegetation, agricultural land and non-irrigated arable land, was converted to discontinuous urban

48 Camilleri, Hili, Magro Conti, Attard, Stevens, Gambin and Galea

Figure 2.1 Map showing 2006 Land Cover by Type Source: Malta Environment and Planning Authority (MEPA) 2007.

fabric, industrial or commercial units, mineral extraction sites and dumping sites.1 Malta’s economic and social viability is based primarily on its ability to create economic value through the provision of a range of goods and services. Data relating to sectoral contributions to the gross domestic product (GDP) (2000–2008) indicate a long-term trend towards a more serviceoriented economy, inclusive of tourism, transport, real estate, public administration, information technology, retail, finance, education and health (NSO 2009). However, a number of economic sectors impact on sensitive natural and historic areas in ways that place considerable pressure on Maltese natural and cultural heritage. Principal among these are construction, road transport and tourism. In what follows, the major trends in each of these sectors are reviewed in turn. Despite its relatively small contribution to GDP (3.6 per cent in 2008), construction occupies an important role in the economic development of

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Dwelling units granted planning permissions

the islands. This is largely due to the fact that housing in Malta provides more than the basic need of shelter: it is also one of Malta’s most profitable investment opportunities. The consequent scale of construction activity in the islands is placing growing pressure on land, mineral and energy resources, as well as the management of increasing volumes of construction and demolition waste. It also causes significant local environmental impacts related to noise, dust and congestion. In response to these pressures, Malta’s planning system (Structure Plan Policy SET 11) provides a well-defined development boundary, which serves to contain development within specifically allocated areas, with the exception of genuine uses that require a rural location, such as agricultural buildings. Nevertheless, due to Malta’s small land area it is sometimes the case that large new developments such as schools, hospitals and waste treatment facilities can only be located outside the development zone. In recent years, as part of the local planning process, an exercise to rationalize the development zone boundary has taken place, resulting in an overall increase of 2.3 per cent in the development zone. Trends in dwelling units that have been granted planning permission provide a useful indicator of activity in this sector. Figure 2.2 indicates that the number of units permitted in 2008 increased by 72 per cent compared to the figures for 2000, which translates into an average of 7,126 new dwellings permitted annually, although the trend reversed sharply in 2008, reflecting the gloomier economic climate. This data contrasts with the number of new households in Malta, of which an average of 2,000 a year were formed during the intercensal (1995–2005) period (NSO 2007). Many

12000 10000 8000 6000 4000 2000 0 2000

2001

2002

2003

2004

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2007

Figure 2.2 Dwelling Units Granted Planning Permission, 2000–2008 Source: MEPA dwellings database.

2008

50 Camilleri, Hili, Magro Conti, Attard, Stevens, Gambin and Galea

of the units permitted form part of large projects: 8 applications in 2000 contained more than thirty dwelling units, while 38 and 20 applications of this type were approved in 2005 and 2006 respectively. A number of these projects contain more than a hundred dwelling units, such as the permission in 2007 for the redevelopment of part of the Galaxy Hotel in Sliema into 237 apartments and a number of other uses. Construction activity has particular impact in coastal areas, which are vulnerable due to their unique ecosystems and cultural heritage, as well as their importance for recreation and tourism. It is estimated that, between 2004 and 2005, the developed portion of Malta’s coastal zone2 (0.8 of a mile deep) grew by 1 per cent, or by 1.25 square miles. The longer-term trend indicates that Malta’s coastal area is being developed at an increasing rate: the coastal land area developed in the periods 1990–2000 and 2001–2005 was identical (MEPA 2006a). Road transport is another sector that places considerable pressure on the environment. Malta was estimated to have the fourth highest car ownership rate in the world after the United States, New Zealand and Italy in 2003 (MEPA 2007a). This level of car ownership has a negative impact on human health, the environment and the economy. Gases such as sulphur dioxide (SO2) and nitrogen oxides (NOx), produced from road transport and from the combustion of fossil fuels for energy generation, react with water in the air to form atmospheric acidity, which effectively erodes Malta’s limestone heritage. The total number of vehicles on the road almost doubled between 1990 and 2006 (Figure 2.3). Total vehicles in 2008 stood at 294,658, with private vehicles making up 75.6 per cent of this value. However, the growth in Malta’s vehicle fleet has slowed: there was a 2.6 per cent growth between 2007

No. of vehicels '000s

350 300 250 200 150 100

Figure 2.3 Total Number of Vehicles, 1990–2008 Source: National Statistics Office.

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and 2008, compared with 11 per cent between 1994 and 1995. Actions undertaken in this sector have begun to reduce the impact of transport on the environment: the banning of leaded petrol in 2003, the introduction of vehicle roadworthiness testing and the introduction of biodiesel, which is partly based on a renewable resource that would otherwise be disposed of as waste oil and that reduces emissions of greenhouse gases over short timescales. Tourism also has a strong impact on Malta’s cultural and natural heritage, albeit contributing both positive and negative impacts. This highprofile foreign exchange earner tends to increase demand for development of coastal and other scenic land, places pressure on sensitive ecological or cultural sites such as garigue areas, beaches and archaeological sites, and increases traffic congestion, noise pollution and waste production, as well as the use of scarce water and energy resources. Nevertheless tourism can help valorize natural and cultural heritage, given that a pleasant and interesting environment enhances the tourism experience and the active appreciation of many tourists for the destination’s heritage. This can encourage investment in heritage upgrading and protection. Typical of a resort that has reached a plateau in terms of its growth cycle, Malta’s tourism industry is subject to cyclical fluctuations (MEPA 2001), as trends in the number of tourist nights spent in Malta illustrate (Figure 2.4). Characteristic of this growth cycle is the decline of traditional resorts, which gives rise to demand for tourism projects in new rural and coastal areas. Many of these, however, retain a heavily infrastructural approach rather than one based on the appreciation and promotion of the

Number of Nights (000s)

12500 12000 11500 11000 10500 10000 9500

Figure 2.4 Number of Nights Spent by Tourists in the Maltese Islands, 1990–2008 Source: NSO.

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local environment and character (MEPA 2003a). The latest tourism figures for 2008 indicate that numbers of tourists are on the increase. Despite this, total tourist expenditure decreased by 1.6 per cent between 2007 and 2008 (NSO 2008b). This section has briefly reviewed key socioeconomic trends that impact on natural and cultural heritage. What follows is a review of the processes through which Malta’s cultural and natural heritage is identified, protected and managed.

Identification, Protection and Management of Heritage Malta’s cultural and natural heritage is protected through a series of policy and legal provisions and management activities. Since it is cultural heritage that was first afforded legal protection in Malta, it is appropriate to begin there. The Maltese Islands have an exceptionally rich cultural heritage,3 being the site of eight World Heritage Sites4 considered to be of outstanding value to humanity. However, the islands’ high population density and their dynamic urban environment have ensured that Malta’s cultural heritage experiences ongoing development pressure (Mallia 2007). For this reason, individual buildings and sites of cultural importance have, through the years, been afforded legal protection as outlined below. Historic buildings and areas were first protected under the Antiquities (Protection) Act, 1925 (Cap 54), which introduced the protection of monuments, undertaken by an Antiquities Committee presided over by the director of museums. It also contained a list of buildings or remains that were to be protected from development and for which permission would be needed for any works (Antiquities [Protection] List 1932, revised 1937 and 1939). The act also set up an Antiquities Board, which ensured that unauthorized works were an offence, and made provision for penalties for offences. Eventually, the 1992 Development Planning Act replaced the Antiquities Board with the Heritage Advisory Committee of the then Planning Authority. In 2002, the Cultural Heritage Act replaced the Antiquities Act. Under the new act a superintendent was made responsible for a range of functions, including surveillance of the protection and conservation of cultural heritage. Provisions were also made to coordinate management processes between the 2002 Cultural Heritage Act and the 1992 Development Planning Act, which governs land use planning (MEPA 2003a). The 1992 Development Planning Act (Cap 356) (amended in 1997 and 2001) sets out a legal framework for the sustainable management of land on the basis of a planning authority, a structure plan and subsidiary development plans, supplementary planning policy guidance, and the control

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of development. The planning authority established through the 1992 act became the Malta Environment and Planning Authority, which is the competent authority for both land use planning and environmental protection, under the 2001 Environmental Protection Act. In 2010, the Environment Protection and Development Planning Acts were consolidated as the Environment and Development Planning Act (Cap 504). Importantly, the 1992 Development Planning Act and the Structure Plan moved beyond the monument-centred approach of the Antiquities Act, which had not provided for the protection of surrounding landscape settings. The 1990 Structure Plan, which is the national land use planning policy framework, as called for in the Development Planning Act, sets out the following strategy for urban conservation. The strategy involves (1) identification, protection and retention of urban areas of historical and architectural importance, and (2) regeneration, rehabilitation, enhancement and environmental improvement through control of development and positive improvement. It has a dual approach: conservation of both areas (conservation areas) ((Structure Plan Policy UCO 1); and individual structures (scheduled property) (Structure Plan Policy UCO 7). The designation of urban conservation areas (UCAs) aims at protecting entire urban areas of special architectural or historic interest. Within UCAs, buildings and spaces are protected for their contribution to the character of the area. The identification, designation and management of UCAs are addressed through development plans and the development control process. As of June 2008, a total of fifty-three UCAs had been designated.5 Recently, a more fine-tuned approach to conservation in UCAs has been adopted by means of a hierarchy of street categorization, allowing controlled changes in the lesser category and stringent conservation in the higher category. The protection of archaeological sites and areas, individual monuments, buildings and spaces is addressed via a national protective inventory (NPI) and a scheduling process. The former, based on criteria established by the Structure Plan, lists historical buildings, gardens and other open spaces, and streetscapes that require protection (MDI 1990: 87). The NPI now contains over 12,000 entries, the majority of which are features of architectural value, though it also includes 971 archaeological sites. The NPI also contains information about archaeological sites that are known to have existed but are currently built over, which are referred to as ‘Grade E’ sites. The scheduling process6 protects important features from development on the basis of Section 46 of the Development Planning Act.7 Further criteria for scheduling are provided in Structure Plan policy UCO 7.8 Details of the items scheduled as of December 2008 are provided in Table 2.1. In addition, fifty-five of the Grade 1, Grade 2, Class A and Class B scheduled sites have a buffer zone that protects the landscape setting around the monuments.

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Table 2.1 Scheduled Properties, December 2008 Grade (architecture) / Class (archaeology)

Number of scheduled properties

Grade 1 Grade 2 Grade 3 Class A Class B Class C Total

1,026 981 183 90 170 1 2,451

Source: MEPA heritage management system.

Conservation orders may also be placed on threatened buildings or features. These prescribe actions, including maintenance, to ensure the continuing conservation of buildings or areas. Emergency conservation orders have identical purposes, except that they are valid for six months. A GISbased inventory of all designated sites and features is available in the MEPA heritage management system.9 There remain a number of concerns regarding the scheduling process. MEPA’s 2003 Urban Conservation and Built Heritage Topic Paper raised a number of issues in this regard, many of which have been addressed but two of which remain relevant. First, in the early days of scheduling, the tendency was to assign relatively high levels of scheduling even to sites that may not have merited it. The priority was to schedule by the approved local plan, therefore leaving in abeyance for too long the scheduling of significant monuments in areas where the local plan was not yet complete. This created an imbalance of having less important buildings protected (and sometimes overprotected) before comprehensively protecting the most significant buildings all over the islands. Second, the current protective framework has yet not been able to effectively protect the settings of cultural monuments and buildings. In addition, the 2005 State of the Environment Report (MEPA 2006b) notes that the scheduling process faces a number of challenges related to demolition of scheduled buildings, significant monuments still unprotected, need for more procedural clarification and transparency, shortage of trained staff, lack of enforcement capacity, and lenient court sentences for damage to cultural heritage. In addition, better coordination of all agencies involved in heritage management is still required, particularly in the areas of the control of development affecting cultural heritage, and of site management. The MEPA report continues by noting that although many historical buildings and areas have been given statutory protection, and there is plan-

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ning policy presumption against demolition of buildings within UCAs (Structure Plan Policy UCO 9), there is increasing tension between these protective mechanisms and the desire of owners to redevelop their properties. This is resulting in loss of historic fabric, inappropriate design of new and restored buildings and illegal excavations within archaeologically sensitive sites. For example, at Rabat and Mdina, two illegal developments in 2005 uncovered Roman ashlar masonry and substantial archaeological deposits. More broadly, the report notes the need for an integrated approach that considers socioeconomic issues in historic urban areas in tandem with cultural and environmental ones. It is now widely accepted that the key to the survival of cultural heritage is to ensure its optimal management by finding uses that make maintenance and restoration economically feasible (Planning Authority 1998). In order to assess the extent to which Malta’s built cultural heritage is being adequately managed, an expert review has been undertaken of the management status of the 932 properties that have been given the highest form of protection within the scheduling list (that is, Grade 1 or Class A). It emerges that only 0.04 per cent (36) of scheduled properties are under full management, with 86 per cent of these being publicly owned. However, 28 per cent of the properties are being used in a way that is intended to contribute to the maintenance or restoration of the building or site. These include houses that are being lived in, buildings used as offices and parts of harbour area fortifications that have gardens or cemeteries. More than half (58 per cent) of the properties surveyed are under no form of management. Turning now to the conservation of natural heritage, this can be said to have been formally set in motion with the passing of the 1991 Environment Protection Act. Under this legislation, bird sanctuaries, nature reserves and some minor islets10 were afforded protection. In parallel with this process, a number of sites and areas were scheduled under the Development Planning Act. Besides the designation of rural conservation areas widely across the countryside outside the development zones, areas of agricultural value (AAVs), areas of ecological importance (AEIs), sites of scientific importance (SSIs), and areas of high landscape value (AHLVs) were designated. In AEIs, which were identified on the basis of ecological surveys carried out for the local planning process, one or more of the major habitat types need to be present. These include permanent springs, saline marshlands, sand dunes, forest remnants, semi-natural woodland, natural freshwater pools, transitional coastal wetlands, deep natural caves and coastal cliffs, as well as representative examples of such typical Maltese habitats as garigue, maquis, valley sides, watercourses and gently sloping rocky coasts (Structure Plan Policy RCO 10). In identifying and designating SSIs, particular ecological, palaeontological, lithostratigraphical, geomorphological

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or other ‘scientifically interesting features’ need to be present (Structure Plan Policy RCO 11). With Malta joining the European Union (EU) in 2004, the EU Habitats11 and Wild Birds12 Directives, as well as other international agreements13 on nature conservation, were transposed into national legislation under the Environment Protection Act.14 This legislation provides a comprehensive framework for the setting up and implementation of a National Ecological Network, including special areas of conservation (SACs) and special protection areas (SPAs), the latter focusing on protection of avifauna (birds). By 2007, designated natural areas, some of which fall under more than one piece of legislation and type of designation, covered 19 per cent of the Maltese Islands’ territory (Figure 2.5).15 This total includes 32 nature reserves, 26 bird sanctuaries (which include the Addolorata cemetery and the Presidential Gardens at San Anton)16 and, as of June 2008, 103 AEIs or SSIs, as well as 42 SACs of national or international importance covering

Figure 2.5 Map Showing Designated and Managed Areas, 2007 Source: MEPA.

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13 per cent of land area (apart from the one marine site at Rdum Majjiesa/ Ras ir-Raheb off the northwest coast of Malta). In addition, 12 SPAs had been declared, covering 4.5 per cent of Malta. A number of sites that support habitats and species listed in EU directives and found within the Maltese Islands were selected for inclusion in the EU Natura 2000 network, set up to support habitats as well as species that are either important and/or threatened across Europe. By the end of 2008, Malta had designated twenty-seven sites (drawn from its SACs of international importance) as Natura 2000 sites, representing approximately 12.6 per cent of land area, together with one marine site (Figure 2.6); these were approved by the EU in March 2008. This coverage compares well with the EU average of 15 per cent. Malta’s twelve SPAs automatically form part of the Natura 2000 network. The total site area forming part of the Natura 2000 network covers 13 per cent of the Maltese Islands (apart from the marine site). In addition, two locales, l-Għadira and is-Simar, have been designated as wetlands of international importance under the UN Ramsar Convention. The islet of Filfla and the surrounding rocks, together with Fungus Rock, L-Għadira and St Paul’s Islands, are designated as Specially Protected Areas under the UN Barcelona Convention.

Figure 2.6 Map Showing Natura 2000 Sites Source: MEPA.

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A considerable effort has been undertaken to designate areas for nature conservation, although additional work is required in the field of marine conservation. The focus must now be on active management of these sites. By the end of 2007, there were seven protected and managed areas, run by NGOs, where management plans had been agreed with stakeholders. These cover 3.5 per cent of all SACs. Four other management plans are currently being developed or undergoing review (MEPA 2007a).17 In addition to management, there is also the need to better interpret what the EU Habitats and Birds Directives mean for the planning system, in terms of what forms of development are acceptable or not in such areas. Alongside these legal measures, funding programmes are in place to actively support environmental improvements. This type of funding has increased substantially over the last decades (MEPA 2007a), and is available from a range of national and international sources. While EU structural funding has largely been focused on infrastructural upgrading, national funding is more focused on small-scale but important elements. The MEPA timber balconies scheme has for some years been subsidizing 60 per cent of the cost (but not more than €1,398 [U.S.$1,824]18) of the restoration of traditional wooden balconies in various historic cores, and for all scheduled properties. The scheme, which was previously applicable to only a few localities, has now been made accessible to all localities around Malta and Gozo (Times of Malta 2007). Also, the housing authority provides schemes to help low-income earners with maintenance of their dwellings, including the repair of wooden balconies.19 The newer Environmental Initiatives in Partnership Programme (EIPP) scheme, which is funded through planning gain,20 has a wider focus. This fund has since been reviewed and a proposal for an Environment Improvement Fund, focusing on funding environmental policy priorities and open to various stakeholders, has been launched by MEPA. In its first two years of operation since mid 2005, some €582,343 (U.S.$732,500) has been spent. A large portion of this has gone towards the recent setting up of an environmental field inspector scheme for Malta, which focuses on area surveillance with a focus on littering, dumping and arson in key areas such as protected areas. EIPP projects may involve the restoration of cultural or natural heritage and can also have a demonstration/educational focus. Finalized EIPP projects include the rehabilitation and maintenance of the valley system at Għollieqa Valley in San Ġwann with Nature Trust (Malta), and the restoration of the Victoria Lines at Mosta with the national heritage foundation Fondazzjoni Wirt Artna. The Urban Improvement Fund (UIF), which by January 2009 had accumulated approximately €5.5 million (U.S.$7.2 million) (MEPA 2007b), will cater for improvements in urban areas, such as landscaping, traffic

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management and other embellishment works. The fund is financed from fees that are paid when the Commuted Payment Parking Scheme is not in force within a locality or when developers are not able to provide parking on site, for example in historic buildings or due to lack of vehicle access.21 By September 2007, commitments had been made for 86 projects, affecting approximately two-thirds of local councils. These commitments amount to a value of €2.5 million (or U.S.$3.2 million). In addition, a new approach to enforcement in historic areas has proved most effective: a 2004 survey identified 1,055 air conditioning units on the façades of historic Valletta buildings. Using a mixture of a public awareness campaign and individual contacts, owners were notified in 2004 that enforcement action would be taken after a specific time frame unless unsightly air conditioning units were integrated into building façades. By March 2007, 660 units had been visually integrated into the façades of their buildings, without any enforcement action required.22 Having reviewed the policy and legal framework, as well as funding programmes to support environmental improvements, this chapter now reviews some of the tensions that arise when conservation obligations conflict with development pressures.

Conservation Obligations and Development Pressures This section discusses conflicts between conservation obligations and pressures for development. It begins by considering a number of avenues through which these conflicts become apparent in Malta’s environmental planning system. It looks at reconsiderations and appeals from scheduling, the environmental assessment process and the use of bank guarantees to protect environmental features. The section closes with a review of six case studies, from which lessons may be drawn for future conservation praxis. An indication of public acceptance of challenges to the legal protection of heritage features may be found in challenges to scheduling by property owners. Once scheduling is carried out, MEPA notifies the owners, who may request a reconsideration of the scheduling decision. MEPA then decides whether to retain the current scheduling status, deschedule, partly deschedule or regrade (change the level of protection of ) the property. The owner may appeal that decision under Article 46(9) of the Development Planning Act. Between 2000 and 2008, 9.8 per cent of notified owners applied for reconsideration, while 1.1 per cent (twelve) lodged an appeal against the scheduling decision (Table 2.2). As a result, three properties (in St. Julian’s, Kalkara and Sannat respectively) were partly descheduled (with another

60 Camilleri, Hili, Magro Conti, Attard, Stevens, Gambin and Galea

five pending approval), seven were completely descheduled (five in St. Julian’s, one in Sliema and one in Valletta) and two (in Attard and Rabat) were given a lower level of protection. In a few cases, owners have also requested scheduling, which has in some cases been approved. This has come about due to policy GV24 in the Grand Harbour Local Plan, which states that no new office space will be permitted unless the building to be used is a Grade 1 or Grade 2 building according to Structure Plan Policy UCO 7. The intention of this policy is to provide for the restoration of larger properties in Valletta and Floriana, the price of which may preclude residential use, by allowing office use. MEPA has now received a number of requests for the scheduling of properties in Valletta with the intention of converting them into offices. The Grand Harbour Local Plan is one of a set of seven local plans that provide detailed and site specific policy guidance for the islands within the overall context of the Structure Plan. Interestingly, some scheduling activity, such as that at Mdina and Ċittadella, seems to have elicited little objection from owners, perhaps because the concept of the areas’ heritage value is long established, although illegal works requiring enforcement in these areas are ongoing. It is also worth noting that scheduling of natural areas seems to be more contentious, perhaps because this type of designation involves wider areas with less obvious boundaries. Natural areas also often include agricultural land, whose inclusion in areas protected for natural heritage is often challenged. This protection is also perceived to be a threat to traditional activities such as hunting and trapping, which are the source of much political acrimony.23 In addition to the twelve appeals against scheduling decisions, scheduling is also challenged through the development control process when applicants challenge refusals based on constraints related wholly or partially to scheduling. As of August 2008, fifty-three such cases were pending before the Planning Appeals Board. During the development control process, an environment impact assessment (EIA) is used to identify environmental impacts and mitigation measures for large projects that are acceptable on planning grounds. Project-based environmental assessment is provided for in both environmental and planning legislation (Legal Notice 144 of 2007). Due to its small size and high population density, Malta requires an EIA for many more types of development than is the norm in other EU countries (Cassar 2007). Between 1998 and 2007, a total of 207 EIAs were carried out. These have resulted in a number of amendments being made to applications, and in the refusal of one major development proposal (for a golf course at Verdala) following the completion of the EIA. A number of important mitigation measures identified through the EIA process have served to reduce the conflict between

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Table 2.2 Scheduling Notifications, Reconsiderations and Appeals Year

Site

Gov. Notice

Gov. Notice Date

Owners Notified

Reconsiderations

Appeals from scheduling

2000

Wied ix-Xlendi

856/00

27/10/2000

59

21

0

2001

Ċittadella Fortified Town and AHLV

83/01

23/01/2001

2

0

0

Victoria Lines

85/01

23/01/2001

153

21

4

Harbour Fortifications

133/01

09/02/2001

227

7

0

Mdina

348/01

20/04/2001

182

0

0

Pietà

349/01

20/04/2001

147

0

0

Tas-Sellum and Għajn Żejtuna

681/01

25/08/2001

14

13

3

Wied Mgarr ix-Xini

937/01

09/11/2001

27

10

0

2002

Mellieħa Fortifications

895/02

08/10/2002

41

5

1

Kalkara / Rinella

930/02

18/10/2002

40

4

0

2005

Fort Chambray

840/05

05/08/2005

1

0

0

2006

2006 Cultural Scheduling1

492/06

06/06/2006

40

8

2

2007

Telephone Booths, Letter Boxes

2

0

0

2008

Scheduling of most significant Buildings, Monuments and Features of Valletta

276/08

28/03/2008

49

1

0

Villa Bologna and Buffer Zone

625/08 702/08

18/07/2008 12/08/2008

8

2

2

Villa Gourgion and Buffer around Lija Belvedere

611/08

16/07/2008

18

1

0

2008 Cultural Scheduling

628/08

21/07/2008

55

4

0

Il-Maqluba, Qrendi

1138/08 19/12/2008

3

1

0

Total Cultural

19 Groups

1,068

98

12

100

9.18

1.13

Percentage of total

1. These include key properties under threat, such as Palazzo Pescatore (St. Paul’s Bay), Palazzo Francia (Lija), Palazzo Stagno (Qormi), Palazzo Parisio (Naxxar), ‘Il-Kunvent’ (Zabbar), the Simblija complex (Dingli), Dar ix-Xemx (Nadur), and the Officers’ Mess at Fort Campbell. Source: MEPA.

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conservation obligations and development projects. The EIA process also provides an important opportunity for public discussion of the proposed development. Maltese legislation, in line with EU policy, also provides for a strategic assessment of environmental impacts at the policy preparation stage for major policy initiatives.24 It is also expected that the requirement to subject plans to Strategic Environmental Assessment will enhance the integration of environmental considerations in development plans. Once development permission is granted, it is sometimes the case that MEPA requests a bank guarantee as a deterrent to acts that violate safeguards on natural or cultural heritage. Between January 2004 and April 2007, a total of 79 out of 538 bank guarantees from development applications were forfeited; 81 per cent of these were forfeited on the basis of loss of cultural and natural heritage, mainly for impacts to cultural heritage (44 out of 64). To date, the average sum of all forfeited bank guarantees is €4,700 (U.S.$5,900), which raises the question of whether the bank guarantees are being set at sums high enough to serve as deterrents. Six case studies of conflicts between conservation and land development are reviewed in turn below. Taken together as a set, these cases reflect five criteria: they concern the protection of both cultural and natural heritage, involved developers from both private and public sectors, involved sites that have historical value, resulted in a high level of public interest, and included cases that were both granted and refused planning permission.

Case 1: The Verdala Golf Course In 1994 and again in 1999, the owners of the Verdala Hotel at Rabat applied to redevelop the hotel and extend it with a golf course (PA 8125/94 and 4179/99 respectively). The hotel redevelopment elements of the application were approved in June 2000. In 2004, an application was submitted for an eighteen-hole golf course and ancillary facilities on 71 hectares located beneath the Rabat escarpment and outside the development zone (PA 2871/04). The site (Figure 2.7) fell within a Rural Conservation Area, an Area of Agricultural Value, and an Area of High Landscape Value. The terraced fields in the area contained a variety of fruit trees, vines, summer crops and wheat, and also produced roughage for dairy farming. An EIA had been requested, without prejudice to the final decision, on the 1999 proposal, on which the views of statutory consultees were largely negative. The Department of Agriculture, the then Environment Protection Department, the Museums Department and the Malta Resources Authority raised a number of concerns regarding soil compaction and impacts on biodiversity, water and the cultural landscape outside Mdina. The project was supported by various parties, particularly the tourism sector and important figures in that sector.

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This project attracted extensive opposition at the national level. The main opposition to the project took place under the banner of the Front Kontra l-Golf Course (Front against the Golf Course, or FKGK), a loose grouping made up of various environmental, social, farming and cultural civil society groups that maintained their own separate identities in the objections made. The main concerns raised by the FKGK and other objectors related to loss of farming livelihoods and agricultural and other land; loss of rubble walls; high water consumption; the archaeological importance of the site; impacts on landscape and views; impacts on biodiversity from planted grass; traffic impact; conflict with Structure Plan policy, which excludes golf courses from good-quality agricultural land; conflict with international agreement between Malta and the Holy See regarding church land handed over to the state for cultural and environmental purposes; impact on cultural heritage, cultural associations and human perceptions of the importance of the Mdina area; and loss of recreational amenity. A petition signed by ninety farmers, stating that they did not want to leave their fields, was presented by Għaqda Bdiewa Progressivi (the Association of Progressive Farmers). The Jesuit Centre for Faith and Justice also expressed opposition to the project, as did the Rabat Local Council and the Malta Labour Party. In the end, the development permission was refused on the basis of a series of considerations: loss of agricultural land, negative

Figure 2.7 Location of Site for Proposed Golf Course, Outskirts of Rabat Source: MEPA.

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socioeconomic impact on farmers, loss of site features such as rubble walls, impact on close-range views, radical change in cultural landscape, possible damage to archaeological artifacts, possible pollution of the mean sea level aquifer, dispersal of the seashore Paspalum grass beyond the golf course boundaries, and a conflict with the location criteria for golf courses identified in strategic policies regulating this type of development.

Case 2: Proposed Landfill in the Vicinity of Mnajdra Temples The background to this application was a commitment by the Maltese government to close down the uncontrolled waste dump at Magħtab before EU accession in 2004. This necessitated the identification by the government of a site for an interim landfill to be used until a long-term controlled engineered landfill could be constructed in line with EU legislation. Another consideration was the need to fully exploit the valuable mineral resources of the proposed new landfill site at Magħtab prior to commencing waste disposal operations. The site identified by WasteServ Ltd for interim waste disposal consisted of two quarries at ix-Xagħra tal-Magħlaq and Qasam il-Kbir, limits of Qrendi (Figure 2.8). An application was submitted in 2003 for the con-

Figure 2.8 Map Showing Proposed Landfills and Three Sites of Archaeological Importance: Mnajdra Temples, Ħaġar Qim and Misqa Tanks Source: MEPA.

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struction and operation of an interim landfill facility (PA 4250/03) and the rehabilitation of two quarries by infilling with waste. However, the site lay at a distance of just 720 feet from the World Heritage Site consisting of the Haġar Qim and Mnajdra Neolithic temples (Figure 2.9). The Superintendence of Cultural Heritage and Heritage Malta expressed grave concern over the proposal, particularly since the area proposed was designated to become a Heritage Park, within which there was a need to safeguard the landscape around the temples. The Superintendence also stated that infilling would only contribute to the rehabilitation of the quarries and the surrounding landscape if inert waste was used. These views were echoed by civil society (e.g., Malta Today 2004; Malta Independent 2004a, 2004b). However, in June 2004, fresh technical reports on the site proposed for the permanent landfill at Magħtab revealed that the rock in this site was of no particular value. This indicated that excavations at the proposed landfill site did not have to reach the expected depth of 110–130 feet, so the site would be ready to accept domestic waste by November 2005 (Times of Malta 2004). A public notice subsequently issued by the government said that ‘after commissioning a number of studies and obtaining technical advice, Government has decided to exclude Tal-Magħlaq and Qasam il-Kbir from being developed into engineered landfills’ (Sunday Times of Malta 2004).

Figure 2.9 Mnajdra Temples Source: René Attard.

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In 2004, the application was changed to the restoration of quarries by infilling with inert construction and demolition waste and other inert material. Following the change in proposal, the Superintendence expressed itself in favour of the new proposal but was concerned about how it was to be ensured that the waste being dumped in the quarries was indeed inert. The Qrendi Local Council expressed concern about traffic impacts. Nature Trust highlighted that the site was located within a protected SAC, a proposed Natura 2000 site, and very close to the ecologically important river valley of Wied Magħlaq. Finally, the landowners indicated that they had never given their consent to the development. MEPA requested that the applicant carry out an EIA; however, the latter was never carried out, and the application remains pending. This example provides an illustration of how pressure on land conflicts with the need to protect not just historical monuments but also their setting and the ambience that contributes to their value.

Case 3: Palazzo de Fremaux, Żejtun This case concerns the incremental reduction in value, and final demolition of, a historic building used as a hospital during the Maltese insurgency against Napoleonic troops in 1799, located at Żejtun. It also concerns the practice of preserving building façades while redeveloping the rest of the building. In June 1990 an application was submitted to the then Planning Areas Permits Board for the demolition of a historic building that was listed in the 1925 Antiquities List, and for the construction of a maisonette and forty-four internal garages (PA 2273/90). This permit was granted, and works commenced with the demolition of the building. However, demolition works were stopped in early 1991 by the police on the orders of the Museums Department, which itself was acting on the advice of the then Antiquities Board. An application to renew the permit was made in 1992, and in 1993 fresh plans were submitted. By that time, the Antiquities Board had become the then Planning Authority’s Heritage Advisory Committee, and this body recommended that no development should occur in either the house or the garden and that the house should be reinstated. However, in July 1993, the Planning Authority’s decision board claimed that an agreement had been reached between the developer and the Antiquities Committee (sic) and so renewed the permit, subject to the payment of a €1,165 (U.S.$1,465) bond against the preservation of the façade. The Museums Department later noted that it had never been consulted on this renewed application. By this time, the building had been listed in the National Protection Inventory as a Grade 2 property, but it was scheduled only in late 1994.

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In 1998 an application was granted for the construction of 38 basement garages and 25 dwellings, retaining the historic façade (PA 5111/95). In 2001 another application, submitted to amend the previous one (PA 2286/01), proposed dismantling the existing façade in order to provide better access: it was considered that an eight-foot opening was too narrow to ensure access to fire fighting vehicles in the event of an emergency. A group of residents objected to this development in view of the historical importance of the existing building, asking for the termination of any works on site and reinstatement of the building, including the garden, to its original state. Development permission was refused because the development would change the external appearance of a Grade 2 listed building. However, in 2002 the applicant requested a reconsideration, with the architect quoting what the then minister responsible for (education and) culture had said: that ‘[t]he facade without the rest of the villa in the context of the factors I have referred to has little intrinsic value’ and that the Education Department favourably recommended the proposed development.25 The reconsideration resulted in an approval for the demolition of the façade.

Case 4: Sliema Dwelling This case concerns the demolition and reconstruction of a residential building within the Sliema Urban Conservation Area. The fact of the case becoming a national issue increased the importance of the building far in excess of its actual historic merit (e.g., Malta Independent 2005). In the wake of this case, a new civil society organization called Flimkien għal Ambjent Aħjar (Together for a Better Environment) was formed. An outline application (PA 2441/04) had been granted in 2005, approving the demolition of the existing building and its replacement by a fourand five-storey building. The only reserved matter was the design of the replacement building. A detailed application was submitted in 2005 to demolish the existing building and construct a basement garage, with overlying apartments and a penthouse (PA 4447/05). Through consultation with the Heritage Advisory Committee, it was indicated that there would be no objection to the proposal from a heritage point of view, provided that all external apertures were constructed in timber and any metal work in traditional wrought iron. In contrast, the Superintendance of Cultural Heritage maintained that the property was a house of character with a degree of antiquity, and that the building should be scheduled at an appropriate level to guarantee its protection. The detailed development application elicited widespread objection. The main objectors were the Sliema Local Council, Fondazzjoni Wirt Artna,

68

Camilleri, Hili, Magro Conti, Attard, Stevens, Gambin and Galea

Alternattiva Demokratika-The Green Party, Din l-Art Ħelwa and various individuals. Objections focused on the age of the building, emphasizing that it was likely to be one of the oldest buildings in Sliema. Some objectors claimed that the building was from the Baroque period, which was heavily disputed in the press. The application was granted full development permission, and although an appeal against the decision was lodged, the building was demolished. (Interestingly, Art. 41 of the 2010 Environment and Development Planning Act protects buildings in UCAs from demolition while there is a pending appeal case against the demolition permit.) This case suggests that the institutional understanding of heritage interest may still be too narrowly conceived, concentrating on the externals of a building (its outward appearance), rather than regarding it ‘in the round’, considering such aspects as the internal form, layout, and overall special interest, or associative value, including to the local community.

Case 5: Conservation of Salt Marshes at Salini The Salini salt marsh, one of the last remaining salt marshes in the Maltese Islands, supports a number of endemic flora and fauna as well as a large number of rare, endangered and/or locally threatened species. The site is designated as an SAC of International Importance, is a Natura 2000 site and forms the focus of the AEI and SSI in the area. However the conservation of this complex area is constrained by conflicts related to agriculture, afforestation, flood control, health, cultural heritage conservation, road safety and recreation in the wider area (Figure 2.10). Following the dredging and reclamation of the Marsa marsh system in the nineteenth century, Salini is now the largest existing marshland in the Maltese Islands. The area is characterized by a bay in which seawater intermixes with rainwater originating from a complex of valley systems leading through a floodplain to Salini. This forms a very dynamic estuary with salt marsh and fresh water vegetation, which is dependent on the accretion and deposition caused by dead sea grass foliage. A considerable number of typical invertebrates, especially insects, have been recorded only at this site. Pockets of garigue remnants are found on the border of the salt marsh. A canal currently directs freshwater into the marsh. The site also contains historic salt pans built by the Knights of Saint John in the seventeenth century, and the salt marsh area is an important ornithological site for migratory birds, partly due to the presence of Malta’s only brackish water fish, the Mediterranean killifish, Aphanius fasciatus (in Maltese, bużaqq). The extent of the Salini estuary was reduced due to reclamation of the upper stream area of Burmarrad for health (control of malaria) and agricultural purposes. The areas upstream at Burmarrad (literally meaning ‘the marsh that makes people sick’) and the Ta’ Mattew area between inner

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Salina Bay and Qawra were later developed, and afforestation was undertaken at Ta’ Mattew and close to the inner bay at Kennedy Grove, now a popular family recreation area. This has eradicated the spring at Ta’ Mattew and greatly reduced the habitat surrounding the marsh. Banquettes of sea grasses that had accumulated over a number of years and established a mature community were recently cleared away in the interests of clearing malodorous marsh remnants, thus destroying these systems. Dumping of waste material from the clearing of the marshes is now changing the existing garigue habitat to that of a steppe community and introducing alien invasive species. The conflicts faced in trying to conserve these marshes pose serious management challenges to the agencies committed also to finding a way to continue to satisfy the needs of various constituencies. Agriculture uses fertilizers and pesticides that have harmful – and sometimes also malodorous – effects on the biodiversity of the site. Recreation is dependent on afforestation with non-marsh species, while flood control requires that large quantities of rainwater be diverted directly into the marsh, denying water

Figure 2.10 Map of Salini Area, Limits of St Paul’s Bay Source: MEPA.

70 Camilleri, Hili, Magro Conti, Attard, Stevens, Gambin and Galea

to the extensive marsh vegetation across the floodplain and raising the risk of flooding the arterial road system. Archaeological conservation seeks to change seawater flow through the canals of the salt pans, thus removing marsh vegetation, while odours and the risk of mosquitoes must be eliminated in the interests of health. Applications for clearing of marsh vegetation from the canals and the estuary continue to conflict with the Natura 2000 candidate status of this area (MEPA 2004).

Case 6: Flood Relief Project at Marsa This case concerns a conflict between engineering works for storm relief and the conservation of historical heritage. In December 2004 the Works Department submitted an application to widen an existing water channel at Marsa by 24 feet (to a total of 50 feet) and form a new channel forking off the existing one, creating two channels leading to the sea. This proposal was part of a larger scheme that aims to widen culverts, remove obstacles, and upgrade and improve the existing storm water management system from Qormi to Albert Town in Marsa. The interventions included the demolition of two industrial buildings (workshops), the latter being considered in a separate application (PA 6965/04). Following site investigations and discussions, the proposal was amended to include only the additional channel fork in order to minimize impacts on the surrounding archaeologically sensitive site (Magro Conti 2006). Work had started prior to approval of the application. By the time the authorities reached the site and confirmed the presence of extensive archaeological remains, significant damage had been inflicted as a result of the excavation of a trench that was approximately 16 feet wide and 48 feet long, revealing Classical period masonry cross walls at intervals. The Integrated Heritage Management Team within MEPA, and the Superintendence of Cultural Heritage, both indicated that the existing canal dating back to the British colonial period had been proposed for Grade 1 scheduling, while the Tram workshop, considered to have historical industrial and cultural importance, had been proposed for Grade 2. Moreover, the site fell in a buffer zone due to the presence of some nearby Roman tombs and remains, which were listed in the Archaeology National Protective Inventory under Class E. It was noted that the planned interventions would further exacerbate the damage that had already been inflicted to the canal. The application was eventually approved subject to a number of conditions relating to the safeguarding of the archaeological remains and features of cultural importance. The archaeological remains were excavated and recorded by the Superintendence of Cultural Heritage with the cooperation of the Works Division before the canal project was continued.

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Conclusion: Lessons Learned for Environmental Management in Malta and Beyond The examination of current practice, ongoing issues and particular cases leads to a number of considerations that are of interest for conservation practice in Malta and in other densely populated small island jurisdictions. The first consideration is that public perceptions of thresholds relating to acceptable loss of cultural, natural and historical features may be different from those of experts, leading to unexpected conflicts in the public sphere. The two cases that illustrate this are the Sliema dwelling, where the cumulative effect of development in this area is likely to have been the reason for the controversy over the dwelling, and the concern over the cultural setting of Malta’s old capital Mdina, which is likely to have been far more important in mobilizing public concern against the proposed golf course at Verdala than technical considerations of water use and biological conservation, or even the social aspect of agricultural livelihoods. Sant Cassia (1999: 257, 260) argues that enthusiasm for heritage26 is related to the search for identity. For him, the medieval walled city of Mdina is a ‘sacred text’. As a historical site inhabited since the days when St Paul christianized the pagan Maltese in the year  60, it is symbolic of Malta’s (Christian and European) identity. In order to build and retain public support for conservation, it is important that public policy reflect these wider values. Another lesson concerns the level of support enjoyed by current conservation practice within government and in the public sphere. The Salini salt marsh, Marsa canal and proposed landfill near the Mnajdra Temples point to the need to build resources across government to ensure a greater sensitivity to Malta’s heritage. The number of challenges to scheduling from owners, particularly regarding scheduling to protect natural heritage, points to the need for stronger public support. More needs to be done to communicate what the designation of protected sites and areas means for users, and what it can achieve in practice. New instruments could be considered that would seek new ways of communicating and help to bridge gaps in knowledge and information flows. Management initiatives can go a long way towards this, reaping positive results from conservation and publicizing them, and thus making the important practical link between tourists’ appreciation for the environment and conservation. Progress has been made in managing natural conservation areas in line with EU legislation (although much is still to be done), but the management of heritage areas needs much more attention, as the figures cited in this paper indicate. A further consideration arising out of this study concerns the protection of the settings and contexts of cultural heritage. Questions are raised about the effectiveness of protecting façades while the rest of historic buildings are demolished, as well as about whether enough is being done to protect

72 Camilleri, Hili, Magro Conti, Attard, Stevens, Gambin and Galea

the setting and context of cultural and natural sites and areas. The cases at Mnajdra, Palazzo de Fremaux in Żejtun and the Verdala golf course near Mdina illustrate this point. They suggest that stronger policy is needed to preserve the context of protected sites and areas. Finally, and partly due to the constraints associated with the small scale of Malta’s administration, which must nevertheless address the same issues as larger states, there is a chronic lack of resources in the sphere of conservation, in terms of both cultural and natural heritage. This may, to a degree, be the reason for the difficulties in cooperation between state agencies, NGOs and the public. This chapter has examined the practice of heritage management in Malta. Although much has been achieved over recent decades, there are still significant conceptual and resource-related challenges to be faced in protecting and managing the Maltese Islands’ heritage at levels that ensure its enjoyment by current and future generations.

Acknowledgements We thank various colleagues at the Malta Environment and Planning Authority (MEPA), in particular Saviour Formosa, Chris Amos, Vincent Gauci, Sylvana Debono, Michelle Borg, Joseph Gauci, Joseph Gerada, Martin Zammit, Miraine Rizzo, Annie Falloon, Lucien Stafrace, Anja Delia, David Mallia, Jonathan Henwood and Josianne Abela Vassallo. Stephen Conchin performed the query operations that enabled the analysis of spatial datasets. We are grateful for the support shown by Godwin Cassar, Director General of MEPA, as well as that of Kenneth Gambin and his colleagues from Heritage Malta. N 1. The minimum size of land parcels used in the CORINE (Coordination for Information of the Environment) land cover map was 25 hectares. Since this scale is too large for assessing land use change over short time periods, the assessment of annual change was carried out at a smaller scale of 5-hectare land parcels. 2. Figure includes landfills, quarries and development permits outside the development zone. They reflect planning applications granted during this period. 3. See Malta Structure Plan (MDI 1990: para 15.4). For more information, see: www.culturalheritage.gov.mt/page.asp?p=3090&l=1. 4. http://whc.unesco.org. 5. UCAs spread across various localities (such as Attard, Balzan, Birkirkara and Lija) are contiguous and thus regarded as one UCA. In other localities, such as Żurrieq, two physically separate UCAs are regarded as one UCA.

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6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13.

14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26.

For definition of classes and grades, refer to Structure Plan (MDI 1990). Scheduling also covers natural heritage, discussed separately below. See www.mepa.org.mt/Planning/index.htm?pln_fbk_str_pln.htm&1. See www.mepa.org.mt/Planning/index.htm?schedul.htm&1. The islet of Filfla is protected separately under Chapter 323: Act XV of 1988 Filfla Nature Reserve Act. Council Directive 92/43/EEC of 21 May 1992 on Conservation of Natural Habitats and of Wild Fauna and Flora. Council Directive 79/409/EEC of 2 April 1979 on Conservation of Wild Birds. UN Convention on Biological Diversity, Convention on the Conservation of European Wildlife and Natural Habitats, Convention on Conservation of Migratory Species of Wild Animals, and the Protocol for Specially Protected Areas and Biological Diversity in the Mediterranean of the Barcelona Convention. Flora, Fauna and Natural Habitats Protection Regulations, 2006 (LN 311 of 2006). Because of their extensive nature, AAVs and AHLVs are not included in the calculation of 19 per cent of Malta designated, or in Figure 2.5. Legal Notice 79 of 2006 under the Environment Protection Act. Some protected areas do not require a management plan since management measures are applied through legislation. Conversions based on 2006 exchange rate: €1 = U.S.$1.3. See www.housingauthority.com.mt/services.htm#gfr. Contributions from development projects towards environmental improvements and included as obligatory permit conditions. As stated in Article 40 of the Development Planning Act and refined in the development guidance document (MEPA, 2005). www.mepa.org.mt/Planning/index.htm?airconditions_valletta/mainframe .htm&1. A good example is the public debate on a spring hunting derogation with respect to the EU Birds Directive (The Malta Independent 2007). Legal Notice 148 of 2005 transposing European directive 2001/42/EC assessing effects of certain plans and programs on the environment. See Reconsideration Case Officer’s report for PA 2286/01. It remains unclear whether natural heritage enjoys the same status as cultural heritage with respect to public memory and identity.

Bibliography Boissevain, J. 2004. ‘Hotels, tuna pens and civil society: Contesting the foreshore in Malta’, in J. Boissevain and T. Selywn (eds), Contesting the foreshore. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 233–260. Cassar, G. 2007. ‘Let the facts speak’, Sunday Times of Malta, 22 April. Magro Conti, J. 2006. ‘MEPA’s role in heritage management’, Malta Independent, 26 October.

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Mallia, D. 2007. ‘Revitalizing urban conservation areas: an environmental exercise’, Malta Independent, 20 March. Malta Independent. 2004a. ‘Government to seek alternatives to Mnajdra landfill’, 3 April. Malta Independent. 2004b. ‘AD calls on government to abandon all plans for Mnajdra landfill’, 24 April. Malta Independent. 2005. ‘Eighteenth century building in Sliema should be protected: AD’, 27 July. Malta Independent. 2007. ‘Two NGOs ask for EU clarification’, 3 April. Malta Today. 2004. ‘Call for Għallis to be accepted instead of temple landfill’, 18 January. MDI (Ministry for Development and Infrastructure). 1990. Structure plan for the Maltese Islands: Draft final statement and key diagram. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: www.mepa.org.mt/Planning/index.htm?pln_fbk_str_pln.htm&1 MEPA (Malta Environment and Planning Authority). 2001. Tourism topic paper. Floriana. MEPA. 2003a. Urban conservation and built environment topic paper, final draft, November. Floriana. MEPA. 2003b. Rural strategy topic paper, vol. 1, final draft. Floriana. MEPA. 2004. Natura 2000 standard data form. Floriana. MEPA. 2005. Policy and design guidance. Floriana. MEPA. 2006a. State of the environment report 2005. Sub-report 1: Driving forces for environmental change. Floriana. MEPA. 2006b. State of the environment report 2005. Sub-report 4: Land. Floriana. MEPA. 2007a. State of the environment indicators 2006. Floriana. MEPA. 2007b. Urban improvement fund: MEPA funds 39 projects in 21 localities. Floriana. Retrieved on 20 July 2010 from: http://mepaweb/index.htm?press/ mainframe_pressrelease2007.htm&1 NSO (National Statistics Office). 2007. Census of population and housing 2005, vol. 1: Population. Valletta. NSO. 2008a. Demographic review 2007. Valletta. NSO. 2008b. Departing tourists: December 2007, news release, 28 January. Valletta. NSO. 2009. Gross domestic product for 2008, news release, 11 March. Valletta. Planning Authority. 1998. Conservation philosophy and a new approach to conservation issues: Sustainable conservation, a new approach. Floriana. Sant Cassia, P. 1999. ‘Tradition, tourism and memory in Malta’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (incorporating Man) 5(2): 247–264. Sunday Times of Malta. 2004. Paid Advertisement. 11 June. Times of Malta. 2004. ‘Mnajdra landfill plans dumped’, 9 June. Times of Malta. 2007. ‘Wood balconies subsidy scheme extended to all localities’, 24 September.

[ Chapter 3 ] Guernsey, Channel Islands HEATHER SEBIRE AND CHARLES DAVID

Introduction The Channel Islands are fragments of France lost at sea and scooped up by England.… Of the four islands, Sark, the smallest, is the most beautiful; Jersey, the largest, is the prettiest; Guernsey, wild and charming, shares their characteristics… (Victor Hugo 1883, translated by the authors from the French original)

The musings of Victor Hugo sum up very well the essence of the Channel Islands. Constitutionally, geographically and physically, this description still holds good today. Guernsey, the subject of this paper, is the second largest of the Channel Islands. The islands of Alderney, Sark, Herm, Lihou and Jethou are part of its Bailiwick; but the larger island of Jersey is a separate Bailiwick. Guernsey is positioned some 32 miles off the western coast of the Cotentin Peninsula of Normandy in France, and 75 miles from mainland Britain. The Bay of St Malo, in which it and the other Channel Islands are situated, has a very large tidal range due to its position and currents. As a result of this, the intertidal zone is extensive. Guernsey measures 4.7 miles at its widest point and is 9 miles long, with an area of about 25 square miles. At low tide the area increases by some 5 square miles. Guernsey became an island around 10,000 years ago as the sea rose after the last ice age, while Jersey remained attached to the French mainland by a spur of land until some 2,000 years later. The climate today is mild and wet in winter; in summer the island is warm and enjoys a considerable amount of sunshine.

Constitution of Guernsey Guernsey is classed as a ‘crown peculiar’ or dependency of the British crown but is self-governing. Her Majesty the Queen is represented on the Bailiwick by a lieutenant governor who serves for a five-year term. The

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island retains its independence to levy taxes (at an attractive rate for the offshore finance market) and custom duties, and is self-governing. Islanders are free to elect their own parliament, and the leader is the bailiff, who also presides as chief judge. Despite their physical proximity to France, the Channel Islands have not joined the European Union. Special terms were negotiated for the Channel Islands upon the U.K.’s accession to the European Economic Community (EEC) in 1973 and are contained in Protocol 3 to the Treaty of Accession. The effect of the protocol is that the Bailiwick is within the Common Customs Area and the Common External Tariff (that is, it enjoys access to physical exports from EU countries without tariff barriers). Other Community rules do not apply to the Bailiwick, although the island’s government has taken account of many of the regulations to bring its statutes in line with those of its neighbours. Guernsey’s parliament, called ‘the States of Deliberation’, is democratically elected, although there are no political parties as such in the island; candidates stand on their own merits. The States of Deliberation have the power to raise taxation, determine expenditure and pass legislation. These functions of government are carried out by ten departments led by a minister who, like the four ordinary members of the department, is elected by the States of Deliberation (States of Guernsey Policy Council 2007a).

Statistics and Population Growth Guernsey is divided into ten parishes, with all but one (St Andrew’s) touching the sea. The 2006 population was around 61,000, which means that the whole island is quite densely populated, and in particular the parish of St Peter Port (16,488 in the 2001 census) and the northern parishes of the Vale (9,573) and St Sampson’s (8,592). The population has grown fairly steadily over the last two centuries: as low as 20,000 in the 1821 census, it was already over 51,000 by 1971. This has led to increasing pressure on land and finite resources. The overall population density – one of the highest amongst the world’s jurisdictions – creates many problems as pressure on land increases, as will be discussed below (for comparisons, see Cliff et al. 2007: 280). In 2006 the population density was some 870 persons per square mile, which is about 150 per cent that of England and 27 per cent higher than Jersey.

Economy During most of the twentieth century, Guernsey’s economy was based on horticulture and tourism, with Guernsey ‘Toms’ (local tomatoes) being well known in the U.K. (Dempster 1979). However, in recent years the finance

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industry has taken over as the main economic driver. This development has brought in its wake ever increasing house prices and the demand for more and more services as staff for the industry are brought in from the U.K. and elsewhere. This has inevitably brought with it a boom in building and redevelopment. The heart of St Peter Port in particular, where new office accommodation is constantly in demand, has changed considerably over the last twenty years (Brett 1975; McCormack 1980). Many of the more rural outlying areas have also been used to provide out-of-town housing of an executive quality, despite an attempt by the local planning authorities to control development. This has had serious effects on the preservation of the landscape character of the island and in particular on buried archaeology, as sites are being disturbed at an increasing rate.

Outline of Pressures on the Community As with many small island jurisdictions, providing an infrastructure that can deal with every service required is very difficult. The postwar development that culminated in the finance industry taking over as the strongest element of the economy in the late 1960s and early 1970s resulted in many office developments around the town of St Peter Port. As this industry flourished, many of the finance establishments began a new wave of office development. As a result, a large area to the north of St Peter Port was dedicated to new office building on a scale previously unseen: six- and seven-storey glass-fronted office blocks have been constructed since 2002 (Figure 3.1).

Figure 3.1 New Office Buildings to the North of St Peter Port Source: Charles T. David.

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Sewage Disposal An issue that is continually being addressed in Guernsey is the disposal of sewage. In spite of the new office development, there has been little progress on sewage disposal; this has continued to preoccupy the minds of Guernsey politicians. At present the sewage is partly treated and sent out to sea, but this is recognized as unsatisfactory. Many proposals have been put forward and rejected due to cost, which has caused considerable local disharmony as many lobby groups such as Surfers against Sewage are actively campaigning to put pressure on the States of Guernsey to build a treatment works. However, to date there has been little progress in deciding what would be the most cost effective way of dealing with this problem.

Solid Waste Disposal Disposal of Guernsey’s rubbish is another serious problem. The island has many quarries that were created in the nineteenth century when the stone industry was at its height. Although some are protected as nature reserves (Gilmour 1991), most have been used for rubbish disposal, to the dismay of nearby residents. Nonetheless, as these have been filling up, the pressure on land fill has caused the local government to seek other alternatives. Recycling so far accounts for 25 per cent of total waste. It has recently been suggested that waste be shipped to Jersey or France to be incinerated. In summary, the pressure on the environment and heritage of the island comes from three main sources. Firstly, expanding population leads to the need for increased services and infrastructure, which inevitably cause loss of habitat and heritage character. Secondly, the increase in the standard of living that people expect, with demands for every amenity from golf courses to ice rinks, exacerbates land-use pressure. Finally, there is pressure from the finance industry for standards of infrastructure perhaps more appropriate to a large city such as London or New York, rather than to a small island of 25 square miles.

Natural and Cultural Assets of Guernsey Flora and Fauna Despite Guernsey’s small size, it has accumulated an extremely rich flora and an interesting, though more limited, fauna. The number of plant species in particular is high (over 1,000 vascular plants are listed) compared with an equal area of either the British mainland or neighboring France. This large number of species is partly explained by the wide variety of habi-

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tats that the island contains (IDC 1999). The mild climate also places the island within the ranges of a number of plants and animals of Southern Europe and the Mediterranean, some of which extend up the Atlantic coast of Europe as far as the Channel Islands, where they overlap with northern species; this again adds to the diversity of the flora and fauna (Jee 1982). Increasing development of the island places many of these species under threat, particularly those that live in wetland habitats since parts of the island are drained for development.

Development and Planning Laws Guernsey’s legal system is based on Norman Customary Law as amended and modified by the Royal Court and the States of Guernsey, who can also register English Acts of Parliament. Until 1927 there was no development or planning law on the island, except that one needed a bornement (consent of the parish authorities) for a building within 30 feet of a road. Between the First and Second World Wars a large amount of ribbon development occurred along the main roads of the island, and houses started to be built along the cliff coast. In 1927 a law was passed prohibiting building without permission in a strip along the south coast and on certain headlands. From 1929 on, some control was exercised over the siting of buildings, but only in areas where natural beauty might be affected. It was not until 1959 that it became possible to control the construction of buildings other than glasshouses on agricultural land. In 1967 the States accepted the first Outline Development Plan, which divided the island into zones of various categories in which either no development, or only development of specific types may take place. This plan has been replaced by the Urban and Rural Area Plans. These documents set out how the States of Guernsey intend to manage the small amount of land that is available to them. The more recent of the two Urban and Rural Area Plans, the 2005 Rural Area Plan (IDC 2005), outlines its general policy principles thus: • Land should be used in a sustainable way to the optimum benefit of the environment, community and rural economy. • The island’s landscape, ecology and wildlife should be conserved and enhanced. • The island’s high-quality built environment should be conserved and enhanced. • Adverse impacts upon the character and amenity of the area should be avoided. • New developments should be well designed, enhance their locality and respect their surroundings.

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• Development should be provided with safe and convenient access. • Parking provision should be of an appropriate standard. • Development should not give rise to unacceptable hazards, pollutants or nuisances, which would present a risk to the public and the environment. • Development should help to support and maintain public enjoyment of the built and natural environment. • Development should not be detrimental to the reasonable enjoyment of adjoining properties. Legislation for the protection of wildlife is restricted to the Protection of Wild Birds Ordinances, 1949 and 1981, and the Wild Plants Protection Ordinance, 1950 (which precludes the unauthorized sale or purchase of wild plant roots, bulbs, corms or rhizomes). There is no specific legislation to protect habitats or areas of nature conservation importance, although some limited protection was afforded to more sensitive areas by inclusion in ‘green zones’ in various development plans from the 1970s. This limited protection was made more explicit by the Rural Area Plans (Phases 1 and 2), 1995, 1997, and the Review of 2005 (IDC 1995, 1997, 2005). These stated that areas of important wildlife habitat identified as sites of nature conservation importance (SNCIs) would be protected from all forms of built development and from agricultural operations requiring planning permission that might adversely affect their interest, including raising of land, culverting or otherwise modifying streams, and removing walls, banks and hedgerows. The SNCIs were areas originally drawn up by an advisory firm, Land Use Consultants (1989), using information given by La Société Guernesiaise, the local scientific, historical and conservation society. In later plans, these areas were reviewed by La Société. SNCI is a non-statutory designation in that there is no specific law either requiring that such areas be thus designated or affording them protection. Until new legislation is adopted, SNCIs remain as ‘planning constraints’, i.e., as a reason for refusing planning consent within development plans. This does, of course, leave them vulnerable to neglect or to damaging management actions that do not require planning consent. The Rural and Urban Area Plans are produced in the first instance by States bodies. A public inquiry is then held before they are approved by the States. In the last two plans, La Société Guernesiaise was contracted by the States to choose the areas that should be listed as SNCIs (Figure 3.2), for which La Société used criteria based on those of Ratcliffe (1977). None of the areas chosen has been challenged in an inquiry. Indeed, there has been some pressure from members of the public to relax some of the criteria so that more areas could gain the limited protection of SNCI status (David

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Figure 3.2 SNCIs in the Rural Area (Dark Shading) and the Urban Area (Light Shading) Source: Environment Department, States of Guernsey.

and Gilmour 2003; David and Ozanne 2006). The local planning laws do not apply below high water mark; therefore there are no marine SNCIs. In 2006 a large area on the west coast of the island was designated as a RAMSAR site (in accordance with the 1971 intergovernmental wetlands convention bearing that name). There is, however, no differentiation at law between the RAMSAR area and any other area. In reality, political (and not necessarily partisan) pressures often take precedence over the planning regime. For example, in the 1990s a new grammar school was constructed on a greenfield site at Les Varendes, St Peter Port, as the requirements of the Education Department took precedence over the island’s Urban and Rural Plans. Other school rebuilds, such as at Les Beaucamps, are also currently planned on greenfield sites, despite lobbying from La Société and other pressure groups. The Environment Department does not object since, according to law, the States do not need planning permission for their own developments. La Société Guernesiaise often objects, and it lobbies deputies; in general, though, bias is often against conservation and in favour of development.

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Cultural Assets Archaeology and Early History Since Guernsey and the other Channel Islands are strategically placed in the western Channel, they boast a long and interesting history dating from prehistoric times. All the major periods in the archaeological record are represented. The presence of the sea and the variation of tides and currents is a continuing motif in the human story on the islands. As Rainbird states (2007: 18), ‘it is the very fact that they have been largely in the mainstream of history that islanders understand only too well the consequences of openness to communication provided by the sea.’ The sea has been both a barrier and a highway in the archaeological record of the islands. Recent finds dated to the Upper Palaeolithic are located below sea level and represent a period circa 12,000 BP (before present) when the area was on the edge of the European continent (Sebire 2005). The evidence suggests that the Channel Islands have been continuously occupied for the past 8,000 years. As a result, Guernsey and the smaller islands of Alderney, Herm, Jethou and Sark are very rich in archaeological and historical sites and monuments. From the Mesolithic period (c. 6000 ), there is evidence of a coastal community on Lihou Island, a small islet off the west coast of Guernsey. In the early Neolithic (c. 5000 ), the first farmers worked the fertile soils on the islands, much of which is now lost beneath the waves; still, traces of settlement remain at the former Royal Hotel site in St Peter Port. In the later Neolithic (c. 4000–3500 ), megalithic, ceremonial burial tombs were built, such as Le Déhus and La Varde. The Bronze Age (c. 1800 ) is characterized by the construction of fortifications and later depositions of hoards of metalwork. By the time of the Iron Age (c. 500 ), land was divided by defensive earthworks, and farmsteads of circular houses are found. In the later Iron Age (c. 50 ), members of an elite warrior class with impressive grave goods were buried in Guernsey. As the Romans moved north through Gaul, the Channel Islands were brought into the empire as their strategic maritime position was recognized, and trade routes between France and Britain via Guernsey were firmly established by the first century . After the Roman period, the islands were visited by ‘peregrini’ or wandering saints, many of whom built chapels and cells for Christian worship in remote locations. Saint Sampson and Saint Magloire are among those who are thought to have brought Christianity to the islands in the sixth and seventh centuries. At the end of the ninth century, the islands very likely suffered Viking raids and then eventually became part of the Norman Empire. This changed in 1204 when John, King of England, lost his possessions in France, after which the islands took on the strategic role of defence for

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the English crown. This epoch also ushered in the autonomous status of the Channel Islands as answerable directly to the British sovereign, bypassing the parliament at Westminster. The great period of building began at Castle Cornet (Le Patourel 1958; Barton 2003). The islands grew in importance through trade, and the town of St Peter Port developed to service wealthy merchants and townsfolk. One major event in recent memory was the occupation by German forces during the Second World War, from 1940 to 1945. During this time the landscape changed dramatically as the island was fortified with bunkers, lookout posts and gun batteries, particularly around the coast (Gavey 1997), many of which were on sites previously fortified in Napoleonic times and earlier.

Cultural Asset Management The cultural assets of the island of Guernsey that are in state care are currently managed by the Culture and Leisure Department of the States of Guernsey. This includes both a wide range of multi-period monuments and also the Museum Service. Some property is also managed by the Treasury and Resources Department, but the historical information on the sites is held by the Museum Service.

The Development of Provision for Archaeology and Heritage Protection Guernsey’s archaeological record is greatly enhanced by the fact that, in the nineteenth century, a family of antiquarians were active in recording sites, particularly megaliths, before they were destroyed by masons working in the stone industry (Sebire 2007). Frederick Corbin Lukis (1788–1872) was the father of this dynasty, and four of his sons went on to become archaeologists in their own right. Along with his elderly cousin antiquarian Joshua Gosselin, Frederick Lukis happened upon the exposure of a Neolithic burial chamber by soldiers on Guernsey in 1811. They recorded what they found with annotated sketches and watercolour paintings, thus engaging in the first rescue archaeology in the island. As a result of the work of the Lukis family in particular, notice was drawn to Guernsey’s archaeological record. Alongside this, in 1869 Lieutenant S. P. Oliver, R.A. was invited by the Ethnological Society of London to prepare a report on the condition of the prehistoric monuments on Guernsey. He volunteered his services to the Society of Antiquaries of London, which, in response to a growing awareness of the importance of national monuments, was preparing a list of all historical and regal monuments requiring protection. Oliver bemoaned the fact that objects seemed to draw more care and attention than monuments.

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As he was to be quartered in Guernsey, this placed him in an ideal position to survey Guernsey and the other Channel Islands. His work lists all the sites known at that time, accompanied by drawings and plans (Oliver 1870a, b).

Monument Protection The States of Guernsey started trying to protect Guernsey’s monuments from a relatively early period. In March 1908 a States resolution charged le Comité pour le Musée Lukis with the acquisition of a newly discovered dolmen (megalithic tomb) in St Sampson’s. In 1921 the Royal Court passed an ‘ordinance provisoire’ (made permanent in 1931) ‘relative à la protection des dolmens et des anciennes monuments d’l’île.’ This referred to a Comité d’Etat ‘pour les Anciennes Monuments d’île et Le Musée Lukis.’ The first full schedule of monuments deemed worthy of protection seems to have been drawn up by 1940. The list consisted of some sixty-six sites, including batteries, magazines, tombs, menhirs and other sites. The law was extended to the smaller island of Herm in 1948, which gave protection to what was left of the megalithic tombs that had been devastated by the workings of the stone industry in the previous century. The present manifestation of the law, passed by the States in 1967, is the Ancient Monuments and Protected Buildings (Guernsey) Law of 1967. The Environment Department (formerly the Heritage Committee and the Ancient Monuments Committee) has administered this law since 2005. The States of Guernsey may schedule any ‘building, structure or object’ that in the opinion of the committee is of historical, traditional, archaeological, architectural or other special interest. At present, some 340 monuments are scheduled alongside 1,600 buildings: a considerable number for the size of the island. Despite this, the Planning Department has no official guidance for archaeology and there is no culture of ‘developer-funded archaeology’ as in the rest of the United Kingdom and most of Europe, in spite of a constant campaign to bring the importance of the island’s archaeology to the attention of the public through education, media presentation and exhibitions. New planning and heritage laws are on the statute books, but it will be some time before the ordinances to make the new law work are in place because they have to be written by the crown officers, go out to public consultation and, finally, be approved by the States.

Strategic Land Use in Guernsey: Some Heritage Issues As Guernsey’s unique historical record goes back to the last interglacial period some 12,000 years ago, some of its assets are very fragile. The tan-

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gible monuments of the islands’ predecessors include flint working sites, megalithic tombs from the Neolithic period, defensive earthworks from the Bronze Age and later, castles, forts, fine houses and defensive works as recent as the last century (Second World War). And yet, due to the pressure of development, what remains of these sites is constantly under threat. Huge amounts of buried archaeology have been lost during the recent building boom due to lack of legislative protection. Under new legislation currently being put in place, the problem of who pays for archaeology has yet to be addressed.

Land Use in General The general philosophy of land management revolves around areas that have been designated Urban and Rural. The Urban Area takes in the towns of St Peter Port and St Sampson’s and their environs; this is the main area where development is currently allowed. As a result, many areas where there was a certain amount of open land are being developed. For example, areas of green belt such as the gardens of large houses are being developed as at King’s Road, St Peter Port, leading to a higher density of houses and less green space. Brownfield sites could be used as much as possible if this was encouraged by the States of Guernsey, but ‘breathing spaces’ in the urban area should be kept to enhance quality of life. Small green areas that link up would provide town dwellers with a ‘green’ environment possibly linked to historic sites, but again this has not been promoted to date. In fact it is regrettable that many recent States projects have used fields that have been ‘green’ since the first detailed map in the late eighteenth century. Many areas of Guernsey’s industrial past, such as the old harbours and areas where stone working and horticulture were undertaken, are also now redundant. But the best examples of this industrial heritage could be protected, either by being put in a dedicated museum (possibly open-air) or, ideally, by preserving the best sites in situ.

Historic Sites and Buildings The island also boasts world-class historic fortifications, priories and other sites. These could be a great asset to the economy if managed and interpreted to a twenty-first–century standard, given that niche tourism markets are waiting to be exploited. This would be possible if a sustainable programme of maintenance and marketing were devised that would not compromise the integrity of the monuments but embrace them and bring them into wider use in the twenty-first century. So far, this has not been fully recognized by the States of Guernsey, who have allotted only limited

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resources to their upkeep and maintenance. Nor has the listing of historic buildings that was started nearly forty years ago been completed; thus it is out of date and in need of serious review. Criteria for listing are now widely accepted across the various countries of Europe and include examples from various periods that have merit for such reasons as architecture or rarity. Guernsey has no modern buildings listed as historic, and similarly very few of the important structures from the Second World War are protected. A pragmatic approach would be necessary to make this workable in a small community. Some conservation areas, which have been identified by the Planning Department in order to preserve groups of historic buildings and call for the highest level of protection, are being eroded and eclipsed by incongruous buildings and by surrounding development.

Management of the Historic Environment While the Environment Department has the regulatory role of managing ‘listed’ sites and monuments, an enormous range of heritage sites is still managed by either the Culture and Leisure Department (which has taken over the heritage portfolio) or the property section of the Treasury and Resources Department. The Environment Department also manages the coastal areas, which contain many fragile archaeological sites. Despite the existence of a huge bank of knowledge on the island about built and buried heritage – some within the States departments (the Archaeology Department holds the Sites and Monuments Record for example) – it may be necessary to find the ‘vision’ to manage and sustain the economic viability of the island’s heritage in another body, such as a Heritage Commission, along the lines of English Heritage and Historic Scotland. With this in mind, the States Public Accounts Department commissioned a survey of the island’s heritage assets in 2007. The report was produced by the Audit Commission and in fact confirmed that “Guernsey’s heritage assets are not being sufficiently well safe guarded by the States of Guernsey” (National Audit Office 2007). Their main findings were that (1) many of the island’s heritage assets are not being adequately looked after, largely because of poor storage facilities for museum assets and because maintenance and conservation are not being carried out in an organized and timely way; and (2) more could be done to improve public access to Guernsey’s heritage assets and to increase the income generated from them. The responsibility for Guernsey’s heritage assets is divided amongst a number of departments, with the rationale for what departments manage being largely based on historical precedent. It is now hoped that the States will recognize the need to resource the management of their rich heritage assets – but this is an ongoing debate.

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Management of the Natural Environment Two States bodies, the Environment Department and the Commerce and Employment Department (responsible for agriculture), alongside the Vale Commons Council and two main voluntary bodies (La Société Guernesiaise and the Guernsey National Trust), are responsible for managing, or influencing the management of, much of the island’s open land (Table 3.1). The land managed by the Environment Department is run by a very small team of civil servants and consists mostly in the high-value habitats. On the whole, it is managed in an environmentally sensitive way, though there are problems due to a shortage of funds. For instance, the coastal commons are mostly cut annually and the cuttings are not removed. This leads to a coarsening of the vegetation due the mulching effect of the cut grass. The budget does not allow for the removal of the cuttings. Regular meetings are, however, held with La Société Guernesiaise to discuss management issues. The Commerce and Employment Department is responsible for aiding local agriculture, mainly the dairy industry and horticulture. The land is thus mostly limited-value habitat. The general scheme for supporting the dairy industry is designed to encourage less intensive use of much of the farming land on the island. For instance, farmers are encouraged not to plough up to the margins of the fields and to manage the banks between fields. There are strict controls on the application of slurry to the land. From 2002 to 2005, grants were available to encourage the sensitive management of particular areas. For instance, a subsidy was paid for speciesrich hay meadows managed in the traditional manner and for the grazing of rough pasture and coastal commons. However, due to recent budgetary restraints, this scheme has been discontinued. The Vale Commons Council manages L’Ancresse Common, the last large unenclosed area in the north of the island. This common includes a large golf course where the land is managed entirely for sport with much Table 3.1 Area of Land Available for Public Amenity Owner or manager

Description

Area (ha)

Crown Land States Land Vale Commons Council La Société Guernesiaise National Trust

Mostly intertidal area Mostly cliffs and coastal land L’Ancresse Common Nature reserves Heritage land

1262 126 120 65 32

Source: States of Guernsey Policy Council. (2007b: 83).

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application of fertilizer and herbicides. The remaining area is an important area of stable sand dune vegetation and large areas of scrub. A management plan has recently been written for this land with the aid of La Société Guernesiaise. La Société Guernesiaise, Guernsey’s long-established (since 1882) scientific, historical and natural history society, serves as an umbrella organization for many study sections. In the early 1970s it recognized that, due to the rapid development of the island, many habitats and species might be lost. Accordingly, it changed its constitution to allow it to hold land and started to acquire land – by gift, purchase and long-term lease – to serve as nature reserves. It is now the largest private landowner on the island. La Société now has a strict land-purchase policy, acquiring only land that scores highly on the Ratcliffe criteria; this set of ten criteria for identifying land of high nature conservation importance is widely used in the United Kingdom when selecting areas to preserve as nature reserves or as sites of special scientific interest (Ratcliffe 1977). La Société Guernesiaise is highly respected and writes, either directly or through Environment Guernsey – its environmental consultancy and management company – many reports, management plans and environmental impact assessments for the States of Guernsey and for private companies. It also runs the Guernsey Biological Records Centre, which is funded by the Environment Department. The Guernsey National Trust land is also managed in an environmentally sensitive way. Some of the management is subcontracted to La Société Guernesiaise’s Environment Guernsey.

Land Use Conflict: Case Studies Although the planning laws deter many small developers from proposing development in sensitive areas, big companies or the States of Guernsey themselves are often not so deterred, especially as they can often eventually get permission for development since the current planning laws are not very strong. The Grande Mare Golf Course development provides an example of the destruction of important natural habitats. Provision for archaeology is similarly weak. Archaeological rescue operations at the King’s Road development had to be negotiated with the developer.

The Market Buildings, St Peter Port One notable example is provided by the States’ development of the nineteenth-century markets in St Peter Port, which lie over an important Roman site. This project was initiated in the mid 1990s, when a decision was

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made to renovate the Victorian covered market buildings. These had been in the care of the States of Guernsey, but tenders were invited for complete refurbishment and sympathetic development. Many architects submitted schemes; these were narrowed down to two, one by local architects Cresswell, Cuttle and Dyke and one from the outside (off-island) developer McCaulay Ltd. The States decided not to go with the local scheme and chose McCaulay, which hired local architects Brittain Hadley as its agents. Over the ten-year period from 1996 to 2006, the Market Buildings, as they became known, went through various development permutations. During this time, archaeological excavations were able to proceed in cooperation with the developer, who had offered a small sum of money as a gesture to the need to record the archaeology. Under the planning law then in place, the Planning Department was not empowered to insist on full archaeological investigation. The excavations were very productive nevertheless: several metres of deep stratigraphy were found to survive between the foundations of the former Bonded Store at the eastern end of the Market Buildings. The work was carried on by a combination of volunteers and some paid archaeologists on short-term contracts. One outcome of the work was that foundations of a Roman building were found, and as a result the contractors agreed at one point to leave this visible through a viewing shaft. However, this was not carried through: the Market Buildings project was drawn out over a long period and had several changes of architects, which became problematic; thus the scheme to leave the section of Roman wall visible was abandoned by the States of Guernsey Board of Administration, who were managing the project. The developer in effect lost interest as the whole project dragged on much longer than anticipated. As a result of this turn of events, and with significant disappointment, the Roman wall and foundations are now ‘buried’ under the floor of a shop.

La Grande Mare The limitations of local law in protecting important natural sites are illustrated by the case of the development of a golf course at La Grande Mare in the west of the island. La Grande Mare, then Guernsey’s largest remaining wetland, was home to many species that were not found elsewhere in the island. Up to about 1700, La Grande Mare was a lake renowned for its carp. This land was drained and converted to agriculture, but large areas of wet meadow and swamp remained. In the 1930s a horseracing course was built there, further damaging the wetland habitat. During the war, areas were dug for peat. In the 1980s there remained areas of species-rich marshy grassland in various fields around the area and a small area of sphagnum bog, the last remaining in the island.

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In 1992 the owners of the land produced a proposal to turn it into a golf course, which produced much controversy on both sides. A public inquiry was held. The only scientific evidence on the habitats present on the site was provided by La Société Guernesiaise. The inquiry supported the idea of building a golf course, and the States of Guernsey agreed. Although the inquiry inspector agreed that certain areas that had been identified by La Société Guernesiaise as being of nature conservation importance should be placed ‘out of bounds’, the inspector could place no conditions on the developer under local law. In fact, all the ‘out of bounds’ areas have been affected or destroyed by the building of the course or by its subsequent management.

King’s Road, St Peter Port The King’s Road Iron Age and later Roman settlement and cemetery were discovered during the late 1970s and early 1980s. Subsequently, rescue excavations were carried out between 1980 and 1983 (Burns, Cunliffe and Sebire 1996). Settlement features including ditches, one of which possibly once took a palisade, were concentrated in the north of the site. To the south were four cist burials, one of which was associated with warrior grave goods. These were dated to the time of the late La Tène culture (c. 50 ), when an élite chieftain clan lived on Guernsey. The later Roman phase was dated to  c. 150. This was one of Guernsey’s most important archaeological discoveries of the twentieth century, and the site was known to extend over a much wider area than that available for excavation at the time. In 2004, when another part of the site was up for redevelopment, the archaeology officer attempted to prevent the development under the Island Development (Guernsey) Laws, 1966–1990, and the Ancient Monuments and Protected Buildings (Guernsey) Law, 1967. This part of the site was of considered to be of such importance that it warranted inclusion on the schedule of ancient monuments, which would have afforded it protection within the planning process in the future. According to the English Heritage Planning Policy Guidance: Archaeology and Planning, the site fulfilled most of the criteria for scheduling, such as rarity and vulnerability. However, the planning officers at the time did not feel that they had sufficient powers to prevent development. Negotiations then began with the developer to work on the site with limited funds; in fact, excavations took place in tandem with building works over an eighteen-month period. Very important finds in the form of further burials from the Iron Age period were found, several of which contained high-status grave goods. This confirmed the importance of the site in archaeological terms. A deep soakaway was located in the area of the graves, but in negotiation with the de-

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veloper and the local Building Control officers this was re-sited so that the graves, several of which have structural elements, would not be destroyed. The long-term protection of these features and the buried land surface in which they sit was problematic. Service trenches run over them, and it is unlikely that they will ever be reexcavated in the foreseeable future, so scheduling is problematic as there will be no public access. Until a fully functioning planning law is in place to protect archaeology, this will continue to be a strained and difficult process.

Protection of Historic Wreck As Guernsey is an island with a large area of intertidal zone (the Bay of St Malo has the third largest tidal range in the world), the management of the shoreline and territorial waters is also an issue for heritage. Due to the rich nature of finds around the island, and the number of active sport divers both local and visiting, it was believed for some time that historic wreck material was being lost. Prior to 1986, divers were able to plunder wrecks and underwater sites of historic interest, but in 1986 (when the Wreck and Salvage Law was being redrafted by the States of Guernsey) it became possible to revise the Historic Wreck Law. An effective piece of legislation is now in place following considerable effort, which included lengthy consultations with local diving groups. A leaflet for divers now gives guidance on historic wreck. According to the Wreck and Salvage (Vessels and Aircraft) (Bailiwick of Guernsey) Laws, 1986–1998, ‘historic wreck’ includes: a vessel that has lain wrecked for fifty years or more; any cargo of such a vessel; any cargo or other object lost or abandoned for fifty years or more. All historic wreck in territorial waters is the property of the States of Guernsey, but in most cases the finder will be allowed to retain it on behalf of the States. This is one area where there does exist sufficient legal backup to protect maritime heritage, but in reality it is very hard to police. There is an unofficial arrangement with the States of Guernsey Sea Fisheries protection vessel, which will inform the archaeology officer if its officers see any divers who they think are tampering with historic wreck. Yet it is well known locally that divers from France, England and elsewhere regularly plunder the myriads of wrecks that lie around the island’s shores. To ensure that all historic wreck was recorded, it would be necessary for a dedicated maritime archaeology officer to police the legislation by being very proactive with the various diving communities. In many cases, it would only be necessary to record what was found: Guernsey Museum is not in a position to acquire large quantities of maritime material as it does not have the necessary repository; therefore it has concentrated on the most historic wreck

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material. This is in the form of a Roman ship, which was excavated from St Peter Port harbour in the 1980s and is currently being conserved at the Mary Rose Trust in Portsmouth with a view to being displayed in Guernsey sometime in the near future. A medieval wrecks project is also underway in conjunction with the Centre for Maritime Archaeology at the University of Southampton, U.K. This project is monitoring several medieval wreck structures, at least one of which is known to be from the thirteenth century (Sebire 2004).

Conclusion Drawing Lessons for the Future? Any visitor to Guernsey might, upon observing that a good deal does remain of its archaeological and natural history, conclude that the management of cultural and historical material on the island is satisfactory. However, historical and environmental records that are kept by organizations such as La Société Guernesiaise show that there were many more ancient monuments in the eighteenth century than exist nowadays and that many natural habitats have been changed in recent times due to the pressures of modern life. That such a monument as the Déhus dolmen – first excavated by the Lukis family between 1837 and 1847 – still exists today is due to a public-spirited individual who had the foresight to purchase the land on which it sat in order to protect it. With the increasing pace of modern development, laws on the protection of newly discovered archaeological sites are urgently needed. Unlike neighbouring countries such as the U.K. and France, Guernsey has no such laws. The problem seems to be that although the need for such laws is partially recognized, there is little time for the government to pass these, or for the law officers of a small community to write them. For instance, a new animal protection law was passed in principle by the States in February 2003, and in late 2006 the enabling provisions law was passed, allowing the States to make ordinances to bring the law into effect. Yet the necessary detailed ordinances have yet to be written by the crown officers. This is possibly because they face a great volume of legislation demanded by the finance industry, plus the regular monitoring of copious European Union legislation, but the ultimate blame must lie with the States for not funding more law officers. Another problem is the psychology of the population. Elder members can remember a time before any strong development laws, when an individual was able to build anything on any land he or she owned, or develop it in any way he or she wished. There is a strong anti-planning culture, even though most people realize that the island needs such laws applying to the

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population as a whole. It is difficult to imagine that the States of Guernsey would pass a law on habitat preservation that would control what actions people could, or could not, carry out on their own land. A new development law was passed by the States in 2008, and the ordinances needed to bring it into effect are being discussed with a great deal of public consultation. This law will partially address some of the problems with archaeology sites and may have some positive effect on habitat protection. One may assume that a small island may get along with more lenient and less extensive legislation and regulation than a larger country. However, the high population density of various islands potentially poses greater threats to the local environment and to archaeological sites, thus obliging stricter laws. Guernsey’s example has shown that local conservation societies can have some effect in preserving habitats and sites, though they may often be overruled by the government. NGOs like La Société Guernesiaise have been playing a key role in heritage identification and management on Guernsey. They provide a way to channel the expertise of local people, both as a pressure group to influence government policy by giving expert advice and opinions, and in their own right as conservation and scientific organizations. The U.K.’s Overseas Territories Conservation Forum provides advice and help to NGOs located in the United Kingdom Overseas Territories and Crown Dependencies. This organization actively encourages the setting up of local natural history societies, conservation organizations and ‘National Trusts’ in these subnational jurisdictions. La Société Guernesiaise found this organization to be very helpful when it was writing the proposals for the Guernsey and Sark RAMSAR sites. Guernsey today faces many development pressures. The local government is aware of all the issues that need addressing, but has to take account of political pressure to sustain the finance industry that upholds the economy. The danger is that the characteristics that give the island its uniqueness are threatened by pressure for more development of houses, offices, schools, hospitals and leisure facilities. It is the hope of the authors that a formula for a ‘sustainable Guernsey’ might be found to ensure an appropriate quality of life for all. The report on safeguarding Guernsey’s heritage assets will go some way to address this, if the States of Guernsey will address its findings.

Acknowledgements The authors thank Philip de Jersey and Tanya Walls for reading this essay and making useful comments. The States of Guernsey Policy Council helpfully provided statistics and detailed information. Also thanked are the many

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people involved in La Société Guernesiaise, National Trust, the Guernsey Museum Archaeology Group and similar organizations who work tirelessly to record and protect Guernsey’s natural and historic environment. B Barton, K. J. 2003. The archaeology of Castle Cornet, Guernsey. Guernsey Museum Monograph No. 7. Brett, C. E. B. 1975. Buildings in the town and parish of St Peter Port. Guernsey: The National Trust. Burns, B., B. W. Cunliffe and H. Sebire 1996. Guernsey: An island community of the Atlantic iron age. Oxford: Oxford University Committee for Archaeology, Institute of Archaeology. Cliff, A., P. Haggett, and M. Smallman-Raynor. 2007. ‘Epidemiology’, in G. Baldacchino (ed.), A world of islands: An island studies reader. Charlottetown, Canada and Luqa, Malta: Institute of Island Studies, University of Prince Edward Island and Agenda Academic, 267–294. David, C. T. and K. J. Gilmour. 2003. A review of sites of nature conservation importance in the revised rural area plans. A report to the IDC by La Société Guernesiaise. David, C. T. and B. J. Ozanne. 2006. A review of sites of nature conservation importance in the urban area. A report to the IDC by La Société Guernesiaise. Dempster, J. H. 1979. ‘The Guernsey Tomato Industry: 1960–1976’, ISHS Acta Horticulturae 97(1): 105–118. Retrieved on 23 July 2010 from: www.actahort .org/books/97/97_12.htm Gavey, E. 1997. A guide to German fortifications on Guernsey. Guernsey: Guernsey Armouries. Gilmour, J. 1991. ‘The importance of Guernsey quarries for conservation’, Transactions of La Société Guernesiaise 23(1): 92–100. Hugo, V. 1883. L’Archipel de la Manche. Paris: Calman Lévy. IDC (Island Development Committee). 1994. Rural area plan phase I. St Peter Port, Guernsey: IDC Sir Charles Frossard House, La Charroterie. IDC. 1995. Urban area plan. St Peter Port, Guernsey: IDC Sir Charles Frossard House, La Charroterie. IDC. 1997. Rural area plan, phase II. St Peter Port, Guernsey: IDC Sir Charles Frossard House, La Charroterie. IDC. 1999. Habitat survey, phase I. St Peter Port, Guernsey: IDC Sir Charles Frossard House, La Charroterie. IDC. 2005. Rural area plan, phase II. St Peter Port, Guernsey: IDC Sir Charles Frossard House, La Charroterie. Jee, N. 1982. Landscape of the Channel Islands. Chichester: Phillimore and Co. Land Use Consultants. 1989. A strategy for the conservation and enhancement of Guernsey’s rural environment. A Report to the States of Guernsey. Le Patourel, J. 1958. ‘The Building of Castle Cornet: Part 1’, Documents relating to the Tudor reconstruction. St Peter Port: Guernsey Press Co.

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McCormack, J. 1980. The Guernsey house. Chichester: Phillimore and Co. National Audit Office. 2007. Safeguarding Guernsey’s heritage assets. London: NAO. Oliver, S.P. 1870a. ‘Megalithic structures of the Channel Islands: Their history and analogues’, Quarterly Journal of Science, 26 (April): 1–17. Oliver, S. P. 1870b. ‘Report on the present state and condition of archaeological remains in the Channel islands’, Journal of the Ethnological Society of London, May 25th. Rainbird, P. 2007. The archaeology of islands. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ratcliffe, D. A. 1977. A nature conservation review. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. States of Guernsey Policy Council. 2007a. Guernsey facts and figures. Guernsey: States of Guernsey. States of Guernsey Policy Council. 2007b. Sustainable Guernsey. Guernsey: States of Guernsey. Sebire, H. R. 2004. ‘The management of maritime archeological heritage in the Bailiwick of Guernsey: A case study’, International Journal of Nautical Archaeology 33(2): 338–347. Sebire, H. R. 2005. The archaeology and early history of the Channel Islands. Stroud: Tempus. Sebire, H. R. 2007. From antiquary to archaeologist: Frederick Corbin Lukis of Guernsey. Newcastle: The author.

[ Chapter 4 ] Jersey, Channel Islands JOHN T. RENOUF AND TIM A. DU FEU

Background: Island Status and Government Jersey is a crown dependency and is neither part of the United Kingdom (U.K.) nor the European Union (EU). The U.K. is, however, ultimately responsible for the island’s defence and international representation. The island has a special relationship with the EU, as defined by Protocol 3 to the U.K. Treaty of Accession. The island is governed by the States of Jersey (the States), which presently comprise fifty-three elected members (Senators, Deputies and Parish Constables) presided over by a Bailiff (a Crown appointee) with a Lieutenant Governor as the Queen’s representative. The issues of the constitution and government of Jersey – as of Guernsey – regarding the U.K. and the EU are matters of incredible complexity and subtlety. The account here can only be taken as a simplified introductory background not definitive in any sense. A recent book, though not specifically devoted to the constitution, is useful (Le Rendu 2004). Prior to 2006, the island was governed by twenty-four committees. Items were discussed and agreed at committee level before being passed to the States for approval (or referral for further action by another committee). Clothier (2000) recognized that this system of consensual government did not facilitate rapid and decisive reaction to either internal or external challenges that were becoming more frequent, partly due to the development of the island and the needs of the international finance sector. A wide-ranging series of changes was therefore recommended by the Clothier report. These included the replacement of the committee system of government with a ministerial system. This change was effected, in part, in 2006 when the committee system was replaced by ministries headed by a Council of Ministers working alongside scrutiny panels. Of the 53 members of the States, up to 23 are in ministerial position, while up to 20 others are members of scrutiny panels. Following criticism of this system of ministerial government, the States of Jersey agreed to establish an inde-

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pendent electoral commission to review the make-up of the assembly and government. Within the new system, nine individual ministers have assumed the decision-making role in their ministries. A safeguard against abuse of their enhanced powers is the appointment of six scrutiny panels to deliberate and investigate major issues. The reports of such panels are, however, presented as advice – not as executive decisions – and are often delayed by evidence gathering and public consultation. The concern of many is that the power, being concentrated in the individual, will unduly reflect that person’s ideas: fine when the decisions go your way, not so fine when they do not, and certainly worrying if a minister is perceived as of poor quality. There may also be a reluctance to refer matters to scrutiny, given a likely ‘knock on’ effect of delayed decision making. A further deep concern is not only that the individual minister will make poor or wrong decisions, but that the group decisions of the ministers will be virtually unassailable. Whatever the demerits of the old committee structure, a feeling existed that the decision-making process was more democratic and that, as a fallback, the issue could be, and often was, taken to the whole States assembly for further debate where an overriding decision was possible. At the moment it does not seem clear what happens once a minister has taken a decision, beyond the fact that the States members could pass a motion of no confidence in their colleague. The States still include the twelve Parish Constables (a Constable is the elected civil head of each parish), who in the old system often exerted a moderating influence on matters through their overall innate conservatism and their concern for the countryside. Now, however, they have much less effect because the ministers’ greatly enhanced powers have trumped the power of the parish. But we would emphasize here that the new governmental system has not been in place long enough for a full assessment, and therefore considered judgment must be reserved on these matters. The first minister to lead the environmental side of government matters has to date proved to be capable and makes the right noises about the environment, so it could be considered that this is an opportunity grasped as opposed to an evident danger – though perhaps the business lobby would feel differently.

Demographic Pressures on the Island Population Density Jersey is positioned close to France and relatively far from England (see Figure 4.1, inset). The population graph demonstrates two rapid rises in

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numbers, the first occurring in the early decades of the nineteenth century and the second after the Second World War (see Figure 4.2). A significant point about the population is that the island has not been self-supporting for almost two centuries. The Rybot relief map (Figure 4.1) outlines an island deeply indented by mainly north to south–running valleys with coastal plains on three sides. The settlement pattern is twofold: Some three-fifths of the total population is concentrated in slightly less than one-fifth of the island’s area within the three urban parishes of St Helier (the capital and town), St Saviour and St Clement (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2001). In the remaining nine parishes, a number of larger rural settlements are clustered around parish churches and local facilities with dispersed farmsteads and some newer dwellings between. The population densities of individual

Figure 4.1. Outline and Summary Relief by Hachures of the Island of Jersey on Main Map. (Inset: Position of Jersey and Other Channel Islands with respect to France and England). The twelve parishes are also named and their population density per square mile is shown for each. Key: 1 - La Rocco Tower in St Ouen’s Bay, 2 – L’Etacq, 3 - the Northwest Coast, 4 - Plemont Holiday Camp, 5 - Mont Orgueil Castle, 6 - La Hougue Bie, 7 - Southeast Coast RAMSAR site, 8 - Janvrin Farm site. Source: John T. Renouf ©2007.

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Figure 4.2. Island Population by Decade from 1821 to 2001 Source: Godfrey Baldacchino.

parishes are also shown in Figure 4.1. The overall island population density is just over 2,000 persons per square mile (The Economist 2005).

Migration Impacts Jersey has had various influxes of non-Islanders over the past centuries. Immigrants have come for very different reasons. Focusing on the last fifty years, significant numbers of Portuguese, chiefly from the island of Madeira, have settled here. They came mainly to work in the hospitality and farming sectors. Other nationalities have arrived to work in the construction industry. Of recent origin are a significant and increasing number of Polish workers, in large measure replacing the Portuguese. The substantial finance sector employs a large number of much more highly qualified people, many from England, which has always been a source of inward movement and reflects a sort of exchange with Islanders who take up employment in Britain, often to settle. Driven by increased employment in the private sector (a consequence of an improvement in the island’s economy and in line with the hotly dis-

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puted policy for growth) both 2005 and 2006 saw high levels of net inward migration of 300 and 700 people per year, respectively (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006a). Local non-governmental organizations, whose concern has been articulate and consistent for several decades, are particularly vociferous in their opposition to any policy that encourages an increasing population. They argue that, since the present strains on the overall island infrastructure (particularly the available housing stock and the island’s roads, evidenced by rising house prices, increased traffic disruptions by road works, congestion and pollution) are not being coped with successfully now, any population increase will make virtually everything worse. The question has to be put whether a policy of positive economic growth runs the risk of having profound effects on the physical nature of the island, which until now has maintained growth and avoided too heavy a penalty of destruction of the quality of the environment.

Housing Impacts Bearing the above comments in mind, the impact of housing needs in the island is a powerful register of the pressures bearing on the environment. Kemeny and Llewellyn-Wilson (1998) review the nature of the island’s command economy in housing and come to the conclusion that it has not succeeded in creating affordable housing for the less well-off and by implication has contributed to a social divisiveness – which, it may be noted, many in the island recognize as a serious problem with no instant solution in sight. However, while identifying the problem as they see it, they do not offer any ideas as to how the island’s authorities might move towards creating a ‘large rental market with a substantial private cost rental housing sector’. A housing needs survey identified the total demand over the period 2001 to 2006 to be 12,500 dwellings (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006b). The major need was, and continues to be, for two-, three-, and four-bed owner-occupier properties with a potential surplus of properties in the single-bed flats and houses dependent on the freeing up of larger properties to enable this tenure group to move. Rising house prices are not reflected in higher salaries, particularly for two- and three-bed dwelling categories (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006c). This means that young couples frequently both have to work to secure a mortgage. This puts strains on family life, and unmet child care needs are common. There has been a recent increase in the proportion of females working: 60 per cent of females aged between 16 and 59 were either employed or seeking employment in 2001, compared to 37 per cent in 1961 (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2001). The tussle over the clearly identified need for various types of housing and the shortage of building land is possibly the greatest threat to maintaining sound environmental practice. Various NGOs, such as Concern,

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and many members of the public voice their democratic right to preserve identified greenfield sites (discussed below) and to stop inappropriate developments. Any land, building or dwelling requiring planning consent is advertised publicly and often attracts much objection. With the high price of housing, the increasing demand and the large potential profits for developers, the tension is unlikely to go away. The problems outlined are occurring in spite of a very strong housing law that allows immigrant workers to buy property only after ten years of residency. During the interim, they live in private lodgings or registered lodging houses (some 8 per cent of total households), a situation that is often itself a source of social problems. These problems arise from the high rents that are regularly charged – average rent for a one-bed flat is £135 per week, or about U.S.$200 (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006c) – and the overcrowded accommodation with little living space (often lacking cooking facilities) that tempts people out ‘on the town’ to pubs and drinking. The housing tenure has resulted in a two-tier (qualified and unqualified) system of housing qualification, which some argue is unfair in that immigrant workers, who contribute to the island income and well-being, are forced to be housed in temporary rented accommodation. However, it does help protect the island from overdevelopment and also helps minimize price and maximize availability of housing for local people, as well as preventing outside property speculators from buying and reselling. The fourteen-year qualification period is currently being reduced to offset the social inequality. Once the ten-year period has passed, a person may relatively straightforwardly purchase property on the open market.

Pressures on Land Use and Land Reclamation Remarkably perhaps, the statistics of land use for Jersey – some 20 per cent developed, 30 per cent arable, 20 per cent grassland and the rest in natural categories (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006c) – would suggest adequate space for development. The problem lies in two main areas. First, the farms and farmland, accounting for about half the island’s area, are under great stress stemming from poor economic performance. Given that the farming pattern, evolved over centuries, has created a unique island landscape of exceptional quality, any serious destruction of it is to be avoided at all costs. Second, significant stretches of the exceptional coastline of the island, embracing wild cliffs and heaths coupled with sandy bays, is in danger of degradation through ill-considered one-off developments. The opportunities for traditional landfill in Jersey are limited; only a few inland granite quarries exist (the main one being on the rugged north coast), but these have latterly been purchased for housing rather than for landfill. Land reclamation has been utilized increasingly over the past forty years for both

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landfill and building; but even this is effectively in short supply if the need to maintain the integrity of the island’s coast as an environment of quality is taken into account. No solution to the longer-term landfill needs has been identified at the present time. Recycling remains a viable option to lessen pressures on the landfill sites and is being actively promoted by the government. However, the high cost of shipping waste off-island (often in specialized containers) is a constant barrier. Recycling links with Jersey’s closest neighbour, France, are being investigated. At present, almost all the recycled waste (of some 28,000 tons) comprises green waste, glass, paper and cardboard (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006c). Some 10 million cubic metres of sewage is treated per annum. The spreading of the resultant dried sewage sludge to land is a constant problem given the lack of available land and sites for safe storage (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006c).

Construction and Its Consequences Over the past forty years, the basis of Jersey’s economy has changed from traditional agriculture and tourism to the activities of a high-quality international finance centre. The financial services sector (banking, trust and fund administration, accountancy and legal activities) employs almost a quarter of the island workforce (12,170 people) and accounts for half of the total gross value added of U.S.$5.7 billion (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2006c). Construction and quarrying employed 5,200 people in June 2006 (States of Jersey Statistics Unit 2007). Construction on the island is led by the need to create new office accommodation and housing for workers. The majority of this new development is adjacent to the land reclamation and the new developments on the waterfront in St Helier. Interestingly, this is causing a southward shift of the town centre, with associated moves of infrastructure, such as the bus terminus. A further construction trend is the redevelopment of larger-sized properties (farms and other large dwellings) into smaller units of accommodation, which occurs mostly outside the urban areas. Tight housing and planning controls exist: for example, a register of historic buildings is kept and building control on such buildings is tightly controlled (being that development must be in keeping with the original character). With these tight controls in place most of the development of larger properties is in sympathy with the rural landscape. Minor infringements of planning approval do occur and, if the case, retrospective permission must be then be applied for. In extreme cases, if such infringements of the planning application are

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sufficiently serious then the planning officers can order the building work to be removed. It remains, however, that a large portion of property development seeks to maximize the buildings’ footprint within the available area, leaving little for amenity space; this is a trend with possible deleterious social consequences in the future. Submissions for business development are varied. Apart from developments relating to service providers (such as shops, hotels and restaurants), which are mainly located in built-up areas, or from light industry, which is mainly concentrated in a small number of specific zones, there are always applications for new construction, or modification of those buildings already existing, in the farming countryside and coastal zones enjoying special planning protection. The pressures upon erstwhile economically valuable farmland are enormous and, because money is deeply involved both on the individual and larger community scale, particularly intractable. As part of the drive to exploit the tourism potential, one economic response is to propose turning agricultural land into golf courses; some senior politicians would like many golf courses and actively promote their cause often with a view to increasing tourism. However, golf courses and small fields bounded by hedgerows are incompatible, so the creation of the former involves a major change to the appearance of a landscape that is accepted by a vast majority of islanders and visitors alike as one of the island’s most important attractions. At present six golf courses exist on the island, a mix of 9 and 18 hole, most of which are privately owned. Most of these are situated on the coastal plain where small fields and boundaries are not part of the landscape. To date there has been a successful resistance to major spoliation of the inland farming landscape, but the pressures for development will not go away. A further type of change involving construction is related to a rather similar problem to that of farming but in the tourism infrastructure area. Changes in tourism have led the many hotels and guest houses either to close or to change their use. It is not just that these establishments have become unviable economically but that their capital value can be vastly enhanced by redevelopment as quality apartments, unqualified lodgings or registered lodging houses (in light of the demand brought about by the residency requirements for house purchase) or for self-catering for tourists. Where such changes are requested for buildings in sensitive coastal areas, the results have often led to rather massive apartment blocks being created. Yet another pressure relating to housing and construction is a requirement, due to an ageing population, to build sheltered housing for the elderly. Due to various factors these structures are often proposed next to

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existing built-up zones in the rural areas, thus leading to a considerable expansion of suburban type into undeveloped farmland. As an addendum to this section, a word on economic policy is salutary. There is undoubtedly awareness on the part of those concerned with the island’s economic well-being that any substantial loss of revenue would be disastrous. It would likely cause an unstoppable decline in living standards, not least through the inability to maintain the public infrastructure: social security, health, roads, amenities and services. More recently, because of recent changes in the tax structure of business and the finance industry, the island is trying to recoup losses via a general sales tax, introduced at a rate of 3 per cent in 2007 (e.g., Voisin Law 2007) and raised to 5% in 2011.

Identification and Handling of Natural and Cultural Assets Early Events Against the background of a wartime vision on the part of varied influential private and public figures in Britain, major legislation was prepared paving the way for such influential acts of parliament as that of the 1947 Town and Country Planning Act and the creation of the National Health System. Towards the close of the Second World War, probably arising from the same realization of how powerful and effective centralized planning and government had been in time of war, a group of Channel Islands exiles published a document, Nos Îles (Channel Islands Study Group 1944). This set out to offer a review of the Channel Islands’ situation and to survey how the future might unfold, attempting to identify the main issues. In no way were they able to foresee the almost runaway success of the economy from the late 1950s on, a success that brought in its wake many problems, of which the prime has turned out to be a population explosion in Jersey from nearly 60,000 in 1951 to some 90,000 at present. However, the authors did a major service in stressing the need for planning in the sphere of land utilization. Already in the 1930s there had grown an appreciation of the value and importance of the coastal zones of the island, and relatively few developments were located prominently in these areas. One of these, the Plemont Holiday Camp, is taken as a case study below. But immediately following the war and in the wake of Nos Îles, the Beautés Naturelles Committee of the States of Jersey was created with the task of advising on controlling development in the island. The committee’s work was not supported by a strong legal framework, and it was realized within a few years that a stronger committee was needed, so in 1952 new regulations were published and a redesigned committee, the Natural Beauties Committee, was created to

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administer them. However, a strong legal framework was still lacking, and decisions were largely taken on an ad hoc basis (Island Development Committee 1983: chap. 1).

Successive Island Plans The need for more effective legislation led to the production in the late 1950s and early 1960s of a report led by W. H. Barrett (Barrett and Barrett 1962). This was turned into a comprehensive Island Plan in 1962 and set out three zones within the countryside, each with specified guidelines for appropriate stewardship and development. These were Zones of Outstanding Character (including cliffs, headlands, heaths and dunes), Green Zones (including special rural environments such as valleys, escarpments, the northern farmland and parts of the undeveloped coast and coastal plains) and the Countryside Zone (the remaining farmed landscapes of the plateau and coastal plains that had begun to lose their distinctive character due to building developments and changes in agricultural practice). Whereas the two States’ Committees (the Beautés Naturelles then Natural Beauties Committees) had responded to development proposals by more or less making a judgment on them case by case, the Island Development Committee, set up to administer the new Island Plan, could measure proposals against policy supported by a legal framework. Further, the foundation had been laid for the planning authorities in the future to expand and amplify existing zones and to create new ones. Within twenty years, a new Island Plan was published (Island Development Committee 1983). ‘Unlike the Barrett Report, this Island Plan would … pay particular and detailed attention to the landscape, the countryside and to agriculture … and further stated that the problems of the Town (St Helier) would not be treated separately from those of the island as a whole.’ By this date it was clear that population increase was a major issue, and measures were put in place to satisfy housing needs while at the same time limiting their impact on the environment; a major plank of this initiative was the expansion of existing Parish centres and the discouragement of isolated building development in the countryside. But an outstanding feature of the plan was the setting out of a basis for proactive intervention. This included the preparation of further focused reports, many of these involving consultation with out-of-island experts (often accompanied by a public outcry at the paying of large sums of money for outside advice perceived as not sympathetic to the islander’s needs) and local groups with special expertise, and developed in a climate in which active intervention to maintain the principles of the plan would become the norm rather than the exception.

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The pressures on land went on increasing through the 1980s and 1990s, and a number of unfortunate permissions for development were passed by the then Island Development Committee, which, it might be said, was either pressured by the States or made genuine misguided decisions at that time. However, it must be stressed – and it is a point often overlooked by the islanders – that without the Island Plan, mayhem would have ensued and the island landscapes of today would not be those we have, where much of value has been preserved. During these two decades, public awareness and appreciation of the environment and heritage led to increasing demands for environmental protection, conservation and improvement. A continuing response to obligations, arising from international treaties, conventions and other agreements to which the island has become a signatory, has led to major initiatives and the legal safeguarding of significant areas of the natural environment such as the RAMSAR sites. These represent environmental decisions with far-reaching beneficial consequences but not, however, free of new problems of usage. There were also greater demands for information, consultation and more accountable decision making from the public, States members, the media and an expanding list of pressure/interest groups over the period.

The Present: Increasing Pace of Change and Environmental Threat In 2002 another Island Plan advanced the framework of policies and proposals used to guide land use planning forward to 2011, with the increasing pace of change being reflected in the ever shortening intervals between plans. The plan also translates some of the strategic objectives of the States, designed to meet the community’s aspirations. Almost before it was produced, the pressures on the island appeared to mushroom with continuing affluence (led primarily by the finance industry) pressuring services, land and other physical resources such as housing and the unceasing stresses resulting from unrestricted growth in the use of the motor car. In 2005 a Rural Economy Strategy was recommended within the framework of the States Strategic Plan and the Economic Growth Plan and was adopted by the States. Its objective is to deliver increased efficiency and greater diversification within the countryside whilst at the same time protecting and enhancing all those features that define the island’s unique inland landscape and environment. Measures include changes to the way subsidies are paid and the creation of a range of new incentives for farmers operating at different economic levels and in different sectors of the industry. Additionally, a Countryside Renewal Program was put into effect to achieve a range of economic and environmental measures including sup-

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port for biodiversity, safeguards against pollution and the improvement of the image of farming generally.

Use Conflict: Procedures and Illustrative Cases La Rocco Tower, St Ouen La Rocco Tower is a historic round tower that was at risk of toppling into the sea. Though there may have been some legal responsibility on the part of the States to maintain the tower – this stemming from the transfer of the ownership from the British Government in 1923 – it was probably easy enough for them to wriggle out of this citing changed times, changed dangers. So the issues were not clear-cut, and saving the tower depended on perceptions of its value to the landscape of St Ouen’s Bay. Fortunately, there was no question of having to purchase the property as well. La Rocco Tower occupies a focal, low tide position seaward of the fine stretch of sand along St Ouen’s Bay on the west coast of the island. It is one of some twenty round towers built at the end of the eighteenth century to provide artillery coverage in bays considered likely landing places for French invading forces. It was handed over to the island authorities in 1923 with the obligation to maintain it. During the German Occupation the outer courtyard and a part of the tower wall itself were damaged, and over the next twenty years the sea seriously eroded the outer courtyard, breaching its outer wall and exposing the inner tower to direct attack by the sea. It was clear by the early 1960s that the tower would soon collapse unless it was repaired. However, a quote to repair it was deemed excessive, and the States turned down a grant application in 1965. At this point, a person who was also passionate about the cause, the Reverend Peter Manton, began a single-minded campaign to save the tower that finally resulted in five local NGOs (the Rotary and Lions Clubs of Jersey, Association of Jersey Architects, National Trust for Jersey and Société Jersiaise) joining forces to bring the campaign to a successful conclusion (La Rocco Tower Appeal Committee 1968). A much-reduced quotation (£34,000) was received for the work, using a newly developed concrete pumping machine, and the States agreed to fund half the amount needed if the public of the island could raise the other half, thus requiring people to show they cared. After a very active campaign of one hundred days, the necessary £17,000 was raised and the tower was restored, albeit with a slightly different outline plan for the courtyard walls. It was argued that the States had a legal obligation to pay for the repairs, but whatever the rights and wrongs of this, the States felt that they would not be brought to account by the British government for failure to act. The

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fact that the coastline of the island had just been granted special status in the first major planning report produced for Jersey as a whole (Barrett and Barrett 1962) had not entered the full consciousness of the States at this time. In the end, neither the enhancement of the visual aspect of the bay provided by the tower, nor the historical value of the monument, nor the possible contamination of the sandy beach by broken masonry was seriously taken into account, and it was only the action of individuals and NGOs that forced the issue. It is a prime example of a governmental decision rejected on economic grounds being softened not just by public outcry but by the actual raising of a substantial sum of money.

The Northwest Coast of Jersey The fundamental issue here is the willingness of the States of Jersey to spend considerable money, not just to maintain the status quo of an area that is agreed to be of outstanding natural beauty but to improve it. However, the question then arises: What is worth spending money on? The northwest coast of Jersey is an example where money was spent in the past on demolition and where, at the time of writing, another decision on purchase and demolition is being hotly debated. The matter is likely to be resolved shortly, but the present problem is complicated by the high monetary value of the proposed development, highlighting the requirement to identify what constitutes landscape value and how much the island is willing to pay to buy into it. The northwest coast of Jersey has long been recognized as an area of outstanding natural beauty enhanced by significant archaeological remains, including a cave shelter used by Paleolithic people, a major natural stack of rock in whose shadow lies an important Neolithic site, and a range of other historical remains. The document Nos Îles (Channel Islands Study Group 1944) recognized the unpleasantly intrusive nature of some modern coastal developments, one of which was a holiday camp on a headland in the northwest. The Island Plans that have emerged over the last forty years have all singled out the northwest for special treatment. During the 1990s, as part of the routine implementation of the plan, the Island Development Committee (the States committee with responsibility for planning matters) proactively sought to purchase a tourist nightspot on the southeast margins of the area and to demolish it as being of inappropriate usage. The sum spent on this was the subject of public comment both for and against. Apart from those who felt that this was a waste of public money, there were also those who were deeply against any form of coercion of private owners by the States, a Jersey approach to property that is deeply rooted and held to be an important virtue. In the event, this pur-

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chase was approved, but it has hardly become a precedent. In other words, the presumption against compulsory purchase has guided the management process and, in the absence of a legal requirement within the framework of safeguarding and enhancing the conservation of the northwest, such an action was bound to be a minority success. Nonetheless, the presumption still is one of management and betterment of such important areas of the island. In spite of its surely being against the spirit of the new measures preventing extension of existing facilities, the go-ahead was eventually given to raise the height of the viewing stands of the long-existing horse racing track in the area. But planning control meant this was not a major flouting of the law in spirit or kind. Of much greater significance, is the ongoing problem with how to handle the change of use of the 1930s holiday camp. A developer wishes to turn it into a major housing estate, but a vociferous group of local NGOs, the administration of the parish in which it lies and a number of States members consider that the only proper course is to demolish it and return the area to a natural state. Some senior States members see other uses for it; and therein lies an unresolved question as to whether ministerial government, with its vastly increased centralized powers, will favour the environment over the considerable economic expense involved in purchase, demolition and ecological restoration. Certainly there is no legal requirement to alter the normal planning process, which would lead to some housing development of the demolished holiday camp. In a fundamental way, though, the dilemma here is one of competing perceptions of what constitutes value in a landscape and what it is worth in community (people of Jersey) terms. The environmental argument is that any development on this prominent headland within a heath and cliff zone of immense natural beauty is seriously detrimental to the whole area on both its sides. The opportunity is the only one that will ever exist to eradicate something that should never have been permitted in the first place.

The Demolition of Janvrin Farm This case throws into sharp relief the effect of the almost overwhelming pressures on the environment where from time to time sharp practice will cut across safeguards of the legal process. It is such cases as these that lead to tightening, modification or extension of the law. Over the years since postwar planning restrictions were introduced in Jersey, an ongoing tussle has been playing out between competing interests against a backdrop of increasing population and wealth. The combination has caused enormous pressure to be exerted on the planning process and

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has inevitably resulted in some mistakes and failures, most of them the outcome of the application of policy rather than failure of the legal requirements. In spite of this, the overall effect has managed to keep substantial elements of Jersey’s two core environments of special value – the coastal zone and the farmland interior – relatively intact. The mistakes and failures have often cumulatively led to new policies being incorporated into the successive revisions of the Island Plan. Every now and then, single events have highlighted failings in the law and led directly to a tightening up: for example, the case of the Janvrin Farm (Janvrin Holdings Ltd v. Attorney General, Court of Appeal, 26 October 2001). The Planning Department was in the process of compiling the register of historic buildings, and Janvrin Farm was noted to the developer/owner for inclusion. Before this became legal, however, the developer knowingly sent in the bulldozers and razed the building. The appellant was charged with developing property without the appropriate consents, contrary to Art. 8 of the Island Planning (Jersey) Law of 1964. The appellant took legal advice to the effect that demolition was not ‘development’ within the 1964 Law and therefore the Planning and Environment Committee’s consent was not required. Although the lower court found for the States, the case was appealed and the lower court’s decision was overturned. The Court of Appeal held that ‘demolition’ per se, not amounting to ‘building’ or ‘engineering’ operations, did not fall within the scope of ‘other operations in, on, over or under land’ in Art. 5(2)(a) of the Island Planning (Jersey) Law, 1964, and therefore did not constitute ‘development’. There was public outcry, with many letters written to the local newspaper and demonstrations by local residents who had witnessed the events. In this instance, no data are available on the number of letters, their balance for and against, or the newspaper comment and coverage; however, a very clear indication of the vibrancy of local response to issues of concern is presented below, where Mont Orgueil Castle is discussed as an archaeological site. The Planning Department staff was equally frustrated, but in the end there was no legal case for the developer to answer. This outcome led to an immediate introduction of legislation to prevent the same or similar happening in the future. Though this was an extreme case, it exemplifies what occurs when almost all owners and developers are pushing the limits of law and policy to get the most from their planning applications.

Archaeological Sites Much effort over the years has been put into creating legal safeguards for the island’s known rich heritage of archaeological monuments. In spite of

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these efforts by individuals and the local learned society, the Société Jersiaise, it is only now that a law is being introduced. However, it is argued here that all this effort has, in reality, saved little that would not have been safe anyway and has meanwhile diverted attention away from the real destruction of archaeological heritage via the development of large swathes of landscape both semi-rural and urban without provision of any means of investigating the areas for their archaeological potential. That this is likely to have resulted in no mean loss is suggested by the Guernsey experience, where an active programme over the last thirty years has produced an impressive series of discoveries. Jersey’s thriving Société Jersiaise has existed since the late nineteenth century, and its enthusiastic and knowledgeable members have consolidated and extended the knowledge of ancient monuments in the island and ensured that the society purchased, or had donated to it in its early capacity as the organization responsible for archaeology, a number of the more important sites. By the 1930s a comprehensive catalogue existed, but there was no legal framework for safeguarding the sites, apart from the law of Treasure Trove, which applied to precious metals (gold and silver). The preservation of items such as the island’s La Marquanderie hoard of Gaulish tribal coinage in the 1930s – the result of informal negotiation and gifting by a private individual – contrasts with the dispersal of another coin hoard during the 1950s. As pressure on the environment increased in the postwar decades, so the Société Jersiaise, through its archaeological and other interested members, pressed for a law to safeguard monuments, many of which were in private hands. Two or three known monuments, albeit somewhat ruined, were completely destroyed by development. An updated list of monuments was published in 1966, one of its principal aims being to encourage the passage of laws to protect the island’s archaeological heritage. In spite of this list being available and variously updated through the next four decades, a legal framework has only been put in place recently. Before that, only policy guidelines had been adopted to safeguard the archaeological heritage. Known archaeological monuments have not, by and large, been seriously under attack over the years, and in fact the main changes to monuments – the prime example being the internationally renowned Neolithic tomb of La Hougue Bie – have been made with full archaeological consents having been given. But even this permitted work on ancient monuments has been controversial at times, with experts differing and members of the public having strong views. Not until recently did one issue gain the highest of profiles and confront the major matter of adherence, or not, to both law and customary practice. It concerned the long-running dispute over the

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conservation, restoration and development of Mont Orgueil Castle, a major historical monument on Jersey’s east coast (see Figure 4.1 for location). Central to the dispute – which admittedly might be perceived differently by others – were two issues. The first was whether the re-creation of an archaeologically sensitive open area for purposes of hospitality was not driven by purely economic factors; the second was whether there was really sound evidence for such a reconstruction anyway. No one disagreed that major conservation work was needed at the castle. Over a number of years experts disagreed, and the public was vocal on the issues. A non-scientific but nonetheless sound indication of the degree of local interest is given by the numbers of newspaper articles of all sorts (news, leader comment, readers’ letters, etc.) collected by one of us (JTR) over the period from 2000 to 2006, when the castle was finally reopened to the public: 15 in 2000; 22 in 2001; 22 in 2002; 81 in 2003, the year when final decisions on the proposals were taken; 15 in 2004 with work in progress; 5 in 2005; and 18 in 2006, reflecting a surge of interest over the opening. No one side ‘won’ in this case, as some compromises are evident on both sides, but it did demonstrate an extremely healthy awareness of environmental and heritage issues on the part of the non-governmental Jersey public. Much more damaging to the island’s archaeological knowledge has been the absence over the last thirty to forty years of any effective continuing commitment to rescue archaeology, whether from the voluntary sector, the official heritage organizations or the States of Jersey. In the early 1970s the archaeological section of the Société Jersiaise was active and achieved much at a few major town sites by dint of voluntary work, but subsequent to this little was achieved. Given the development of large sites both within the town and outside it in areas that might have been expected to yield evidence of the past, this failure is nothing short of shocking. The minutest of monetary levies on development projects above a certain size would have financed an archaeological field officer who could have operated with a team largely composed of volunteers, as was essentially the case over the same period in Guernsey, where archaeological discoveries have revolutionized understanding of the island’s past, most noticeably in the later Iron Age and Gallo-Roman periods. An archaeological field officer has recently been appointed for a five-year term, not by the States but by Société Jersiase. Meanwhile, the first Minister responsible for planning and development has recently proved controversial with a commitment to his personal view of ‘good architecture’; his actions (and tastes) have been the subject of an unprecedented series of letters and articles in the local press and political scene (Horrell 2011, Thelwell 2011). In a small jurisdiction like Jersey, the power vested in individuals has been, and continues to be, a focus of much argument and debate (Hutchinson 2011).

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Geological Sites The geology of Jersey has some outcrops of rock that are valuable in scientific terms but otherwise wholly unprotected, except insofar that they are often on the coast and therefore have survived because of this. However, the problems have been and still are twofold. Geology has a very low profile; and a number of the outcrops of value are part of a larger landscape that itself needs identification and preservation. Additionally, protection of some sites on private land would require adding the element of restriction of the owner’s rights to do as he/she pleases. Major advances have been made with respect to the biological sciences in terms of preservation and conservation. Sites of special interest, such as nature reserves small and large, have been actively promoted, safeguarded and cared for to greater or lesser extents. The creation of RAMSAR sites for the foreshore, particularly that for the remarkable southeastern area of Jersey, has seen both policy and a legal framework established. Geology, however, has been regarded as somewhat of a poor relation, and no specifically geological sites are legally protected or considered under policy guidelines to any significant extent. A carefully prepared list of sites is now a decade old, and there has recently been a move to develop policies and a legal framework specifically applicable to geology. As with archaeology, sites generally fall into two categories: limited small-scale outcrops typified by a quarry, and the others, which are embedded in a larger landscape to which they contribute significantly. A fine example of the latter is found at L’Etacq in the northwest, where (1) interesting small structures are at risk, not just from development but from accidental destruction through ignorance, and (2) skyline and other landscape elements that reflect geological processes important in the formation of the island’s spectacular cliffs have been recently compromised to a degree by a house that breaks a significant natural profile. There are legal issues, among others, that make the control of such areas difficult, but no more so than in the case of the larger nature reserves such as that of St Ouen’s Bay, where the new specific development problems that are always emerging are at least considered within a legal and policy framework.

Conclusion The document Nos Îles (Channel Islands Study Group 1944) may be taken as the moment when serious consideration was first given to creating a governmental role in safeguarding the environment. It is probably no ac-

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cident that this coincided with a range of government initiatives in Britain. Between the recommendations contained in Nos Îles and the new millennium, there have come into existence both a series of Island Plans and a significant increase in the effective awareness and involvement of the public in environmental affairs in the broadest sense. NGOs have also more than kept up with these changes and are often an effective voice in bringing about awareness and change or halting excesses. The case studies considered here profile a range of different problems and outcomes, not all of which can be regarded as successes. But looking back on the effect of the Island Plans and their accompanying legislation, it is evident that much of Jersey’s environment has been protected from the worst excesses of random development fuelled by economic success and population pressures. The entry of Jersey onto a more international stage and the achievement of RAMSAR site designations reveal an island embracing the modern world. As to the immediate future, further economic development and increasing population will maintain the strongest of pressures on all matters environmental. The working out of the newly installed ministerial form of government in the Island States will no doubt bring both the advantages and disadvantages of the effect of power concentrated in fewer individuals. It will be of interest to see whether ministerial action is for the removal of the holiday camp in the island’s northwest at some considerable capital cost, or whether development will be allowed. It is perhaps salutary to be reminded that this element of the worst excesses of the 1930s, identified by the Channel Islands Study Group in Nos Îles in 1944, is still not seen by one and all as an eyesore warranting removal for the vital enhancement of the northwest coastline as an area of outstanding natural beauty renowned also for its archaeological heritage. B Barrett, W. H. and P. Barrett. 1962. The island of Jersey development plan I and II: Development proposals submitted to the Island Development Committee. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. Channel Islands Study Group. 1944. Nos îles: A symposium on the Channel Islands. Teddington, Middlesex: The Channel Islands Study Group. Clothier, C. 2000. Report of the review panel on the machinery of government in Jersey. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. Horrell, J. M. An independent review is needed to take a good look at the decision to grant this development. Jersey Evening Post, Jersey, 24 September, 11. Hutchinson, J. 2011. Planning: ‘Minister‘s powers should be curbed’. Jersey Evening Post, Jersey, 28 July, 7.

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Island Development Committee. 1983. Jersey Island Plan I: Survey and issues. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. Janvrin Holdings Ltd v. Attorney General, Court of Appeal, 26 October 2001. Kemeny, J. and C. Llewellyn-Wilson 1998. ‘Both rationed and subsidized: Jersey’s command economy in housing’, Housing Studies 13(2): 259–273. La Rocco Tower Appeal Committee. 1968. La Rocco tower appeal. Published privately. Le Rendu, L. 2004. Jersey, independent dependency? The survival strategies of a microstate. Wiltshire: ELSP. States of Jersey Statistics Unit. 2001. Report on the Jersey Census 2001. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. ———. 2006a. Jersey’s resident population 2006. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. ———. 2006b. Jersey’s housing requirements: A report of the housing needs survey, 2006–2011. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. ———. 2006c. Jersey in figures, 2006. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. ———. 2007. The Jersey labour market, 2006. Saint Helier: States of Jersey. Thelwell, P. 2011. Our island is being destroyed by bad planning decisions – of course, our objections should be heartfelt. Jersey Evening Post, Jersey, 26 August, 16. The Economist. 2005. Pocket world in figures. London: Economist Books. Voisin Law. 2007. Goods and service tax (GST) in Jersey. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: http://www.voisinlaw.com/default.asp?contentID=748

[ Chapter 5 ] Corsica, France JEANMARIE FURT, MARIEANTOINETTE MAUPERTUIS AND DOMINIQUE PRUNETTI

Introduction The French island of Corsica lies in the Northern Mediterranean, only 7 miles north of the Italian island of Sardinia. It has a land area of 3,350 square miles, and a permanent population of 279,000 in 2006, making for a rather low population density of 83 inhabitants per square mile. However, tourism in Corsica is significant, if seasonal: the island receives almost 2.5 million tourists annually, with a peak of some 450,000 visitors in the month of August alone. This is equivalent to a ratio of almost two tourists for each inhabitant. Given the island’s topography, both tourist and residential zones are spatially concentrated in the coastal areas, a practice that reinforces a lingering dualism between urban/coastal and rural/mountainous regions (see Table 5.1). Table 5.1 Ratio of Permanent Population to Tourist Visitations during Peak Season in Selected Mediterranean Islands, 2008 Island

Total number of tourists in August (A)

Permanent population (B)

Ratio (A : B)

Crete Majorca Malta Sicily Sardinia Cyprus Corsica

500,000 5,000,000 170,000 715,000 470,000 550,000 450,000

604,470 790,760 407,810 5,016,860 1,659,440 778,680 279,000

0.83 6.32 0.43 0.14 0.28 0.71 1.62

Sources: Statistical Service of Cyprus; National Institute for Statistics and Economic Studies, France (INSEE); National Statistical Service of Greece; National Institute of Statistics, Italy (INSTAT); National Statistics Office, Malta (NSO); National Institute of Statistics, Spain.

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Before the 1960s, Corsica’s economy was dominated by agriculture and livestock breeding, after earlier attempts at large-scale industrialization had failed. A shortage of human resources, a small domestic market, prohibitive transportation costs and an unfavourable tax climate made the export of manufactures uncompetitive. It was then that tourism in Corsica started to play a significant economic role. The growth in the demand for leisure-related services for tourists from the burgeoning middle classes of Northern European countries transformed the Mediterranean into a holiday playground. With its well preserved, beautiful wild landscape and improvements to its transport infrastructure (ferries, roads and airports), Corsica rapidly became a choice destination, especially for French and Italian travellers (Furt and Maupertuis 2006). The year 2008 witnessed a record 2.5 million-plus visitations consuming almost 27 million bed-nights (see Table 5.2). The tourism sector represents 12–15 per cent of gross value added produced on the island and around 25 per cent of the island’s total exports by value (Maupertuis and Vellutini 2009). The industry’s growth has been affected negatively in the course of these past five decades, mainly because of the relative lack of tourist facilities as well as the political tension between French authorities and Corsican ‘national identity’ defenders, which has led to occasional outbreaks of violence (Silvani 1998). Three out of every four tourists who visit Corsica are French and from the mainland. Visitations are typically concentrated during the summer period, although the peak season has been extended in recent years from April to October. The early model of tourism development based on sun, sand and sea has evolved to provide a more differentiated product (mountain trips, walking trails, rural activities, discovery of cultural heritage), but tourist locations and services remain heavily concentrated on and around coastal areas. This means that tourism pressure and its impacts are much more intense than island-wide data suggest (see Table 5.3). Corsica, the Table 5.2 Evolution of Tourism Demand in Corsica Year

Number of Tourists

Bed Nights (Millions)

1960 1970 1980 1990 2001 2004 2007 2008

120,000 462,000 1,070,000 1,460,000 2,220,000 2,140,000 2,422,000 2,550,000

not known not known 19 21 25.3 23 25.3 26.9

Sources: INSEE (2009).

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Table 5.3 Tourism Pressure on Select Mediterranean Island Destinations Corsica Majorca Sardinia Sicily Population

279,000 790,760

Malta

Cyprus

Crete

1,659,440 5,016,860 407,810 778,680 604,470

Land area (square miles) 3,350

1,405

9,395

10,027

123

3,607

3,251

Visitors (millions)

2.3

8.8

2

1.8

1.2

2.6

1.9

Tourists/ inhabitant/ year

8.2

11

1.2

0.35

2.9

3.3

3.1

Tourists/ square mile/ year

686

6,263

213

180

9,756

721

584

Sources: UNEP 2005; INSEE 2007; Eurostat 2011.

third largest island in the Mediterranean, is the most mountainous island in that region, with mountain peaks of over 5,000 feet; various sections of its territory are simply inaccessible. The coastal concentration of all the major towns, economic activities and the population is thus one of the main features of Corsica’s territorial organization. A tourism product organized around the location of natural and historical features (sea, beaches, historical buildings, etc.) reinforces this pattern. Corsica possesses a well preserved natural environment and a rich cultural heritage. From that point of view, it has an economic advantage compared to other island destinations in a context of Mediterranean tourism expansion, with 370 million tourists expected annually by 2020. This is the competitive advantage that the authorities of the jurisdiction of Corsica (Collectivité Territoriale de Corse) wish to promote in the context of the European Union’s Lisbon Agenda, based on competition and employment. Corsica is one of twenty-two French metropolitan regions, but since the promulgation of the Law of 22 January 2002, it benefits from relative jurisdictional autonomy that provides it with important competences in social, economical and cultural fields. Within this formal juridical framework, Corsica has to define a Land Management and Sustainable Development Plan (Plan d’Aménagement et de Développement Durable, or PADDUC) (Collectivité Territoriale de Corse 2008). In this context, the key aspects of regional economic strategy lie in developing ‘sustainable tourism’: attracting more tourists, promoting residential tourism and defining tourism products based on the twin appeals of heritage and nature. This is the most important development agenda to be defined in recent Corsica history. Such a task, however, must confront various constraints.

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The first is topographical: the interior of the island still suffers from limited accessibility. Traditional villages are remote, dispersed among mountains and steep valleys where the transport network essentially consists of narrow and tortuous roads that are at best navigable by car. The projected future development of tourism is likely to reinforce the island’s existing coastal concentration. On the other hand, social constraints are also considerable because tourism is obviously not a panacea. Local communities experience multiple development pressures: intense competition for available land, associated price inflation, a scarcity of suitable accommodation and conflicts over how to promote development generally. An appreciation of how similar tensions have played out in some neighbouring tourism-serving islands, for instance the Balearics (e.g., Seguí Llinás 1995), makes one wonder whether the sustainability aspects of such developments have been carefully considered. Indeed, high tourism density creates pressure to dedicate land to development, and the resort to construction becomes in itself an engine of economic growth and employment. In 2003 the construction sector represented 7.8 per cent of the value added to Corsica’s economy, a contribution that is much higher than the French national average. A recent study of the determinants of economic growth in Corsica during the last decade suggests that the tourism and construction sectors were the key contributors to an annual mean growth rate of 3 per cent since 1997 (INSEE 2007). The fortunes of the construction sector are illustrated by the change in the number of building permits approved for new construction projects. There has not been any appreciable population growth during most of this period, so the bulk of the building dynamic is best explained as related to tourism accommodation and a demand for second homes (see Figure 5.1). New building projects in transport infrastructure, tourism complexes and golf courses are also in the pipeline. Yet, in the last planning period (2000–2006), the Corsican territorial authorities invested heavily in infrastructure to support and enhance tourism supply. Backed by a high level of funding (€60 million, about U.S.$ 90 million), the island region has been able to structure development projects around 8 tourist clusters, contribute to an increase in accommodations offered on the market by participating in the construction of 30 new establishments and the furnishing of an additional 300 tourist accommodations, and participate in the modernization of 170 out of 400 hotels. This effort in the area of accommodation goes hand in hand with the recognition of the need to adapt to the evolution of tourist demand. Investments have also been made in the nautical sector to reinforce the image of Corsica as a destination that offers a complete range of nature activities. Implementation of

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Figure 5.1 Number of Approved Building Permits on Corsica, 1994–2007 Source: Sitadel Database, Corsican Regional Directorate for the Equipment, 2008. Created by Godfrey Baldacchino.

the nautical scheme is well underway, as can be seen by the modernization of existing mooring rings. The current planning period (2007–2013) has adopted a different course of action. The central state has largely withdrawn what had earlier been considerable financial support, so the overall objective now is to improve and upgrade the quality of existing resources, as well as seek a redirection of certain tourist activities and products towards the hinterland. The only budgetary allocations covering new projects relate to five or six 18-hole golf courses, some 1,000 additional boat moorings, and physical recreation sites and activities. In this context, conflicts between environment and development start to appear. During the last decades, regional and national governments have made sure that there were well developed ports and airports throughout Corsica, which now boasts four international airports and seven major seaports. This may appear excessive, but this investment is intended to compensate for the weak internal transport networks (road and railroad). In order to increase domestic and international tourism flows, construction of a major new commercial port near Bastia (the economic capital of the island) has been projected. It is noteworthy that Bastia is the second busiest French port after Calais (on the English Channel) in terms of passenger throughput. The project, promoted by the Chamber of Commerce and Industry of North Corsica, would take up some 110 hectares of land in the south of Bastia and cost some €216 million. However, during a period of public inquiry, ecological lobbies advocated that the surrounding

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sea bottom should be preserved, since it holds significant beds of posidonia oceanica, a protected Mediterranean seagrass (Commission Nationale du Débat Public 2007). Moreover, it has been claimed that no suitable train or road infrastructure networks had been foreseen to connect the port to the rest of the island, and so any economic multiplier effect of the project on the island territory would not be maximized (ibid.). Rich off-island investors have also shown considerable interest in buying up land or developing property, pushing up the value of both. Land competition has become more acute, in particular between the agricultural and tourism sectors. Agricultural statistical data indicate that both the number and mean price of land or property purchase transactions on coastal areas have increased in recent years. For North Corsica, the number of transactions increased by 30 per cent in 2004; 50 per cent of them concerned coastal land. The purchases with a residential or leisure objective cover only 10 per cent of the surface area but represent more than 50 per cent of the total value of land transactions and more than 30 per cent of the total number of transactions in 2004 (AGRESTE 2005a). This is a consequence of the Exceptional Investment Programme negotiated between local authorities and the French national government in order to implement a catching-up process in terms of infrastructure. For South Corsica, the pressure is somewhat weaker on agricultural land, since the terrain there is much more mountainous. Sales of coastal lots concern non-arable land, excepting ‘cattle routes’. It is likely that limited access for cattle will generate economic, cultural and symbolic tensions over the place of Corsican traditional agriculture in the future (AGRESTE 2005b). More generally, the scarcity of usable land induces various direct and perverse effects. Apart from the competition for such assets in coastal areas, in the most important cities there is also increased construction pressure and inflation of the rental value of houses, and increased pressure also affects traditional villages where many old and heritage homes have been bought by non-Corsicans. These tensions together create serious difficulties for local residents looking for land or property to buy or lease.

A Difficult Governance of Environmental and Natural Assets in the Corsican Context In the light of public support for a strategy that promotes tourism, as well as the growing demands of a tourist clientele often looking for authenticity or even a complete change of scenery, the current consensus on Corsica seems to favour the safeguarding of cultural assets. However, natural areas and the coast in particular are subject to growing demographic pressures.

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In Corsica, as is the case for most Mediterranean countries, there is a ‘real tropism of the coasts’ (Hervieu and Viard 2001): a common gradual displacement of many populations towards the fragile and vulnerable coastal fringe (DATAR 2004). Such locations have become ‘both land and maritime areas … the most valuable, the most sought after, and the most endangered’ (UNEP 2006: 34). This leads to conflicts of appropriation that reflect feelings of frustration and exploitation, and a sober questioning of the justification for certain decisions, leading often to outbreaks of violence (e.g. Loughlin and Daftary 1999: 16). These reactions indicate current weaknesses in the area of governance that curtail the public’s participation in the decision-making process, limiting it to voting during elections and to the process for the determination of local town plans, which set out the prognosis derived from economic and demographic forecasts and specify needs identified for different areas such as economic development, agriculture, spatial planning, the environment, social balance of housing, transportation of equipment and services (Article L. 123-1 of the Town Planning Code). Moreover, these local plans are struggling to define a comprehensive strategy that will enable them to achieve a consensus around shared goals. This framework is backed by national legislation, which is presented as a protective wall set up to prevent unbridled and chaotic development similar to what has occurred on other Mediterranean littorals, such as the Spanish Costa del Sol and even France’s own Côte d’Azur. In contrast to many other tourist island destinations, Corsica does not have the legislative autonomy that permits it to ‘choose’ its level of protection, the format for managing its natural areas or the organization of its development strategy. In such areas of competence, the island remains entirely subject to the national framework: this mainly comprises the Coastal Law and the standard regulations aimed at the preservation of natural areas. Nevertheless, the legislative amendments that accompanied the Law of 22 January 2002 have now granted the Corsican Regional Assembly some limited lawmaking powers regarding economic, educational, environmental, developmental and cultural matters. These include the power to craft Corsica’s own PADDUC. This should set ‘economic development goals … as well as other goals related to environmental preservation’ and determine ‘the principle of the determination of natural areas, sites and landscapes to be safeguarded’ (Article L. 4424-9 of the Territorial Authorities’ General Code). This legal development should permit the adaptation of the governance framework to consider recent changes in Corsican society as well as to note, and respond to, societal demand, which seeks both to protect its natural environment and to preserve the livelihood of future generations

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(e.g., Andreani 2006). It is, however, operating in a difficult context. There are strong statements expressing the need to ‘remove the sanctuary status of the coast’ and to ‘increase from 12 per cent to 20 per cent the area eligible for construction in this zone’ (Martinetti 2007). Confronted by social demands from the grass roots, local policy makers often release land to market forces also with a view to ease pressure on prices. But, in parallel, urban instruments do not seem adequate, and legal action is very often the sole mode of regulation available to the island society. In general, such action is resorted to when the mechanisms and procedures aimed at ‘heritage classification’ of different areas of the coast – which we understand as including a total ban on construction – are not, or are not totally, applied. It appears that the only guarantee available to those who favour the protection of the environment is the observance of legal rules laid down in urban texts whose interpretation is sometimes ambiguous and inaccurate. Indeed, the coast of Corsica is a complex asset whose management has become ever more difficult in a situation where nationwide conservation rules are not directly or totally applicable. First and foremost, the coast of Corsica represents a broad geographic and ecological diversity that, taken as a whole, constitutes a national heritage, even a common heritage of humankind that merits safeguarding. It also possesses a strong symbolic value that reinforces its character both as a heritage good (to be preserved) and a market good (to be redeemed as a commodity on the property market). Finally, the coast is also subject to multiple uses and functions; this in itself can have irreversible consequences and is often the source of numerous conflicts. In any study of the pressures exerted on the natural and cultural environments at a given tourist destination, and any associated land use conflicts, the exact location and identification of the subject of conflict is a prerequisite. But what is ‘the coast’? What parts of the coast are we really talking about? Is any simple stretch of the coast to be protected, regardless of its state of preservation, market value or number of visitors? Are only those parts of the coast whose optimal qualities are recognized by tourists and residents alike, resulting in high population concentrations, worth identifying as heritage? What about other coastal areas, less populated and more pristine, known best for their aesthetic features? The proposals laid down in the local PADDUC suggest that the coast indeed is not a uniform variable: certain parts of the coast are recognized as having a higher value than others. In this light, it can be totally legitimate to exploit some areas while preserving others. However, the administrative principles derived from the national Coastal Law of 1986 apply to all municipalities bordering on seas and oceans, without any regard for the respective population inflow or the economic value of any natural features.

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The development of tourism, changing consumption habits and changes of places of residence will all gradually necessitate something more than exceptional and ad hoc measures in order to promote the principle of protection as the means of regulating development on the Corsican coast. There are two broad approaches towards understanding the designation of a coastal area at law for purposes of heritage management in France: that of a special place, which then calls for initiatives for special protection, and that of a common place, which can then fall under the general protection provided for by the national Coastal Law. The conditions for the protection of specific coastal areas (the first approach) are presented first below; these are followed by a review of the conditions that obtain for places that do not present any specific characteristics and are therefore covered under general standards (the second approach).

Heritage Regulation in Corsica’s Coastal Area If places qualify, their regulation and any recourse for further action can come from external agents who have real authority to intervene in matters pertaining to landscape management or public conservation projects. This would ensure that certain local sites would not be subject to speculative interests or temptations. These actions are primarily aimed at protecting landscapes and those zones inhabited by specific fauna or flora (Article L.211-1 of the Environment Code [EC] as relates to wetlands). Other actions lead to controlling or halting additional construction in surrounding areas (Law of 1930 on the Classification and Registration of Sites). Some of these regulations apply to areas that are not subject to any conflict of appropriation because they are not of interest to any property developer. Others are intended to protect biodiversity focal areas, including those registered in the European Natura 2000 list widely applied in Corsica (with eighty-nine sites for the entire island territory), wetlands, sites listed under the RAMSAR Convention as well as nature reserves (a total of six, representing 83,500 hectares, with four additional reserves planned). Tourists generally respond well to such measures because they contribute to enhancing the cultural experience, built environment and overall quality of the destination location. They can, however, be poorly accepted by certain residents who often see in them a plot to paralyse all local economic activity, to reduce the population to dependency and servile status, and to thwart their own potential, private, economic betterment. Let us critically consider two of these sites – the Sanguinaires Islands, and the Pointe de la Parata – in some additional detail below.

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Heritage through the Recognition of a Territorial Element A site that represents an interest as defined in accordance with Article L.341-1 of the Environment Code can be registered in terms of the said law, resulting in an obligation not to undertake any works with the exception of any current operations or maintenance work, about which the appropriate authorities nevertheless must still be notified. This control is reinforced in the case of coastal municipalities that can only provide for minor development improvements at such sites. This classification introduces an additional level of scrutiny because no modifications at the sites will then be allowed unless special permission is granted. Due to their special interest, these protected areas can still be registered within the Grands Sites de France network, permitting limited commercialization that extends to the surrounding territory, enabling it to benefit from the spillover of the flow of visitors attracted directly by the site. The municipality of Ajaccio, in the south of Corsica, has embarked on a requalification and reauthorization operation for the Sanguinaires Islands, a classified site of the municipal territory that attracts 300,000 visitors each year. As explained by the Grands Sites de France network, since 1974 the Sanguinaires have been covered by the sites protection law dating from May 1930. In 1995 the classified site extended to the neighbouring Pointe de la Parata, leading to the emergence of a large protected area recognising the extreme beauty of the place and its emblematic character for Corsican people and for visitors. For people living in Ajaccio, the Parata has for years been a place of leisure, a stimulating environment that excites and spellbinds visitors and locals (Réseau des Grands Sites de France 2011). Such landscape protection improves the quality of life of residents; and it also enables the city to benefit rapidly from additional attractiveness, more likely to interest a tourist clientele concerned with sustainable development, and in this way attracting new categories of visitors (Vourc'h, A. and Natali 2000; Breton 2004). The consequences of this certification, depending on the reputation of the site and its condition, can spill over into the periphery. For instance, the usual mechanisms therein come into play in terms of an increase in price of land and property which may, in the long term, lead to feelings of social exclusion. However, in addition to the precondition of being located in an area displaying a ‘special spirit’, a Grand Site operation is based on a partnership approach. Indeed, an agreement is needed between landowners, residents and associations in order to make a site accessible to the public while also protecting it. Such a convergence is difficult to obtain. This point probably explains the uniqueness of the Corsica situation, where alongside the Sanguinaires other actions have been embarked upon (the Restonica Valley, Aiguilles de Bavella, the Asco Valley).

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Heritage Classification through Public Appropriation of the Coast The desire to protect a coastal area that is subject to growing economic and social pressures can be institutionalized by means of a top-down regulatory regime, which may sit uneasily within the culture of a democratic society. The Coastal Protection Agency (Conservatoire du Littoral) was created in 1975, and its mandate has been broadened by successive legal measures. Its overarching goal is to protect areas stipulated under Articles L.146.6 and L.146.1 of the urban legal code, registered or classified sites, and sensitive natural areas. Its actions, which apply to properties and sites with access to the sea, seek to protect heritage assets, achieve spatial consistency and thwart speculative projects. Today, the agency intervenes when a property becomes subject to urban pressures, or is threatened by erosion, degradation or even a friendly acquisition. Nearly 20 per cent of the 1,000 km of Corsican coastline falls under the ownership and purview of the Coastal Protection Agency. Once a site or property is thus secured, the agency makes the area available to the public, whereby the openness and the quality of management will contribute to the ‘natural identity’ of the territory, conserving and encouraging traditional activities, and supervising leisure activities. The fact that these segments of the Corsican territory are totally excluded from the market further contributes to their global charm and attractiveness. Paradoxically, they also contribute to an increase in investment in the adjoining residential economy, and therefore to an increase in the cost of land or property in the areas bordering the protected territories. Corsican residents generally do not contest such actions. However, operations concerning the application of general standards for the protection of the coast have resulted in debates and strong opposition. This is not surprising, given that they have significant implications for opportunities for future economic development, or lack thereof.

Regulation Based on the Differentiation of Land Parcels Legal regulation concerning construction in coastal areas essentially comes from an initiative of the French state: by its Law of 3 January 1986 on the development, protection and enhancement of the coast, it has sought to manage the related contradictions. Evidence suggests that, after twenty years of general application on the entire French coast, protective measures have prevailed and have been enforced on a daily basis through urban regulations. These measures, however, can paradoxically be amended, or countered, by broader legislation. For example, certain legal principles are intended to safeguard municipalities from rampant urbanization. ‘Breathing spaces’ are planned into

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the urban fabric, or ‘special landscapes’ are preserved, thus breaking up urbanization (L 146-2 of the Town Planning Code). Other legal principles impose measures that seek to protect what are designated as sensitive coastal zones from development. Such measures include designating 330-feet stretches where no construction is allowed, with the exception of that related to public services (such as a waste water purification plant), special activities (as may be related to fishing and marine culture). They also include – via local town planning regulation – the determination and layout of services and economic activities (wharves, jetties, harbour infrastructure, moorings, parking lots, pathways) that need to be located close to the sea. In practice, determining the appropriate course of action is difficult. How can a certain development (say, a building) not be justified, when another development (say, an access road) is? Definitions of what constitute subjective and aesthetic considerations at law are vague; thus they have required esoteric, jurisprudential clarifications. Jurisprudence retains three guiding criteria to facilitate assessment: layout and configuration, distance from the coast and visibility (from the coast and from the hinterland). Nevertheless, such procedures have heightened feelings of uncertainly and suspicion, and even rejection, by the local population. The vagueness of definitions and the need to request expert elucidation transfers the interpretations of these texts to the judicial authorities. This procedure, in itself, tends to convey the idea that ‘everything is possible’, further undermining the legitimacy of the rule of law. This sentiment risks becoming aggravated by the application of the current legislative framework, which, through the elaboration of territorial planning documents, permits local authorities to intervene in certain aspects of the Coastal Law, and even more in the implementation of the Corsican PADDUC. The latter has a value equivalent to a Territorial Development Directive, which enables, according to Article L.111-1-1 of the Town Planning Code, a transfer of responsibility from the national state to the region for ‘fundamental directions for development planning and the balance between prospects for territorial development, protection and exploitation’ (Code de l’urbanisme 2009). These changes to the national legislative framework should, in accordance with decentralization principles, result in decisions focused more closely on the concerns of residents. However, once the legislative process is established, it cannot prevent questioning or excesses. This is largely due to the absence of dialogue, public consultation or effective governance, in spite of the fact that the policy intent is to normalise economic development and environmental protection through stronger democratic local control and some devolution of social responsibility (Gerbaux and Marcelpoil 2004).

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The Difficulties of Standard ‘Localization’ In the eyes of local actors, the application of national standards may appear relatively suspect, requiring expert arbitration and at times involving the establishment of a participative decision-making process. In Corsica, these risks can be considered as far outweighing any potential advantages. Two examples illustrate this suspicion of national standards. First, as seen before only one Grand Site operation has succeeded in Corsica. Second, there is as yet no Territorial Coherence Scheme for the entire region, while the PADDUC provided for by the Law of 2002 remains a draft. Can the formulation and endorsement of such documents change the coastal vision and promote a more participative and collective approach? Territorial (or Spatial) Coherence Schemes are inter-municipality planning tools that holistically address ‘… the challenges of a territory covering a large coastal area and a vast hinterland which represents a living or working area or qualifies as an area with a geographic and landscape consistency’ (MEDDAT 2006: 11). In the context of their elaboration, these schemes enable ‘re-examination of the conditions for the application of the law and in particular for the authorization of extensions of urban development in coastal areas, along with the necessary protective measures’ (MEDDAT 2006: 12). Such a tool should enable a better arbitration of conflicts in an area that spills beyond the scope, and competence, of the municipality. And yet, such initiatives also move citizens another step further from the decision-making process, increasing their doubts, frustrations and concerns at finding themselves in an alien and unfamiliar environment driven by plans and legal texts, where they can easily feel that they no longer have a place. Such sentiments often lead to a pure and simple rejection of an imposed project and are even more pronounced when the body drawing up the scheme is also geographically (apart from socially, politically and culturally) far removed from the common Corsican citizen. In fact, when it is political visions rather than the technical elements of a plan or project that are pushed to the centre of attention, then there is hardly any advantage in localization; instead, there is a growing public apprehension about the principles that enable the justification of certain practices that may have been forbidden up until then. Could a Corsican PADDUC contribute to resolving these contradictions? A twenty-year development plan to boost the island’s economy, newly proposed by the Corsican executive, would declassify stretches of protected land to allow for more building. On the other hand, an economic development plan based on tourism would enable the local population to better understand and subscribe to the possible ‘sacrifices’ required of certain parts of the coastal area by letting them know what they could get in return. In fact,

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while granting heritage status to aspects of nature is a social construct that can hold good future prospects for some, it can also impose a number of individual sacrifices for the common good. These elements should be clearly discussed. The current project is satisfied with merely outlining a number of development principles and providing guidelines ‘to break the deadlock’ concerning certain aspects of the Coastal Law, without defining or discussing their usefulness or purpose. Moreover, this law falls within the spirit of ‘localization’ as mentioned previously, since it has the force of a territorial management directive. Therefore, the guidelines it proposes ‘should be assessed in terms of the size of the territory covered, taking into consideration all guidelines and recommendations’ (Pitron and Jolivet 2007: 41). In other words, the spirit and the letter of this document can justify practices otherwise considered illegal in the light of existing standards. There is, however, nothing new about this. The Council of State, the highest administrative organ in France with competence in this regard, has already validated this type of approach for the Maritime Alps (Code de l’environnement 2005). Likewise, in the distinction of the four categories of ‘coastal segments’ proposed by the PADDUC and perhaps initiating differentiated development in the future, one finds again a similarity with the spirit of the Territorial Management Directive of the Maritime Alps, which ‘distinguishes three different categories of coastal areas, requiring different planning and heritage management approaches: sensitive urbanized areas, challenging areas, and neutral areas’ (Pitron and Jolivet 2007: 43). Perhaps such a development can fuel a public debate if questions of value, utility and externalities are raised and openly considered. In the meantime, however, the situation remains socially tense and controversial, as the following example will illustrate.

Use Conflict: The ‘Bonifacio Battle’ Bonifacio is a city located at the extreme southern end of Corsica on a territory boasting incomparable natural wealth. While some areas have been designated as heritage sites (mainly through the actions of the Coastal Protection Agency), others have for quite some time been the focus of a desire for development catering for luxurious, upscale tourism.. Indeed, this site is a critical publicity brand for Corsica, as crafted and nurtured by the Corsica Tourism Agency. While recent elections have somewhat changed the nature of the situation, the framework of the city’s economic development plan is still set according to the local urban plan drawn up by the former mayor, which was approved on 13 July 2006. A local environmental defence association – Association Bonifacienne Comprendre et Défendre l’Environnement (ABCDE) – has criticized this

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document, stating that it opens up construction possibilities while disregarding major principles of the Coastal Law. The association lodged a complaint via the courts; this was referred to the Administrative Court of Bastia, which had rejected the appeal on 28 June 2007. The association continues to wage a campaign against building permits granted on this basis, while planning a show of force to avoid what it considers to be the illegal urbanization of the eastern coast of Bonifacio. This paradise-like place, which even today has hardly been built up at all, is not benefiting from any special protection measures other than classical urbanization rules. The building permit granted to Jacques Séguéla, a well-known advertising executive, has been the subject of legal wrangling initiated on the basis of Article L 146-4 of the Town Planning Code. Protestors claim that this construction has not been undertaken ‘in continuity with the existing conglomerations and villages or the new settlements integrated into the new environment’ (Code de l’urbanisme 2009). However, the Administrative Court of Bastia, having at one point suspended the building permit, reauthorized construction some months later (with a footprint of 568 square metres for a property spread over 21,000 hectares) considering that ‘written and oral explanations about goals pursued by zones liable to construction as established by the Local Town Planning of the municipality, as well as regulation prescriptions related to these constructible sectors, constitute new elements of the nature of removing the serious doubt that had weighed over the legality of the building permit delivered to the interested party’ (Conseil d’Etat 2008, n. p.). This sudden reversal, based only on an assessment of local town planning, is difficult to comprehend, even from a strictly legal point of view. Moreover, it has contributed to a revival of a conspiracy theory (Gil 1984) – the vision of a justice system dictated and controlled by a distant coterie of the rich and powerful – while stoking fears and concerns that certain privileged individuals ‘are buying up the island’ (Front Régionaliste Corse 1971, n. p.). In this difficult context, the ABCDE appealed this decision before the Council of State. The latter, on 11 July 2008, quashed the decision of the Administrative Court of Bastia, ratifying the suspension of the building permit on the basis of Article L146-4 of the Town Planning Code, which stipulates that ‘this property is located in a sector far removed from any built-up conglomeration, characterized by a scattered habitat and a very small number of constructions’ (Code de l’urbanisme 2009). The proposed Séguéla holiday home project has (for now) been scrapped (Chrisafis 2009). This case, handled according to a strict application of the Coastal Law, very likely illustrates ‘the incompleteness of the decentralization process’ (Melot et al. 2006) but questions even more the degree of social acceptance and the legitimacy of a standard that results in so many conflicts over urban planning decisions on coastal zones: almost twice the national average.

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Media coverage grew more negative in the framework of the preparation of the Corsican PADDUC. It has also led to a widespread rejection of any debate about economic development stemming from tourism and has reduced this industry to a caricature in the eyes of the public: the construction of luxurious and sprawling villas of and for mainland French billionaires, or more simply, the multiplication of secondary residences that are ‘sucking the lifeblood’ out of the island territory. This has contributed to a feeling of powerlessness over one’s own economic destiny. These and similar events bring to mind the words of a Corsican journalist, François Piétri, who as early as 1925 wrote that ‘Corsica’s future lies in tourism. Not only, but above all, in tourism’ (Ollandini 1990, n. p.). In another of his editorials, he also stated: ‘There are so many things to do … we really need a tourism policy’ (ibid.).

Conclusion Today, Corsica appears to be a well-preserved Mediterranean destination. Moreover, it bases much of its tourist attractiveness on its natural assets. As its communication strategy proclaims, the Corsica Tourism Agency hopes to promote the island as a ‘natural holiday reserve’. This dimension, constructed partially on the application of national standards, is not, however, emerging today. Unfolding case law is giving rise to a number of questions that prevent any modelling of the approach to sustainable development that should be taken. The implemented rules actually impose protection measures that ignore local concerns. Due to the vagueness of national standards, local authorities are transferred responsibility for the application and interpretation of rules, which are then often left to sectional interests. These inconsistencies can be found in the drafting of a local sustainable development plan that nonetheless continues to follow the course of institutional representation, without questioning whether the decision-making process is based on a participative approach. Can any local heritage and landscape planning in Corsica, with its significant economic and environmental implications, succeed without a transparent, accessible and shared consultative process? B AGRESTE. 2005a. ‘Des prix orientés à la hausse’, Agreste Haute-Corse, August. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: http://agreste.agriculture.gouv.fr/IMG/pdf/ D2B05A03.pdf ———. 2005b. ‘Le prix des terres agricoles en Corse du sud’, Agreste Haute-Corse, June. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: http://agreste.agriculture.gouv.fr/IMG/ pdf/D2A05A01.pdf

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Andreani, J.-L. 2006. Sole di Corsica. Paris: l’Aube Noire. Breton, J. M. 2004. Tourisme, environnement et aires protégées: Antilles-Guyane, Haïti, Québec. Paris: Karthala. Chrisafis, A. 2009. ‘Armed separatists and ecologists unite against fears of a paradise lost’, The Guardian (U.S.), 26 January. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: www .guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jan/26/corsica-development-campaign-protectcoastline Code de l’urbanisme. 2009. Paris: LexisNexis Litec. Collectivité territoriale de Corse. 2008. Projet de plan de développement durable de la Corse, June. Ajaccio: Collectivité territoriale de Corse. Commission Nationale du Débat Public. 2007. Port of Bastia, March. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: www.debatpublic.fr/docs//compte_rendu_-_debat_ public_bastia.pdf Conseil d’Etat. 2008. Arrêt n° 31-58-63, 11 July. Paris: Conseil d`Etat. Code de l’environnement. 2005. Comité de sauvegarde du Port-Vauban, Vieille Ville et Antibes Est. 27 July. Département Alpes-Maritimes. DATAR. 2004. Construire ensemble un développement équilibré du littoral. Paris: La Documentation Française. Eurostat. 2011. Tourism Statistics. Retrieved 11 July 2011 from: http://epp.eurostat .ec.europa.eu/portal/page/portal/tourism/data/main_tables Front Régionaliste Corse. 1971. Main basse sur une île. Paris: Jerôme Martineau. Furt, J.-M. and M. A. Maupertuis. 2006. ‘Le tourisme en Corse: retour sur une évolution naturelle’, in La Corse et le tourisme: 1755–1960. Ajaccio: Musée de la Corse and Albiana Editions, 329–338. Gerbaux, F. and E. George-Marcelpoil. 2004. ‘Vers une prise de conscience du problème de la gouvernance dans les stations de montagne,’ in Stations de montagne: vers quelle gouvernance? Actes de la conférence-débat, April. Chambéry: Editions Compact, 15–20. Gil, J. 1984. La Corse entre la liberté et la terreur. Paris: La Différence. Hervieu, B. and J. Viard. 2001. Au bonheur des campagnes (et des provinces). Paris: L’Aube. INSEE. 2005. Tableaux de l’economie Corse. Paris: National Institute of Statistics and Economic Studies. ———. 2007. Recensement Partiel de la Population, Ajaccio. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: http://recensement.insee.fr/chiffresCles.action?zoneSearchField= &codeZone=2A004-COM&idTheme=6 INSEE. 2009. Tableaux de l’economie Corse. Paris: National Institute of Statistics and Economic Studies. Loughlin, J. and F. Daftary.1999. Insular regions and European integration: Corsica and the Åland Islands compared. Flensburg, Germany: European Centre for Minority Issues. Martinetti, J. 2007. ‘Les tourments du tourisme sur l’île de beauté’, Herodote 27(4): 29–46. Maupertuis, M. A. and C. Vellutini. 2009. ‘Une Matrice de Comptabilité Sociale pour la Corse’, Revue d’Economie Régionale et Urbaine 5, 877–904.

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MEDDAT (Ministère de l’Ecologie et du Développement Durable). 2006. Planifier l’aménagement, la protection et la mise en valeur du littoral. July. Paris: MEDDAT. Melot, R., J.C. Paoli and M. Serinelli. 2006. ‘Conflits et règles d’utilisation des espaces littoraux: le cas de la Corse’, Communication 42e Colloque de l’ASRDLF12e Colloque du GRERBAM. Sfax, Tunisia: Association de Science Régionale de Langue Française, Groupe de Recherches sur les Espaces et les Réseaux du Bassin Méditerranéen.. Ollandini, F. (ed.). 1990. La Corse touristique: les éditoriaux de François Piétri 1924–1934. Paris: La Marge Editions. Pitron, F. and V. Jolivet. 2007. La gestion du littoral et des espaces marins. Paris: LGDJ. ———. 2005. Action plan for the Mediterranean: dossier on tourism and sustainable development in the Mediterranean sea (Blue Plan). Athens: UNEP. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: www.planbleu.org/indexUK.html Réseau des Grands Sites de France 2011. Iles Sanguinaires-Pointe de la Parata. Retrieved on 11 July 2011 from: http://www.grandsitedefrance.com/document .php?pagendx=244. Seguí Llinás, M. 1995. Les nouvelles Baléares: la rénovation d’un espace touristique mythique. Paris: L’Harmattan. Silvani, P. 1998. Enquête sur l’Or Bleu de la Corse. Paris: Éditions Albiana. UNEP (United Nations Environment Programme). 2006. The Mediterranean and its development dynamics. Section 1: The Mediterranean region: a unique but neglected heritage (Plan Bleu). Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: www.planbleu .org/red/pdf/partie1_uk.pdf Vourc'h, A. and J.-M. Natali. 2000. Sites naturels, contribution du tourisme à leur gestion et à leur entretien. Paris: Les Cahiers de l’AFIT (Agence Française de l’ingénierie touristique).

[ Chapter 6 ] Favignana, Italy ELEONORA CASSINELLI

Introduction One afternoon, some young local Favignana women invited me to join them at Marasolo Beach, a well known spot easily found by following the road signs from the main town. After meeting them, I was led a few hundred yards away to a secluded and not well known cove, just a few minutes’ walk from the main beach. We simply disappeared behind some rocks and found a quiet spot to bathe and relax away from the crowds. When I asked how they knew about that spot, they told me that the cove was the local ‘swimming pool’ where children learn to swim. Some days later on a boat tour, a guide led our group to another cove and invited us to swim into a small cave nearby, claiming that this location was secret, even if only a few hundred feet from a popular beach. On this and similar occasions, I experienced a glimpse of the ‘backstage’ of the island (MacCannell 1999): spots usually off the beaten track – sometimes literally so – and shown only to specific kinds of guests. These two events made me reflect on the possibility for locals to somehow hide places from the tourist gaze. Evidently, they were trying to manage their (very limited) space by deploying local knowledge in a differentiated manner, establishing informal hierarchies that ranged from fully open to inaccessible spaces. This chapter explores how maps help locals solve or mitigate conflicts over land use and overcrowding by hiding portions of the territory away from the tourist gaze. Maps direct visitors to specific places on the island that have been transformed into attractions, while other places, having been omitted from maps, are conceptually ‘fenced’ off and preserved for local use and therefore not accessible to outsiders. Local maps appear to be especially and craftily designed to achieve this purpose. In Favignana, it is up to the locals to decide whether, and to what degree, to share information about the island’s special areas with non-locals.

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The two coves I had the opportunity to visit were not altogether offlimits to strangers. However, they had to remain relatively unreachable so that locals could access them at will and remain certain that they would find them empty. In other words, we were shown a ‘backstage region that is open to outsiders’ (MacCannell 1999: 101), whose access is restricted, as in this case, just by the difficulty of reaching the spot. In Favignana, tourists usually decide upon their itineraries by asking other tourists or their hosts for advice, and they access those locations autonomously, either by bicycle or motorcycle. If they get lost, they can ask for directions, but until 2006 they could not rely on maps, as these were nowhere available. By 2008 the situation had changed, and almost every shop or bike rental outlet on Favignana had copies of a local map. Maps had become abundantly available, but notably, not all of them were the same. Below, I will describe and explain the design and use of maps on Favignana, the way they represent the island’s territory on the basis of the information given or withheld, and ultimately the issue of the purpose of maps within this context.

Location and Context to the Study I first set foot on the island of Favignana in August 2005 and have since spent a total of approximately four months on the island as a graduate student researching the impact of tourism. As a result of my inquisitive disposition, many locals thought that I was a journalist in disguise. I wish to believe that I was treated somehow differently, that the locals could see that I was not tanned like ‘normal’ tourists, and that I was not spending much time at the beach. I also visited the island during winter, partook in routine activities with the locals, and took the trouble to learn most of the local dialect. Nevertheless, it is quite possible that some information was, and still is, being deliberately hidden from me. Favignana is the main island of the Egadi Archipelago, a group of small islands off the west coast of Sicily, Italy. It has a surface of 7.3 square miles and a costal length of 20.5 miles. Favignana boasts a population of 4,383 (according to the 2007 census), but on any day during the mid-August peak of the summer season it can host up to 46,000, including residents, second home owners, and tourists. Favignana is twenty minutes by hydrofoil away from Trapani on mainland Sicily. Most tourists come to the island for a day trip, some spend a few days there and a few spend longer periods on the island or are returnees. Tourism first developed in the 1960s, when it appeared the only possible solution to the economic crisis that had brought traditional activities such

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as tuna fishing, mining and farming to a decline. Tourists were attracted by the beautiful sea, the beaches and the mattanza, the traditional tuna catching operation held every year in May; together, these have created a strong island brand. Tourism on Favignana developed in a fairly peculiar manner, compared to the typical development cycle theorized by Butler (1980). In the 1960s, when scuba divers discovered the seas around Favignana, the island had only one hotel, along with the Approdo di Ulisse (the Dock of Ulysses), a luxurious resort that catered for divers and sport lovers. In the 1970s the locals started renting private rooms to tourists, but by the 1990s there was still a shortage of accommodation due to a lack of hotels. Some locals recall that tourists sometimes had to sleep on the beach. By 2002 tourist accommodations consisted of three campsites, nine hotels and resorts, and hundreds of private houses, which were still insufficient to meet demand. But then, thanks to new building regulations, it became easier to obtain permission for new construction, resulting in a building boom. Hundreds of second homes, as well as new hotels, were built on what had been cultivated fields. By 2008 there were three campsites, thirteen hotels and two resorts, 2,318 second homes, a few bed and breakfasts, and plenty of rooms rented out by locals for short periods. Jobs in the building sector have risen sharply, and the local economy is now based on tourism and related construction. This development has also led to an increase in the availability of year-round jobs, mainly in the building sector. As one might expect, real estate values have skyrocketed. The development of tourism, especially because of its seasonal nature, has not arrested the out-migration process, but it has increased the wealth of those who continue to live on the island. Almost every family has at least a house to rent, and most islanders work during the summer as waiters, shopkeepers and renters of boats and bikes, generally catering for all tourist needs. This has resulted in a higher material standard of living for the island’s permanent residents.

Uses of Land in Past Times and Present Favignana has been populated since the eighth century  and has had a permanent population since the eighteenth century. Since 1640, the locals have been encouraged to cultivate the soil and gain food independence from the mainland. In order to create fields in the rocky terrain, the original wood cover was cleared and many dry-stone walls were built, shaping a new landscape. On the eastern side of the island, where water could be easily found, corn, tomatoes, cotton and oats were grown and harvested.

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Here in the subsoil, precious calc-tuff (or calc-tufa, a soft porous rock consisting of calcium carbonate deposited from springs rich in lime) exists in abundance. This excellent building material was mined along the coast and exported. On the western side, further away from the one main town, water was salty and farming difficult: there were only fichidindia (prickly pears) and areas suitable for cattle grazing. From the seventeenth to the start of the twentieth century, Favignana’s main economic activities consisted in agriculture, calc-tuff mining and tuna fishing. In recent years, thanks to the growing second homes market, land has appreciated in value and landowners prefer selling it to constructors rather than cultivating it. The land where the Approdo di Ulisse is located was sold in 1962 at the equivalent of €0.03 per square foot – compare this to the 2006 price tag of €300,000 (some U.S.$400,000) for a 650 square foot house with garden on the island’s western side, with better views of the sunset. Locals often would rather sell a plot of land or a house to a complete stranger than to a local because of the high incidence of social conflict: envy and conflicts, as noted by Satta (2001), are a common feature of small Italian villages. However, many plots and properties are now owned by foreigners, who can decide to build with little or no respect for traditional vernacular architectural styles. Only a few farmers still cultivate some vegetables; local products cover only a small percentage of local needs and the island must import everything, especially during summer. This has led to a general rise in the cost of living in Favignana, where prices are also increased by transport costs and by inflation caused by the tourist presence and demand. Despite the increasing cost of houses and the local planning document (piano regolatore) that prohibits the building of new houses in order to preserve the landscape, conservation measures have never been properly implemented as a result of the weak controls exercised by the local government. The high price of new houses and the expensive rents have increased the difficulties that young people face in continuing to stay and live on the island. Young local couples wanting to move in together manage to do so only if their families already own a house: the price of new apartments is so high that almost nobody can afford to buy one. There may be many second homes, but there are still areas where indigenous vegetation remains well preserved, such as in the mountainous wooded inland region. Locals spend time looking for edible wild herbs and plants (such as asparagus and borage) or for a range of specimens traditionally used as natural remedies (such as helichyrisium or the English marigold). In winter the locals perform a great variety of activities on the island territory, such as fishing and collecting mushrooms and seafood along the coast. Men hunt rabbits and other small animals, and in spring

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locals may occasionally be seen harvesting the edible buds from wild caper flowers. The latter are marinated in jars and widely sold to tourists during the summer, along with oregano. Locals know what is good to collect on the ground, and caves and mines, long abandoned, may themselves contain useful harvestable species. Tourism has led to a fast and wide change in the relation between the favignanesi and their environment. Not so long ago, locals had no mediation in the relationship with their island and its resources, as there were no official rules for fishing, hunting or collecting. Tourism and a new sensibility in the use of natural resources have imposed several top-down rules on the use of these resources. Since 1991 the sea surrounding the Egadi Archipelago has been declared a marine reserve, and some exploitative practices that used to take place in the sea around the islands are now limited, regulated or outright forbidden. Today, access to non-local boats is forbidden in some areas, and fishing and diving may also be prohibited. Moreover, in 1996 the regional government and the municipality declared the Egadi territory ‘of public interest’ and launched a series of regulations meant for landscape conservation (piano paesistico). The plan’s purpose is to protect the territory by imposing restrictions on the building of new houses. This regulation is, however, contested by local builders, who see it as working against their private interests.

‘They Are Stealing Our Island!’: Land Use Conflicts and Social Consequences of Tourism The number of people that stay on the island in summer is so conspicuous that the local inhabitants feel that the island has been completely taken over by tourists. In mid August 2006, just before Ferragosto (the traditional midsummer holiday), a 28-year-old baker told me, ‘Tourists are stealing our island; the island is not ours anymore.’ He was preparing for the three busiest days of the year, when thousands of people would come to celebrate Ferragosto on the island. He would have to work sixteen hours a day to bake enough bread. This feeling of loss, shared by many inhabitants, leads to a dual behaviour. During winter all the favignanesi wait for the summer and its promise of change, new friendships and encounters, and the possibility to work and make some substantial amounts of money. But when summer finally arrives, the locals hope the season ends as soon as possible. A fisher underlined this ambivalent feeling and the sharp division between the seasons, saying, ‘During winter, it is hard to believe that summer crowds actually exist; while in summer one forgets the winter silence.’

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As observed on other small islands (Pitto 1990) during the summer, favignanesi must stop all their normal activities in order to work for the tourists and ensure that there will be enough money for the winter season, when usually only one member of the family works. Opening hours are longer than usual and there is no closing day. People typically begin to work in June and have no days off until September. Locals rarely have time to enjoy the summer beauty of their island or go to the sea, and this situation enhances their feeling that they are losing control over the island. Indeed, we can observe an interesting ambivalence: locals are busy at work, while tourists are free to relax and move around.

Favignana Beaches The island is described to tourists as having the shape of a butterfly, being divided by a small mountain chain (the butterfly body) into two sides (the wings). Each wing is geologically distinct. Along the northeast coast where calc-tuff has been carved for centuries, the mines, which still bear the regular patterns left by mining tools, create a picturesque landscape unique in the Mediterranean Sea. This section of the island has no proper beaches because the coast is too high and steep, yet it hosts the most beautiful cove of the island, the Cala Rossa, a natural amphitheatre surrounded by a 60yard cliff of calc-tuff. In summer it is common to find several boats in this area; meanwhile, tourists coming by bicycle find their way to the water by walking among rocks and bushes. There are also other bathing spots where the calc-tuff was extracted in blocks and flat areas have been created: Scalo Cavallo, which is reachable via a steep set of steps, and Bue Marino are both now frequented by tourists in search of relaxing sites. Another well known cove, the Cala Azzurra, was created by two contiguous natural amphitheatres. Along the southeast section lies Lido Burrone, one of just two sandy beaches on the island, whose facilities include showers, deck chairs, a restaurant, a bar and parking space. Close to this sandy beach are other spots (Marasolo, Calamoni) with tiny coves and shallow waters. The only other sandy beach of the island is found in the port of Favignana, in the heart of the main town. On the west ‘wing’ of the island, called Il Bosco (the wood), the soil is made from a different kind of rock that has not been exploited for mining. The main bathing spot is Cala Rotonda, now the site of a tourist resort. Other bathing spots are Cala Grande, Pirreca and Puzzu, an area of swallow waters and rocks. The ‘last’ bathing spot on the island, the farthest from town, is Faraglioni: a small cove of rocks and sand protected from the strong sea currents of the area.

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Nine popular bathing spots, much frequented by tourists, are clearly defined and marked. Looking for something different is not considered an option since it is fairly easy to get lost on the island and there are no facilities outside the town (water or food), apart from the main beach of Lido Burrone. The short climb to the island peak of Monte Santa Caterina, which at 1,000 feet above sea level is also a lookout post, is the only non-marine excursion that tourists in good physical condition could consider. Most tourists rent bicycles or scooters to reach the few beaches scattered along the rocky coastline. (Public transport is infrequent and not so reliable.) Having one’s own means of transport allows more freedom to reach less crowded spots. It is quite rare for visitors to rent a car since the island is small and there are just a few paved roads; bikes or scooters are moreover much cheaper and can be parked anywhere. During summer it is rare to see anyone walking around the island because of the strong heat, lack of shade and absence of proper walking trails. It is Marettimo, a neighbouring island in the Egadi Archipelago, that offers walking tracks and a more hiker-friendly environment. The number and density of tourists found on Favignana is the key reason locals give to explain why they feel dispossessed of their island during summer. With tourists virtually able to move everywhere there could very well not be, in fact, a single area where local inhabitants could relax in relative solitude or perform some of their preferred activities – collecting herbs or shells, hunting, sunbathing and enjoying a beach alone or with their dog. But this is, perhaps surprisingly, not the case.

Looking for a Map During my field research in the winter of 2005, I noticed that in an island like Favignana, small enough to be visited in a day or circumnavigated by boat in a few hours, there were almost no available maps. I wished to have a map featuring all the small, unpaved roads and tracks on the island so that I could explore all the territory. I was certain also that there existed some mountain tracks, visible from the sea, that locals used on their hunting forays. I looked for a map at different newsagents and libraries and was told that the maps would be printed by the following summer. Yet when summer arrived, there were still no maps available. The national Istituto Geografico Militare (Military Geographical Institute) has been producing scale maps of the Italian territory since the nineteenth century. Its technical office did have a Favignana map, but I was told that this was not available to the public, even though IGM maps should be. By the summer of 2006 tourists could obtain Favignana maps only in the course of certain paid activities (like renting a boat or a car). Tourists

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renting a bike or a scooter were not given any map. The only two examples of a ‘public map’ were painted on tiles at the port and drawn on a panel in the main street (see Figure 6.2). The same map, drawn by a local artist, is protected by copyright. When the first print run was exhausted, no one had paid for the right to reproduce new copies, so for some time this map was no longer available. It was possible to find other maps on the island. In certain spots considered relevant by the regional parks authority there were panels measuring 6 feet by 3 feet that featured the island. These maps were restricted to the ‘main spots’ to the town, the main beaches, archaeological areas and caves, but they were not accurate enough to show exactly were these spots were and did not indicate any reference to the observer’s position. By the summer of 2008 many more maps were available to tourists, and almost every shop had its own map. I managed to collect twenty-five different maps of the island. These maps, designed exclusively for tourist purposes, show only information that can be useful to tourists, such as beaches, restaurants and accommodations. Since maps are representations of the territory, the information shown on these maps is that which the favignanesi deem useful to tourists. Any other information is excluded from these maps, so that tourists obtain only that information that the favignanesi wish to give them. At a more general level, this information gap between locals and guests raises a question about the role of communication and competing discourses about the small island territory between these two sets of social actors, the locals and the tourists. At the time of writing, there were still no publicly available official maps of Favignana, but only maps designed by locals explicitly for use by tourists. These maps play a significant role in establishing and communicating the island territory and its geographies to outsiders, and thus managing the use of its limited land and sea resources.

Analyses of Form and Practice In order to analyse how locals communicate their territory to strangers, maps will be considered in two ways. First is an exploration of how maps are designed, that is, how they depict notions of the rapport that the tourist is expected to have with the territory. Second is an analysis of how maps are used, or how social actors deploy maps in social interaction and ascribe meaning to them. The first approach could be defined as the study of the production of maps, the latter as the study of the consumption of maps. Taken together, they compose the cartographic equivalent of ‘the social life of things’ and the politics of value (Appadurai 1986).

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Maps can be used for the purpose of describing, examining and understanding the relation between the politics of land use and the semiotics of communication, between locals and tourists, between local power and the overbearing nature of the tourist gaze and presence. They are objects, taken as neutral and not disputable, that represent the land and objectify the relation between map drawers and map users. Maps embody the explicit knowledge of the territory that locals offer to tourists, thereby resigning themselves to its commodification. The tourists are thus effectively compelled to act in a certain way, having been presented with a particular version of the bounded island space in which they are free to roam and wander. As Cheong and Miller (2000: 381) have underlined, ‘tourists are power-bound and influenced by Foucauldian agents from the time they first seek information and make travel plans until they return home’. Maps are often drawn for a specific purpose and intended for a specific set of viewers. Since their nature as reified objects is less transient than speech and oral conversation, maps can also be more easily compared to each other, especially if pertaining to the same territory. Because of their qualities, maps may be examined in two ways, which Orlove (1991: 4) termed the ‘analysis of form’ and the ‘analysis of practice’. The analysis of form consists of an examination of geographical features along three dimensions: inclusion or exclusion of features, their classification, and the relationships between features. This kind of analysis examines a map in relation to the landscape it depicts and represents. It also considers the reasons for which a map may be used. In our case, the purpose could be to reach an attraction, find a beach, search for a service or a shop. The ensuing analysis hopes to address two questions: what is the real purpose of the map, and what were the designers trying to communicate to their imagined public of map users? Such an analysis of form also helps uncover the ways in which locals try to hide portions of their territory, showing only those features they believe to be suitable to a public of non-local users. As already pointed out by Harley (1988: 136) in fact omissions and ‘silences’ are as important as the features that maps depict and emphasize. The analysis of practice, in contrast, includes the users and the way they ‘look at’ maps. This second type of analysis shows how the two generalized images of the island (the one that locals have of their own island, and the one that tourists have through their experience) remain different and hardly intersect. In most cases, the purpose of the maps’ designers is fulfilled: the gaze of the tourist is directed towards specific scenes and characteristics, leaving other geographies of the island ‘tourist-free’. The following analysis will also attempt to include ‘spoken maps’, which are directions orally produced by locals and given to tourists for different reasons: to reach a place, to identify a specific location, to describe the island in general. Like the printed versions, these ‘oral maps’ contain

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similar characteristics of identification and deliberate exclusion and thus also serve a regulatory function. Maps, together with oral indications, are some of the few but key instruments designed and used by locals to somehow regulate access to their territory. This strategy is aimed at protecting the islanders’ privacy and intimacy without compromising their important tourism industry and its revenues.

Analysis of Form Maps are produced in a great variety of forms. Mainly designed to be easily handled and carried, they are usually folded and have a rectangular shape. Of the twenty-five different maps of Favignana I collected, one is a comicstyle drawing, one is composed of photographs of the island, two are very simple (featuring only the main streets), one has a ‘watercolour’ style and two do not even show the mountain. The island is usually coloured in yellow and the sea is blue. One map has the sea coloured in white, and one map uses just one colour for every detail of the map. All the maps look different, since each designer chose to underline different characteristics of the island: taxi companies focus on the tours that they offer; a hotel chooses to indicate bike itineraries. With the exception of maps drawn in guidebooks or magazines (4 out of 25), only three maps do not contain any form of advertisement. These are a map designed by the Marine Reserve, a map of island tracks produced thanks to European Union funding and a map produced by the tourist information office of the local commune. All the other maps (18 out of 25) are sponsored by local shops and framed by boxes containing ads. As a local informant suggested, locals tend to regard maps as content suitable to be framed by advertisements, which are themselves significant informative tools about the island’s economic services in relation to its territory. These eighteen maps were grouped in terms of the social actor who commissioned them. Four maps, each from a different group, were then chosen for further analysis. Number of Maps per Typology Three maps published in tourist guidebooks Five maps created by local government Two maps created by private associations Eight maps created by private companies (travel agencies and taxi/rental companies) Two maps created by tourist accommodation companies

Map Chosen M1: by the Marine Reserve (Figure 6.1) M2: 1994 map by Gustavo Bertolino (Figure 6.2) M3: by Taxi Blu (Figure 6.3) M4: by the Aegusa Hotel (Figure 6.4)

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Figure 6.1 Map of Favignana, Produced by the Marine Reserve Source: Marine Reserve Park.

Figure 6.2 Map of Favignana, Produced by Gustavo Bertolino Source: Gustavo Bertolino.

Figure 6.3 Map of Favignana, Produced by Taxi Blu Source: Taxi Blu.

Figure 6.4 Map of Favignana, Produced by the Aegusa Hotel Source: Aegusa Hotel.

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M1 and M3 do not provide the scale of the map. M2 does not respect proportions: the eastern part of the island is represented as much larger than it actually is and has much more detail than the western part, which is almost squeezed. M3 has probably been copied from M2, since it represents the eastern part of the island exactly in the same biased manner. Only one of the four maps (M3) displays the wind rose and some explanation of the regular winds that prevail on Favignana. This is because tourists are expected, and advised, to decide which side of the island to go to depending on the direction of the wind. The names of the places are written close to the place or linked to it by a line. Most of the names on M3 pertain to the coastline; the only notable non-coastal features shown are Monte Santa Caterina and the hamlet of Stornello on the western side of the island, and the area of the calc-tuff caves and one particular crossroads, La Madonnina, on the eastern side. The latter is useful because many locals refer to La Madonnina when giving directions. M2 also indicates two campsites. Three of the maps use symbols to indicate the attractions of the island: deck chairs or beach umbrellas for beaches (M4); stars for especially beautiful beaches (M2); red spots with flags or anchors for good diving spots (M1); and a zona archeologica sign on M2 to indicate the archaeological sites. The inland of the island is represented in different ways: M2 and M4 show several fields; while M1 and M3 display caves, trees and the mountain. M2 shows caves as images in the main picture. If M1 were the only available map, one would assume that there are only three calc-tuff quarries on the island; this is certainly not the case. Roads are featured on all four maps; but no map tells the reader whether roads are paved or made of gravel. M1 features the main roads, some of the minor roads and just a few footpaths that tourists have to use to reach the best beaches. M2 displays only main roads in the Piana, while Il Bosco shows only one road, parallel to the mountain, omitting the other main road, which leads to the lighthouse and a tourist resort. M3 does not differentiate main from minor roads: it is produced by a taxi company and displays its perspective: gravel roads are not displayed because they are not used by taxi vans. M4 features almost every road, even gravel tracks, and marks itineraries to reach the beaches by colour: tourists will chose which one to follow depending on the prevailing wind. All marked routes lead to the island’s beaches; only one route is designed to reach the lookout on the mountain. There are no road names on these four maps. Except for M1, all the maps feature the town of Favignana; but not a single one of these four maps contains any details of the town. Such places as the locations of boat rentals, town hall, churches, parking areas, gas station, banks, doctor’s office, police station and drug stores are not marked.

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Every map has some kind of illustration of the sea: there are dolphins, fishing boats, sailboats and a depiction of la mattanza, the area where the collective tuna fishing operation is supposed to take place. This characteristic makes these similar to ancient maps, where the sea, instead of being an empty blue space, was filled with known and mythical creatures. In the Favignana case, the sea is filled with everyday sea inhabitants (fishing boats and sailboats) or imagined/desired inhabitants (dolphins and the mattanza). Being on a map makes the mattanza more credible and more real. The map gives substance to an event that is nowadays practised mainly as a symbolic and cultural re-enactment. What is also noticeable in the maps is the different spelling used for places: Punta Longa or Punta Lunga, Pozzo dell’Alga or Puzzu, Cala Fumere or Cala Fumeri, Plaia or Praia. Some toponyms are very different: Cala Monaci or Cala Moni. The written toponyms probably derive from the transliteration of dialect words. Since every map has a different author, transliteration is not made following official phonetic rules but is rather based on the sound imagined by the author. The maps feature an average of eleven beaches each. Among these, we find the three beaches that supply tourist services (Lido Burrone; Plaia, which has a bar that rents deck chairs; and Cala Azzurra, which has a parking area and a café), one beach that is accessible via steps (Scalo Cavallo) and two coves accessible by tracks made by tourists (Cala Rossa and Pirreca). Other places along the coastline are marked and identified and thus could be construed by visitors as ‘beaches’: Marasolo, Calamoni, Cala Grande, Puzzo and Faraglioni. Other bathing places are clear in the mind maps of the favignanesi but are not found on real maps. These sites include Acque Calde (Hot Waters), the spot where the local power station discharges hot water from its cooling system directly into the sea; Cala Tuono along the South coast and the spot near Punta Lunga that I was taken to. There are probably many more.

Analysis of Practice The analysis of form has provided many clues that help to identify Favignana maps engaging with tourists as their implied viewers. This representational dynamic can be more fully understood through a complementary analysis of practice. This seeks to illustrate how the differences between locals’ and tourists’ understanding of space and place remain relatively fi xed and unchanged, allowing the locals to continue to exercise some ‘control’ over (some of ) their limited island territory.

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Within the limited literature that considers maps in the context of an analysis of practice, Toulmin (1953) sets out a distinction between route maps and general maps, while De Certeau (1984: 115–130) defines maps as ‘spatial stories’. More specific to islands, Péron (2004: 326–327) illustrates the differential portrayal of island maps by locals and visitors, and suggests reasons for this difference based on tacit knowledge. We return to the examination of our four maps. Some maps are clearly addressed to different kinds of (always non-local) users, since they have different purposes. M1, designed especially for those sailing around the island, incorporates depth markings and geographical coordinates in its depiction of the surrounding sea. M2 features several advertisements for restaurants, hotels, transfer companies, cafés and boat rentals but also a beauty centre, a hairdresser and a construction company: all of these are mainly, if not exclusively, directed at tourists. M3 features all the campsites, some hotels and residences; it promotes an island tour guided by a local fisher ‘whose family has belonged to the island for many generations’. On the back of this map, there are again several advertisements: four restaurants, a flower shop, an estate agent, a bakery, a butcher and (again) a construction company, the latter aiming to connect with the large number of tourists who have bought a plot of land on which to build a second home. Lastly, M4 indicates four routes; its back side contains advertisements (a bike rental, tourist services, a souvenir shop and a bakery) and the beaches to be chosen depending on the prevailing wind. Which practices are linked to the use of these maps? How do tourists obtain these maps? What is their explicit, and implicit, purpose? Tourists can obtain maps from a variety of sources. During the summer of 2008, some young island women were offering free maps at the port where tourists disembark, different travel agents organizing excursions provided maps, the local tourist information office offered free island maps, and other maps could be found in the shops that had contributed to the printing expenses. Alternatively, some tourists had a map of the island that had been printed in one of the guidebooks they had bought at the local newsagent. Tourists use the maps mainly during the day, to reach the beaches. There is no need to use a map in town as the village of Favignana is quite small and everybody can help locate anything by giving directions. At night there is no public lighting outside the town, so few people venture around by bike or on foot; the preferred way to travel at this time, if at all, is to hire a taxi. The absence of public lighting offers another good excuse to keep the tourists ‘gated’ within the only town, where they can spend their money in restaurants, cafés and souvenir shops. As one favignanese, Prospero Sanna, age 55, explains: ‘If it’s dark and there is nothing to do outside the village,

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tourists must spend their evenings strolling along the corso, buying souvenirs and sitting at the café, spending as much money as possible.’ Sometimes maps prove to be of little use: tourists get lost because their map does not report all the tracks existing on the territory and they cannot easily connect what they find on the maps with what they see in reality. In some cases, finding one’s way around is hampered by incorrect or misleading road signs. Some give directions but stop after a while, leaving tourists clueless as to what direction to take next; some signs indicate a direction but do not indicate when the place has been reached, as in the case of Cala Rossa, where it is impossible to understand that the right place has been reached because the sea is invisible and there is no sign indicating that one needs to follow a small path down to the coast. Many tourists just overshoot the exit point from the road. A couple of tourists whom I met in 2008 told me that they had tried to reach Cala Rossa, the most famous beach of the island, but gave up after three days. Some beaches are not signposted at all and visitors must rely on passersby for help. In such cases, the directions given may be easily misunderstood: locals have different reference points, not all of which a tourist may appreciate. Indeed, the locals sometimes give wrong directions on purpose, exacting a semblance of sweet revenge for the excessive tourist presence in this way. In May 2007 I was with a favignanese right in front of the access path to Cala Azzurra when some tourists stopped their car and asked if that path actually led to the Cala. The favignanese confirmed that it was right place, but then added – pointing to an off-limits sign and the fence – that the access was prohibited because there were works in progress. Once the tourists had left we got through the fence, and upon reaching the beach my colleague told me that, at least in May, he wanted the beach just for himself. Maps with poor information, misleading road signs and unclear (if not wrong) directions contribute to the little knowledge of the territory granted strategically to tourists, while local knowledge and locals’ ‘mind maps’, not written anywhere, remain veiled and carefully managed. Conflict over the use of the island territory is somehow solved or managed by allowing the tourists access only to certain areas, thus keeping them off other areas, determined a priori as being of scarce interest to visitors. Moreover, the locals also perform different hiding strategies. It is possible to distinguish among different degrees of secrecy for different places, to which access may be possible only for special categories of tourists. Those who pay for an island tour can be allowed to visit and bathe in a hidden bay, unknown by, or to, regular tourists, while those who stay on the island longer than just a few days are afforded privileged opportunities to discover new and better places. Cala Rotonda, for example, is described in a guide-

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book as ‘[o]ne of the most fascinating of the island, because is fairly well hidden and so not well known by those who stay on the island for only a day or two’ (Falcone and Nicotra 2002: 23). Declaring that there are opportunities to find new and better spots if one stays on Favignana for more than a few days reveals what may be the implicit purpose of the guidebooks (and of the locals): encouraging tourists to stay longer. Locals rank day-trippers as the least preferred visitors, as they leave the least money in the local economy. They prefer tourists who stay much longer or come back every year, since they are more likely to respect the island and it is easier to develop and cultivate long-term friendly relations with them.

Conclusion In order to protect their privacy, and as a reaction to an overbearing tourist presence, the favignanesi have developed some strategies to hide portions of their small, geographically delineated territory or even render them nonexistent. In spite of advances in information and communication technologies, including Google Earth and global positioning systems, the islanders remain the sole and proud custodians of specific locales, and of how to get to them. As Boissevain (1996: 14–18) has aptly commented, local people develop and nurture different strategies aimed at ‘protecting back regions’: preserving local culture, reinventing ritual, shielding their own privacy and generally reacting to the overwhelming impact of global tourism. They are far from being passive actors in the tourism industry, which they cannot afford to alienate. A strategy noticed by Annabel Black (1996: 127) in the neighbouring island of Malta – also characterized by few sandy beaches and a largely rocky coastline, just like Favignana – is the slight but crucial difference in the ways that locals and tourists use and consume the coastline. Most tourists, and some of the locals, head towards the sandy beaches in the north, which supply cafés, changing rooms, parasols and restaurants. Meanwhile, many locals are more adaptable and prefer frequenting the rocky (and cleaner) coastal areas located to the east, south and southwest, often as a way of escaping the ‘golden hordes’ of tourists (after Turner 1975). Different strategies of protection have been observed: they can include apathy, irritation, disillusionment, antagonism and outright xenophobia (e.g., Doxey 1976). More subtly, local cultural traits and events are hidden or fenced in order to preserve them from both the commoditization that tourism invariably brings, and the rampant ‘allochronism’ that represents

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locals – particularly those on island peripheries – as locked in a timeless, exotic and nostalgic ethnographic gaze (e.g., Herzfeld 1987; Heatherington 2001). In Favignana, fencing strategies are not aimed so much at protecting local culture from adulteration but rather at crafting some geographical privacy for the locals. The very availability and design of geographical maps can represent the symbolic and political struggles of the definition of (is)landscape. Maps and oral directions, including the use of the local dialect, help to keep the location, and very existence, of some places tacit, quiet and/or undiscovered. If it were not so, the definition, use and appropriation of such places would be contested with visitors, and the outcome of such an engagement would be a foregone conclusion. B Appadurai, A. 1986. The social life of things: Commodities in cultural perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Black, A. 1996. ‘Negotiating the tourist gaze: The example of Malta,’ in J. Boissevain (ed.), Coping with tourists: European reactions to mass tourism. Providence: Berghahn Books, 112–142. Boissevain, J. 1996. Coping with tourists: European reactions to mass tourism. Providence: Berghahn Books. Butler, R. W. 1980. ‘The concept of a tourist area cycle of evolution: Implications for management of resources’, The Canadian Geographer 24(1): 5–12. Cheong, S. and M. Miller. 2000. ‘Power and tourism: A Foucauldian observation’, Annals of Tourism Research 27(2): 371–390. De Certeau, M. 1984. The practice of everyday life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Doxey, G. V. 1976. ‘When enough’s enough: The natives are restless in Old Niagara’, Heritage Canada 2: 26–27. Falcone, R. and R. Nicotra. 2002. Egadi: Perle del Mediterraneo. Trapani, Sicily: Edizioni Affinità Elettive. Harley, J. B. 1988. ‘Maps, knowledge and power’, in D. Cosgrove and S. Daniels (eds), The iconography of landscape: Essays on the symbolic representation, design and use of past environments. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 277–312. Heatherington, T. 2001. ‘Ecology, alterity and resistance in Sardinia’, Social Anthropology 9(3): 289–306. Herzfeld, M. 1987. Anthropology through the looking glass: Critical ethnography in the margins of Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. MacCannell, D. 1999. The tourist: A new theory of the leisure class. Berkeley: University of California Press. Orlove, B. S. 1991. ‘Mapping and reading maps: The politics of representation in Lake Titicaca’, American Ethnologist 18(1): 3–38. Péron, F. 2004. ‘The contemporary lure of the island’, Tijdschrift voor Economische en Sociale Geografie 95(3): 326–339.

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Pitto, C. 1990. ‘Le metamorfosi di un’isola, continuità e conflitto a Stromboli’, Ricerca Folklorica 21(1): 69–74. Satta, G. 2001. Turisti a Orgosolo. Naples: Liguori Editore. Toulmin, S. 1953. The philosophy of science: An introduction. London: Hutchinson’s University Library. Turner, L. 1975. The golden hordes: International tourism and the pleasure periphery. London: Constable.

[ Chapter 7 ] Hawai‘i, USA LUCIANO MINERBI

Introduction Resource management in the Hawaiian Islands depends on colonial history, population dynamics, urbanization levels and globalization forces. The levels of enfranchisement and differing world views of newcomers to the islands and old-timers remain key factors. Legitimacy of jurisdiction, governance and land tenure may be challenged, leading to contentious land issues. These grievances need addressing to progress from contestation to shared principles. If population growth cannot be stopped, it can at least be managed by planning the size, density, location, phasing and type of development. A novel approach is to adopt ecological concepts and low-impact green design for those areas where development should occur, while protecting important ecological and cultural areas as ‘sanctuaries.’ Aside from the conventional zoning practices that can be used to deal with limited lands, additional tools include land exchanges among large public and private landowners and public land acquisition. Newer tools like transfer of development rights and land readjustment are needed. Taxation reform is required to make home and land ownership affordable to islanders. A system approach with benchmark indicators helps in calculating carrying capacities for island sustainability. Perceptions of place and space may differ among people, and sites have multifaceted values. However, ‘local’ ways of doing things endure because new cultures tend to be grafted onto the host culture. Familial attachment to the land remains strong among Hawaiians. Concepts like ‘taking care of the land’ are now better understood by others, as several interethnic environmental groups have demonstrated by working together. Partnerships and co-management arrangements among the public, private and community sectors for ‘place-based management’ are incorporating the traditional ahupua‘a (mountain-sea) district with the idea of the watershed.

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For planning to be effective in an island setting, it ought to evolve among people and stakeholders who recognize that they cannot escape each other and must therefore establish cooperative and non-exploitative symbiotic relationships in order to progress.

Institutional Setting for Land Use Planning The state of Hawai‘i must comply with the U.S. Constitution and all federal laws by allowing the free movement of goods, capital and people. It has four functioning counties, each with a strong mayor and council system, but no townships and no lower government level aside from the advisory neighbourhood boards of the city and county of Honolulu, and the community teams that advise on district development plans in the county of Hawai‘i (Minerbi 2001). Thus Hawai‘i does not have widespread local community home rule. Hawai‘i is renowned for the establishment, in 1961, of the first statewide land use planning system in the U.S., which divided all lands (except federal and military lands) into four districts: conservation (under the state), urban (under the county), agricultural and rural (both with joint state-county jurisdiction) (Hawai‘i Revised Statutes 2007b). The state formulates forecasts that are used by the counties to determine expected population changes throughout their own districts. General plans, development plans, zoning, capital improvement programming (CIP), infrastructure and hazard maps implement these distributions. But weak enforcement results in more people and housing on the ground than zoning would permit.

People’s Identity A sensible approach to people’s identity would embrace a sense of cultural continuity such that island residents know where they come from, where they are and where they are going. Paramount is the question of identity: who are we? There are many terms used to designate people in the islands, addressing ethnicity, race and place of origin. Thus a diverse ‘tapestry’ rather than a ‘melting pot’ best describes the multicultural population of the Hawaiian Islands. Diversity of class, ethnicity and race remains in education, employment, status, housing, settlement patterns, and use and ownership of lands (Okamura 2008). Dialogue among residents should help significantly to reduce these inequalities.

Conceptions of Place The meaning of place and use of space may differ between native Hawaiians and others. Sensitivity is required to understand the Hawaiian host culture.

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Emotional and familial attachment to the land is rooted in a Hawaiian creation myth that links people genealogically to the taro plant and the land, and calls for mālama (taking care of the land) with the corresponding kuleana (rights and responsibilities). This obligation remains strong among Hawaiians and is becoming better understood as interethnic volunteer groups for place protection flourish in the islands. Many places are important because they are wahi pana (noted, celebrated and storied places) and wahi kapu (sacred places) for Hawaiians. They are the dwelling places of the gods or of venerable disciples. They include temples, shrines, observation points, cliffs, mounds, mountains, weather occurrences, forests and volcanoes. They have mana (spiritual power) and tell the history of the Hawaiians, providing anchors and signifiers to identity, stability and well-being to the individual and to the extended family. They link people to the ‘aumākua (deified ancestor and guardian spirits), help practice pono (proper behaviour), and reflect the night-day and male-female dualism in the world (Kanahele 1991). Some Hawaiians claim access to lands for religious practices, which the U.S. Constitution protects. This adds complexity to planning decisions and relations with landowners (Minerbi 1998).

Place-based Management Efforts are under way to harmonize modern or Western watershed management science with the re-adoption of the ancient Hawaiian cultural and administrative model of the ahupua‘a, which is a district running from the mountain into the ocean, endowed with different ecological sub-zones due to variations in elevation and microclimate (McGregor et al. 1998; Minerbi 1999). This approach holds promise for integrating land and marine resource protection with place-based management. Hawaiian and local families, associated genealogically with particular places, can participate in community-based economic development (CBED) initiatives while engaged in natural resource management (NRM). Agencies in collaboration with the University of Hawai‘i are now providing more environmental best management practices (BMP), a welcome evolution from a previous topdown regulatory stance.

Land Agreements Partnership arrangements are emerging for programmes and project execution. These agreements are spelt out in memoranda of understanding (MOU) among government agencies, private landowners and community groups. Effective agreements are written in covenants to run with the land.

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They may address plan-making; watershed, stream, forest and ocean management; and cultural preservation. The state of Hawai‘i allows the counties, with other government entities, to enter into development agreements with those who have an interest in real property as an administrative act, to be filed in the Land Court or in the Bureau of Conveyance (Hawaii Revised Statutes 2007a: paragraphs 46–121). This statute enables developers who comply with the agreement to have their development rights ‘vested’.

Tax Revenue Sharing In 2005, state finances accounted for 82 per cent and local finances for 18 per cent of a total of U.S.$11 billion (DBEDT 2006). The major sources of state revenues are income tax and general excise tax (4 per cent). Major county revenues derive from property tax, as well as from federal revenues, grants or loans. When counties approve new development, land values increase, as does the tax burden for adjacent landowners. Taxation reform is a major priority so that the counties can receive a better share of state tax revenues.

Pressures on the Islands Population Dynamics The population density of the state of Hawai‘i was 189 persons per square mile in 2000, rising to 202 per square mile in 2007. This ranged within the archipelago from a high on the island of O‘ahu (with urban Honolulu) at 1,537 persons per square mile, to a low of 31 persons per square mile on Moloka‘i. Beyond Honolulu, the rest of the populated archipelago has sprawling suburban patterns, encroaching on open spaces and the rural character of the scenic landscape. Before Western contact, the Hawaiian population grew because of food production intensification via irrigated taro fields and fishpond technologies introduced in the 1500s (Kirch 1984; Kelly 1989). After Captain Cook’s visit in 1778, the Hawaiian population declined dramatically due to introduced diseases against which they had no natural immunity. From an estimated high of 300,000—if not a million, as claimed by Stannard (1989)—they reached a low of 23,723 people in 1920. But the population of those of Hawaiian ancestry has increased since, reaching currently a total of about 400,000 in the U.S., with 60 per cent in Hawai‘i and 40 per cent on the U.S. mainland. However, the number of Hawaiians in Hawai‘i (now around 240,000 out of a resident population of around 1.3 million) may be marginally decreasing as many move to the mainland U.S. in search of

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more affordable living conditions (DBEDT 2008; U.S. Census Bureau 2008). In the year 2000, ‘all Asians’ accounted for 39 per cent of the resident population, whites for 24 per cent, Japanese for 17 per cent, Filipinos for 14 per cent, Native Hawaiians for 7 per cent, and Chinese for 5 per cent, along with other, less represented, groups (DBEDT 2006: Table 1.38).

Population Movements and Migration Net migration accounted for 56 per cent of the overall civilian growth in 1970–1980 and for 48 per cent in both 1980–1990 and 1990–2000. Migrants comprised 6 per cent of Hawai‘i’s population in 1996. Of this segment of the population, domestic migrants comprised 5 per cent and foreign migrants 1 per cent. Hawai‘i’s population includes the military and their dependents, which are the most mobile segment. Domestic migration, reflecting a declining economy, shows a net loss of about 11,500 people between 2005 and 2006 (DBEDT 2008). But the population in Hawai‘i is growing and changing in ethnic composition, class, income and age. No single ethnic group commands a majority. Acculturation of newcomers to island ways is thus important to retain harmony.

Growth Differential in the Counties Since the year 2000 the fastest-growing county has been Hawai‘i (the Big Island), with a population growth of 14.7 per cent, followed by Maui with 10.3 per cent, Kaua‘i with 7.8 per cent, and Honolulu with 3.85 per cent. However, 71 per cent of the total population lives on the island of O‘ahu (Hao 2006; U. S. Census Bureau 2009). Tourism accounts for most of this growth, with its hotels, condominiums, time-shares, second homes, gentlemen’s estates and ranchettes. There are also bed and breakfasts (B&Bs), vacation rentals and corporate retreats (Minerbi 1996). These accommodations diversify the tourism sector, but many residents object to them because of their perceived adverse impact on the neighbourhood lifestyle and on escalating land prices. The controversy continues because of the difficulty of regulating these enterprises. Too often the resorts change ownership or even go bankrupt over time, creating great uncertainty amongst local communities. A number of resorts are now further expanding with massive million-dollar home subdivisions and annexed shopping centres, aggressively marketed off-island.

Household Income Hawai‘i’s median annual household income was $49,820 (versus the U.S. average of $41,994) in 2006. The median annual individual income was

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$21,525 (versus $21,587 for the U.S.). But in Hawai‘i the cost of living is 25 per cent higher than on the U.S. mainland, and the median house value of $529,700 is 2.8 times that of the mainland U.S. This is an amount that many people cannot afford, so they rent and live in overcrowded units, or join the ranks of the estimated 6,000 homeless. These live in shelters, streets, cars, donated buses and tents in beach parks, from where they are periodically evicted and move on to other sites.

Land Development The First Land Reform and an Enduring Land Oligopoly During the time of the kingdom of Hawai‘i, a land reform called the Great Māhele of 1848 divided the land among the king (crown lands), 245 chiefs, and the Hawaiian government, while establishing rights of private ownership and inheritance. However, the Māhele retained the customary rights of cultivation, access and gathering for the tenants on those lands. This provision, which runs with the deeds, has some legal standing today, since Hawaiian rights are protected by the constitution of the state of Hawai‘i. Under the Kuleana Act of 1850, 8,000 tenants were given only 30,000 acres (less than 1 per cent of the land). There was a limit to the number of acres per head of a family, which was adequate then but became increasingly less so for their descendants (Levy 1975: 4). Another act in 1865 made crown lands (the king’s private lands) inalienable, with a view to stopping their sale to foreigners. The ancient distribution of lands lasted up to the 1980s: the state and county with 35 per cent; the six largest private landowners with 23 per cent; the federal government with 7.3 per cent; private owners with more than 1,000 acres with 32.7 per cent; and other small owners with less than 5 per cent (Meller and Horwitz 1987: 32). While much land ended up in Westerners’ hands, some lands of the Hawaiian nobility remain in important private trusts for the betterment of people of Hawaiian ancestry. After the overthrow of the monarchy in 1893, the republic of Hawai‘i claimed all government and crown lands. In 1898, the republic transferred or ceded these Hawaiian kingdom government lands and crown lands, comprising approximately 1.8 million acres, to the United States upon annexation. Upon statehood, in the Admission Act of 1959, the U.S. government returned to the state of Hawai‘i about 1.4 million acres to be held in trust; 1.2 million acres were specifically impressed with five trust purposes, including ‘the betterment of the conditions of native Hawaiians’ (Crowell 2008). Some lands were set aside for Hawaiians by an act of the U.S. Congress in 1920, when it established the Department of Hawaiian Home Lands

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(DHHL) with the unfunded mandate to rehabilitate the Hawaiians (defined as those with 50 per cent or more Hawaiian blood, a policy still in place and considered by many Hawaiians to be divisive if not racist) by settling them in homesteads on 200,000 acres (mostly rocky, marginal lands with little or no water). The agency is well behind in its task; applicants on the waiting list are dying of old age before being awarded leases. By 2000, only 7,000 homestead leases had been awarded since the inception of the programme, with more than 31,000 applicants still waiting. The people of Hawai‘i expressed a desire to address Hawaiian claims by creating the Office of Hawaiian Affairs (OHA) in the 1978 Constitutional Convention. In 1980, Act 273 mandated that the OHA should receive 20 per cent of the revenues from the ceded lands to fund programmes for Hawaiians. While Hawaiians are split in terms of their support for and opposition to the OHA, eligible Hawaiians should obtain, more rapidly than in the past, affordable homes and leases on DHHL lands, as long as the OHA (which is land poor) and the DHHL (which is cash poor) collaborate in joint programmes to leverage their assets. Currently, the OHA has extended a grant to cover the debt service for thirty years for up to $40 million in revenue bonds for the DHHL construction budget. The OHA is also acquiring lands to perpetuate Hawaiian culture and protect island resources, thus reassembling a Hawaiian land base.

Intergovernmental Conflicts The above facts are more than historical footnotes. In January 2008 the Hawai‘i Supreme Court issued a unanimous decision declaring that the state of Hawai‘i is prohibited from alienating any ceded lands until the claims of the native Hawaiian people to those lands are resolved. This ruling came about because the state of Hawai‘i was poised to transfer two parcels of ceded lands to private developers to build housing, in spite of opposition by the OHA (Crowell 2008). The state of Hawai‘i administration appealed this matter all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, which overturned the state supreme court decision in March 2009 and sent the case back to the state courts (Altonn and Kakesako 2009). The ruling confirmed that because the state has free and clear title to the land, it can sell it. However, in anticipation of that ruling, the Hawaiian Senate unanimously passed a bill in 2009 limiting the sale of the ceded lands by requiring a twothirds vote by the legislature before the sale of any state lands, given strong public sentiment against alienating state lands (Sample 2009). Different administrations of the state of Hawai‘i have behaved in ambivalent ways towards Hawaiians over the years, supporting or opposing them depending on issues and circumstances. Sometimes the Supreme Court of the state of

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Hawai‘i has defended Hawaiian indigenous rights. Thus, current land planning cannot ignore those Hawaiian rights that are referred to in the state’s constitutional convention, in Supreme Court decisions, in acts of the U.S. Congress, and in the State of Hawai‘i Revised Statutes (HRS).

Large Private Landowners and Speculative Rezoning Large private landholding accounted for almost one million acres, or 23.8 per cent of the total land area of 4,110,966 acres in Hawai‘i, in 2000. The result of such land concentration is that too many people can access lands only as lessees or tenants. Upon lease renegotiation landowners are free to increase the lease price, often displacing residents or businesses from their location. But residential lessees won the right to buy the land under their houses, thanks to the Hawai‘i Land Reform legislation of 1967, which permitted the use of public eminent domain to break up large landholdings (Cooper and Daws 1985). The U.S. Supreme Court in 1984 upheld this land reform as constitutional because it was serving the public purpose of expanding homeownership. Large landowners are pressing for development mainly in Central and West O‘ahu. These areas have been rezoned as urban, in spite of being the best agricultural lands in the state. Kīhei on Maui is growing rapidly with tourism development. The Big Island of Hawai‘i is expanding the district of Kona on the west side with massive luxury subdivisions. Pressure on the agricultural district for speculative suburbanization occurs because proponents see this district only as a reservoir of urban land, not as an area for farming and open-space services. There are two proposals to keep 48 per cent of the land of the state in the conservation district while at the same time reducing the size of the agricultural district to only 17 per cent so that the rest, 35 per cent, can be urbanized. Both proposals open up the islands to massive development; the difference between the two is who would be the main arbiter, the state or the county (Ferguson et al. 1990). This is a persistent home rule turf war. Pressure for these proposals comes from developers and speculators who can reap great profits with rezoning and real estate transactions, even if housing is not built in a timely manner. Within Honolulu’s urban districts, there are neighbourhoods zoned highrise or medium-rise, with small parcels occupied by single-family homes or walk-up apartments that are not built up to the zoning levels permitted by the city and county of Honolulu. The needed tool is land readjustment (LR) to allow for the formation of temporary and voluntary small landowner associations for land assembly and for coordinated infrastructure placement (Minerbi 1985, 1987). The other tool is transfer of development rights (TDR), to direct development into desired locations and away from sensi-

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tive areas, by taking care of windfalls and wipeouts impacting landowners. By minimizing inequities among them, a desirable master plan is more likely to be implemented. LR does not have a state-enabling act, and TDR is mentioned in the statutes but has had very limited use.

Economic Growth and Employment The engine of economic growth is investment in land: keeping land for speculation until rezoning from conservation or agriculture to urban or resort is secured, or using loopholes to develop premier estates on agriculturally zoned lands. Suburbanization of agriculturally zoned land happens on a massive scale. The typical sequence is to build a golf course on agricultural land, obtain rezoning for a resort, build the hotel, manage the hotel and attract tourists, build some upscale apartments and housing nearby and later on further expand the project with massive luxury subdivisions. This development is brought about by the tourism, real estate, and construction industries, with many tourists becoming repeat visitors, seasonal part-time residents and eventually full-time residents (Minerbi 1991, 1996, 2007a). Hawai‘i provides 987 hotels and 232 condominiums in its many resorts for a total of 72,500 units and was visited by 9 million tourists in 2006. They stayed an average of nine days, with a median of seven days. The average number of visitors per day was 187,600 in the same year, equivalent to the population of a town (DBEDT 2006). What makes this development possible is foreign investment. When the sugar and pineapple plantations declined, their large lands and water irrigation assets were bought up by foreign companies and estates to be subdivided and developed into luxury subdivisions years later. New fences and gates came up, separating local residents from their customary access to the mountains and the sea, a serious encroachment on the traditional lifestyle of islanders. The upscale real estate marketing outside Hawai‘i results in increased prices, putting land out of the reach of the majority of the islands’ residents. The increase in property values in turn raises property taxes to unaffordable levels, unless tax ‘circuit breakers’ for senior and moderate-income residents are in place and periodically updated. In 2007, out of an estimated population of close to 1.3 million, the Hawaiian civilian labour force was 646,000. Of these, only 6,500 are engaged in agriculture-related employment; 122,000 are employed with the federal, state, or local governments. The job count was 109,800 in leisure and hospitality; 30,500 in financial activities (including real estate) and 39,000 in natural resources, mining and construction (DBEDT 2007). The prevalence of jobs in tourism, construction, real estate and the public sector, coupled with the volatility of these areas, are key indicators of the need for Hawai‘i’s economy to diversify. The Gross State Product (GSP) in 2006 was

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$13 billion; visitors’ expenditures were $14 billion; household income was $7 billion; and state and county revenues were $1.3 billion (DBEDT 2006). Research is needed to reconcile these figures to account for the dollar leakage outside the state.

Land for Business Development and International Trade As the population reaches critical threshold levels, there is an increased need for buildings, infrastructures and facilities, including industrial parks, ports, airports, garbage-to-energy conversion plants, sanitary landfills, sewage and treatment plants, etc. (Minerbi 1977). This requires micro- and mixed-use zoning suitable for the ecology and the small size of the islands. New development should factor in programmes for displacement minimization and planned relocation of residents and businesses (Minerbi 1980). In the 1980s, due to lack of the foresight to plan for compact urban densities and appropriate design and amenity standards, low-density suburbanization sprawled, resulting in the loss of agricultural lands and open space on O‘ahu. Out of a total of 292,000 dwelling units on this island in 1998, single-family dwelling units accounted for 52 per cent, low-density multifamily units for 8 per cent and high-density multifamily housing for 39 per cent (DBEDT 2006). Because of the decline of the sugar and pineapple industries, the rise of gasoline prices and Hawai‘i’s great dependency on imported oil and gasoline, there is some impetus to use idle agricultural lands to produce biofuel for local consumption and export. Three large landowners and the Hawai‘i Electric Company have laid their sights on 480,000 acres of agricultural lands suitable for such purposes (Reyes 2006).

Identification of Environmental/Natural and Cultural Assets In the 1800s, plantation managers protected forests and watersheds that supplied rainfall to irrigate sugar and pineapple plantations as well as ranches. Ditches and reservoirs diverted water from the windward sides of the islands away from valleys with perennial stream flows to the central and leeward areas. These diversions impaired stream life and deprived Hawaiians of adequate fresh stream water for irrigation of their wet taro fields. This was a major factor in the displacement of Hawaiians from their family lands and subsistence economy.

Natural Resource Management by the State The Department of Land and Natural Resources (DLNR) manages 2 million acres of public and private lands in the conservation districts with five sub-

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zones (protective, limited, resources, general and special) ranging from the greatest to least degree of protection. These sub-zones identify certain land uses allowed by discretionary permits. Both major and minor permits are available: the major ones require environmental impact statements (EISs) and/or public hearings; the minor ones are processed administratively. DLNR operates eight divisions addressing land, water and coastal zone resources, pertinent infrastructures, and historical, cultural and architectural resources. DLNR administers the Kaho‘olawe Island Reserve (to be held in trust for a future native Hawaiian sovereign entity) and the Island Burial Councils (which deal with known Hawaiian human remains). It has also administered Natural Area Reserves since 1971 and the Water Code since 1987. DLNR operates via an appointed Board of Land and Natural Resources (BLNR). This bureaucracy does not have adequate resources to manage such a large territory on many islands, so staffing for enforcement remains a problem. The alternatives of creating partnerships and deputizing citizens need serious consideration. Families and grass-roots groups connected with the ahupua‘a could become caretakers of sensitive places, thus gaining opportunities for community-based economic development (CBED) (Minerbi 1999). Examples include a local organization taking care of Ulupō Heiau in the Kawainui marsh on O‘ahu, and another one managing a beach in Ho‘okena, Hawai‘i, delegated by the county.

Hawaiian Conservation Values Hawaiian conservation values and practices include faith and respect for nature; knowledge of what is prohibited and what is free from restrictions; knowledge of the natural world and ability to live off the land and the ocean; aloha ‘āina, or love of the land that feeds you; and lokāhi, or unity, balance and harmony with one another, and with the extended family, projected back into the past, the future and the wider universe (Burrows 1989). Hawaiians regard the ahupua‘a as the viable unit for cultural and natural resource management. They feel that natural elements are closely interconnected and fresh water is the essence of life. Mālama (caring) and stewardship with environmental ancestral knowledge are still essential today. Thus wahi pana; stream and springs; shoreline, reefs, near-shore and off-shore ocean; forests; domains of ‘aumākua; and trails and dirt roads are all key cultural and natural landscape components (McGregor 1966: 18). Now the state requires a cultural assessment chapter in project evaluations such as in the EIS. Good guidelines on how to perform a cultural assessment are available from the Office of Environmental Quality Control (OEQC), which oversees the preparation and approval of these documents. However, they

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are not yet adopted as that office’s administrative rules, so unfortunately they are not yet enforceable. Hawaiian planners advocate an indigenous planning process in which people of the place, particularly the Hawaiian kūpuna (respected elderly), are consulted in development project evaluation and in designing mitigation measures because they live there, or because they have ties and standing with a place because of genealogical lines, contributing to the protection of the sites (McGregor et al. 2002; Freitas et al. 2008). An appropriate description of the historical, cultural and rural character of the Hawaiian landscape in planning documents can be better secured achieved by analysing old and contemporary maps. These would include descriptions of places by early visitors, summaries of oral history told by the people of the locality, involvement of these people in participatory mapping, and linkage of landscape depictions to maps to explain the meaning of the original Hawaiian place names and the pertinent evocative chants, legends or stories that are often linked to deities, chiefs, commoners, and features and phenomena of natural resources. All this should be done in addition to the title search that documents the chain of land ownership since the Hawaiian kingdom era.

Use Conflict: Procedures Native Hawaiian and local groups have been involved in land struggles, particularly in the rural and coastal areas where development adversely impacts on the integrity of the natural environment and indigenous lifestyles, traditions, customs and practices. Other events are precipitated by alleged government mismanagement or breach of trust. Many issues involve land ownership and use, access to private lands and management of both ceded lands and Hawaiian homelands. The struggle involves outright eviction, physical displacement, economic dislocation, cultural debasement and disrespect of Hawaiian rights. These conflicts are precipitated by decisions external to local communities, so more home rule would help. The resulting physical and emotional stress has implications for the good health, safety and welfare of native Hawaiians and local people who have divergent values from those of developers. When living conditions are such that family life becomes dysfunctional, people are economically marginalized, households become crowded or families are made homeless because of evictions, then tensions and conflicts arise and family violence may occur (Minerbi 1994c). Many Hawaiians protested U.S. annexation, submitting grievances abroad and at home. In 1993 the Ho‘okolokolonui Kanaka Maoli People’s International Tribunal in Hawai‘i collected testimony on

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land conflicts (The Tribunal 1993). Even the U.S. Congress issued a formal apology to Native Hawaiians, in a joint resolution on behalf of the U.S., for the illegal overthrow of the kingdom of Hawai‘i that occurred on 17 January 1893 (U.S. Congress 1993). This apology supports efforts at reconciliation and is one context within which civic society looks for resolutions to the Hawaiian governance and land question.

Typology of Grass-roots Land Conflicts Native Hawaiian and other groups often attempt to protect ancient religious and burial sites, sacred places and land-to-ocean natural resources. They promote cultural restoration projects, the perpetuation of a rural lifestyle, taro cultivation, gathering and fishing practices, and CBD (Matsuoka et al. 1998). An analysis of eighty-six land struggles in the islands conducted by ethnic coalitions of residents between 1973 and 1993 shows site-specific events that involved interwoven issues: land ownership, land use conflicts, cultural practices, political empowerment and neighbourhood or ethnic betterment (Minerbi 1994b). The Nukoli‘i case on Kaua‘i of 1974 is an exemplary case of opposing the top-down state and county planning process for the development of a popular coastal area, with onsite demonstrations and appeals to the courts, and a voters’ initiative against the project. However, the developer’s superior resources and the subsequent devastating impact on the economy brought by Hurricane Iniki in 1992 resulted in the developer wining in the end with a pro-resort counter-initiative. The geothermal case in 1985 of the Wao Kele o Puna on the island of Hawai‘i is significant in the persistence of Hawaiian grass-roots group actions that ultimately led to government responses. The protection of the Hawaiian religion and the forest of the volcano goddess Pele gained support even among non-Hawaiians. The actions moved on two fronts: the planning and legal system (up to the U.S. Supreme Court), and grass-roots activities on the site. The project was halted for many years. In 2007 the OHA and the federal government bought the property, facilitated by a Community Land Trust (CLT) to preserve in perpetuity this natural forest sacred to the Hawaiian Pele cult (Thompson 2007). But it was the reclamation of the island of Kaho‘olawe in 1974 as a Hawaiian wahi pana from military air and naval bombing practices that showed the stamina of a small native Hawaiian group made up of elders and youth acting to restore their land as a place of refuge (Minerbi 1994a; 1994b). Their persistence resulted in U.S. President George Bush Sr halting the bombing in 1990, and the U.S. Congress establishing a Conveyance

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Commission to partially clean up the ordnance and return the island to the state of Hawai‘i and a future Hawaiian Nation government. Sacredness of place leads some Hawaiians to oppose the development of astronomical observatories on the top of the Mauna Kea and Haleakalā volcanoes (Minerbi 1998). The evocative image of pu‘uhonua (place of refuge and sanctuary) has been advocated by some Hawaiians in support of the federal government’s establishment in 2006 of the Northern Hawaiian Islands Marine National Monument, encompassing nearly 140,000 square miles, as a major environmental sanctuary. In 2008 some Hawaiian groups occupied ‘Iolani Palace, a key symbol of the Hawaiian kingdom’s government in downtown Honolulu, taking the state and county to task for the way they were dealing with them.

Use Conflicts: Cases Private settlement agreements involving native Hawaiian groups and developers occur on all islands. Conflicts often revolve around tourism-related projects. The agreements exact from the developer needed facilities, public access, employee housing, protection of archaeological sites or traditional gathering practices, or water and sewage needs. These agreements produce diverse assessments: some see them as victories in which the community has made its voice heard; others see them as selling out, accepting an unwanted project in return for ‘crumbs from the table’ of the more powerful developers. Settlements are a last chance for community groups to exact concessions. They are also a necessary follow-up to developers’ unilateral agreements with the government that have previously failed to meet community demands. Sometimes agreements result from courtroom proceedings and are the outcome of consent decrees issued by judges to remedy obvious environmental damages such as pollution (Minerbi 1991). Early settlement agreements exacted minor concessions from developers, ranging from a few thousand dollars to half a million dollars for supporting small community projects. But more recently, two famous cases greatly increased the stakes for developers and communities: West Moloka‘i and Hōkūli‘a.

West Moloka‘i On West Moloka‘i (population 7,000; unemployment 7 per cent), the owner of the 64,000-acre Moloka‘i Ranch and Moloka‘i Properties, Inc. and a group of Moloka‘i residents, many Hawaiians, entered into an unprecedented

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major quid pro quo by which a community land trust would be set up to own, manage and lease 85 per cent of the land for open space, conservation and agriculture (Minerbi 2007b). In exchange, the community group would support the ranch in its development of 500 acres at the pristine Lā‘au Point with 200 luxury home sites in the $0.5 million to $1 million price range. The home sales would underwrite the expenses for renovation of the Kaluako‘i Resort, closed since the year 2000. While the CLT deal was an attractive prospect, opposition to the project emerged because of the importance of Lā‘au Point’s cultural, subsistence and scenic resources. There was also concern about water diversion from Hawaiian homesteads and from farming, as well as about the development’s encroachment on Penguin Bank, a shallow fish hatchery off the coast. The deal was called off, the ranch closed operation, 120 jobs were lost and the land was declared off-limits by the ranch in 2008. The Moloka‘i Community Service Council (MKSC) is hoping that some U.S. mainland conservation group may help to buy out the ranch, or that the county of Maui will exercise eminent domain due to the environmental mismanagement that is alleged, and sell the land back to the MKSC (Gomes 2008; Pala 2008).

Hōkūli‘a The case of Hōkūli‘a resulted in a settlement of millions of dollars, revealing escalation of the conflict and of the sophistication of both sides’ legal and negotiating skills. Of note is the fact that a state court eventually approved this agreement in October 2008. The Hōkūli‘a project consisted of 200 luxury homes on 1,550 acres in the Kona District on the island of Hawai‘i. The county approved this project, but the state of Hawai‘i did not. A grass-roots community group, Protect Keopuka ‘Ohana, initiated a lawsuit alleging that this project was being illegally built within the agricultural district without first obtaining a rezoning to urban district at the state level. A circuit court judge agreed and halted the project in 2003 until reclassification by the state land use commission (LUC) from agricultural to urban district was executed. The developer appealed this ruling to the State Supreme Court. In 2005, 150 lot owners filed litigation in the federal and state courts against the state, the county and others for deprivation of their property rights. A U.S. district judge dismissed the federal lawsuit. In the meantime, the parties came to a substantial settlement agreement involving the provision of 168 affordable homes, a pledge of $2 million over five years to a nonprofit foundation, and the building of a needed connector road. The settlement was prompted by the state legislature’s threat to pass a bill to legalize such projects in spite of the courts’ ruling, because of the existence statewide of hundreds of other older subdivisions built on agricul-

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turally zoned lands without state approval (Dayton 2006). The settlement guarantees protection of Hawaiian burials, a Hawaiian trail and other cultural matters. It also provides the foundation with 1.75 per cent of revenue from lot sales ($12m), 0.25 per cent of resale revenues, reimbursement to the county of Hawai‘i for adjacent land ($34m), donations ($1.2m) and the promise to build 168 affordable homes. Changes to the project included reducing the number of housing lots, eliminating a lodge and protecting cultural and park resources. By approving this settlement, worth $50 million in community benefits, the state judge reversed his previous ruling, allowing the development to proceed provided it would obtain rezoning to rural district designation by the state (Thomson 2006). However, in 2010 the developer’s attempt to sell the Hōkūli‘a project prompted the county to sue for breach of contract for not building the connector road (Cook Lauer 2010). This is another case revealing the difficulty of enforcing agreements when a property changes hands.

Public Land Acquisitions Public land acquisition of pristine or critical agricultural and park areas has been an occasional practice in the past by the executive and legislative branch of the state or the county, such as the state’s acquisition of Kahana Valley on O‘ahu in 1965 to protect it from private development, to avoid eviction of residents and to establish a 5,000-acre State Cultural Living Park in 1993. Another state public land acquisition in 1977 in Waiāhole Valley stopped urban development to protect taro farmers, water rights and open space. The city and county of Honolulu acquired the lands of Makapu‘u Point and Sandy Beach to establish the Kaiwi Park in 1996. These exercises of public eminent domain with compensation were prompted by grass-roots political pressure from the locality, which gained support from the general public so that lobbying for action at the state or county level was effective. In 2006 the State of Hawai‘i Legislature established the Legacy Land Conservation Program (LLCP), which provides a sustained revolving fund to acquire valuable cultural and natural land resources. It operates via a commission that receives requests and makes determinations as to what to acquire. About $5 million was used to acquire lands worth $25 million, such as an ahupua‘a of 196 acres on Moloka‘i at Kawaikapu, miles of shoreline lands on the Big Island, 20.5 acres next to Kīlauea National Wildlife Refuge on Kaua‘i, 129 acres in southeast Maui, 550 acres at Kawa Bay on the Big Island and more. The money comes from a portion of the state conveyance tax applied to the sale of expensive homes and may be matched by

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private donations. The protected lands of cultural and scenic values include shoreline, wildlife refuges and wetlands (Honolulu Star Bulletin 2008).

Other Land Acquisitions In 2006 the OHA made several purchases of lands deemed significant to native Hawaiians, such as the Wao Kele O Puna sacred forest on the Big Island and the Waimea Valley on O‘ahu. The acquisition of Waimea for $14 million was realized by the OHA’s collaboration with other state agencies, the governor’s office, the U.S. government and the Trust for Public Land. The valley, valuable for cultural and natural assets, is managed by a community organization. In January 2008 the state governor proposed a public, private and community partnership to buy the 850-acre Turtle Bay Resort on O‘ahu’s North Shore from a corporation that faced a foreclosure lawsuit and was attempting to revamp an old unilateral agreement from 1986. Envisioning a resort expansion plan for five hotels, including 3,500 more rooms and condominiums, the agreement had been approved by the city and the state but had remained dormant for decades (Honolulu Advertiser 2010). This resort already has 443 rooms and two golf courses. The governor made the surprising proposal to acquire the resort and thereby save these five miles of coastline from overdevelopment, maintaining the area’s rural character (Lingle 2008).

Government Exempts Itself from EIS It is quite disconcerting that all levels of government have exempted or have attempted to exempt themselves from complying with EIS obligations. A community request to have a new EIS statement prepared for the Turtle Bay expansion to account for the changes that had occurred over time in that locality was rejected by the county planners and was also dismissed by the state circuit court in 2007, allowing the company to proceed with its plan. But the State of Hawai‘i Supreme Court overruled the circuit court in 2010, stating that a new supplemental EIS was required because of the changed conditions regarding the project over twenty-five years and because of the company’s failure to comply with the original time frame for development (Agular and Gomes 2010). Federal and state governments alike have also exempted themselves from conducting an EIS. In February 2005 the state allowed the inter-island Super-ferry project to operate without an EIS. In August 2007 the State of Hawai‘i Supreme Court ruled in favour of the EIS requirement and overturned the previous decision. The state legislature, in a special session in

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October 2007, circumvented the court’s decision by passing Act 2, a law to allow the ferry to continue to operate while the EIS was being conducted. Environmental groups appealed to the courts, contending that Act 2, defended by the state, was unconstitutional (Kobayashi 2008). Finally, in March 2009 the State Supreme Court overturned Act 2 as unconstitutional because it favoured a single business. This effectively shut down the Superferry operation. In 1990 federal dollars funded the construction of the H-3 Freeway through a pristine valley, which encroached on and destroyed Hawaiian sites along the way and tunneled through a mountain, ostensibly to connect two military bases on opposite sides of the island: Pearl Harbour Naval Base and the Kaneohe Marine Base. This highway was not a public transit solution to the pressing need to decrease traffic congestion between urban Honolulu and suburban central O‘ahu and Ewa Districts, but it poured millions of dollars into the construction industry. A powerful senator from Hawai‘i managed to have the U.S. Congress exempt the project from a federal EIS to expedite its implementation.

Conclusion Consensual Planning for Place-based Management Decision makers in Hawai‘i must contend with different community perspectives on land and resources that find expression in currents and counter-currents leading to dissent and resistance. Hawaiians and others can challenge the legitimacy of governance and clear title to land because of the colonial history of the islands, which went from an independent kingdom to a republic and then to a U.S. state. The merit and the right to proceed may be questioned and delayed; a project may be redesigned or stopped altogether. Land use grievances are ignored at peril because they do not fade away but are debated in the media and carried on in street demonstrations, land occupations and lawsuits in the courts. Planning in the islands needs to address these issues and move from contestation to shared principles. It is hoped that a more mutually tolerant planning approach will develop among island people who recognize the inevitability of establishing nonexploitative symbiotic relationships with each other and with the fragile island environment that sustains them. This can happen when consensual planning acculturates newcomers to old-timers, recognizing that the Western and Asian cultures are layered onto a Hawaiian host culture, evolving into a ‘local’ culture with its own ways of socializing and doing things. Use of space must recognize that place may have different meanings; thus dialogue and shared experience of a locality by different people involved in

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communal projects helps to promote mutual understanding and co-management solutions. Opportunities to engage in projects linking recreation to resource enhancement by adopting ahupua‘a and watersheds are positive ways to promote stakeholders’ partnerships.

Planning for the Middle Range If population growth and development cannot be stopped, they may be managed by planning the type, size, density, location and phasing of development and by adopting ecological concepts, including low-impact and green designs for new projects, while protecting important ecological and cultural areas with best management practices (BMP). Continued population growth, expanding the ecological footprint, makes long-term sustainability problematic. Population sprawl along coastal and hazardous areas increases the human exposure to environmental risks, including tsunami, earthquakes and, at least on the Big Island of Hawai‘i, volcanic fog and lava flows. Current practices to deal with limited space include land exchanges among large landowners, as well as public land acquisitions of unique and environmentally sensitive coastal and mountain areas facilitated by community CLTs. Other tools like TDR and LR require clarification, enabling legislation and experimental use. Property taxation needs to be reformed so that moderate and lower income groups are not marginalized from affordable living, home ownership and land tenure in their own islands. Better revenue sharing among levels of government also needs addressing. Sustainability benchmark indicators would help in calculating environmental tipping points and ranges of carrying capacities for island sustainability when implemented statewide for data collection, monitoring and evaluation. The Hawaiian legislature has encouraged sustainability as a policy, with the creation of the Hawai‘i Sustainability Task Force in 2006, and its presentation of a Sustainability Plan for the state in 2008 (Hawai‘i Sustainability Task Force 2008).

From Claims to Partnerships Religious freedom and the freedom to engage in traditional and customary practices are asserted and pursued by many Hawaiians as non-negotiable rights, obliging public and private entities to take them into account. These lessons can be learned from the struggles against geothermal projects in Puna, tourism on Moloka‘i and the military bombing exercises in both Kaho‘olawe and the Mākua Valley. Settlement agreements are legalized resolutions of community demands to developers that have evolved

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from minor requests to multimillion-dollar settlements, at the same time increasing in their complexity of execution. They range from scaling down and mitigating a development project to scrapping it altogether or buying out developers to protect or restore cultural and environmental resources and avoid displacement of islanders. The Moloka‘i and the Hōkūli‘a cases are landmarks in that they indicate a qualitative change and the raising of the stakes in confrontations between the community and developers. Complex arrangements, involving sophisticated public, private and community negotiations and partnerships, have evolved. The controversy precipitated by the state’s establishment of a super-ferry without undertaking an EIS drove a larger wedge between public, private and community interests, leaving taxpayers with unnecessary expenses and no inter-island ferry. When some stakeholders try to skirt land use rules, the courts can ensure that the planning game is played fairly, but the legislature can change the law. Big government and big businesses create laws to exempt their large projects from the established due process of planning that everyone else must follow; in such cases, the law is not equal for everyone. Fortunately, the press, community organizations, the state legislative auditor and, ultimately, the state courts sometimes stand for public disclosure and accountability.

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Ferguson, C., R. Bowen and A. Khan. 1990. An appraisal of the Hawai‘i land evaluation and site assessment (LESA) system. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i. Freitas, K., H. Keehne and U. Woodside. 2008. Hawaiian cultural values and modern planning initiatives. Honolulu: American Planning Association, Hawai‘i Chapter. Gomes, A. 2008. ‘Moloka‘i ranch closes, lays off 120’, Honolulu Advertiser, 25 March. Hao, S. 2006. ‘Hawai‘i County Growing Fast’, Honolulu Advertiser, 16 March. Hawai‘i Revised Statutes. 2007a. Development agreements. Honolulu: State of Hawai‘i. ———. 2007b. Act 187 Chapter 205: Land Use Commission. Honolulu: State of Hawai‘i. Hawai‘i Sustainability Task Force 2008 Hawai‘i 2050 sustainability plan: Charting a course for Hawai‘i’s sustainable future. Honolulu: State of Hawa’i. Retrieved on 12 July 2011 from: http://www.hawaii2050.org/images/uploads/Hawaii2050_ Plan_FINAL.pdf Honolulu Advertiser. 2010. ‘Hawaii high court: Turtle Bay expansion requires new EIS’, 8 May. Honolulu Star Bulletin. 2008. ‘Legacy land benefits go beyond purchases’, 25 May. Kanahele, E. 1991. ‘Foreword,’ in V. James (ed.), A guide to Hawaiian archaeological places of interest. Honolulu: Bishop Museum. Kelly, M. 1989. ‘Dynamics of production intensification in pre-contact Hawai‘i’, in S. Van der Leeuw and R. Torrence (eds), What’s new? A closer look at the process of innovation. London: Unwin Hyman, 82–106. Kirch, P. V. 1984. ‘Development and intensification of production’, in P. Kirch (ed) The evolution of Polynesian chiefdoms. New York: Cambridge University Press, 152–194. Kobayashi, K. 2008. ‘Court appeal hangs over the superferry’, Honolulu Star Bulletin, 24 August. Levy, N. M. 1975. ‘Native Hawaiian land rights’, California Law Review 63(4): 848–885. Lingle, L. 2008. ‘Turtle Bay a treasure that must be preserved’, Honolulu Advertiser, 5 February. Matsuoka, J., D. McGregor and L. Minerbi. 1998. ‘Moloka‘i: A study of Hawaiian subsistence and community sustainability’, in M. Hoff (ed.), Sustainable community development: Case studies in economic, environmental and cultural revitalization. New York: CRC Press, 25–43. McGregor, D. P. 1966. ‘Hawaiian cultural and natural resource management’, Cultural Resource Management 19(8): 17–20. McGregor, D., J. Matsuoka, L. Minerbi and P. Kelley. 2002. Phase III. Native Hawaiian access rights project: Recommendations for SMA rules and process. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i. McGregor, D., L. Minerbi and J. Matsuoka. 1998. ‘A holistic assessment method of health and well-being for native Hawaiian communities’, Pacific Health Dialogue: Journal of Community Health and Clinical Medicine for the Pacific 5(1): 361–369.

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Meller, N. and R. Horwitz. 1987. ‘Hawaii themes in land monopoly’, in R. Crocombe (ed.), Land tenure in the Pacific. Suva, Fiji: University of the South Pacific, 25–44. Minerbi, L. 1977. ‘Designing Honolulu for mass transit’, Hawai‘i Architect 5 & 7 (December). ———. 1980. ‘Redevelopment impact on small business: Sstudying it before it happens (the Kakaako district in Honolulu),’, Socio-Economic Planning Sciences, 14(6): 257–266. ———. 1985. ‘Transferability aspects of the Japanese land readjustment system in Hawai‘i, USA’, in Land Readjustment Division, (ed.), International Seminar on Kukaku-Seiri., Tokyo, Japan: Ministry of Construction, 286–311. ———. 1987. ‘Attempts to promote land readjustment in Hawai‘i’, Land Assembly and Development: A Journal of Land Readjustment Studies, 1(1): 15–26. ———. 1991. Alternative forms of tourism in the coastal zone: Searching for responsible tourism in Hawai‘i. - Eexecutive summary. Oregon: National Coastal Research and Development Institute, Publ. No. NCRI-W-91-008. ———. 1994a. ‘Hawaiian sanctuaries, places of refuge and indigenous knowledge in Hawai‘i’, in J. P. Morrison, P. Geraghty and L. Crowl (eds)., Land use and agriculture: Science of the Pacific island peoples. Suva, Fiji: University of the South Pacific, Institute of Pacific Studies, 89–129. ———. 1994b. ‘Native Hawaiian struggles and events’, in I. Aoude‘, (ed.), Social process in Hawai‘i: The political economy of Hawai‘i, 35: 1–14. ———. 1994c. ‘Sustainability versus growth in Hawai‘i,’ in I. Aoude‘, (ed.), Social process in Hawai‘i: The political economy of Hawai‘i, 35: 115–160. ———. 1996. ‘Hawai‘i’, in C. M. Hall and S. Page, (eds)., Tourism in the Pacific: Issues and cases. London: International Thomson Business Press, 190–204. ———. 1998. ‘Alte terre in aree estreme tropicali: La gestione dei parchi naturali ad alta quota nelle isole Hawai‘i: i vulcani Mauna Kea e Haleakala,’ in C. Zerbi, (ed.), Turismo sostenibile in ambienti fragili. Milan, Italy: Cisalpino Istituto Editoriale Universitario, 281–308. ———. 1999a. ‘Tourism and native Hawaiians,’ Cultural Survival Quarterly: 23(2): 21–23. ———. 1999b. ‘Indigenous management models and the protection of the Ahupua‘a,’, in I. Aoude’, (ed.), Social process in Hawai‘i, special issue, 39: 208–225. ———. 2001. ‘In the face of globalization: Two decades of insurgent localism in Hawai‘i’, in I. Aoude‘, (ed.), Public policy and globalization in Hawai‘i: Social process in Hawai‘i, special issue, 40: 165–189. ———. 2007a. ‘Hawai‘i’, Carta Urbanas: International Review of Urbanism, 12: 112–137. ———. 2007b. ‘Update on Hawaiian subsistence and community sustainability’, Here: Moloka‘i, 1(2): 63–67. Okamura, J. 2008. Ethnicity and inequality in Hawai‘i. Philadephia: Temple University Press. Pala, C. 2008. ‘Breakthrough on Molokai?’ Honolulu Weekly, 20–26 August. Reyes B. J. 2006. ‘Summit to focus on isle biofuels’, Honolulu Star Bulletin, 20 August.

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Sample, H. 2009. ‘Senate passes limits on selling ceded lands’, Honolulu Star Bulletin, 21 February. Stannard, D. 1989. Before the horror: The population of Hawaii on the eve of western contact. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i, Social Science Research Institute. The Tribunal. 1993. The proceedings of Ka Ho’okolokolonui Kanaka Maoli Peoples’ International Tribunal Hawai’i. Video documentary. Retrieved on 12 July 2011 from: http://www.namaka.com/catalog/history/tribunal.html Thompson, R. 2007. ‘OHA takes control of Big Island forest’, Honolulu Star Bulletin, 28 August. Thomson, R. 2006. ‘Judge OKs high-end housing at Hōkūli‘a’, Honolulu Star Bulletin, 15 March. U.S. Census Bureau. 2009. County population estimates. Retrieved on 12 July 2011 from: http://www.census.gov/popest/counties/tables/CO-EST2009-01-15.xls ———. 2008. Data Book 2006: Demographics. Washington, D.C.: U. S. Census Bureau. U.S. Congress. 1993. Public Law 103-150, Washington, D.C.: U. S. Congress.

[ Chapter 8 ] Majuro Atoll, Marshall Islands IRENE TAAFAKI, CALEB MCCLENNEN, FRANK R. THOMAS AND JOHN BUNGITAK

History Between five and two thousand years ago, as sea level dropped by as much as six feet in the western tropical Pacific, two archipelagic atoll chains under formation for 15 to 20 million years emerged in what is now called the Marshall Islands (Wiens 1959; Yamaguchi et al. 2005). The twin chains run between 5º and 15º N latitude and 162º and 173º E longitude. They comprise twenty-nine atolls, each with numerous small islets surrounding a central lagoon, and five low-lying limestone islands. The 70 square miles of dry land lies just above the high-water mark, only a few metres above sea level. With its 200 nautical mile exclusive economic zone, the small land area commands almost two million square miles of ocean. Recent estimates of the population of the Republic of the Marshall Islands (RMI) are around 52,000 (Bright and Chutaro 2007; EPPSO 2007), with densely populated urban centres on Majuro Atoll (estimated population of 25,000) and Ebeye Islet (13,000). The former is the capital and commercial area, while the latter accommodates the workforce serving the U.S. Army Kwajalein Atoll missile testing base. The Marshall Islands and neighbouring Kiribati (Gilberts Group) have yielded some of the earliest dates for the human colonization of eastern Micronesia, suggesting settlement between  100 and 400 (Riley 1987; Weisler 2001; Yamaguchi et al. 2005). There are controversial dates from Bikini Atoll, the site of nuclear testing during the 1940s and 1950s – which to this day remains unsafe for human occupation – that may push back settlement to a time coinciding with the Lapita expansion into the southwest Pacific prior to 800  (Streck 1990). Early voyagers settled on atolls and table reefs of a parallel-chained archipelago, naming it Aelon Kein Ad (These Our Atolls) The twin chains were named Ratak (Sunrise) in the east and Ralik (Sunset) in the west. As in many other Pacific islands, while war-

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fare was common between major chiefs, a fine-tuned social organization and culture evolved within the major kingdoms and clans, with respect (kautiej) rights, roles, reciprocity and cooperation governing the ways of interaction and behaviour within the communities. The sustained use and protection of the limited land, the waters of the lagoon and the ocean-side reef were of vital importance. Chiefs (irooj) were the sole landowners and the acknowledged custodians within a matrilineal system. Along with their mediators and clan heads (alabs), they carefully orchestrated and managed society, ensuring that all, according to rank, function and requirement, were provided for (Taafaki et al. 2006). As early as 1494, the Treaty of Tordesillas identified this Pacific region as a territory of Spain, although it was not until 1526 when the ship Santa Maria de la Victoria, captained by Alonso de Salazar, spotted what is assumed to be Bokaak Atoll to the far north of the twin archipelagos (Spennemann 2005). In 1529 Alvaro de Saalvedra onboard the vessel Florida had what is assumed to be the first encounter with the Marshallese people of the northern Bikini or Enewetak Atolls. In 1767 Captain Samuel Wallis of the British ship Dolphin sighted what are thought to be Rongerik and Rongelap. Although the Spanish were the first known westerners to see the northern Marshall Islands, credit for discovery is given to the British captains: William Marshall, commander of the Scarborough, and Thomas Gilbert, commander of the Charlotte, who sighted central and southern atolls and islands in 1788 while en route to China from Botany Bay (Petrosian-Husa 2004). Marshall and Gilbert mapped these island groups and traded with the various atoll residents. They named these newly found islands ‘Lord Mulgrave Islands’ after the then First Lord of the Admiralty Mulgrave. The name ‘Marshall’ Islands was later applied to the group as a whole by Russian hydrographer A. J. Krusenstern (ibid.: 41). Explorers, map-makers, artists and missionaries, whalers, traders and raiders frequented the atolls soon after, bringing significant changes. Between 1788 and 1867, when the first missionaries arrived, the region was visited by British, American, French and German expeditions. A German company, Godeffroy and Son, began establishing coconut plantations in 1840, and eventually Germany began negotiations with Spain, mediated by the Vatican, to acquire the Marshall Islands along with the rest of the Northwest Pacific. By 1885 Spain had agreed to transfer the Marshalls to German Protectorate status, with Jaluit as the capital atoll (Tauber and Chungdin 1950; Petrosian-Husa 2004). The landscape changed drastically throughout the German period as native vegetation and land use patterns were significantly altered to make way for the coconut plantations and the highly successful copra-based colonial economy. At the very start of the First World War, the Japanese occupied

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Micronesia including the Marshalls, steaming into Jaluit Harbour with four gunboats in 1914; this control was consolidated in 1919 when the League of Nations awarded Japan a mandate to govern Micronesia (Loeak et al. 2004: 235). This ushered in nearly thirty years of what has been described as the ‘Golden Era’ of the Marshalls (Tauber and Chungdin 1950). By 1933 the Japanese had begun to view the Micronesian region as an integral component of their empire, flooding the region with their own people and outnumbering Micronesians (from Palau to the Marshalls) two to one (Hanlon 1988). The build-up to the Second World War began in 1935, whereupon the region was transformed into a strategic military fortification and a launching pad for further Japanese expansion into the South and Eastern Pacific. The Marshalls became central to the Pacific theatre of war, and following the Japanese surrender in Tokyo Harbour in 1945 the governance of the entire Marshall Islands was transferred to the U.S. under a ‘UN Trust Territory’ arrangement with the U.S. Navy in charge of administration. Majuro, favoured for its secure lagoon and deep anchorage, became the capital atoll. The Cold War period saw an enormous increase in U.S. financial assistance to the region under the Kennedy Administration (Hanlon 1988). The prominence of Majuro as the capital of the country began to emerge as government spending and U.S. funded projects made it the centre of all economic activity. It was not until 1979 that the country became independent, almost 500 years after the Treaty of Tordesillas. Through the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the influence of Western education, commodity-based production systems, religious teachings and Western lifestyles increasingly pervaded this once remote region of the Pacific, changing its culture and outlook. However, unlike most colonized regions, the Marshall Islands experienced an extraordinary impact of foreign policy: in its early years as a Trust Territory, the Marshalls were subjected to a massive nuclear testing programme on Bikini and Enewetak Atolls. Between 1946 and 1958, sixty-seven nuclear weapons were tested, including the world’s first thermonuclear device on Bikini in 1956. During the testing, radioactive material contaminated the entire country, with documented lasting impact to this day on the health of the people and the radioactive pollution of numerous islands. The testing prompted the relocation and out-migration of many Marshallese people away from their traditional lands to new islands, urban areas and overseas (Taafaki et al. 2006; Watkins et al. 2006). Modernization efforts followed independence, most particularly on Majuro. The country began a process to build the institutions and enact the legislation deemed necessary for a sovereign state. It maintained close ties with the United States by signing a fifteen-year Compact of Free Association in 1986. Through the economic provisions of this agreement and

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other bilateral funding, access to formal education and medical services improved and employment increased in the formal sector – particularly the public sector. This first compact expired in 2001 and was followed by the signing of a second fifteen-year compact in May 2003. Under its terms, the Marshall Islands continues to receive compensation for ill health and loss of land resulting from extensive atomic testing from 1946 to 1958, and other financial assistance including access to selected U.S. federal grants, in return for certain important strategic geopolitical advantages to the U.S., including the use of Kwajalein Atoll as a missile testing and GPS site. This financial assistance forms a substantial part of the government’s annual budget – for example, U.S.$65.5m, or around 64 per cent of the total national budget, for fiscal year 2005–2006. The goal of both compacts has been to move the Marshall Islands towards economic self-sufficiency; meanwhile, as the financial assistance decreases annually, the RMI government is hard pressed to use its funding to seek development activity. Most now recognize that compact funding has shifted the RMI economy from basic self-sufficiency to a high level of dependence. Modernization, combined with the dislocation of people from their home atolls, has also disrupted and fragmented the traditional knowledge-transfer systems that ensured the perpetuation of cultural knowledge and survival of the Marshallese people.

Economy U.S. funding is not the only foreign assistance coming into the RMI. With growing political relations, the country has negotiated considerable support from Taiwan, Japan and to some degree Australia. The opportunities for foreign assistance, along with the relative paucity of local economic opportunity, have rendered the Marshalls with little in terms of a private sector independent of government spending or support. With the formal economy based almost entirely on government subsidies, employment, spending and capital construction projects all centralized on a single atoll, the economy has barely kept up with population growth rates, and growth is stagnant in per capita terms. However, recent adjustments to population growth since the 1999 census may indicate an improving condition – not due to a dramatic increase in GDP, but rather to a significant slowing of the population growth rate. The nascent formal private sector is composed of a few small local tourism, handicraft, fishery and aquaculture ventures. Recent investment has pushed for further private-sector development independent of the government in the pelagic fisheries sector, the central private component of the RMI economy. This investment has not been

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without contention, as will be apparent in the case study reviewed later in this chapter. Though the economy struggles, the roughly U.S.$130 million GDP that flows through the national government on Majuro Atoll annually serves as a magnet to the other half of the population scattered throughout the rest of the RMI. Land tenure is traditional, and most people in urban areas live tenuously on small plots of land owned by traditional leaders and pay a small ‘roof tax’, occasionally offer in kind contributions to landowners, or formally pay a lease, though the last of these is rare for the Marshallese. The increasingly squeezed urban centre is unplanned, suffers from lack of a consistent water supply and other services, and has supported a growing population of dependent urban poor among the emerging bureaucratic elite. Diarrhoea rates are up to three times higher in urban areas, as are frequencies of disease outbreaks such as typhoid and cholera (McClennen 2007). Unemployment places strains on the finances of extended families: a 2004 data comparison of RMI and seven other Pacific island countries shows that RMI has one of the highest rates of youth unemployment and inactivity, with 63 per cent reported to be out of work (Johanson et al. 2006). This high and worsening unemployment, especially among youths, is a socially unsustainable situation for the RMI (Asian Development Bank 2005). Beyond the formal economy, subsistence agriculture and fishing account for at least 50 per cent of the consumables in the outer islands of the RMI (McClennen 2007). People grow a limited range of fruits that is largely restricted to coconuts, papaya, bananas, pandanus and breadfruit, and they collect wild-growing Morinda citrifolia (for noni juice). Fishing usually involves capture of wild populations using sailing canoes, motor boats, a variety of shore-based net, pole and spear-fishing, and gathering of shellfish. Processed products include jakamai (boiled coconut toddy), noni juice, preserved fish and preserved fruits such as pandanus. Some fish are occasionally purchased by several outer island villages, but copra remains the central cash crop, though the price is highly supported by the national government. Handicrafts produced in the outer islands generally include mats, bags and ornaments using local materials and are targeted for sale in the urban centres. Several models have been used to characterize Pacific Island economies. A recent Asian Development Bank report characterizes the RMI as a ‘fragile island state’, given its relatively large labour surplus due to lack of viable economic activities (Johanson 2007). The ‘fragility’ in this model is derived from the small land size, limited area or suitable soil for agriculture, isolated and scattered geography and lack of natural resources. The model continues to explain that this situation gives rise to largely unstable trade imbalances and an economy whose central activity is a large central

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government with low productivity and high levels of unemployment. Another model (Ogden 1994) claims that centralized government leads to a diminished private sector and low independent economic activity; while the MIRAB (migration, remittances, aid and bureaucracy) framework describes numerous Pacific economies as dominated by high inter-island and eventual out-migration, high levels of remittances from those emigrants, a largesse of foreign aid and resulting government bureaucracy that becomes the centre of the economy (Bertram and Watters 1985). An analysis of the RMI economy under the MIRAB framework partially accepts the model (EPPSO 2007). However, the flow of funds out of the Marshall Islands remains at a rate ten times higher than that of incoming remittances (mainly from Marshallese immigrants to the U.S.): a notable exception compared to the rest of the Pacific (ibid.).

Majuro Majuro Atoll is typical of the Marshall Islands, with an extremely deep lagoon (nearly 100 metres in places), at least one ocean pass, and an extremely narrow atoll rim. The last typhoon to dramatically alter the geography of the atoll was in 1905, when large expanses of the connecting land between Majuro village (renamed Laura after the Second World War) at the western end and DUD (the linked islands Delap, Uliga and Darrit) on the eastern end were washed away (Xieu 1997). Construction of a causeway after the Second World War reconnected this area, and in parts sedimentation has accreted a significant amount of land adjacent to the causeway, ironically far from the eroding habitation centres of Laura and DUD (see Figure 8.1) Population growth and urbanization present a number of challenges. As a result of advances in medical care and the banning of certain traditional practices to limit population growth, there are now more Marshallese living at any one time than ever before. As was the case for most other Pacific communities, contact with the outside world wrought significant demographic and social changes. In the beginning local populations declined as a result of introduced diseases, blackbirding and in some cases civil unrest spurred by political, economic and religious rivalries. Since the end of the Second World War, however, populations have increased dramatically as mortality has declined due to improvements in health care and access to food imports to counter the effects of natural disasters on the local resource base. On the downside, dependency on these imports, particularly in urban areas, has resulted in an increase of non-communicable, nutritionally related diseases (Thaman 1988; Gittelsohn et al. 1998; Coyne 2000).

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Figure 8.1 Aerial view of main section of Majuro Atoll, with Laura village to the west (top left of photo) and the main population concentrations in DUD to the east (bottom centre right of photo). Source: http://thebestthreeyears.blogspot.com/ (Tom and Sharon Shaw).

In 1945 the entire population of Majuro Atoll was 857 people (Spoehr 1949) living at the western end of the atoll in the settlement that is now called Laura. Majuro Atoll, with a little under 13 km2 of total land available for habitation, is now home to roughly 25,000 residents, so the pressure on the land is tremendous. To concentrate the population even more, the past fifty years have seen the population settle more densely in the more vulnerable eastern edge of the atoll, away from the natural fresh water supply, due to the U.S. Navy base establishment and subsequent regional governing centre during and after the Second World War. The changing demographics of the Majuro Atoll, as documented by Spennemann (1998b), are the result of significant urban in-migration and associated rural depopulation. The 1999 census of the RMI characterizes over 70 per cent of the Marshallese population as urbanites, with roughly 50 per cent on Majuro Atoll (EPPSO 2001). Though recent emigration to the United States has slowed population growth slightly in the past ten years, urbanization has served to build a population of migrants on Majuro ten times the size of that on

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any other RMI atoll, with the exception of Kwajalein, which hosts a U.S. military testing site. As in most other countries in the Pacific, rural development has not been rigorously pursued in the RMI (World Bank 1998). Many problems related to urbanization need to be understood within the context of the rural poverty that has led to the influx of migrants to district centres and island capitals. Rural poverty in the Pacific is usually described as poverty of opportunity, expressed by poor facilities, restricted access to services and limited livelihood opportunities (Thomas and Tonganibeia 2007). The health risks and social ills associated with urbanization in the developing world are well known (Worldwatch Institute 2007), and the RMI are certainly not immune to problems of unemployment, malnutrition and general strain on existing urban infrastructure as a result of overcrowding, lack of solid waste management, unregulated dumping of debris and liquid waste in Majuro Lagoon, absence of properly managed waste sites and indiscriminate littering as a result of abandoned, unserviceable and old machinery and vehicles (Asian Development Bank 2000). However, as long as services remain concentrated, people will continue to flock to Majuro and Ebeye on Kwajalein Atoll. Thus, ‘push factors’ – such as declining agricultural commodity prices and livelihood opportunities – as well as ‘pull factors’ – such as the prospect of cash employment, the availability of public services in town, and the intrinsic excitement of urban areas – are patterns that characterize the phenomenon of urban expansion throughout the Pacific (Rallu and Ahlburg 1999; Connell 2000). Given the level of development funding and high population pressure, the urban area of Majuro and its lagoon is affected by significant environmental pressures: overfishing, dredging of coral and sand mining, reclamation of land using solid waste, poorly designed seawall construction, oil spills from both land and ships, industrial outfall and sewage pipes, septic system leakage, and direct input of human and animal waste into the lagoon system. The above activities have been identified in the RMI Coastal Management Framework as the core environmental issues threatening the coastal zone (RMI-EPA 2006). Excessive amounts of nutrients and toxins have been indiscriminately dumped into the lagoon and onto the ocean reef. Dredging, beach-sand mining and eutrophied shorelines have served to disrupt the sand production, longshore transport and natural accretion process of the shoreline that have enabled atolls to be viable settlement locations for the Marshallese. Xieu (1997) has identified shoreline loss rates as high as 20–40 cm per year over the past fifty years throughout Majuro Atoll. Pollutants and overfishing have observationally affected the underwater ecosystem as well, with encroaching benthic algae, lower coral abundance and

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diversity, and the notable absence of both larger predatory fish and key herbivorous fish (NRAS 2004). Additional signs of a systematic weakening of the Majuro lagoon system include outbreaks of crown-of-thorns starfish (Acanthaster planci), significant coral disease and annual bleaching events during the rainy season as water temperatures in the lagoon rise significantly. All of these local impacts are further compounded by illegal foreign fishing of the near shore reef, increasing pelagic tuna fisheries and their related industries, and increasing development – induced by foreign assistance and investment. With its considerable small and narrow land areas and low elevations, the RMI is extremely vulnerable to climate change and impacts of sea level rise, storm surges and coastal inundation. Majuro Weather Service data suggests that sea level has risen on Majuro Atoll at a mean rate of 5 mm (or 0.2 inches) per annum since an accurate record became available in 1993. Sea level rise leads to contamination of soil and the water table with salt, severely limiting yields of sensitive crops, as evidenced by abandoned swamp taro pits. At present, the littoral shrub along the shoreline at several locations is severely eroded (Vander Velde 2003). Houses, cemeteries and archaeological sites within this zone are threatened, as is the runway (which doubles as a water catchment facility) (RMI 2008; Spennemann 1999). The situation would be compounded by an increase, now projected, in the frequency of typhoons associated with global warming (Spennemann 1998a).

Cultural Assets The traditional Marshallese culture evolved on small atolls and islands that were often devastated by natural disasters such as droughts, typhoons and groundswells, resulting in few permanent physical or material assets. Material cultural assets (the tangible cultural heritage) were confined to sacred places, body adornments and tattoos, the weaving and decoration of fine clothing and chiefly mats, rather than large constructions. More important to Marshallese people is their non-material culture or Mantin Majōl, which involves a system of customary beliefs and practices, retold legends and history (bwebwenato) of a people interconnected with, and inseparable from, their natural environment. The practices reflect the Marshallese system of respect and reciprocity and other closely held cultural values. Marshallese culture also maintains systems of fishing methods, navigation, traditional healing and the use of medicinal plants, food preservation, chanting, dance and other cultural ceremonies. Mantin Majōl provides meaning for why the people do what they do: these are valued items of culture for the people of the Marshall Islands.

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Not until this past century did the need for material assets emerge. A recent World Heritage Convention meeting on Majuro tried to identify the physical and cultural assets of the Marshall Islands. The group proposed several cultural objects of worth: an old German house on Likiep Atoll, Japanese anti-aircraft guns and bunkers on Wotje Atoll among other relics of the Second World War, sunken aircraft carriers from the world’s first nuclear explosion off Bikini Atoll and even the current Kwajalein intercontinental ballistic missile testing range. The commonality between all of these, of course, is that they are not Marshallese cultural assets at all, but rather assets left over by, or still belonging to, various foreign powers. Not to mention the overwhelming destructive forces that are associated with these relics, they are very much the antithesis of the true inherent cultural assets of the Marshallese people. Admitting that the RMI shares a common recent history with Western nations and some Asian countries, notably Japan, the legacy of colonialism or twentieth-century warfare, as expressed through visible and potentially preservable sites, may not necessarily appeal to local communities (O’Neill and Spennemann 2002). For that reason, heritage preservation efforts in the Pacific are increasingly engaging local practices of preservation (Spennemann 2006b). Similar to recent academic practices that allow for the reemergence of more local histories in the region (Hanlon 2003), local preservation initiatives call attention to what is important to the community. There is a growing appreciation among heritage preservationists of the linkages between cultural and natural assets management via the concepts of biocultural diversity and land or seascape, and the need for active participation by local communities to ensure success in these preservation goals (Miller 1987; Ayres and Mauricio 1999; Thaman 2004; Maffi 2005). There are several legislative mechanisms in place to protect cultural or historic sites of interest in the Marshall Islands. The Historic Preservation Act and the National Environmental Protection Act both allow for the preservation of cultural or historic assets. While historic preservation legislation follows the American model closely (National Park Service 2002), there have been attempts to accommodate the specific context of Marshallese society and values in drafting local legislation, particularly in the light of issues surrounding land ownership (Spennemann 1992). Some archaeologists advocate education rather than legislation as a means of encouraging the preservation of tangible cultural heritage (Williamson 2001; Hezel 2006). But perhaps more important are the conservation of the cultural assets themselves, the Iroij system, the traditional land tenure system, the practices of customary law and the traditional claims court, and the often-referenced traditional right throughout the legal code of the Marshall Islands. Though it is much more difficult to protect the intangible cultural assets of the RMI

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via legal protection, as with the case of physical assets, the foundation for the RMI legal system provides for some aspects of its conservation.

Natural Assets The central natural asset of Marshallese society is the atoll ecosystem. While there is tremendous relative variety in biodiversity across atolls within the Marshall Islands, on a global scale the systems are all relatively similar, and within them are the key to Marshallese survival: the reefs for storm protection, island construction and ecosystem foundation; the fish and shellfish for protein; the coconuts, breadfruit, pandanus and arrowroot for sugars and starch; and the islet fresh water lens for potable drinking water. To identify particular areas that are any more important than others in the natural world proves difficult in the Marshall Islands, as each area has its own unique degree of importance to those who make the atoll their home. Customarily, however, certain fishing grounds, turtle and bird nesting sites, ocean-sides of large islands and even large areas of atolls have traditionally been declared ‘mō’ or taboo for some or all types of activities. While ‘mō’ is not limited to conservation purposes alone, it has recently been regarded as a traditional survival tool for the conservation of the natural resources of the islands. Normally upon a declaration by the Iroij, in his role as steward of the land and sea, specific areas would be either off limits or, conversely, available for community use for a designated period of time. Breaking these rules in a small community would result in social sanction. Though not written in ordinances or regulations, these means of protection are what served the Marshallese for centuries to ensure the proper use and protection of their most valuable natural assets. There are no longer any functioning or respected land-related mō in urban Majuro: people fish as and where they wish. Construction in the past twenty years appears to know no limits, and as a result green space for a simple picnic or for sports has all but disappeared, and beaches have died. Failed planning attempts and a well-developed legal framework that could be used for setting aside both cultural and natural assets has had little effective implementation, having been essentially imported from a U.S. code, apparently with little thought to the preexisting functional local system. The many pages in the Historic Preservation Act, Marine Resource Management Act, National Environmental Protection Act, Coast Conservation Act, Endangered Species Act and Planning and Zoning Act are little more than words with regards to conservation, and have little if any impact on the continued development of the Marshall Islands. Several recent legislative reviews of the RMI code conclude that both the national and local gov-

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ernments of the Marshall Islands have strong legal mandates and the ability to set aside both land and water for conservation or preservation (ICEM 2007), but sadly, very little implementation has been actually observed in the short life of the republic. In 2006 the RMI committed to the Micronesian Challenge, a treaty with the Federated States of Micronesia, Palau, Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Marianas Islands to ‘effectively conserve’ 20 per cent of terrestrial and 30 per cent of near-shore marine resources (Nature Conservancy 2005). While proposed by the president of Palau, the agreement was largely prompted by the Convention on Biological Diversity and was announced at the Conference of the Parties in Brazil. The effect of this declaration remains to be seen. It provides for great flexibility in each state’s solutions to the conservation of its resources, and as such is different from past legislative efforts that have provided legally binding and tightly prescriptive processes for land and marine protection.

Use Conflicts Until recently, urban and light industrial development in the Marshall Islands progressed with little conflict or clash because the traditional chiefs and landowners held key government positions in the post-independence Marshall Islands. Political changes, however, along with urban drift and growth, the change in subsistence lifestyles to consumerism, the need to provide employment, and education are creating a new dimension to the cultural and physical landscape, and the possibility for conflict has emerged. While acquisition of land for economic development and public projects via eminent domain is allowed under the RMI code under the Public Lands Act (Baker and Chutaro 2004), it has not been used so far and does not appear likely to be used in the immediate future, as even government-funded reclaimed land is granted to the adjacent landowner, necessitating agreement between elected and traditional leaders. A change of government in 2000 meant that the country’s ruling party was, for the first time since independence, comprised primarily of nontraditional leaders. However, in the November 2007 elections the electorate restored traditional leadership to the parliament. As the following case study reveals, times appeared to be changing on Majuro: with the government of the day reluctant to exercise eminent domain, traditional landowners (many of whom are now in opposition) found themselves able to resist developments perceived to be detrimental to the natural or cultural resources under their custodianship. In this they have been seen to be joined by people at the grass roots who are voicing opinions over what type of de-

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velopment is good, where it should be located and why. In this grass-roots group there is seen to be an emerging educated urban elite, able to grasp the issues and long-term implications of development for the once pristine atoll environment. Together, they are mobilizing to object to infrastructure development believed to be prompted by economic initiatives that are perceived to have allotted inadequate consideration to the interests of the environment or culture. This environmental and cultural sentiment, combined with a shortage of land in the capital, has challenged the government to find the space required for construction projects deemed necessary both to improve infrastructure and to provide the private-sector employment opportunities necessary to meet its development targets. Urbanization, a globalized economy, and the opportunities and needs these create have brought in a relatively new potential: that the Marshall Islands might develop a viable economic sector based on aspects of the global trade in fisheries products. As the case detailed below illustrates, the issues raised by this relatively new potential growth industry external to government spending has turned the tables on the development models of the past, and (depending on what happens) could catapult the economy, policies and peoples of the Marshall Islands from a foreign aid–dependent economy to a global developing economy with all of the challenges, benefits and consequences this brings.

Case Study: The Floating Dry Dock Since the early 1990s, there has been an idea of building a high seas marine support sector in the Marshall Islands to provide spillover economic benefits from the growing pelagic fisheries sector. The first attempt, a fish loining plant processing tuna and employing up to 350 Marshallese workers, operated for several years. Just when this plant was closing down in 2005, a proposal was brought to the RMI by the Ching Fu Ship Building Company in Taiwan to build and bring a large floating dry dock to service the purse seine skipjack tuna fishing vessels in Majuro Lagoon (AEC Group 2005). The project, which was to be located in Uliga in downtown Majuro, proposed to provide close to a hundred local jobs and numerous economic spillover effects for the RMI economy. Government officials were very supportive of the project for a variety of reasons, and though little to no public consultation had occurred, the dock was supposed to be towed into Majuro Lagoon apparently in time for the first scheduled visit of the president of Taiwan to the RMI in May 2005. All seemed well, but somehow news of the dry dock’s Uliga location got out, and a community group including local landowners and residents

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began demanding information and an environmental impact assessment (EIA) for the project before it was allowed to start operations in their waters. The regulatory agency in charge of permitting development projects in the RMI, the Environmental Protection Authority (EPA), agreed and required that an EIA be completed before the dock could be installed in Majuro Lagoon. The company complied, and a month later it provided the first EIA for a development project prior to project initiation in the history of the RMI: a milestone for modern environmental governance in the country (AEC Group 2005). The public, however, was not appeased and spoke strongly against the environmental and social impacts of the project. Concerns ranged from zoning, location, water pollution, noise, displacement of local small businesses, traffic and related activities such as prostitution (EPA 2005). The EPA, hearing all public comments and engaging in its own analysis of the project, decided that whereas pollution controls and mitigation for many impacts seemed sufficient, the location of the project was unacceptable given its incompatibility with the current uses of the area. The decision was essentially the first true zoning decision, in the absence of any national planning board for the RMI. The public was appeased, but the company was not, and it issued a public ultimatum to the RMI government stating that if a new location was not found within sixty days, the dry dock would look to other nearby countries for installation. A year passed with no public news on the matter. Then, in August 2006, a new location was proposed for the dock, adjacent to both the Delap Seaport, the residences of several local landowners and a public school. While the EPA deliberated for some time on whether a new EIA was necessary, a large community opposition group once again emerged to fight the new location of the dry dock. Signs around town read ‘No Dry Dock near our schools’, and cars were adorned with skull and crossbones bumper stickers saying ‘No Delap Dry Dock’ (see Figures 8.2 and 8.3). After finally requiring an updated EIA for the Delap site, the EPA approved the new location of the project in January 2007 without holding a public hearing, stating that the location was suitable for the project and a the company would provide a complete environmental management plan prior to installation. Be it due to the public opposition that mounted subsequent to the EIA, or other reasons, the Delap site was also abandoned, and the company has more recently announced the possibility of a new location further west across the bridge, between Delap and the more suburban Rairok, in an area currently used as an industrial zone. No response from the EPA has emerged as of yet; the government of President Litokwa Tomeing has made no move to date to reopen the topic of a dry dock anywhere on Majuro. It is clear that locating projects on Majuro will prove increasingly difficult in the future. The government has come up against similar issues

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Figure 8.2 Visual evidence of opposition to the building and location of the dry dock Source: Irene J. Taafaki, University of the South Pacific, Marshall Islands.

when seeking appropriate locations for public schools, water catchments

Figure 8.3 Visual evidence of opposition to the building and location of the dry dock Source: Irene J. Taafaki, University of the South Pacific, Marshall Islands.

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and other major public projects funded by donor money. As this case study illustrates, expectations of accountability and transparency from project developers through the EIA process necessitates a much greater community dialogue to identify acceptable space prior to any phase of project development, even though, as is increasingly evident, the very principle of ‘acceptable space’ is becoming more untenable in urban Majuro.

Discussion The legacy and ongoing saga of the dry dock has not occurred in a vacuum, and its repercussions are yet to be fully realized. The government could decide on one of two broad strategies at this point: either to hide behind greater veils of secrecy regarding development in a misguided effort to avoid public scrutiny, or else to continue the currently uncomfortable ride of allowing full public involvement in the planning, siting and even design of large capital investments for the future of the Marshall Islands. A recent success story that indicates the government is on the latter path has been the siting of a new elementary school in Uliga. A project management firm from New Zealand has been tasked with finding a suitable location and, unable to identify space on land, a large reclamation was determined to be necessary. After conducting several studies on siting options, the project management firm held community meetings at a local church to gather public comments on the project and its location before any decision was made to officially propose the site and begin construction design. The project is still in the design phase and thus the jury is still out, but it is being managed very differently from earlier projects on Majuro, with public consultation throughout the project to reduce potential conflict and ensure that project design and construction meet public approval. What is made clear in the above case is that a transition may be occurring in Majuro and the Marshall Islands, bringing planning for major infrastructure projects back to the people and community to help decide how to develop their country. From an outsider’s perspective there is a long way to go, but from a local perspective, after centuries of foreign occupation and a habit of accepting whatever is offered, the government and the people of the Marshall Islands are beginning to utilize mechanisms to question development and debate the emerging crisis of limited land resources. Though it is a far cry from the centralized planning board envisioned in the drafting stages of the constitution and legislation of the RMI, a process is seen to be emerging for public involvement, media critique, expert review and community dialogue regarding the future of development in the RMI. The media – which comprises one weekly English and Marshallese newspaper and two news and information radio stations, one independent and one

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government-sponsored – serves to publish or broadcast advocacy by both sides and to report information and perspective on the ongoing process. The shift away from the traditional management of cultural and natural resources has been ill guided from the outset. Like the transformation of culture, it has simply ‘happened’ as the result of colonial policy, new systems of belief, Western influence and the migration of peoples away from traditional lands, either to the urban centres or overseas. Much like the attempted planning of the economic, social, education, transport and other sectors vital to the viability of the RMI economy, solutions have been proposed from the outside, displacing an extremely valuable and time-proven community-based and cooperative resource management system. In its place is a fragmented and Westernized legal code, which is now beginning to reform itself in the environmental sector to more accurately reflect the values and decision-making process of the people. How a traditional people transitioning from a half-century of development by domination, militarization and planned economic failure from the outside can best deal with these changes and take over the charting of their own future in less than thirty years of independence, remains to be answered. Nevertheless, a crucial first step is the reclaiming of ownership over the natural resources that are inherently at the heart of Marshallese culture. The case of the dry dock, though not involving public funds, indicates a shift in the development trajectory of the people of the Marshall Islands. In the past, with the president serving as head of both state and government and being also the highest traditional leader in the country, government decisions may have gone largely unquestioned, even though there were street protests and insults hurled at the late president of the RMI in the run-up to the signing of the first Compact Agreement with the U.S. Be it support for foreign investment or the latest infrastructure donation, all incoming money was equally welcome. There were few instances where pressure was exerted to slow down a project by actually considering its merits and potential impact on the most important natural asset of the people of the Marshall Islands: the atolls themselves or the non-material culture. With a maturing governance system and increased interest in public involvement and transparency by a public better educated in environmental issues, the government of the RMI was obliged to step back from its former position. By allowing the public to have a larger say in decision making, it has built a foundation for a stronger, and more democratic, approach to national development. Some may see Majuro Atoll as completely ruined by ‘development’, yet most Marshallese still value the lush green village of Laura, the last few public spaces on Majuro and, beyond, the country’s abundant fisheries and pristine northern islands. In many ways, the natural assets of Majuro are valued even more than are those in the outer islands due to the simple fact

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of scarcity. The dry dock case study indicates both community and public strength, a realization of a need for development the Marshallese way, and a shift towards a governance system that recognizes this need.

Conclusion Conflicting interests and expectations often complicate the management of cultural assets, similar to the management of natural assets (Flores 2001; Brodie and Renfrew 2005). It is argued that both the tangible and intangible elements of these assets, channelled through appropriate public education initiatives, can serve multiple functions among Pacific Island communities in this era of expanding globalization (Thomas and Teaero 2010). In the case of cultural asset preservation and management, success will be gauged by the extent of local community support, in partnership with museums and other cultural institutions, various governmental and nongovernmental organizations and even external stakeholders (Rudo 2001; Ayres 2006). Modern threats to knowing the past are offset by the education, process and results of cultural heritage training, and given present-day concerns about cultural diversity, cultural identity and global modernity’s impact on cultural maintenance, heritage conservation seems ever more essential. Atolls present cases of sustainable living over centuries as well as instances of societies that did not survive (Di Piazza and Pearthree 2004; Dickinson 2009). On account of their small size, limited and at times fluctuating resources, and relative isolation, these islands are of interest for evaluating aspects of past human adaptation to challenging environmental conditions. Yet much remains to be learned regarding their cultural transformation towards sustainability prior to European contact. What stands out is the observation that several communities were able to live sustainably through a combination of relatively small populations, trade and population mobility, and perhaps voluntary conservation measures (Spennemann 1990, 2006a; Thomas 2009). In a general sense, it can be asserted that oceanic islands, and especially atolls, are microcosms of larger but equally fragile environments (Kirch 2004). From some of the volcanic islands, archaeologists have uncovered evidence of extensive change resulting from vegetation clearing, soil erosion, and species extinction. While debate continues regarding the role of humans versus climatic factors as the leading cause for these changes, it is reasonable to assume that human impact on the environment exacerbated in some cases the effects of natural disasters, sometimes resulting in major social disruption. More historical data is needed to evaluate the degree and main causative agent of environmental change in atoll settings.

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The interlinked topics of ‘sustainability’ archaeology, historical ecology and conservation biology (van der Leeuw and Redman 2002; Lyman and Cannon 2004; Kirch 2005; Hardesty 2007) highlight the many challenges faced by communities in the Pacific region, including atoll populations, as they attempt to cope with changes to environments, economies and social values that now more than ever pose a threat to sustainable livelihoods. As the noted geographer Harold Brookfield (1980: 16) argued, ‘one of the more significant trends in modern environmental research is the growing realization of how much can be learned about the present from a study of the past.’ But one must be cautious in applying lessons from past adaptations in contemporary settings. Surely adjustments will have to be made to assist in developing long-term ecologically secure approaches to survival in the region. For the inhabitants of atolls and other low coral islands, however, time might be running out and options limited, with the prospect of mass migration linked to climate change and sea level rise looming as an increasingly likely adaptive scenario. Displaced communities could somehow retain their core cultural values even after several generations overseas. However, cultural and natural assets face irretrievable loss unless immediate action is taken to preserve and protect them. The challenge of sustainable lifestyles in the RMI will be great if people intend to conserve these assets for future generations.

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Bertram, G. and R. F. Watters. 1985. ‘The MIEAB economy in South Pacific microstates’, Pacific Viewpoint 26(3): 497–519. Bright, P. and E. Chutaro. 2007. Marshall Islands population atlas. Noumea, New Caledonia: Secretariat of the Pacific Community. Brodie, N. and C. Renfrew. 2005. ‘Looting and the World’s archaeological heritage: The inadequate response’, Annual Review of Anthropology 34(1): 343–361. Brookfield, H. C. 1980. ‘Introduction: The conduct and findings of the interdisciplinary Fiji project,’ in H. C. Brookfield (ed.), Population-environment relations in tropical islands: The case of Eastern Fiji. Paris: UNESCO, 13–28. Connell, J. 2000. ‘Urbanization and settlement in the Pacific,’ in Resettlement policy and practice in Southeast Asia and the Pacific. Manila: Asian Development Bank, 43–53. Coyne, T. 2000. Lifestyle diseases in Pacific communities. Noumea, New Caledonia: Secretariat of the Pacific Community. Dickinson, W. R. 2009. ‘Pacific atoll living: How long already and until when?’ GSA Today 19(3): 4–10. Di Piazza, A. and E. Pearthree. 2004. Sailing routes of old Polynesia: The prehistoric discovery, settlement and abandonment of the Phoenix Islands. Honolulu: Bishop Museum Press. EPA (Environmental Protection Authority). 2005. Public comment to Drydock EIA. On record at the office of the Environmental Protection Authority, Republic of the Marshall Islands. EPPSO (Economic Policy, Planning and Statistics Office). 2001. Statistical yearbook. Majuro: Government of the Republic of the Marshall Islands. ———. 2007. Updated statistical data, unpublished document. Majuro: Government of the Republic of the Marshall Islands. Flores, M. A. 2001. ‘Artifacts of our [ti] facts,’ Cultural Resource Management 24(1): 17–20. Gittelsohn, J., L. Maas, V. Gammino and N. Palafox. 1998. Overnutrition and undernutrition in the Republic of the Marshall Islands: A report of a pilot study and future directions. Baltimore, MD: Division of Human Nutrition, Department of International Health, School of Hygiene and Public Health, Johns Hopkins University. Hanlon, D. 1998. Remaking Micronesia: Discourses over development in a Pacific territory, 1944–1982. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. ———. 2003. ‘Beyond ‘the English method of tattooing’: Decentering the practice of history in Oceania’, The Contemporary Pacific 15(1): 19–40. Hardesty, D. L. 2007. ‘Perspectives on global-change archaeology,’ American Anthropologist 109(1): 1–7. Hezel, F. X. 2006. ‘Resource, research, and protection: An approach,’ Micronesian Journal of the Humanities and Social Sciences 5(1–2): 521–526. ICEM (International Center for Environmental Management). 2007. Effective management of world heritage sites and capacity building for protected areas in the Marshall Islands. Australia: ICEM. Retrieved on 25 July 2010 from: http:// www.icem.com.au/02_contents/03/documents/RMI per cent20ICEM-RNHP per cent20Progress per cent20Report per cent20Feb per cent202007.pdf

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Johanson, R. 2007. Skilling the Pacific. Asian Development Bank Technical Assistance Project No. 628-REG. Suva, Fiji Islands: Pacific Islands Forum Secretariat. Johanson, R., P. Brady, A. Gorham, C. Voigt-Graf and D. Barr. 2006. Technical-vocational skills development in the Republic of the Marshall Islands. Suva, Fiji Islands: Pacific Islands Forum Secretariat. Kirch, P. V. 2004. ‘Oceanic Islands: Microcosms of “global change”’, in C. L. Redman, S. R. James, P. R. Fish and J. D. Rogers (eds), The archaeology of global change: The impact of humans on their environment. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Books, 13–27. ———. 2005. ‘Archaeology and global change: The Holocene record,’ Annual Review of Environment and Resources 30: 409–440. Lyman, R. L. and K. P. Cannon (eds). 2004. Zooarchaeology and conservation biology. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Maffi, L. 2005. ‘Linguistic, cultural, and biological diversity’, Annual Review of Anthropology 34: 599–617. McClennen, C. 2007. Environmentally induced costs to small island states: The case of the Republic of the Marshall Islands, unpublished PhD thesis. Medford, MA: Tufts University. Miller, H. C. 1987. ‘Preserving landscapes’, CRM Bulletin 10(6): 1–3. National Park Service. 2002. Federal historic preservation laws. Washington, D.C.: National Center for Cultural Resources, National Park Service, U.S. Department of the Interior. Nature Conservancy. 2005. Save of the week: The Micronesia challenge, 22 December. Retrieved on 28 July 2010 from: http://www.nature.org/success/art16924 .html NRAS (Natural Resources Assessment Surveys). 2004. The state of coral reef ecosystems of the Marshall Islands. Retrieved on 28 July 2010 from: http://ccma.nos .noaa.gov/ecosystems/coralreef/coral_report_2005/Marshalls_Ch13_C.pdf Ogden, M. R. 1994. ‘MIRAB and the Marshall Islands’, ISLA: A Journal of Micronesian Studies 2(2): 237–272. O’Neill, J. G. and D. Spennemann. 2002. ‘Preserving colonial heritage in postcolonial Micronesia’, Pacific Studies 25(3): 1–15. Petrosian-Husa, C. 2004. Traditional Marshallese tools. Allele Report 2004/2. Republic of the Marshall Islands: Historic Preservation Office. Rallu, J-L. and A. A. Ahlburg. 1999. ‘Demography’, in M. Rapaport (ed.), The Pacific islands: Environment and society. Honolulu: Bess Press, 258–269. Riley, T. J. 1987. ‘Archaeological survey and testing, Majuro Atoll, Marshall Islands’, in T. Dye (ed.), Marshall Islands archaeology. Honolulu: Pacific Anthropological Records No. 38, Bishop Museum, 169–270. RMI. 2008. Pacific adaptation to climate change: Republic of the Marshall Islands project proposal. Majuro: Government of the Marshall Islands. Retrieved on 27 July 2010 from: http://www.pacificdisaster.net/pdnadmin/data/documents/ 4683.html RMI-EPA. 2006. National coastal management framework. Majuro: Republic of the Marshall Islands, Environmental Protection Authority.

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[ Chapter 9 ] The Bahamas HEATHER COVER AND NICOLA VIRGILL

Introduction The Bahama Islands stretch from the coast of Florida to border the Turks and Caicos Islands and Cuba in the south. As an archipelago with over twenty-five inhabited islands, The Bahamas pose a considerable challenge to development efforts because critical infrastructure must be replicated over the major islands. For a population of less than 310,000, for example, The Bahamas government has had to construct 62 airports, more than 150 public schools and many health care facilities. Given the high cost of development in The Bahamas, its small population and limited tax base, foreign direct investment (FDI), the inflow of foreign capital, has become a cornerstone of the country’s development strategy (McElroy et al. 1990; Srinivasan 2002). Indeed, the United Nations ranks The Bahamas as a country with high FDI potential and performance in terms of its size and economic activity (UNCTAD 2006). One important aspect of The Bahamas’ FDI strategy is a focus on the second home (often gated community) foreign-buyer market as a complement to the country’s tourism and offshore banking sectors. Since 1993, with the liberalization of foreign persons landholding laws, the second home market has indeed been targeted for development in The Bahamas. However, the strategy can be traced even further back in history to the early 1950s with the development of the Lyford Cay Club, a private gated community built by and initially targeted to wealthy Canadians. The phenomenon, of course, is not limited to The Bahamas. Jamaica Kincaid (1988) writes of a similar development in Antigua, and McElroy, Potter and Towle (1990) have pointed out the growing tensions that arise from land policy in the Caribbean region. They argue that ‘[s]ome of the most critical unresolved issues are arising in high-import societies such as in The Bahamas, U.S. Virgin Islands and St. Martin, where real estate speculation

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is displacing middle-income homeownership … inter-group tensions are surfacing around access to land and jobs’ (McElroy et al. 1990: 310). Issues of land use are emotive and can become highly politicized. This is especially the case in small island economies where land is an extremely scarce, finite and non-renewable resource. Almost 70 per cent of The Bahamas’ total population lives on the single island of New Providence. Hence, while calculations based on the 2000 population census put the country’s average population density at less than 9 persons per square mile, the density on the island of New Providence jumps to 397 persons per square mile. Given the island’s relatively small size (21 miles wide and 7 miles long) and its large population, the pressures on the land and its use are immense. Furthermore, the historical and cultural significance of land in The Bahamas add to the emotional tensions surrounding land issues. This chapter explores the second home, (often) gated community FDI strategy in The Bahamas and asks whether it is a sustainable policy for development. In particular, we critically analyse the benefits and costs of the strategy from both an economic and social perspective. We start by presenting the literature on FDI and the second home market strategy. Then we develop a model of the second home–alienation nexus in a small island economy such as The Bahamas. We attempt to measure the extent of this phenomenon in The Bahamas and then evaluate the economic and social impacts of the second home market strategy. We conclude with some policy implications and suggestions.

Literature Scan This essay brings together two strands of literature in order to understand the economic and cultural consequences and to assess the sustainability of the second home market in The Bahamas. First, we explore the literature on FDI and development. It is the use of FDI as an important development tool that appears to have provided the impetus for the rise in the demand for second homes and gated communities in The Bahamas. Second, the literature on second homes and gated communities is discussed. The work highlights why gated communities are formed as well as how they relate to the wider communities in which they are situated. Finally, combining these elements, a model of second home FDI development is presented.

FDI, Globalization and Development One strand of literature that is relevant for understanding the connection between The Bahamas’ development model and the rise in land use con-

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flicts focuses on the importance of foreign direct investment (FDI) as a development tool. Indeed, FDI has become a prized form of foreign private capital flows for developing economies, and as mentioned earlier, The Bahamas’ two leading sectors rely heavily on FDI (Sagafi-nejad 1995; Loungani and Razin 2001). The Bahamas could have attempted to develop these sectors using other forms of foreign funding to bridge the local funding and investment gap; however, FDI has traditionally been viewed by developing countries as an important source of economic growth for several reasons. First, compared to portfolio capital inflows, FDI is generally considered to be more stable and has greater potential for positive development impacts. As developing countries tend to be capital poor, growth through purely internal sources is likely to be difficult (Rosenstein-Rodan 1943). Bosworth, Collins and Reinhart (1999: 143) point out, for example, that ‘[f ]or many developing countries, the ability to draw upon an international pool of financial capital offers large potential benefits. Low levels of capital per worker in these countries have long held output down’. Furthermore, Nunnenkamp, Schweicken and Wiebert (2007: 438) suggest that FDI can provide alternate resources for government spending for development. Second, FDI comes to the host economy with not only new foreign capital, but also with technology, training and experience (human capital) that may not exist within local firms (Helleiner 1973; Kinunda-Rutashobya 2003). FDI has the ability to generate technology spillovers and brings with it the possibility for backward and forward linkages with domestic firms (Markusen and Venables 1999: 336). Penrose (1956: 232), for example, points out that FDI offers foreign expertise, capital and technology that might not otherwise be available if only domestic resources were relied on or if domestic firms used foreign capital. There can also be positive implications for productivity improvements through new training opportunities and greater efficiency (ibid.: 233). All these factors, then, can potentially positively affect economic growth through increases in productivity, increases in the capital stock and improvements in human capital. Some studies are not as positive, however. Zhang (2001: 184), having examined the effects of FDI on growth for a selection of East Asian and Latin American countries, finds that the growth effects of FDI are conditional upon ‘host-country characteristics, such as trade strategy, human capital and export propensities of FDI.’ Additionally, the benefits from FDI are affected by the composition of FDI in an economy. Hence, the type of FDI that enters the host economy matters just as much as the types of products that a country exports (Hausmann et al. 2006). For example, significant knowledge spillovers will obviously not occur when new knowledge is not being generated by the activities that employ the FDI. This distinction will become important for our analysis. Vernon (1966), for example, opines that

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FDI flows to developing countries will typically be involved in the production of low-skill products, as it is low-technology, standardized production that generally moves to developing countries.

Gated Communities and Sense of Community The other thread of literature that this chapter draws on relates to gated communities. The growing, worldwide phenomenon of the gated community raises several important questions for the development of sustainable communities because of its effects on social segregation, community development and the equitable use of resources in a community (e.g., Landman 2000). In this section, we examine the emergence of gated communities in several countries. In each country, the effects of rising incomes, increasing income gaps, inflows of foreign professions and globalization are key factors. China, perhaps, offers the most extreme example of the exclusionary effects of gated communities. Although China’s large land mass and huge population present a marked contrast to The Bahamas, its experience with gated communities is instructive for this study. In the case of China, however, the resulting exclusionary effects of the gated communities were perhaps even desired. Like other countries experiencing the second home and gated community phenomenon, Wu and Webber (2004) note that China, with the rise of new investment and a booming economy, has erected new gated communities of high-quality housing for foreign investors and workers: ‘Regardless of apartment complexes or villa compounds, foreign housing is built into secured “gated communities”, taking the form of a gate and a wall surrounding the whole complex, with 24 hour close-circuit television and patrolling guards’ (ibid.: 206). The new foreign-worker housing communities represent a major change in China’s policy for housing, which had previously been entirely statecontrolled or based on employment (ibid.). Indeed, housing for foreign workers, which as of the 1980s could be leased and then eventually owned and sold, represented an important departure from the socialist system of housing that had existed for much of the country (Jiang et al. 1998; Wu and Webber 2004: 206). For Wu and Webber (2004: 207), gates represent an important way to culturally separate the new Western social norms and culture from Chinese society, thereby preserving more traditional Chinese values. Another important feature of these communities was the extensiveness of their amenities aimed at their foreign residents and their proximity to airports and international schools. In South Africa, ethnic and racial factors, in addition to security concerns, have played a role in the creation of gated communities. Writing on

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gated communities in South Africa, which have escalated in tandem with raising crime rates, Hook and Vrdoljak (2002: 199) find that this trend has exacerbated racial tensions in South Africa. Lemanski (2006: 398) adds that ‘enclaves are not simply a response to social difference and fear, but actually create and deepen segregation and polarization, based on excluding difference and reinforcing fear.’ In Chile, ‘gated cities’ or ‘city islands’ linked by private highways have emerged to cater for wealthy Chileans and expatriate workers (Borsdorf et al. 2007). Similar communities have been established in Argentina, largely as a result of the increasing income of some residents, increasing crime rates and the desire for greater security and exclusivity (Roitman 2005). Borsdof et al. (2007: 336) point out that ‘in the case of Chile … ethnic factors are less important whereas social variables are much more characteristic for the differentiation of the fenced areas.’ These developments, they argue, have led to fractured cities as the gated concept extends to middle and lower income classes. They conclude that ‘[c]losed quarters in the form of vertical and horizontal condominiums, closed streets or even fenced-in cities are the most visible structures in the new Latin American city … Exclusion itself may be regarded as the central structuring force in the cities and the societies: it is not only the central motive in residential areas and in the business world, it is present in education, leisure and recreation, communication, and mobility, that is in all basic functions of human beings’ (Borsdof et al. 2007: 377).

Towards a Theory of Social Exclusion in Small Island Communities Building on the two strands of literature explored in this paper, this section devises a theory of second home, FDI-driven development strategy leading to social exclusion within a small island community. First, a country explores a development strategy whose execution requires both foreign capital and foreign expertise. For the majority of developing economies, capital and skills are extremely scarce resources; outside assistance is therefore often relied upon. Depending on the industry chosen, foreign workers and investors are required to be present in the country for short and longer periods of time. As their skills (and capital) are limited, a premium is placed on their services, resulting in a considerably higher income for these foreign workers. Given their relatively high incomes, these workers/investors can demand higher-quality homes. In the Caribbean, higher quality relates not only to the size of the home and the quality of the construction, but also to its location in close proximity to the beach. It should be emphasized here that the demand for second homes and in some instances gated communities is an auxiliary effect derived from the country’s development strategy

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(that is, the housing of foreign workers). Demand for high-quality housing thus drives this market and spurs supply. However, as illustrated in Figure 9.1, a second home FDI development strategy can directly drive the second home market. In the case of The Bahamas and other Caribbean countries, a supply of high-quality second homes and gated communities is developed and then marketed to wealthy buyers in order to attract foreign capital. The second home market is, therefore, no longer a by-product of development but is, rather, the actual development strategy. This strategy is often accompanied by concessionary tax policies to attract foreign homebuyers, extensive environmental and land cover changes and, in some cases, the provision of rights of legal residency in the country. Given the rise in demand for high-quality housing and the land use changes that accompany this demand, social tensions can develop. This essay proposes that, in cases where there are greater disparities in terms of culture or income between the new foreign homebuyer entrants and the existing local populations, there will be a rise in more exclusionary housing and land use patterns leading to greater social tensions compared to countries where there are greater similarities between these two groups. Mycoo (2004: 132), for example, notes that even though Tokyo and Paris are ‘global cities’, gated communities are relatively rare. These disparities, we argue, are further emphasized because of the proximity of wealthy and poor areas in small island economies. Weaver (1993: 137), for example, constructs a model of urban Caribbean touristic cities that shows that these disparate housing communities border each other. Doran and Landis (1980), in their exposé on the historical and existing

Figure 9.1 A model of a second home FDI strategy and the links to social exclusion Source: Authors.

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slums in New Providence, also highlight the tensions that exist because of the close proximity of these groups within small islands.

Gated Communities and the Second Home Market in The Bahamas: A Case Study This section presents a case study that brings together the two primary themes of this chapter: the economic impact of The Bahamas’ second home FDI strategy, and its effects on social exclusion. Our case study draws on the limited data available for this market and also utilizes interviews with real estate professionals and officials responsible for regulating the second home market. Importantly, however, this essay also relies on commentary and editorials from Bahamian newspapers and discussion websites to gather information about the average Bahamian’s views on the second home market.

The Changing and Enabling Legal Framework The implementation of the International Persons Landholding Act in 1994 is widely acknowledged as a key element in the revival of the second home market in The Bahamas. Prior to 1994, the Immovable Property (Acquisition by Foreign Persons) Act of 1981 regulated the purchase of land by nonBahamians. The law required all foreigners wishing to buy property to obtain the government’s approval from the Foreign Investments Board. The process was long, tedious and uncertain. The new legislation streamlined the purchasing process and allowed non-Bahamians to buy a single-family dwelling home on less than five acres without being subjected to the Foreign Investments Board’s permit process. Rather, the purchase only has to be registered with the board. However, non-Bahamians are still required to apply for a permit to purchase a land parcel of more than five contiguous acres, undeveloped tracts of any size or land that would be used for commercial purposes, including property that would be placed in a rental pool. Both qualitative and quantitative data support the claim that the International Persons Landholding Act served to reenergize the second home market. Interviews conducted with Investments Board staff in July and August 2008 confirm that the number of applications received increased significantly after the law was changed. Indeed, the trend has continued over the past ten years as both the number of certificates of registration and permits have increased. After the law was changed in 1994, the number of foreign landholding approvals for second homes increased significantly.

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From 2005 on the market for foreign home ownership in The Bahamas was rejuvenated by sharp growth in the number of both certificates and permits (Central Bank of the Bahamas 2008a).

Land Prices in The Bahamas Many analysts would argue that the recent growth of the second home market has sparked a real estate boom as competition for land has increased. Indeed, many of these second home developments consist of upscale houses in gated communities. The growth in this market has served to increase pressure on land prices throughout the country. Analysis of the average value of Bahamian dollar residential mortgages increased from just over $67,000 in 1998 to over $118,000 in 2007 (Central Bank of the Bahamas 2008b: Table 8.12). (The Bahamian dollar is pegged at par with the US dollar.) Global Property Guide (2008) reports that the average house price per square foot in 2008 in The Bahamas ranged from $206 to $778. Similarly, condominium prices ranged from $286 to $479 per square foot. While systematic data on average house prices and average land prices has only recently been tracked by Bahamian authorities, many anecdotal examples of dramatic increases in property prices exist. The Bahamas Real Estate Association, for example, noted that a condominium at the Ocean Club on Paradise Island – a high-end luxury resort aimed at second home buyers – sold for $600,000 in 2002, whereas today the same unit is on the market for $1.5 million, a stunning 150 per cent increase (Basalyga 2008). Property prices in New Providence have climbed tremendously, as pointed out in a Washington Times (2000) article that gives the example of a unit in the beachfront gated community of Caves Point in western New Providence being purchased for $425,000 and sold a year later for $800,000. The phenomenon is not limited to New Providence. Peter Dupuch, of ERA Dupuch Real Estate, reported that ‘beachfront property has doubled in the past 10 years, while properties in the Family Islands have soared by 80–90 per cent.’ (Global Property Guide 2007). A comparison of the mean 2007 prices for a standard-size, centrally located apartment in the main city across different Caribbean countries reveals that The Bahamas falls within the upper middle portion of the distribution, having the eighth most expensive price of the eighteen countries surveyed. The most expensive is Bermuda, which also happens to be the most densely populated of the group (Global Property Guide 2008). Of the countries that rank above The Bahamas, only Martinique, Curaçao (in the Dutch Antilles) and Barbados have larger land areas than New Providence. However, if we consider the major cities in each of those islands, only Willemstad, the capital of Curaçao, is larger than Nassau. Hence, land scar-

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city, in addition to the surge in second home competition, may account for some of the differences in price. Even in the light of these high prices, the global economic recession and the housing crunch in the United States, the second home market in The Bahamas has proven to be resilient, and Bahamian realtors are optimistic about the continued surge. In a June 2008 article in the Bahama Journal, William Wong, president of the Bahamas Real Estate Association, noted: ‘Foreigners have a lot of disposable income … [the recession] would not affect them as much’ (Jones 2008). The article notes further that ‘business from locals has slowed because of the current climate. Mr. Wong says [that] in his experience, not too many Bahamians actually purchase second homes.’ Chandra Parker-McCallum of the local Bahamian real estate agency Paradise Realty contends, however, that Bahamians are buying as much as foreigners: ‘We have a lot of Bahamians that are buying second homes for themselves and also buying them as rental investments. In fact, we have a lot of Bahamians that are buying multiple units on Paradise Island and have done very well with rentals over the years.’

Gated Communities in The Bahamas: A Cross-island Comparison While research suggests that ownership of property in The Bahamas by non-Bahamians has increased substantially in the past fifteen years, a closer examination of the second home market reveals that there are different ownership patterns throughout the country. The Bahamas Real Estate Association reports that the second home markets in Abaco, Exuma, Eleuthera and western New Providence are experiencing the greatest demand. A comparison of New Providence and Eleuthera (See Table 9.1) seeks to test the gated communities model presented earlier. While these neighbouring islands differ in size and population, they have enjoyed similar growth in the second home markets. New Providence, the country’s capital, has several gated communities as well as a number of controlled-entry condominium buildings in the westTable 9.1 Basic statistics: Comparison of New Providence and Eleuthera

Land area Estimated population Estimated number of second homes purchased (2004–2007) Number of gated communities Source: Official statistics.

New Providence

Eleuthera

147 square miles 260,000

200 square miles 8,000

853 9

584 2

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ern and eastern parts of the island with prices ranging from U.S. $215,000 to $600,000. While Eleuthera has experienced steady growth in the second home market, the island, by contrast, has only a few gated communities, and according to the Bahamas Real Estate Association, sales have been disappointing. Rather than purchase homes in residential developments, many foreign second homeowners in Eleuthera have opted to buy existing houses in communities or construct their own homes on undeveloped land. Similarly, short-term visitors have tended to stay at traditional hotels, as opposed to condo-hotel mixes. Despite the lack of gated communities, land prices in Eleuthera have increased. How can our model of gated communities explain their popularity in New Providence and the lack of the same in Eleuthera? We contend that the main difference lies in the purpose for which homes are purchased and the character and demographics of the different islands. Purpose Matters While second to tourism, international banking is an important pillar of the Bahamian economy. Most offshore banks operating in The Bahamas have offices in New Providence. Hence many more non-Bahamian businesspeople buy homes and reside in New Providence while working in the country. Indeed, the Washington Times (2000) reports that ‘Nassau is where the majority of people who do offshore business buy their homes.’ Conversely, many of the Eleuthera’s second-home buyers reside there for leisure, atmosphere, environment and people: ‘U.S. buyers tend to gravitate toward the Family Islands, focusing on yachting and leisure.’ (ibid.) However, this appears to be changing with the recent construction of large-scale gated developments on Eleuthera, although various proposed projects for many of the other family islands are now on hold. Writing on the Cotton Bay Club in Eleuthera, one website describes its vision: A paradise, within a paradise, this exclusive gated community, will provide the finest in services and amenities for those who enjoy the resort lifestyle. Amenities include Clubhouse with tennis, dining, swimming and concierge services, Marina and The Cotton Bay Villas (part of the world renowned Starwood Luxury Collection). Future phases will include an 18-hole championship golf course, wellness center/spa and expansion of the marina. Lots are priced from $700,000; Villas priced from $1.2 million. (Gated Communities 2008)

Therefore, the purpose of the second home purchase by the foreign buyer matters. Persons who relocate to a new country for work may be viewed as involuntary homeowners in terms of their location choice. The

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location of their home is determined by the location of the job. This move may give rise to greater demand for certain amenities not ordinarily found in the community and spark safety concerns. Voluntary homeowners who purchase homes for vacation purposes are probably more likely to want to experience the local culture and want to become a part of the community; they can choose to reside in locations that meet their needs in terms of amenities and perceived safety. As a result, they may more readily opt not to reside in gated communities. Safety and Amenities Matter Second, we find that issues of safety and perceived safety are important in determining the desire to live in a gated community. As New Providence tends to have higher levels of crime than the other family islands, secondhome owners there can be expected to select from among homes within gated developments, which focus on security while offering high-quality amenities.

Analysing the Impact of Second Homes and Gated Communities on The Bahamas Given the country’s small size, the high demand for land ownership by both Bahamians and non-Bahamians, and the liberal land ownership legislation, the second home market has experienced tremendous growth over recent years. Similarly, the popularity of gated communities has also increased in some islands. This section seeks to analyse the impact that the surge in gated communities has had on Bahamian society. Indeed, the boom in the second home market has had notable economic, social and environmental effects while the growth of gated communities, more specifically, has unique social impacts. The remainder of this section will study the economic, social and environmental aspects in turn.

The Economic Impact The growth in the second home market has had both positive and negative impacts on the Bahamian economy. Many sectors have benefited from its success, including the construction industry (which builds homes and residential communities), the real estate industry (which facilitates the buying and selling of property) and lawyers (who assist with the legal aspects of property transactions). Additionally, once buildings have been erected and sales transactions have been completed, a number of unskilled workers begin to benefit from the second home market by finding employment with

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homeowners as housekeepers, gardeners, maintenance workers and security personnel. It should be noted, however, that many housekeepers and gardeners are not Bahamian, but rather Caribbean immigrants from such countries as Jamaica and Haiti. On a micro level, Bahamian property sellers have benefited from the housing boom spurred by the growth in the second home market. Meanwhile, the high prices have made it more difficult for those interested in purchasing homes, especially those who compete with wealthier nonBahamian homebuyers. Based on newspaper commentary and views expressed on local talk shows, there is a general sentiment, especially in New Providence, that property ownership is being pushed beyond the means of many middle-class workers. On a macro level, however, The Bahamas have benefited through the increased collection of stamp taxes from property sales as well as annual real property taxes. Indeed, a count of second-time homeowners from data held at the Prime Minister’s Office suggests that between 2005 and 2007, the government of The Bahamas received almost US$90 million in stamp taxes from the purchase of vacation residential homes by non-Bahamians, representing 6 per cent of its average annual revenue and funding both capital and current expenditures. In a similar manner, the new foreign residents engage in everyday transactions that stimulate the local economy. While the increase in the second home market has had some positive effects on the economy, an analysis of its impact is incomplete without looking at opportunity costs. The foreign direct investment that accompanies second home developments may be more economically productive if used differently. While the construction, real estate and legal industries directly benefit from the FDI of second home purchases, the investment does not increase long-term productivity generally in the economy (see Table 9.2). Indeed, there is little or no transfer of technology, no substantial long-term employment gains or increases in human capital. Neoclassical growth theory argues that growth is a factor of capital accumulation, labour productivity and technological advances. Indeed, in the Solow model, technology is even more important than capital accumulation. Endogenous growth theory, more explicitly, focuses on the importance of human capital accumulation to economic growth. Human capital is robust and exhibits increasing returns compared to physical capital, which diminishes over time. While it helps to boost the stock of physical capital in The Bahamas, the second home market does little to advance technology or increase human capital – hence it has limited capacity to aid in long-term economic growth. Further, Jiang, Chen and Isaac (1998: 2108) write that ‘[t]echnology innovation in the real estate industry is stagnant. Thus firms in this industry generally spend little of their value-added on R&D invest-

210 Cover and Nicola Virgill impact of the second home market in TableHeather 9.2 Analysis of the economic The Bahamas

Main Stakeholder

Short-term Benefit

Government of the Bahamas

Increased tax review from property sales

Long-term Benefit (Productivity Enhancing Effects)

None

Increased property taxes from high-end properties.

Short-term Cost

Long-term Cost (Productivity Decreasing Effects)

Foregone revenues from concessions/ incentive programs

Foregone growth enhancing, productive investment opportunities. Long-term land use changes related to harbor dredging, mangrove loss and other environmental changes.1

Legal Increased fees Professionals from real estate transactions

None

None

None

Banking Sector

Increased activity for (offshore) banks which serve the non-resident population.

None

None

None

Realtors

Increased fees from real estate transactions.

None

None

None

Construction Increased Industry business where Bahamian firms are utilized.

None

None

None

New jobs None created in low skill occupations.

None

Foregone opportunities for training and skills, strengthening associated higher quality employment.

Bahamian Workers

Permanent loss of land, beach access and sea views. Land price inflation. 1

For example, the Nassau Guardian cites an environmental impact study on the Albany development in South Western New Providence, reporting that “The island’s water table could be irreversibly damaged and the water supply degraded by the billion-dollar Albany development, according to a US scientist asked to look at the environmental concerns surrounding the project.” See also Wells (2006). Source: Authors’ estimates.

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ment.… Thus, it is well established that a country can hardly accumulate much technological advantage in this industry’. Hence, the growth of the second home market as a development strategy does little to increase the country’s long-term GDP growth trajectory.

The Social Impact While the boom in the second home market has for the most part had an ambiguous economic effect on The Bahamas, the social impact has been more negative. Although foreign investors continue to purchase land in The Bahamas and develop gated residential communities, many Bahamians object to their presence. Environmental groups, community activists, neighbourhood associations and many independent citizens have often criticized the construction of gated communities and residential developments. One common complaint is that persons who do not reside in these developments are being restricted from access to the sea and sea views. By law in The Bahamas, all land up to the high tide mark is public land to which everyone has access. However, given that gated residential communities tend to be built on the waterfront, access to those beaches proves difficult in reality. The loss of sea views and beach access is felt more harshly in New Providence, where the island is small and densely populated. The high prices of residences in gated communities in New Providence often put them out of the reach of the majority of Bahamians. As a result more persons are pushed further into the middle of the island, away from the coast. This contributes to overcrowding in the central and eastern parts of the island. The negative effects of overcrowding in cities have been well documented by demographers (Gabe and Williams 1993; Kellett 1993; Glaeser 1998; Marsh et al. 1999; Antunes et al. 2001). An analysis of the major Bahamian real estate websites reveals that a greater percentage of properties placed for sale with these private realtors are aimed at highend markets (see Table 9.3). This suggests that the majority of affordable housing units are provided through the government’s low-cost housing programmes, which tend to be inland, high-density developments. The presence of gated communities also creates a social divide between those behind the gates and those outside. Calling for a moratorium on gated communities, one blogger in a Bahamian online community forum wrote: Every day, it appears that more and more of our beach front/lakeview properties are being taken away from us. The average Bahamian is being denied access to the parts of the island that makes this country beautiful. Gated Communities for the most part are responsible for facilitating a class discriminatory structure that at one time was not very prevalent in this country. Class structure originally existed between Blacks & Whites

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Table 9.3 Comparison of number and value of New Providence properties advertised by Bahamian real estate companies Real estate company

Over $1m

Era Real Estate 116 CA Christie 84 HG Christie 155 Paradise Real Estate 72 Paradise Sales and Rentals 38 Kings Realty 4

Over $500K

Over $250K

Under $250K

Total

Percentage of most affordable homes (under $250K)

115 88 148

107 101 124

50 20 70

388 293 497

12.9 per cent 6.8 per cent 14.1 per cent

53

44

74

243

30.5 per cent

10 6

4 6

55 22

5.5 per cent 27.3 per cent

3* 6*

Source: Authors’ estimates based on website review of six Bahamian real estate agencies.

but nowadays thanks to prevalence of gated communities a new form of social discrimination is being created. Gone are the days when Lyford cay was the only gated community. There are so many now that I have lost count. This little Island is only 21 by 7! How much more of it is going to be denied to the average Bahamian! Even White Bahamians fought against the establishment of Clifton Cay. It is therefore obvious that both Black & White Bahamians realize that the prevalence of such communities is not a good thing. (Moratorium on Gated Communities 2006)

Another blogger wrote: Has anyone noticed the proliferation of Gated Communities throughout the Bahamas? What’s up with this separatist movement afoot in the Bahamas. I mean, Mayaguana has a gated community, San Salvador, Exuma and now Rum Cay is joining this movement. It’s amusing that these foreigners want live in the Bahamas but don’t want live amongst it. And the sad thing is we encouraging it: mini private societies with their own private labor forces living within the Bahamas…dang… (Gated Community on Rum Cay? 2006)

The responses to these bloggers’ comments ranged from total agreement of some members who were fearful of the ‘class divide’ such communities may reinforce, to complete support for gated communities and sympathy for people who wish to reside behind gates, given the perceived level of antisocial behaviour among Bahamian youths, crime rates (e.g., Nowak 2001),

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traffic congestion and the desire for better amenities and utilities. The barrier that the gate creates is a physical reminder of class differences in the society. While the gate serves to separate persons physically, it may also ostracize them socially.

The Environmental Impact The fact that many second homes are in gated communities does not, in and of itself, present an environmental problem. However, as discussed earlier, many of the residential developments targeted at foreign homeowners are built near the beach. Such developments may pose erosion problems because shoreline vegetation, which naturally holds sand and soil in place, is often removed for construction purposes. Thus, the probability of erosion increases. Additionally, in New Providence some mangrove swamps have been filled in and housing developments built in their place. Mangroves serve an important environmental purpose, protecting the shoreline from erosion and providing a home to several species of birds, fish and insects. Many residential developments have amenities such as golf courses and marinas that also take a toll on the environment. For marinas, the seabed is dredged and water flow altered. The additional ships discharge pollution into the sea. With regard to golf courses, Weaver (2006) contends that they utilize large amounts of water, harmful pesticides and fertilizers. Golf course design ‘has largely adhered to a “scorched earth” philosophy that eradicates and restructures the natural topography, soil, hydrology, and biology of the sight to meet the needs of the game’ (Weaver 2006: 104). Some courses also introduce exotic plants and suppress wildlife that might interfere with the game.

Policy Changes in Response to Growing Frustration Policymakers in The Bahamas, aware of the tensions emanating from the development and deepening of the second home market in The Bahamas, have instituted a number of policy changes to balance the positive economic impacts of the large-scale capital injections that result from second home purchases against the increasing negative social backlash. An important, though perhaps impossible, task for policymakers involves devising policies to encourage the growth of the second home market without overly impacting land prices or creating further perceptions of marginalization and alienation from the land, beaches and sea views that are important elements of Bahamian culture and heritage. In an attempt to stem the negative impacts of gated communities, Bahamian policymakers have introduced and then tightened the country’s

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foreign-buyer land policies in recent years. For example, because land speculation artificially and unproductively increases prices, the Foreign Investments Board often denies new applications by persons who have purchased plots of land in the past without developing them. Similarly, the government has embarked upon the practice of leasing crown land to developers, as opposed to selling it. The leases are usually held on the condition of substantial development. While the terms of the lease are designed to be fair to investors, they also give the government some protection against land speculation while making certain that the public treasury continues to benefit from the development as long as it is operational. Additionally, crown (or publicly held) land cannot be leased or sold for residential purposes, a provision aimed at stemming irrevocable transfer of such land. Additionally, policymakers have actively sought to encourage Bahamian home ownership through policies that exempt Bahamian home buyers who meet certain criteria from stamp taxes and exempt first-time homeowners with houses valued under $500,000 from real property tax payments. Finally, the Bahamian government has recently completed a signage project in New Providence that clearly marks all beach access points to ensure availability to residents.

Conclusion This essay has brought together the literature on the economic impact of foreign direct investment and on the social exclusion associated with gated communities to shed light on a growing land use concern in The Bahamas: the second home market. As mentioned earlier, the issue is particularly pertinent to a small, densely populated, island capital of an archipelago such as The Bahamas, where land is increasingly scarce and (by association) expensive, and where development needs to rely heavily on foreign direct investment. In the short run, The Bahamas have gained substantially from the second home market in terms of increased fees and capital flows for many of the major stakeholders, including the government, realtors and the construction, legal and banking industries. However, the long-term, growthenhancing benefits of second home FDI are likely to be limited, and meanwhile the social tensions created by the policy are growing. While Bahamian policymakers are trying to minimize some of the unwanted and unintended economic impacts of the second home market, this study asserts that encouraging investment in other, economically productive industries and in sectors that serve to promote technological advances and human capital growth is much more crucial to long-term Bahamian socioeconomic development.

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B Antunes, J., L. Ferreira and E. A. Waldman. 2001. ‘The impact of AIDS, immigration, and housing overcrowding on tuberculosis deaths in São Paulo, Brazil: 1994–1998’, Social Science and Medicine 52(7): 1071–1080. Basalyga, L. 2008. Vice President of Bahamas Real Estate Association. Telephone interview, 8 August. Borsdorf, A., R. Hidalgo and R. Sánchez. 2007. ‘A new model of urban development in Latin America: The gated communities and fenced cities in the metropolitan areas of Santiago De Chile and Valparaíso’, Cities 24(5): 365–378. Bosworth, B. P., S. M. Collins and C. M. Reinhart. 1999. ‘Capital flows to developing economies: Implications for saving and investment’, Brookings Papers on Economic Activity 1: 143–146. Central Bank of the Bahamas. 2008a. Quarterly Statistical Digest. Nassau: Central Bank of the Bahamas. ———. 2008b. Quarterly Economic Review. Nassau: Central Bank of the Bahamas. Department of Statistics. 2004. Bahamas living conditions survey 2001. Nassau: Department of Statistics. Doran, M. F., and R. A. Landis. 1980. ‘Origin and persistence of an inner-city slum in Nassau’, Geographical Review 70(2): 182–193. Gabe, J. and P. Williams. 1993. ‘Women, crowding and mental health’, in R. Burridge and D. Ormandy (eds), Unhealthy housing: Research, remedies and reform. London: E. & F. N. Spon, 191–208. Gated Communities. 2008. Retrieved on 30 July 2010 from: www.privatecommunities.com/gated-communities.htm ‘Gated Community on Rum Cay?’ 2006. Bahamas Issues. Retrieved on 30 July 2010 from: http://www.bahamasissues.com/archive/index.php/t-4816.html Glaeser, E. L. 1998. ‘Are cities dying?’ Journal of Economic Perspectives 12(2): 139–160. Global Property Guide. 2007. ‘Bahamas is no cheap paradise’, 20 November. ———. 2008. ‘Square meter prices in premier Caribbean city centers’. Retrieved on 30 July 2010 from: www.globalpropertyguide.com/Caribbean/square-meterprices/ Hausmann, R., J. Hwang and D. Rodrik. 2006. What you export matters. Cambridge, MA: National Bureau of Economic Research. Helleiner, G. K. 1973. ‘Manufactured exports from less developed countries and multinational firms’, The Economic Journal 83(329): 21–47. Hook, D. and M. Vrdoljak. 2002. ‘Gated communities, heterotopia and a “rights” of privilege: A “heterotopology” of the South African security park’, Geoforum 33(2): 195–219. Jiang, D., J. J. Chen and D. Isaac. 1998. ‘The effect of foreign investment on the real estate industry in China,’ Urban Studies 35(11): 2101–2110. Jones, K. 2008. ‘Market still thriving for second homes’, The Bahama Journal, 9 June. Kellett, J. (1993). Crowding and mortality in London boroughs. In R. Burridge and D. Ormandy (eds.) Unhealthy housing: Research, remedy and reform. London: E. & F. N. Spon, 209–222.

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Kincaid, J. 1988. A small place. New York: Farrar, Straus, Giroux. Kinunda-Rutashobya, L. 2003. ‘Exploring the potentialities of export processing free zones for economic development in Africa: Lessons from Mauritius’, Management Decision 41(3): 226–232. Landman, K. 2000. ‘Gated communities and urban sustainability: Taking a closer look at the future’. Paper presented at conference on ‘Strategies for a Sustainably Built Environment’, Pretoria, South Africa. Lemanski, C. 2006. ‘Spaces of exclusivity or connection? Linkages between a gated community and its poorer neighbor in a Cape Town master plan development’, Urban Studies 43(2): 397–420. Loungani, P. and A. Razin. 2001. ‘How beneficial is foreign direct investment for developing countries?’ Finance and Development 38(2): 6–10. Markusen, J. R. and A. J. Venables. 1999. ‘Foreign direct investment as a catalyst for industrial development’, European Economic Review 43(2): 335–356. Marsh, A., D. Gordon, C. Pantazis and P. Heslop. 1999. Home sweet home? The impact of poor housing on health. London: Policy Press. McElroy, J. L., B. Potter and E. Towle. 1990. ‘Challenges for sustainable development in small Caribbean islands’, in W. Beller, P. d’Ayala and P. Hein (eds), Sustainable development and environmental management of small islands. Paris: UNESCO, 299–316. ‘Moratorium on Gated Communities’. 2006. Bahamas Issues. Retrieved on 30 July 2010 from: http://www.bahamasissues.com/archive/index.php/t-3751.html Mycoo, M. 2006. ‘The retreat of the upper and middle classes to gated communities in the poststructural adjustment era: The case of Trinidad’, Environment and Planning A 38(1): 131–148. Nowak, B. J. 2001. ‘Keeping it better in the Bahamas: A nation’s socioeconomic response to juvenile crime’, Journal of Black Studies 31(4): 483–493. Nunnenkamp, P., R. Schweickert and M. Wiebelt. 2007. ‘Distributional effects of FDI: How the interaction of FDI and economic policy affects poor households in Bolivia’, Development Policy Review 25(4): 429–450. Penrose, E. T. 1956. ‘Foreign investment and the growth of the firm’, The Economic Journal 66(262): 220–235. Roitman, S. 2005. ‘Who segregates whom? The analysis of a gated community in Mendoza, Argentina’, Housing Studies, 20(2): 303–321. Rosenstein-Rodan, P. N. 1943. ‘Problems of industrialization of eastern and southeastern Europe’, The Economic Journal 53(210/211): 202–211. Sagafi-nejad, T. 1995. ‘Transnational corporations–host country relations and the changing foreign direct investment climate: Toward 2000’, The International Trade Journal 9(1): 85–106. Srinivasan, T. N. 2002. ‘The costs and benefits of being a small, remote, island, landlocked, or ministate economy’, The World Bank Research Observer 1(2): 205–218. UNCTAD (United Nations Conference on Trade and Development). 2008. Inward FDI performance index 2006. Retrieved on 30 July 2010 from: www.unctad .org/Templates/WebFlyer.asp?intItemID=2471&lang=1

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Vernon, R. 1966. ‘International investment and international trade in the product cycle’, The Quarterly Journal of Economics 80(2): 190–207. Washington Times. 2000. ‘Home ownership is on the rise, with a focus on second homes’, 29 March. Weaver, D. B. 1993. ‘Model of urban tourism for small Caribbean islands’, Geographical Review 83(2): 134–140. ———. 2006. Sustainable tourism: Theory and practice. Oxford: Elsevier Butterworth-Heinemann. Wu, F. and K. Webber. 2004. ‘The rise of “foreign gated communities” in Beijing: Between economic globalization and local institutions’, Cities 21(3): 203–213. Zhang, K. H. 2001. ‘Does foreign direct investment promote economic growth? Evidence from East Asia and Latin America’, Contemporary Economic Policy 19(2): 175–185.

[ Chapter 10 ] San Andrés Island, Colombia MARION HOWARD AND ELIZABETH TAYLOR

Introduction The San Andrés archipelago is a Colombian department in the western Caribbean. The largest island, San Andrés, is 500 miles northwest of the Colombian coast and about 100 miles east of Nicaragua. It measures 7.5 miles in length with a width of less than 2 miles, and covers a land area of just over 10 square miles. According to the most recent census, the archipelago had a population of about 71,000 in 2005. Some 5,000 people lived in Old Providence and Santa Catalina, with the remaining 66,000 inhabitants in San Andrés (DANE 2007). Census data are generally disbelieved, however, and population estimates range up to 100,000 or more. Serious obstacles to sustainable development stemmed from the rapid population growth that followed designation as a free port in 1953, with ensuing development in tourism and commerce. Results of the 2005 census are being studied on a national level because of perceived flaws in the new methodology that was used (Faticone 2008). But even if the official figure is an undercount, the reported density is still the highest of any oceanic island in the Americas, as well as one of the highest in the world (Howard 2004). It is also the most densely populated Colombian department, with a population growth rate that is more than twice the national average. Native islanders are now a minority in the islands, the majority of residents being migrants from mainland Colombia. Effective management of natural assets is essential for the survival of the island and its community.

Environment The San Andrés archipelago is of regional and global ecological significance. It is part of both the Caribbean Terrestrial Biodiversity Hotspot and the

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Western Caribbean Coral Reef Hotspot, identified as a region exceptionally rich in marine species and facing extreme threat. The island is surrounded by coral reefs, mangroves, seagrasses and beaches. Tourism, fishing and agriculture are economic activities that depend directly on the condition of the ecosystems and other natural assets. Because of the significance of its environment and native culture, the entire archipelago (including San Andrés) was declared a national biosphere reserve in 1993 and joined UNESCO’s Man and the Biosphere Program (MAB) in 2000 as the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve. To improve conservation, and sustainable use of coastal and marine ecosystems and protect traditional livelihoods, the national declaration of the Seaflower Marine Protected Area (MPA) followed in 2005. The Seaflower was the first MPA in Colombia and is the Caribbean’s largest. The archipelago has also been declared an Important Bird Area by BirdLife International.

Economy Economic activities on San Andrés mainly centre on tourism, tourismdependent commerce, government employment, fishing and small-scale agriculture. Islanders have traditionally practiced a mix of livelihoods by combining fishing and small-scale farming with a government job or small business. The most significant impact of the free port designation in 1953 was the development of a commercial tourism model that targeted Colombian nationals, attracting them to San Andrés to buy foreign goods. After the free port declaration, tourism-related development proceeded unplanned and unregulated for the next forty years. By the 1990s, the tourist industry accounted directly for over 40 per cent of the local gross domestic product (GDP). At present, the number of people residing in San Andrés far surpasses the number of available jobs. In 2001, household surveys revealed that unemployment was 53.6 per cent. Nearly half of those who reported a steady income earned less than the minimum wage; 32 per cent of the working age population had no income; and 48 per cent of households lived on less than US$1 per person per day (Newball 2000; van’t Hof and Connolly 2001). As expected in this situation, informal and black market economic sectors are very evident and appear to be growing, although data are not available. Tourism is still the mainstay of the economy, followed by the public sector. There is virtually no industry or exportation, with the exception of two small fish-packing plants. The commercial fishing industry is nationally based, employing little local labour. Nationally prescribed government job cuts in 2000 increased unemployment. Native islanders were proportionally hard hit because many were employed in the public sector. Salaries are

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low; salary freezes and new taxes related to the mainland’s civil conflict have further reduced take-home pay. Growing numbers of people, particularly young adults, are reportedly turning to high-risk activities like drug running, crime and informal prostitution, although again there is no verifiable information.

Population San Andrés has a long social history distinct from that of Colombia. Its inhabitants fall into three primary subgroups: the first consists of native islanders, who descend from English settlers, African slaves and West Indians from other islands (1600–1900s); the second includes migrants from mainland Colombia and their descendants (since 1950); and the third is made up of a small number of other immigrants, mainly from the Middle East, Central America and Europe. The native islander population has an ‘indigenous’ culture that is often in conflict with newer, externally introduced systems. Significantly, this group was granted legal protection as a national ethnic minority (a group with a culture distinct from the dominant society) by the 1991 National Constitution (Art. 310). The new constitution also recognizes English, the islanders’ mother tongue, as an official language in the archipelago and permits freedom of religion, legitimizing the islanders’ Protestant churches and tradition. The prior constitution of 1886 defined the country as having a single culture and ethnicity, state religion (Roman Catholicism) and official language (Spanish). Since 1991, constitutional directives supporting multiculturalism and pluralism have opened the way for minority groups, which make up about 2 per cent of the total population, to become a cultural and political presence in the society. Migration from mainland Colombia played the major role in population growth. From the 1920s until the opening of the free port in 1953, the archipelago’s population was stable at about 5,500 (IGAC 1996). Following the free port declaration, a level of population growth unprecedented in the Caribbean, almost entirely from internal migration, began. The population swelled from 5,675 in 1950 to 23,000 by 1973. In 1985 the population was 36,000; ten years later it was 65,000; and by 2005 it was (officially) 71,000 (DANE 2007). Virtually all immigrants were from mainland Colombia. Population density in San Andrés was about 540 persons per square mile in 1951. After fifty years, it was over ten times that figure. The density of San Andrés’ population is about sixty times the national average of 110 persons per square mile (Howard 2004; DANE 2007). Colombia’s fertility and mortality rates dropped abruptly in the 1960s for a variety of reasons. This decline has been maintained by well-organized family planning programmes. During the administration from 1966 to 1970,

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Colombia became one of the first countries in Latin America to introduce family planning policy and to integrate it into official policy and development plans. However population distribution remains uneven, with nearly 95 per cent of the population living in less than half the territory (CIA 2008). According to the national population growth rate (1.8 per cent for the inter-census period from 1985 to 1993), population doubles in Colombia every 38 years. This can be compared to the 39 years from 1960 to 1999 that it took the world population to double. However in the archipelago, using the growth rate for the same period (4.2 per cent), the population doubles every 16.5 years.

Population Pressures The land area of San Andrés, just 10.5 square miles, is extremely small even in small-island terms, meaning that the resource base – physical, natural and economic – is very limited. When the free port was established, construction of the primary infrastructure – including the airport, power plant, coast road and hotels – seriously destabilized the natural environment. Swamps serving as the only catchments at the north end of the island were filled. The development and population growth that followed the transformation from an artisanal agrarian/fishing economy to a tourismbased economy altered land use. Acre after acre of forest, coast and farmland were converted to residential and commercial development. As the population soared, so did poverty, hunger, drug addiction and crime; and unemployment and underemployment skyrocketed. Prior to the introduction of the free port, islanders had been self-sufficient in terms of food, and hunger was unknown. A few staples like flour, sugar and rice were imported, but local substitutes were available for all of these. Now almost all food is imported, and food insecurity is a growing problem (Howard 2004). Since nearly half of households reportedly live in absolute poverty, pressure on the island’s fragile and limited natural resources is enormous; poor people exploit all extractable resources for subsistence or to sell for a few pesos. Fish are scarce because of overfishing and ecosystem degradation. Coastal fisheries are exhausted, so artisanal fishers have to go further out, adding to their costs, to catch less (CORALINA 2000). Meanwhile, the amount of cultivated land went from 5,300 acres in 1982 to 1,100 acres in 1998 (CORALINA and Partnership for the Environment 2004: 23). One of the reasons for this shift, besides the loss of farmland to development to house the growing population, is that theft of agricultural products has eliminated benefits to farmers, who thus have stopped planting (Howard 2004). Farmers believe that this theft, besides stemming from poverty, is

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opportunistic activity by drug addicts. There is also a general lack of surveillance because farmers traditionally do not reside on farm plots. Poorly planned development and population growth have led to serious potable water shortages. While demand is not the only factor, it is the major one. Average annual water supply is 5 billion US gallons in a normal year, and 1.3 billion US gallons in a dry year. According to UNEP (1999), annual freshwater availability for the Caribbean region is 680,000 US gallons per person. Countries with less than 265,000 US gallons available per year per person are considered water-scarce. Without subtracting the amount used by tourists, which is unknown, in San Andrés the supplies yield 76,000 and 48,000 US gallons per resident, respectively. Of this amount, 82 per cent comes from shallow aquifers and 18 per cent is rainwater (surface water supplies only 0.01 per cent). In the 1990s a carrying capacity study calculated that, if properly managed, there was sufficient water to satisfy the needs of 30,000 people (UNPD et al. 2000). At that time the number of residents was already more than twice that, plus an annual average of 350,000 tourists. In 2008 a study of household water use concluded that, at the present rate of usage, freshwater supplies in San Andrés will be depleted in less than five years (Faticone 2008). Another major problem is how to dispose of the volume of solid and liquid waste. A sewage system serves 8 per cent of the island, mainly hotels and businesses, 64 per cent use concrete septic tanks or pits (structures missing a bottom and/or sides), and the rest have no formal disposal system. Of the septic tanks, 28 per cent do not meet specifications (CORALINA and Partnership for the Environment 2004). The most common reason is insufficient distance between the tank and the groundwater. Untreated waste from the sewage system is discharged into the sea through an open-ocean outfall. Sludge from septic tanks is pumped into trucks and also dumped into the sea. The volume of solid waste produced in San Andrés has greatly increased because of population growth, changing consumption patterns and tourist development. In 2003 solid waste production averaged 145 cubic yards daily, of which 53 per cent was domestic waste, 23 per cent industrial (mainly tourism), 19 per cent commercial, 3 per cent institutional, and 2 per cent from miscellaneous sources (CORALINA and Partnership for the Environment 2004). The municipal disposal site is a poorly managed landfill with very limited space for new sites or to expand the current site. Hazardous waste is not separated, except for medical waste incinerated at the hospital. The proliferation of motor vehicles has led to a waste-oil problem, much of which is dumped on the ground in the coastal zone, as well as the challenge of disposing of trash such as wrecks, tyres and auto parts.

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A small city completely covers the island’s north end (Figure 10.1). Between 1973 and 1985 population growth was mainly in this urban area, known as North End or El Centro. After 1985, the rate of urban growth slowed while rural growth increased (Bent 1999). Although the majority of residents still live in North End, this trend is disturbing because it im-

Figure 10.1 San Andrés: Population Distribution Source: Anthony Mitchell, CORALINA.

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plies that the urban area had become so crowded that migrants began to distribute themselves throughout the island. Illegal shantytowns and housing sprang up in rural areas, especially in the interior, unseen from the roads. Invasions of private property became common. Enforcement is rare, and the law, as understood locally, favours squatters’ rights over those of landowners. As would be expected, there are many other problems. The environmental health department is concerned with proliferation of pests like rats, flies and mosquitoes and the threat of epidemics. Anecdotal evidence suggests that human services like schools and health facilities are overloaded. Municipal cemeteries are full. Bodies are interred in aboveground vaults for about ten years, whereupon remains are removed to smaller vaults or buried on private land. Cremation is not an option, both because there is no crematorium and because it is culturally unacceptable. There is, however, some evidence that this attitude is changing, influenced by families bringing ashes of islanders who die abroad. Finally, it must be remembered that San Andrés is not politically autonomous or independent. It is a department of Colombia, a country with a tradition of political, economic, and social centralization and lack of minority voice. Prior to the 1991 constitution, indigenous peoples were not recognized as equal citizens and were regulated by law 089 (1890), which stated that the government and the church would decide how ‘los salvajes’ (savages) would be governed (Law 089, Art. 1). Thus, from the 1950s, when the national government began taking an interest in the islands, until the 1990s development was geared toward the production of national benefits and ‘Colombianization’ of the native community, often at the expense of the local environment, economy and culture. This approach led to nearly half a century of externally imposed or directed development, during which time programmes designed to suit the continental context failed to take into consideration the small island’s natural limits or distinct culture. Not surprisingly, degradation and destruction of natural assets and a reduction in the quality of life of the indigenous inhabitants (native islanders) resulted. Even today, programmes are rarely implemented with goals of improving the local economy or reducing unemployment. On the contrary, in spite of the high levels of unemployment, poverty, and overcrowding, labour is still brought from the mainland to fill jobs in all sectors, while off-island ownership of tourist, commercial and fisheries enterprises is commonplace. Exportation is negligible. Local control of development or decision-making remains limited. Environmental management, which is led by a regionally autonomous agency, is an exception. This will be discussed in the following sections, as will some of the challenges and lessons learned from struggling to manage natural assets in such a densely populated small island.

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Identification of Natural Assets Institutional Framework Although part of San Andrés Bay was protected by presidential decree in 1970 (Executive Resolution 023/70), the National Environment System (SINA) in 1993 strengthened processes for identifying and conserving natural assets. Cornerstones of SINA’s decentralized structure are the Environment Ministry (consolidated in 2004 as the Ministry of Environment, Housing and Territorial Development) and thirty-three regional autonomous corporations (CARs). The archipelago’s CAR is the Corporation for the Sustainable Development of the Archipelago of San Andrés, Old Providence, and Santa Catalina (CORALINA). Its jurisdiction includes the insular area (some 22 square miles), territorial waters and exclusive economic zone (approximately 116,000 square miles) of Colombia’s only oceanic archipelago. Its mission is to manage, conserve and recover the natural environment in consultation with the community, to better quality of life through participation and agreement (Law 99/93). CORALINA is one of SINA’s seven sustainable development agencies and the only CAR with marine jurisdiction. Because of the value and vulnerability of the region’s natural resources, CORALINA has a broad mandate that combines environmental planning, management, education and research. The agency has regulatory power but is not armed. Its functions, defined by Law 99, are to manage natural resource conservation and sustainable use, direct environmental planning and zoning for land and sea, enforce environmental regulations, involve the community in natural resource management, ensure benefit for all classes of the community, protect flora and fauna, and develop projects of research, conservation, recovery and sustainable use in conjunction with the state, community, NGOs and private sector.

Legal and Policy Framework National and local procedures for identifying natural assets stem from international policies and priorities. Colombia is party to many international conventions, including those concerned with environment. These call for protection of natural assets like ecosystems, biodiversity, habitats and species, particularly through development of protected areas. One of the most significant for San Andrés is the Convention on Biological Diversity (CBD). Congress ratified the CBD in 1995 in Law 165. The National Biodiversity Policy derives from this law and requires development of protected areas, among other management strategies. A significant regional instrument is the Convention for the Protection and Development of the Marine Envi-

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ronment of the Wider Caribbean Region (Cartagena Convention) and its protocols. This convention obliges parties to protect fragile ecosystems, species and habitat, and recommends establishing protected areas. Conservation of natural assets also helps Colombia achieve the Millennium Development Goals – particularly Goal 7, which addresses loss of environmental resources, but also Goal 1, which calls for eradication of poverty. As part of SINA, CORALINA must uphold international instruments to which Colombia is party. Protection of natural assets is also required by national policy and legislation, so CORALINA must implement these regionally. In 1995 the nation’s mangroves were protected by Congress (Law 136), and the Ministry of Environment called for the protection of the archipelago’s corals in 1996 (Resolution 1426). The National Constitution (1991) requires the state to protect the diversity and integrity of the environment and ensure civic participation in environmental decision-making (Art. 79); handle environmental resources to guarantee sustainable development, conservation, recovery or replacement (Art. 80); and educate citizens in matters pertaining to the protection of the environment (Art. 67). The constitution also gives native islanders status as a national ethnic minority, requiring that special programmes be developed to protect their environment and traditional culture (Art. 310). All of these articles, and especially Article 310, provide the foundation for the protection and management of natural assets in San Andrés. Finally, the archipelago’s long-term environmental management plan calls for implementation of protected areas to conserve biodiversity and protect endangered species found in the region such as sea turtles, groupers, black corals and several endemic species of fish, birds and reptiles (CORALINA 1998). CORALINA has the authority to protect natural assets at the regional level and has done so, for example in the case of beaches, which were declared conservation zones in Resolution 151 of 1998.

Procedure In accordance with this policy framework, natural assets deserving protection can be identified nationally, regionally or locally. Impetus can come from an institution like a government office, NGO or university, or else directly from the local community. In San Andrés, protection of natural assets has resulted from linking international, national and local policies with community initiatives. All of CORALINA’s work is participatory, and the agency is very responsive to the community. Normal procedure would be that, after the general type of natural asset to be protected (for example, a coral reef ) is identified by the agency and/or the community, the decision

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of what area to protect and how is made collaboratively. This process is complex, usually requiring years of stakeholder consultation and conflict resolution before an agreement is reached. For example, the process to set up the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve took about five years, while planning the Seaflower MPA took closer to ten years. First, scientific and indigenous knowledge is gathered, systematized and disseminated, ensuring that the community is involved from the beginning. Then stakeholders, including other institutions, work with CORALINA to agree on boundaries, zoning, management strategies, etc. Next, based on stakeholder agreements, which may be formal or informal, CORALINA’s legal department drafts a regulation or protected area declaration. This document is then presented to CORALINA’s board of directors for approval (in the case of a regional decision) or sent to the appropriate office in Bogotá (for a national decision). This structure allows natural assets to be protected in a variety of ways, like managing use of key species and establishing protected areas. In the case of the biosphere reserve, the national declaration was made by Congress (Law 99/93). CORALINA was responsible for putting the declaration into force, facilitating participation and applying to UNESCO for international status. In contrast, the Seaflower MPA emerged from demands for marine conservation made to CORALINA by the community, particularly people who traditionally lived off marine resources, such as artisanal fishers and dive operators. In 1998 an international partnership project funded by the European Union allowed CORALINA to identify and begin working with stakeholders on marine conservation. Four years of consultation about problems, issues and possible solutions resulted in a stakeholderbased decision to establish a multiple-use marine protected area (Howard et al. 2003; Baine et al. 2007). Ultimately the Seaflower MPA was declared at the national level in 2005 by the Ministry of Environment, Housing and Territorial Development, but it is regionally managed by CORALINA (Resolution 107/05). CORALINA has also established two smaller protected areas in San Andrés that were declared at the regional level: Johnny Cay and Old Point Mangroves.

Use Conflict Uncontrolled growth has brought many problems – environmental, social and economic – to an island unprepared to deal with them because of the fragility of its ecosystems, traditional nature of its indigenous culture, narrow economic base and lack of human capital (Howard 2004). The growth of the global environmental movement coincided with the passage of Colombia’s new National Constitution, which not only strengthened the right

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to public expression and guaranteed the right to a healthy environment but also affirmed the special status of the islander people. These advances allowed concern about the situation in the archipelago to be openly expressed, as conscious citizens from both the islands and mainland challenged policymakers to strengthen protection of the archipelago’s fragile environment. Responding to demands for an alternative model of development, in 1993 Congress declared the entire archipelago (including San Andrés Island) a national biosphere reserve, as part of the country’s environmental framework law (Law 99/93). The international declaration followed in 2000, when UNESCO accepted the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve into its World Network. In this section, biosphere reserve planning and some of the obstacles facing its realization are examined.

Biosphere Reserve Vision The goal of a UNESCO biosphere reserve is to achieve a sustainable balance between environmental conservation, economic development and cultural survival. Seeking to equally achieve these sometimes conflicting objectives makes biosphere reserves distinct from more traditional protected areas. Each reserve must implement its own management structure and site-specific programmes, seeking to realize a practical model of how to live in a balanced relationship with the natural world. The biosphere reserve concept is at the heart of the San Andrés community’s vision of its future. Ideally – through sustainable development projects, communitybased conservation and training – effective biosphere reserve implementation can fight environmental degradation and poverty and promote human development. Demonstration programmes can build people’s capacity to conserve natural assets and promote economic diversification and alternative technologies, improving environmental, economic and social development.

Planning the Biosphere Reserve Besides establishing SINA and declaring the biosphere reserve, Law 99 designated CORALINA as the agency responsible for planning and managing the biosphere reserve. Consequently, when CORALINA began its work in 1995, realizing the biosphere reserve was a nationally mandated priority. Since the declaration had been made by Congress with little local consultation, CORALINA was committed to educating all sectors of the community to be sure that local stakeholders approved the declaration and, having done so, to ensure their active participation in planning and implementation.

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CORALINA’s first action plan (1995) created the biosphere reserve project. Planning began in 1996 with a UNESCO-funded grant from the Ministry of Education that enabled the hiring of staff, production of publications and beginning of the process of educating the community. Next a grant from the Ministry of Environment allowed CORALINA to expand the project team and carry out the research, zoning and planning to complete the nomination, establish community commissions and draft a management plan. The community participated very actively in zoning and management planning. In 2000 the nomination was sent to the Ministry of Environment. This office submitted it immediately to UNESCO-MAB, and the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve joined the World Network later that year. Becoming a biosphere reserve is a voluntary, community-based process requiring a long-term commitment to cooperative management. Therefore, people need education to make a biosphere reserve effective. In awareness programmes carried out in the archipelago, more than 200 meetings were held to introduce the biosphere reserve. These were followed by training and outreach including workshops, courses, formal education programmes, field trips, door-to-door visits, incentive programmes, community-based micro-projects and special events. Supporting methods included establishing an inter-sectoral education committee, producing education materials, carrying out media campaigns and opening public document centres (Mow et al. 2003). The massive education campaign had positive results. The level of community support for the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve was unprecedented in UNESCO’s experience, as more than eighty affidavits from community groups including churches, cooperatives, NGOs and schools accompanied the nomination. Local people, both native islanders and mainland migrants, embraced the biosphere reserve concept of sustainable development because it links conservation with economic and human development. The MAB programme’s respect for local culture and the community’s right to envision its own future also contributed to the island community’s desire to become a biosphere reserve.

Supporting Policies In any discussion of the relationship between population density and realization of the biosphere reserve, two more pieces of legislation have to be looked at – one permanent and one temporary. The first is the special population policy for San Andrés, known by the acronym of its implementing office, OCCRE (Oficina de Control de Circulación y Residencia). Recognizing that the viability of the island and survival of its indigenous people were being threatened by national migration, in 1991 Colombia enacted an innovative policy prohibiting internal migration to the archipelago.

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The Special Population Policy The first national migration policy for San Andrés was Law 52 of 1912, which authorized government to give free passage on national ships to mainland families of four or more to settle in the archipelago. Since the islands had originally been colonized by English settlers, African diaspora from other Caribbean locations and a small number of slaves, the purpose of this law was to assert sovereignty over the territory and begin colonization by the Hispanic Catholic majority. However, it was not until the free port declaration that migration exploded (Decree 2966 of 1953, replaced by Law 127 of 1959). The 1991 constitution set the stage for the country’s environmental policy and subsequent framework law in Articles 79 and 80. In the case of San Andrés, not only did the constitution recognize and protect the indigenous community as a national ethnic minority (Art. 7, Art. 310), but it also authorized limiting rights of residence and controlling population density, stating that ‘by legal means … it will be possible to limit the exercise of the rights of movement and population [and] establish controls on the density of population … in order to protect the indigenous communities’ cultural identity and preserve the archipelago’s environment and natural resources’ (Art. 310). To implement this, President Cesar Gaviria enacted Decree 2762 in 1991. The goal of this decree was to adopt measures ‘to control the population density of the San Andrés Department Archipelago.’ All Colombians would still be allowed to visit San Andrés, but a formal programme to limit residency was defined. The main method to be used was residency cards, known as ‘OCCREs’ after the acronym of the local office charged with implementing the directive. Provision was also made for temporary cards allowing short-term work in special cases. What had previously been an international tourist card became a requirement for all visitors – national and international. The constitutionality of this decree was immediately challenged on the mainland. In a landmark decision in 1993, the Constitutional Court unanimously ruled that Decree 2762 not only upheld but furthered constitutional principles. Besides citing Articles 310, 7 and 8, the court said that the right to life is guaranteed (Preamble, Art. 5 and Art. 94) and that controlling migration to San Andrés was essential for human survival. The court ruling went further, saying that the Constitution (Art. 1) and Universal Declaration of Human Rights point to a qualitative life – the dignified life – and equal rights of all to this life. The court ruled that the dignity of human life, particularly that of the indigenous people, and the survival of all life and the natural resource base needed to support all life were threatened by the population density. This decision strengthened the mandate for the OCCRE, ensuring its existence and prompting implementation.

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Since its enactment, the residency card programme has had mixed success. Some activities – like the initial issuing of cards and ongoing airport monitoring – are reasonably effective. But serious problems like illegal residents and continuing migration remain. Population continues to grow, although implementation of the OCCRE has probably reduced the pace of growth (Howard 2004). The ‘Tutela’ The Constitution of 1991 substantially expanded fundamental civil rights. One such right is the tutela, a writ of protection of fundamental rights that permits immediate court action at the request of an individual who feels that his/her constitutional rights have been violated and that other legal recourse is not available. In 1994 a San Andrés citizen submitted a tutela claiming that the lack of adequate water and sewage facilities (liquid waste collection and disposal) violated his constitutional rights to health and to a healthy environment. Upheld in 1995, the court’s ruling (number 284 of 1995) prohibited the issuance of construction licences and permits throughout the archipelago until adequate sanitary infrastructure was available. Exceptions included construction, renovation and expansion of public and social services such as schools, hospitals and homes for orphans and the elderly. Low-income housing to serve the poor was also excepted; this clause has been used to allow construction of individual residences, regardless of size or cost.

Realizing the Biosphere Reserve In spite of strong institutional, legal and policy frameworks, substantial obstacles hinder realization of biosphere reserve objectives. While the special population policy has had some success at controlling migration and the tutela has temporarily stopped large-scale construction, every day the sheer number of people in San Andrés places enormous pressure on physical space and natural resources. At this time, major challenges to realizing the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve and successfully managing natural assets emerge more from the constant overall demand and load placed on the environment than from any specific development case or conflict. Threats like the development of a cruise port, golf course or ‘mega-project’ resort are discussed from time to time but so far have never progressed beyond talk. Preservation of Land Use In regard to land use, the tutela has halted commercial development like hotels and industries for the past twelve years. Large construction projects require obvious site preparation like clearing land and complicated

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legal procedures including planning permits, environmental impact assessments and licenses, as well as inspections. Such development would not only involve a range of authorities, precluding the possibility of violating the tutela, but also would be immediately visible and reported by the community. On the other hand, as mentioned above, the tutela has not prevented the proliferation of residences and other small structures, both legal and illegal (Figure 10.2), that have spread throughout the island to accommodate the rapidly expanding population. North End has an estimated population density of some 8,000 persons per square mile (CORALINA 2001). In many cities, such dense populations are housed in high-rise developments. Few buildings in San Andrés have more than three or four floors, and poor migrants are packed in shantytowns. These settlements do not have adequate methods to deal with waste and often tap illegally into the power grid, raising already-high rates for legal subscribers. It is easy for shantytowns to expand unchecked because most are illegal, cannot be seen from the main roads, are considered dangerous and so are avoided, except by those who live there. Most islanders and long-term residents have never been in one

Figure 10.2 San Andrés: Unplanned Urbanization Source: Elizabeth Taylor, CORALINA

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of these settlements, and even the police are hesitant to enter the larger shantytowns (O. Bent, pers. comm.). When the free port was declared, San Andrés had no slums. But by 2001 there were at least forty-four shantytowns, for which population information was unavailable (CORALINA 2001). National government, judiciary and migrants seem to regard these as normal, perhaps because similar settlements surround mainland cities in Colombia and much of Latin America. The spread of shantytowns is characteristic of population growth and internal migration in developing countries (Todaro and Smith 2003). On the other hand, native islanders view them as a serious threat to quality of life, security and conservation of land and traditional culture; in other words, as antithetical to biosphere reserve objectives. The Case of the Public Housing Development ‘Cesar Gaviria’ The largest shantytown or squatter settlement in San Andrés is called ‘Cliff ’ (Figure 10.3). In 1989 a study of the socioeconomic conditions of Cliff residents led to a project to relocate a number of families to a public housing development to be built in a less crowded section of the island, at which time the abandoned dwellings in Cliff would be razed. The objective was to relieve the poverty, overcrowding and lack of services in Cliff by reducing the density of people and structures. The new houses were finished in 1991, and families were relocated. The development, consist-

Figure 10.3 San Andrés: Cliff Shantytown Source: Elizabeth Taylor, CORALINA.

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ing of residences for thirty-two families, was named ‘Cesar Gaviria’ after the president – ironically, as it turned out, since that same year President Gaviria issued the decree that established the OCCRE, which prohibited migration from the mainland to the archipelago. At the same time, another public housing project – an apartment building to accommodate eighteen families – was built. However, these publicly funded developments did not achieve the stated objectives because following relocation, the abandoned shanties were not razed by government; rather, they were rented to new migrant families. Thus, the relocation project contributed to worsening the situation in Cliff and hastening urbanization of other sections of the island. Following this example, from 1992 to 1999 nearly 500 government subsidies provided housing for about 1,200 families, and the model of the housing project ‘Cesar Gaviria’ became a pattern of construction of subsidized housing and relocation, followed by the subsequent rental of the abandoned substandard housing to new migrant families. In addition to illegal shantytowns and marginal public housing developments, individual or small clusters of illegal structures are found throughout the island. Residences are hidden off the roads in the ‘bush’, some literally springing up overnight. Informal businesses – mostly housed in shacks and kiosks – suddenly appear in vacant lots and along the roadside. There has been little success in removing illegal constructions, even those built on private land without the owner’s permission. Why this is so remains unclear. Although private property is respected by law, in reality the law is not enforced and island landowners all too often find themselves at the mercy of a corrupt and overly bureaucratic legal system and judiciary that they do not understand, either culturally or linguistically. The expense and subsequent failure of cases that have been pursued have contributed to the general belief that it is either against the law or else impossible to remove squatters, whether true or not. For example, when consulting a functionary at the municipal planning department about removing a number of houses that had been built illegally on their property, the owners were told that if the invaders had lived on the land for more than five years without paying rent, they had the right to remain (I. Velez, pers. comm.). Therefore, the tendency is for these buildings to remain, grow and evolve into permanent structures, clusters and even entire neighbourhoods (barrios). Much green space in North End and acres of precious woodland and farmland in rural areas have been lost. A study in 1999 found that mature forest remained on only 5 per cent of the island (CORALINA 1999). Preservation of Natural Resources Not a lot is known about the condition of natural resources, and the situation changes rapidly because of the excessive demand and load placed on the environment. However, the conditions of near-shore coral reefs, fresh-

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water quality and waste disposal have been studied and are now monitored, providing information about some of the challenges to achieving the biosphere reserve vision. The key ecosystems of San Andrés are in the coastal zone. A complex coral system of barrier and fringing reefs, patches and lagoons, with associated mangroves, seagrasses and beaches, surrounds the island. Because coral reefs depend on other natural resources, any changes in the surrounding environment can seriously affect them. Anthropogenic threats to the San Andrés corals include sedimentation, overfishing, pollution, coastal zone development and contact by vessels, anchors and divers (CORALINA 2000). Monitoring shows a steady reduction in live coral coverage. A percentage of coral coverage higher than 70 per cent in the 1970s declined to 39 per cent in 1992, 25.6 per cent in 1999 and 22.1 per cent in 2000 (Garzón-Ferreira and Rodriquez-Ramirez 2000). The reasons for this dramatic decline are unknown but are presumed to involve both natural and human factors. In other regions, studies have found ‘a strong correlation between risk of damage [to coral reefs] and coastal population density. Most species-rich coral reefs in Southeast Asia have been shown to face the gravest threats from rising populations, growing reef tourism and rapidly expanding exports of reef fish’ (AAAS 2000: 143). As for fresh water, as mentioned earlier, supply depends on groundwater and rainwater, the latter being stored in individual cisterns. However, cisterns are expensive to build and need space, which is now in short supply. The water table is so close to the surface that in-ground cisterns that are part of a structure’s foundation and do not expand its footprint, although common in many islands, are not often an option. Therefore, in spite of water shortages, nowadays few people have space and/or money to build cisterns. The municipal water supply is also supplemented by private wells. Wells in the densely populated coastal zone have been brackish for years, so residents who cannot afford to buy bottled water have no choice but to consume brackish water. Groundwater has become contaminated as the population density and poverty impact extraction, waste production and disposal, quality of soil and runoff, and ultimately public health. A 1999 study found that a mere 1 per cent of groundwater was potable, with 69 per cent highly polluted and 30 per cent somewhat polluted (CORALINA 1999). Absence of a sewage system and poorly constructed septic tanks contribute to the contamination of groundwater and soil in some sections. Continued pollution of groundwater with intestinal bacteria threatens both public health and the tourist industry (CORALINA and Partnership for the Environment 2004). Lack of sanitation infrastructure in shantytowns and squatters’ residences means that waste is dumped directly on the ground or into open drains, increasing the risk of epidemics of endemic diseases like hepatitis, dysen-

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tery, dengue and typhoid fever. Raw liquid waste also pollutes beaches, and tourists have complained (Kerr 2003). As for solid waste, collection has improved since the biosphere reserve began but disposal remains challenging, in spite of civic protests and substantial efforts by CORALINA, including several international partnership projects. Most neighbourhoods are served by frequent garbage pickup. The private solid waste management company is a major employer. Many people besides collectors also work at cleaning up litter around the island. This has improved aesthetics and reduced the impacts of littering, even though tourists still also complain about garbage (Kerr 2003). However, many residents, even those with collection service, continue to dump garbage into the sea, gullies, woods and vacant lots. Waste goes uncollected in shantytowns, resulting in piles of refuse. Informal garbage pickers remove cans, bottles, cardboard, some plastics and other recyclables from much of the waste disposed of outside the dump. As mentioned earlier, problems linked to population pressure, including poverty, hunger, unemployment and social ills like drug addiction, increase demand on any resources and species that are edible or marketable. Beach sand, rocks, soil and shells are extracted and sold. Animals such as iguanas, land crabs and songbirds are heavily exploited for commerce and subsistence. Many coastal species that a few decades ago were dietary staples, being abundant and easy to harvest, are now locally extinct or severely threatened, including whelks, sea beef (chiton), periwinkles, conch and lobster. Ecosystems and many species have special management within the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve, but widespread poverty and limited technical and financial resources make enforcement difficult. Awareness of the importance of the environment has substantially increased and is reflected in the local discourse, attitudes and behaviour of many island residents. At public meetings, attendees demonstrate progressively more environmental knowledge and a growing sense of stewardship, often challenging the authorities about their concerns and demanding stronger environmental protections. Every day citizens visit CORALINA, report infractions and complain about ineffective environmental management and enforcement. On the surface, these may not look like advances. But today’s problems are not new – the average person simply did not recognize them before. Identifying and being vocal about environmental issues are important indications of growing awareness (Mow et al. 2003). Churches and schools have set up environmental education programs and clubs. Church groups and village organizations carry out activities like neighbourhood clean-ups, adopting mangroves and beaches, and planting organic gardens. As part of the process to establish the Seaflower MPA, research also revealed an environmental consciousness. Household surveys

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examined the non-market value of key ecosystems. In one study, over 70 per cent of households said that coral reefs benefited them, with 72 per cent willing to pay a monthly assessment for coral conservation (Newball 2000). In another, 69 per cent of households said that conservation and recovery of marine ecosystems (coral reefs, seagrasses and mangroves) were very important, and 88 per cent would pay a monthly assessment for mangrove conservation (Wilson 2001). However, as long as subsistence needs of much of the population are unmet, over-exploitation and resource degradation will continue in spite of the growing concern about the quality of the environment. In practice, in places with dense populations and high levels of poverty, pro-poor policies and respect for human rights such as everyone’s immediate right to health care, education, food, water and shelter can be in conflict with environmental protection and sustainable management of natural assets for the long term. For example, if the number of users and level of rationing already exceeds the carrying capacity of the freshwater supply in San Andrés, honouring the country’s commitment to the right of every individual to an adequate supply of potable water means that it is not possible for public policy to restrict use of rapidly depleting water resources to such an extent that the current population goes without. In management terms this means that unless new technologies are invented, alternatives are discovered or the demand is reduced, the future population will be without water. This is only one example among many if a site is truly overcrowded. Balancing these legitimate but conflicting concerns becomes an ongoing challenge for responsible government and raises seemingly irresolvable issues of social and environmental justice. Development of Population Policies In 2008 CORALINA drafted a set of recommended policies related to population that offer a holistic approach to addressing the problem. The policies were developed as part of Colombia’s national climate change adaptation programme (INAP). The San Andrés archipelago represents a unique oceanic department in Colombia, one whose fragile ecosystems, isolated location and high population density make it particularly vulnerable to climate change impacts. Like all small islands, San Andrés has tightly linked ecological systems, in which economic, social and cultural activities are clearly entwined with environmental processes and services. Human activity is having a large impact on natural processes, reducing the environment’s ability to sustain life on the islands. The anticipated impacts of climate change will further reduce this ability. Therefore, any attempt to develop and implement adaptation measures to sea-level rise, changes in temperature and rainfall, storm events and other projected results of climate change must confront

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the issue of how to control the growing size and impact of the population, particularly in the densely populated, heavily developed coastal zone that is expected to be most immediately affected by climate change. The process of policy development was broken down into three work programmes: research, consultation and assimilation. Research included desk studies of population issues in other sites, particularly small islands. In some locations, innovative policies have been designed and implemented in an attempt to limit population growth and reduce the impact of human populations on the naturally fragile environments and cultures of small islands. Such examples provided a sound foundation for the design of specific policies for San Andrés. Meanwhile, local research pulled together existing research results and carried out several new studies specifically to advance this process. At the same time, the consultation phase was extensive, involving local community, national institutions and international experts. To ensure that the problem was examined holistically, research and community consultations were broken into five focal areas: environment and natural resources, economy and livelihoods, health, education, and culture and tradition. To conclude the process, stakeholders joined experts at an international forum to identify population challenges facing small islands and potential solutions. The policies were then developed by assimilating the results of research, consultations and the international forum. Ideas from both community members and international experts were incorporated. The draft policies are clustered in three sections. The first deals with half of the population equation: family planning. These policies are rooted in the international human rights principles that each individual has the right to make an independent choice about his/her family size and that everyone of reproductive age has the right to information about reproductive health. The second cluster looks at the other half of the equation: migration. Policies build upon national law, as called for by the constitution of 1991 and OCCRE, and are based on the presumption that uncontrolled in-migration from the mainland has been the driver of the rapid population growth. The third cluster looks specifically at each of the five focal areas, outlining policies to reduce the impact of population on quality of life and development with the understanding that the population problem can only be solved through a holistic approach. Finally, an action plan was developed to promote timely implementation of the policies. General actions to underpin proper policy implementation include gathering accurate, detailed population and demographic data and making it available to all; improving information collection, storage and management; and creating special taskforce work groups to advance policy in each of the focal areas (Howard and Nicholson 2008). The policies are summarized in Table 10.1.

San Andrés Island, Colombia 239 Table 10.1 Draft Population Policies for San Andrés Island, Colombia. Cluster

Policy

1.Family Planning Reduce teenage and unwanted pregnancy, and eliminate pregnancy below the age of 16. Implement free and confidential holistic family planning services for all community members. Strengthen reproductive health and sex education in primary and secondary school curriculums. 2. Migration Strengthen the capacity and efficiency of the OCCRE office. Create sustainable sources of finance for OCCRE office Increase the function of OCCRE cards. Repatriate illegal families and individuals. Improve residential planning and land rental regulations. Streamline procedures to remove squatters and illegal structures from private property. Encourage out-migration and discourage in-migration. 3. Focal areas Environment Strengthen planning regulations to reduce environmental impact. & natural Reduce solid waste generation. resources Improve disposal of polluting and hazardous materials. Reduce reliance on aquifer water extraction. Cut energy use and costs through energy efficiency and introduction of renewable energy sources. Economy Promote alternative livelihoods and increase small business opportuand nities to enhance economic diversity, with a focus on green business. livelihoods Support low-impact tourism to attract a broader, international market base. Promote production and consumption of local agricultural products to increase food security. Increase access to employment for all inhabitants and improve equitable hiring practices. Health Strengthen residential environmental health standards. Increase health education linked to population issues such as nutrition, hygiene, diseases, and hazardous materials Increase environmental health monitoring and information. Decrease the number and negative impact of motor vehicles, especially from noise and toxic emissions. Education Incorporate traditional cultural emphasis into primary and secondary school curriculums for all students. Increase use of English language in schools. Increase local relevance of tertiary and adult education. Culture and Increase cultural identity and respect of island heritage among young tradition people, newcomers, and migrants. Recover English and Creole languages. Increase Raizal influence over decision-making. Source: Howard and Nicholson (2008)

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Discussion In spite of the strong institutional, legal and policy framework and much hard work, there has been little success at solving some of the problems impacting the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve. Reasons include weak enforcement, lack of financial and human resources, lack of political will and failure to base policy and management on small island limitations. All are underpinned by the pressure put on the environment by the high population density and growing poverty. Colombia has strong laws protecting the environment and human rights related to environment, but enforcement is weak, and sometimes poverty can preclude enforcement. In some cases, as with the spread of illegal housing, action is rarely even attempted. Why this should happen has not been studied; however, likely reasons include the lack of resources combined with the constant population pressure. Basically, government offices are so overwhelmed by the island’s problems, their own excessively bureaucratic procedures and their limited human and financial resources that dealing with situations that arise daily consumes all their time and energy. For example, CORALINA is an autonomous, locally staffed agency that is very committed (many personnel work long hours for little pay), transparent and responsible, but it is unable to keep up with the plethora of environmental problems, besides suffering from the excessive bureaucracy and obstacles to action that limit the effectiveness of most developing countries’ government. Anywhere from 80 to 150 people are employed at any given time, depending on project needs and funding, and knowledge of the problems is very high, mainly because staff are all local. Nonetheless, the severity and even apparent hopelessness of the situation makes substantive progress difficult. Workers, along with the community, become frustrated at the lack of improvement; some staff have described their work as ‘running as fast as they can to stay in the same place’ or ‘holding back the flood, like the Dutch boy with his finger in the dyke’ (F. Howard pers. comm., M. Garcia pers. comm.). Mechanisms exist to protect the substantial natural assets of San Andrés, but lasting progress is difficult because the implications of the extreme population density are unknown, ignored or rarely factored into management. Between 1950 and 1990, the population of San Andrés doubled four times. Migration continues in spite of regulations prohibiting immigration, scarce natural resources, the poor local economy and massive unemployment (Howard 2004). Migration generally results from ‘push-pull’ factors, and internal migration has been a response to the mainland’s social and economic problems. San Andrés is relatively safe compared to the mainland and is not part of Colombia’s ongoing civil conflict. However, the root

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cause of most migration is still believed to be economic. In 1999, 55 per cent of Colombians lived below the national poverty line, with 21 per cent of these below the ‘indigence line’, i.e. living in a state of extreme poverty in which subsistence needs are not met. In rural areas, these percentages rise to nearly 80 per cent and 45 per cent, respectively (Livingstone 2004: 76). Prior to the introduction of the free port, the archipelago was free of the extremes of wealth and poverty that have always characterized the mainland. Since the inauguration of the free port, San Andrés has been regarded as a mecca of jobs and wealth, which is far from the modern-day reality that more closely mimics the mainland rural situation. Local government cannot change factors on the mainland that stimulate migration. In this case, national authorities have to take responsibility for the influx of people to San Andrés and help alleviate the resulting environmental, social and economic pressures such as overcrowding, poverty and loss of natural resources. Protection of natural assets is also threatened by lack of funding. None of San Andrés’ protected areas – the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve, MPA or the regional parks – is financially self-sufficient or regularly budgeted. The biosphere reserve is mandated by law but not funded. Therefore, conservation initiatives are project-driven, meaning that activities are time-bound and controlled by donor priorities. Furthermore, funding has never been received from any source (national or international) to directly address population pressure, possibly because population control has become controversial – especially in many developing countries where motives are suspect – and internal migration is a sensitive issue, especially in a country troubled by violence, poverty, inequity and internal displacement. Since many implementation failures can be ascribed to insufficient resources, a question is whether support is not forthcoming because of genuine financial scarcity or lack of political will. For some years, national institutions have not regarded San Andrés’ population density as a priority, or even a problem, regardless of the local perspective. The population issue is generally ignored, becoming like the proverbial ‘elephant in the living room’ – something vital that is never mentioned or even acknowledged – causing management to fail partly because of the pretext that the problem is not there. The native islander community is united in its belief that the issue is ignored because flooding the islands with migrants is a strategy to destroy and displace them as a people. If this sounds far-fetched in the twenty-first century, reports from the UN special rapporteurs on both indigenous issues and racial discrimination in 2004 stated that Colombians of indigenous and African descent are still subject to policies that promote slow and systematic ethnocide (UN-IACHR 2004). The contradiction, not uncommon in the history of civil rights, is that this is happening even as

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these same minorities have the opportunity to move ahead of others in the region in exercising their collective rights because of the progressive, equitable nature of the 1991 National Constitution and resulting framework laws to assure its execution. However, this attitude of not considering the level of population in San Andrés a problem probably stems from more than political intentions. At its heart may be the simple failure to understand that small islands need different management from continents and cannot withstand the same pressures. Colombia has historically been a country of centralized, opaque government. Understanding that San Andrés needs special management because of its small-island characteristics – its remote location, limited physical space, fragile resource base and non-diversified economy – is simply not part of the national psyche or frame of reference. As part of Colombia’s innovative national programme to adapt to climate change, islanders have finally succeeded in drafting a set of policies specifically to address population in San Andrés, but whether there will be any forward movement in practice remains to be seen. Nowadays around the globe, reducing population density is rarely seen as a viable solution to problems stemming from population pressures. Rather, economic, scientific or technical solutions that allow a site to overcome its inherent natural limits are sought. The idea that a place can be ‘overpopulated’ is so out of fashion that the phrase has been virtually eliminated from the development discourse. However, San Andrés is a tiny oceanic island where inhabitants and institutions agree that the carrying capacity of the land and its resource base has long been exceeded, and the available science supports this belief. Population, environment, economics and culture ‘interact jointly’ (Cohen 1995: 386). Therefore, to improve the management of natural assets and promote sustainable development in San Andrés, an integrated programme that conserves natural resources and alleviates population pressure is essential. The institutional, legal and policy framework is now in place, but that is only the beginning. Solving the problem also requires political will, financial and technical resources, and an ongoing commitment from all involved – government, private sector, civil society and the people themselves – to move from the vision and dream of policy to the action and change of practice.

Conclusion In conclusion, lessons learned from the experience of San Andrés could strengthen management of natural assets in other densely populated is-

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land jurisdictions, whether territories of distant countries or independent states. These include (in summary): • Strong legal, policy and institutional frameworks are necessary but not sufficient for effective management of natural assets. Policies must be implemented in practice, while laws must be both enforceable and enforced. • Enforcement requires an enabling context that includes political will, good governance and rule of law, and adequate financial, human and technical resources. • Without financial autonomy, management of natural assets can become donor- and project-driven, which can compromise effectiveness, continuity and the ability to carry out daily operations. • Hindrances to effective protection of natural assets on densely populated islands can result from population pressure on natural resources, weak enforcement, lack of financial and human resources, lack of political will and knowledge about small island needs, and the failure to accept that a site can be too populated. • In societies with severely limited physical, natural, financial and technical resources, the need to respect individual human rights and meet subsistence needs can seriously conflict with the need to ensure the longterm welfare of the community by conserving natural assets, resulting in a dilemma that calls for innovative solutions. In the case of San Andrés, it remains to be seen whether implementing a set of holistic population policies and introducing alternative models of development such as the Seaflower Biosphere Reserve and a large, multiple-use marine protected area will succeed as part of the solution. • In island territories, decentralization from the mainland or from other islands in a group of islands can be perceived as threatening sovereignty. However, given that small island environments are essentially different from those of continents and require distinct management, strengthening local autonomy and capacity is a more effective way to protect natural assets, and to provide a locally based jurisdictional basis for population control. • On the other hand, when high population densities hinder management of natural assets and are linked with migration from other areas of the country, whether mainland or neighbouring islands, the solution also requires national collaboration and acceptance of responsibility. • Give the isolation, limited physical space and natural resource base, and narrow economies of oceanic islands, there are natural limits to the number of people that small islands can support and still maintain natural assets. Therefore, it is possible for an island to be recognized as too densely

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populated if the inhabitants’ quality of life is considered and their human rights respected, including every individual’s right to development (UN 1994). Studies to date indicate that this is the case in San Andrés. National, regional and municipal government must acknowledge this possibility and facilitate site-specific policies and programmes to research and alleviate problems linked with population density. B AAAS (American Association for the Advancement of Science). 2000. Atlas of population and environment. Berkeley: University of California Press. Baine, M., M. Howard, S. Kerr, G. Edgar and V. Toral. 2007. ‘Coastal and marine resource management in the Galapagos Islands and the Archipelago of San Andrés: Issues, problems and opportunities’, Ocean and Coastal Management 50(3–4): 148–173. Bent, O. 1999. Environmental impacts of tourism on coastal resources and ecosystems in the San Andrés archipelago. Brussels: European Union INCO-DC project. CIA. 2008. World factbook 2008. Washington D.C.: Central Intelligence Agency. Cohen, J. E. 1995. How many people can the Earth support? New York: W.W. Norton and Company. CORALINA. 1998. The environmental plan for sustainable development of the archipelago: 1998–2010. San Andrés: CORALINA. ———. 1999. Integrated groundwater management plan for San Andrés: 2000–2009. San Andrés: DFID/CORALINA. ———. 2000. Caribbean archipelago biosphere reserve: Regional marine protected area system. Global Environment Facility (GEF) Project Document. Washington, D.C.: World Bank. ———. 2001. Identification of shantytowns and subnormal housing in San Andrés Island. Project report. San Andrés: CORALINA. CORALINA and Partnership for the Environment. 2004. Sustainable development of the archipelago of San Andrés, Old Providence, and Santa Catalina: An integrated regional model. Project report, Phase I. Dallas: Partnership for the Environment. DANE. 2007. Censo de Población y de Vivienda 2005: Departamento Archipiélago de San Andrés, Providencia y Santa Catalina. Bogotá: DANE. Faticone, D. 2008. Population as a key determinant of adaptation to climate change in small islands, master’s thesis. Waltham, MA: Brandeis University. Garzón-Ferreira, J. and A. Rodríguez-Ramirez. 2000. Informe sobre el estado de salud y la dinámica del ecosistema de arrecifes coralinos en el Caribe. SIMAC report. Santa Marta: INVEMAR. Howard, M. 2004. Population and environment on small islands: A case study of San Andrés Island, Colombia. Waltham, MA: Brandeis University, The Heller School for Social Policy and Management.

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Howard, M. and D. Nicholson. 2008. Population policies and action plan for San Andrés Island, Colombia. Integrated National Adaptation Program (INAP), GEF/World Bank. San Andrés: CORALINA. Howard, M., E. Connolly, E. Taylor and J. Mow. 2003. ‘Community-based development of multiple-use marine protected areas: Promoting stewardship and sharing responsibility for conservation in the San Andrés Archipelago, Colombia’, Gulf and Caribbean Research 14(2): 155–162. IGAC (El Instituto Geográfico Agustín Codazzi). 1996. Population mapping of San Andrés. Bogotà: IGAC. Kerr, S. 2003. Tourism and fishing industries in the San Andrés and Galápagos archipelagos: Overview and comparison. European Union INCO-DC project. Stromness, Scotland: International Centre for Island Technology, Heriot-Watt University. Livingstone, G. 2004. Inside Colombia: Drugs, democracy and war. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press. Mow, J., M. Howard, C. Delgado and S. Tabet. 2003. ‘Promoting sustainable development: A case study of the Seaflower biosphere reserve’, Prospects: Quarterly Review of Environmental Education 33(3): 303–312. Newball, R. 2000. ‘Evaluación económica del diseño e implementación de un área marina protegida (MPA) en el archipiélago Caribeño: El caso de los arrecifes coralinos de la isla de San Andrés’, master’s thesis. Bogotá, Colombia: Universidad de los Andes. Todaro, M. P. and S. C. Smith. 2003. Economic development. Reading, MA: Addison Wesley. UN (United Nations). 1994. Population, environment and development. New York: UN Publications. United Nations Development Program (UNDP), Ministry of Development, and Government of the Department Archipelago. 2000. Modernization of Potable Water and Basic Sanitation Services. Project Co/92/001, Unpublished project report. Bogotá: Ministry of Development. UNEP (United Nations Environment Program). 1999. Caribbean environment outlook: 1999. London: Earthscan. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: http://www .pnuma.org/deat1/pdf/Caribbean%20Environment%20Outlook%201999.pdf. UN-IACHR (United Nations Inter-American Commission on Human Rights). 2004. Annual report. Report of the special rapporteur on the situation of human rights and fundamental freedoms of indigenous people. New York: United Nations. van’t Hof, T. and E. Connolly. 2001. Financial sustainability for the marine protected area system in the Seaflower biosphere reserve. Draft technical report. Washington, D.C.: The Ocean Conservancy. Wilson, R. 2001. ‘Economic valuation of the non-market values of mangroves of San Andrés Island, Colombia, and recommendations for management’, master’s thesis. Edinburgh, Scotland: Heriot-Watt University.

[ Conclusion ] Lessons from Islands, or Islands as Miners’ Canaries STEPHEN A. ROYLE

Introduction In 2006 the New Economics Foundation (NEF) published the Happy Planet Index (HPI). This multivariate index went even further than the UN’s Human Development Index in formulating a means of making international comparisons without these being dominated by wealth differentials: the measures in the HPI are limited to life satisfaction, life expectancy and an ecological footprint. Topping the first HPI was the Pacific island nation of Vanuatu, while islands generally held strong positions in all the regional comparisons. Andrew Simms, director of the NEF, in marking Vanuatu’s 2006 victory, acknowledged that there exist islands with serious problems, such as Nauru, which he described as an ecological disaster ‘mined to virtual destruction for its rich phosphate’; but, he concluded, ‘when islands get it right, they show how it is possible to lead good lives at much lower environmental cost’ (Simms 2009). This is a positive message: although not all are wealthy, island nations are seen generally to provide ‘good lives’. Still more positive associations attach to some individual islands, especially those with a pleasant climate and attractive scenery. Rich people can buy at least very small islands like this to give them privacy. The merely wealthy can buy holiday homes or retirement property on islands. These people and, perhaps, returned migrants have boosted island populations, even repopulating abandoned islands, as on the insular fringe of western Ireland (Royle 2008). At a lower level of personal engagement, tourists flock to holiday islands throughout the world, as exemplified by the range of destinations on offer in the window of the author’s local travel agent in Belfast, shown in Figure C.1, all but one of them being islands.

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Figure C.1 Island Holidays in a Belfast Travel Agency Source: the author.

Let us look at websites for a particular holiday island to demonstrate its appeal. The one chosen is San Andrés Island, Colombia, a ‘little known Caribbean paradise’ (Sanchez 2005). Indeed,

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visitors wanting superb diving in crystal clear water, warm, white sandy beaches, exciting nightlife, colorful culture, a choice of full-amenity accommodations, relaxation and duty-free shopping head to San Andrés in the Caribbean. Thanks to a vivid and multi-ethnic history, San Andrés offers a varied cultural experience, from the cuisine of the islands to the languages spoken. Spanish is the official language but people also speak English to the background of salsa and reggae. (Hamre 2009)

All seems well in the world of islands. Why, then, the subtitle of this chapter, ‘Islands as Miners’ Canaries’? Let anybody who has not been reading this book sequentially look now at the San Andrés case study by Marion Howard and Elizabeth Taylor. This is also a commentary on San Andrés, but one that presents a rather more worrying account of this island than that above, an account in which the word ‘paradise’ does not appear. Drawing attention to a grittier reality of island life is not to denigrate the HPI, although its disregard of income entirely might be challenged. Indeed, Simms (2009) makes interesting suggestions as to why islands do well on his index: ‘Island economies like that of Tuvalu developed around sharing and gift-giving [the maneapa system], helping to create highly co-operative and mutually supportive communities.’ However, there is growing concern as to whether such traditional strategies can continue to cope as Tuvalu – especially Funafuti, the capital island of this Pacific archipelago nation – and islands elsewhere become more densely populated, this being the ‘extreme environment’ that is featured in this book. Some islands have attractions: the lovely photographs on the San Andrés tourist websites presumably are real. But if the camera were to be pointed in other directions, the dystopian vision of that overcrowded island’s life as presented by Howard and Taylor would be revealed. Just as islands and island peoples are being affected worst (and first) by climate change, they are amongst the most serious casualties of overpopulation. As Godfrey Baldacchino puts it in this book’s editorial introduction: ‘Competing claims over the utility, function and imagining of land and sea are exacerbated on islands with high population density. Islands serve as useful and convenient sites for observing the impact of land use planning – including impact assessments – or of its absence or non-enforcement. The dynamics in such extreme scenarios are likely harbingers of what the future may hold for other places.’ This is why islands are miners’ canaries. In a chapter drafted close to the 150th anniversary of the publication of Charles Darwin’s Origin of Species (1859), it may not be necessary to emphasize that the study of islands can provide useful lessons applicable widely elsewhere. The island as laboratory, a place for developing and testing ideas and from which lessons can

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be learned, is not a novel concept any more than ‘miners’ canaries’ is a new metaphor. (The real canaries were taken into coal pits to give warning of the presence of the dangerous odourless gas carbon monoxide, a build-up of which would distress the birds before it could be detected by humans, thus giving the miners some warning.) For example, the metaphor was recently used by Richard Hamblyn (2009: 230): What could be characterized as ‘canaries’ [are] individualized instances of warning signs or wake-up calls, that alert us to the presence of wider perils … In the context of climate change concern, such canaries have usually been glaciers or icecaps, seen either in retreat or in dramatic fragmentation … or they are examples of a single threatened or displaced species, such as the starving polar bear filmed swimming through what ought to have been a solid platform of spring ice.

Perhaps surprisingly, Hamblyn makes no reference to islands being able to serve just as well as glaciers, ice caps or polar bears as canaries warning of climate change, for one result of it – sea level rise – will, of course, impact soonest and most severely on small, low-lying islands and atolls such as Tuvalu (Farbotko 2005) – a bitter irony, for the islanders’ recognized happiness.

Environmental Fragility In this book, ten case study chapters deal with islands situated in or near the Caribbean (Bahamas and San Andrés), the Pacific (Hawai‘i and Majuro), the Mediterranean (Favignana, Corsica and Malta), two of the Channel Islands between Great Britain and France (Guernsey and Jersey) and Prince Edward Island in the Gulf of St Lawrence. The differences in location are matched by differences in size and in wealth. Their one pre-selected commonality, in addition to the given of insularity, is their high population densities. Yet in at least seven of the case studies another common, transversal issue emerges: that of environmental fragility. There is no need for this concluding chapter to retell all of these situations, but here are a few examples: on Malta there was mention of pressures on the characteristic garigue areas from development; and on the Bahamas the removal of shoreline vegetation was regretted for the problems this engenders through increased erosion and loss of habitat, especially when mangroves are eradicated. On Majuro, the book’s only study of an atoll, environmental issues are particularly acute. The essay by Taafaki et al. has a powerful section highlighting problems caused by dredging and beach sand mining, which disrupt the

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all-important accretion processes on the shorelines. They also outline the impacts of pollution and overfishing – both of which are associated with and worsened by the high population density here – on the lagoon and coral ecosystems. In addition, they highlight the vulnerability of Majuro and the other Marshall Islands to the sea level rise, storm surges and coastal inundation associated with climate change, presenting evidence that mean sea level has already been rising at one-fifth of an inch (5 mm) annually at Majuro in recent years. Given their low elevation, this and other atolls are amongst the parts of the world most at risk from climate change. These islands are canaries that will drown. For years scholars have been warning of such problems for islands (Barnett 2001; Lal et al. 2002). It is scientific and social scientific work of this nature that has identified the particular danger that climate change poses to small islands (Byrne and Innis 2002), coastal areas and (later) to other, less fragile parts of the world. It is not particularly significant that the two major events in the strangely named ‘Conference of Parties’ series under the UN’s climate change convention – the meeting that led to the Kyoto Protocol (COP3) and UN Climate Change Conference (COP15) – were both on islands: Kyoto is on Honshu, and COP15 was located at Copenhagen on Sjaelland. More noteworthy were the activities of islanders and island associations to inform the discussions. In the run-up to COP15, the conference’s website published hundreds of press releases and articles about climate change. These included many from island representatives. Some were stunts – especially the meeting of the Maldives cabinet under water – pieces that added colour and topicality to the debate. Of greater importance to the debate has been the input of the Alliance of Small Island States (AOSIS), a body that began work in the early 1990s and now has thirty-eight member states (four of which are actually on mainlands) and four other, non-independent territories as observers. Such gatherings of islands to collectivize, pool and magnify their individual weight are common at different scales. At this, the international level, regional collective action has been seen, for example, in both sport (the West Indies cricket team) and education (the University of the West Indies and the University of the South Pacific). However, joining AOSIS has not freed island nations from the need to develop their own individual responses to the threat. Kiribati, for example, has already published a document giving its response to immediate needs as well as long-term adaptation to climate change (Government of Kiribati 2007a). As the AOSIS website states: ‘It functions primarily as an ad hoc lobby and negotiating voice for Small Island Developing States (SIDS) within the United Nations system’, being particularly concerned ‘about the environment, especially their vulnerability to the adverse effects of global

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climate change’ (AOSIS 2009a). AOSIS was assiduous in trying to influence the debate leading up to COP15. A fourteen-point Declaration on Climate Change was issued in September 2009, the members declaring themselves to be ‘Gravely concerned that climate change poses the most serious threat to our survival and viability, and, that it undermines our efforts to achieve sustainable development goals and threatens our very existence’ (AOSIS 2009b, original emphasis). AOSIS issued a press release from the declaration that focused on point 6 (b) (ii) of the fourteen: the need to restrict global temperature rise to less than 1.5°C (AOSIS 2009c). The combined strength of representing forty-two polities should lend weight to the AOSIS position, although inevitably these climate change discussions are bound up in global politics and more powerful voices will dominate; powerlessness, after all, is one of the overarching tenets of islandness (Royle 2001: 134–165). To return to the miners’ canaries metaphor, the miners in this case are the planners and politicians. It is to be hoped they take heed of the warnings.

Pressures on Land The threats from climate change are external to islands; most islands – including the Philippines, according to their president – are just victims, places affected because of the scale, topography and location of their land mass. The theme of scale has other outcomes in the island environmental arena, as identified in the number of chapters here that mention the issue of waste disposal in a jurisdiction where there is little land available, an addition to the universal problem of cost. That there are difficulties in a relatively poor island such as San Andrés might not be a source of surprise. However, more eyebrows might be raised at the story in the case study chapter about Guernsey, one of the richest polities in the world, where plans for modern sewage disposal systems have been rejected on cost grounds and partly treated waste is still pumped out to sea, to the understandable irritation of the campaigning body Surfers against Sewage. Land pressures are seen in Guernsey with regard to solid waste; here, as on other islands, there are insufficient areas available for landfill and suggestions have been made that Guernsey should send its waste off-island for treatment and disposal. Island land, after all, can be ‘an extremely scarce, finite and non-renewable resource’ to quote from Cover and Virgill’s study of the Bahamas. Thus, there is acute competition for it. On Prince Edward Island, the population density of about 62 persons per square mile is high only by Canadian standards. And yet even here, Karen Lips shows that new residential development, including that for outsiders, causes problems, damaging the ‘heritage

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feel’ of the traditional bucolic landscape. On New Providence, in the Bahamas, with a higher population density of 397 persons per square mile, the case study documents how the development of second home areas, often in gated enclaves, has caused exquisite social tensions as open space and public access to beaches are affected. Back on San Andrés, where Howard and Taylor estimate that the population density is over 6,000 persons per square mile, land pressure is particularly acute; the authors tell a story of the failure of policies to relieve pressure in shanty districts, where the areas cleared when residents were moved out to new developments were reoccupied by other squatters. Pressures on space also impact built heritage, as is shown in the book, especially in the context of the archaeological sites of the European case study islands such as Malta and Guernsey. In some situations, competition for space and for land engenders conflict, as discussed by Furt, Maupertuis and Prunetti with respect to Corsica. This case study speaks of such competition being ‘intense’ in situations where tourists and also off-shore investors invade an island. Details are given of a contested commercial port project near Bastia; meanwhile, more generally, there is competition between the agriculture and tourism sectors in the favourable coastal regions. The authors also identify pressures in the cities and the traditional villages, the latter caused by outsiders buying up property. In Corsica, then, as elsewhere in the island world, ‘the scarcity of useable land induces various direct and perverse effects’.

In-migration Pressures on land are increased on islands and continents alike by inmigration. In Pacific archipelago nations such as Tuvalu and Kiribati, a specialized form of rural-urban migration can be seen that takes especially the young people from the less developed outer islands and places them in the already crowded space of the capital island. In Majuro, the capital island of the Marshall Islands, the next nation north of Kiribati, the same situation is found, as Taafaki et al. confirm in their contribution, writing up a standard push-pull migration analysis to explain the situation in economic and social terms. Furthermore, there has been so much immigration into San Andrés recently that the group regarded as native islanders, the Englishspeaking descendents of English settlers, African slaves and people from other islands who moved here themselves from the seventeenth century, are now a minority in their own homeland, as is also the case in Hawai‘i, of course.

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Howard and Taylor detail the movement of immigrants to San Andrés from mainland Colombia, people attracted by the island’s free port, its tourism and commercial opportunities and, perhaps, it being a welcoming refuge from the civil strife of the mainland. This has produced a level of population growth unprecedented in the Caribbean, giving the island a population density sixty times the national average. Even wealthy Jersey struggles to cope: Renouf and du Feu note in their chapter how ‘present strains on the overall island infrastructure (particularly the available housing stock and the island’s roads, evidenced by rising house prices, increased traffic disruptions by road works, congestion and pollution) are not being coped with successfully now [and] any [population] increase will make virtually everything worse.’

Social Tensions Increased population density is just one problematic aspect of in-migration. Migration brings in outsiders and, on many of the ten islands covered here (as well as others), this has led to social tensions between newcomers and the original ‘insiders’. This can be appreciated neatly in the case of a Mediterranean island not featured here, Mallorca. Jacqueline Waldren wrote up a fine study of such tensions in the mountain village of Deià, which was actually entitled Insiders and Outsiders (Waldren 1996; also Royle 2009). This type of situation on Favignana, as revealed by Eleonora Cassinelli, has its amusing side as she tells of the ways in which the islanders (try to) keep certain places secret – ‘the possibility for locals to somehow hide places from the tourist gaze’ – places she characterizes aptly as being ‘backstage’. This otherness has more serious ramifications, too. Luciano Minerbi’s chapter on Hawai‘i tells of land disputes that might reach the U.S. Supreme Court involving native people and those he describes as ‘Westerners’. The latter have made such demands on property and land generally throughout the archipelago that local residents find it impossible to compete in an open market. On Corsica, the othering includes local resentment at the French state itself, and the Fronte di Liberazione Naziunale Corsu (FLNC) has taken violent action as part of its demands for independence. Any visitor to Corsica cannot fail to observe FLNC graffiti, some of which, as in Figure C.2, interestingly bring up the language issue on the island, an indication that there are cultural heritage angles to the situation. On San Andrés, the political dispute is ratcheted up even further: Howard and Taylor report on beliefs amongst the native islander community that ‘flooding the islands with migrants is a strategy to destroy and displace them as a people’.

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Figure C.2 FLNC Graffiti in Corsica Source: the author.

The case study chapters in this volume point to bitter realities in island life in numerous ways: regarding the heritage concerns on which some of our essays focus, environmental issues and also social tensions. Yet one of Paul Theroux’s most celebrated travel books was The Happy Isles of Oceania (1992). Furthermore, as we saw, islands score well on the Happy Planet Index. Maybe that is partly, even largely, attributable to that index’s inclusion of carbon footprints: small islands are victims – rather than perpetrators – of climate change, and being mostly small and often not well developed, they consequently engender small carbon footprints. But it should be recalled that the HPI also measures life satisfaction. Why is island life satisfying? Partly it must be because there are mechanisms for ameliorating or at least helping to cope with some of the problems identified. Andrew Simms (2009) concluded that ‘isolation and relative vulnerability have probably encouraged more adaptive and supportive ways of organizing island societies and economies’. Simms mentioned Tuvalu as an island group with a supportive social system. The same was true of Kiribati, with which Tuvalu was once linked as the latter part of the Gilbert and Ellice Islands Colony. In the late 1990s, this author made a study tour that included South Tarawa, capital of Kiri-

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bati, where elements of such a social system could still be observed (Royle 1999). The landscape was dominated by traditional houses with productive activity outside: patches of land laid out to small garden-style plots for taro and vegetables. Coconut and the other tree crops such as breadfruit were to be seen everywhere, and pigsties were often to be seen at the side of the road. At regular intervals were characteristic mwaneabas; this being the name for both the building and the social support system that took place within it. Traditionally, the mwaneaba was a gathering place for local people where matters of common concern were discussed, support dispensed, social activities undertaken and behaviour regulated under the watchful eye of the elders. However, strain in the physical and social systems of Kiribati and South Tarawa especially had already been recognized. For example, a government official as long ago as 1969 wrote: Urbanization is a problem only because the people urbanizing make impossible demands … on the physical resources of the town. The allocation of more physical resources only makes things worse by accelerating the inflow of people who make use of them … Taking the national view of resource allocation, urbanization is seen as de-ruralization. People leave social and physical resources in the rural areas (which then decay) to go to non-existent social and overstrained physical resources in the town. (Hughes 1969)

By the late 1990s, problems of urbanization were being studied in more depth (Connell and Lea 1998; Cocklin and Keen 2000), whilst the limitations of the mwaneaba system were starting to be recognized: The population imbalance through South Tarawa has led to an increasing pressure on the environment and a reduction in the quality of life … The Maneaba [now spelt ‘mwaneaba’ to better reflect pronunciation] system and subsistence sustains the country’s and the people’s identity, the same system cannot be expected to develop into an internationally competitive and productive economy that is capable of generating a larger economy that will support the need for more jobs, incomes, and growing material welfare and the economic surpluses and larger tax base that can finance modern health, education and other public services. (Government of Kiribati 1996)

Since that statement was written there has been considerable population increase in Kiribati. In 1995 South Tarawa had 25,380 residents, one-third of the national total of 77,658; by 2005 it had 40,311, an increase of almost

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60 per cent, this being almost half (43.6 per cent) of the national resident population total of 92,533. In 1968 there had been only 10,616 people on South Tarawa (Government of Kiribati 2007b). Recent observers, such as Tony Whincup (2010) now feel that the old social support and control traditions here are breaking down in the face of that growing population pressure. The mwaneaba, essentially a village-based system, is struggling to deal with an urban, migrant population made up of people from different places. The mwaneaba on South Tarawa is now mostly church-based, with a new ethos of more entertainment, less formality and decorum and the expression of changing relationships between both generations and genders. The island lesson is clear: if social support systems are breaking down under population pressure in the relatively intimate setting of the small island, how much more problematic are social systems and social networks in large continental cities?

Effective Planning If small island territories – and, by implication, larger and more complex urbanizing societies – struggle to regulate their affairs through social control systems in the face of population pressure, planning must be the answer. However, it has to be effective planning. Regarding the island nations of the South Pacific, the Secretariat of the Pacific Community has noted that ‘[w]hen it is planned, urbanization is not necessarily a bad thing. However, when movement to urban areas outstrips the rate of investment in urban infrastructure, problems can arise, such as overcrowding, inadequate waste disposal and poor access to services. Urban management strategies should anticipate problems and avoid them rather than reacting to problems after they have occurred’ (Secretariat of the Pacific Community 2001: 38). Many of the chapters in this book mention the importance of planning. In some cases this is tied into the island’s social and customary traditions. This is particularly the case in Hawai‘i, where part of the Kanakai, or indigenous planning process, that Minerbi details is to consult the local people, particularly the elderly, regarding any associations with a place before development is allowed to proceed. In San Andrés, the indigenous people have been recognized as a ‘national ethnic minority’ under the 1991 constitution of Colombia, and their language, English, and Protestant religion are protected. Moreover, in 1991 a special population policy was instigated to protect the viability of the island and the survival of its indigenous people by prohibiting further migration to the archipelago from the national mainland. Howard and Taylor detail this policy’s operation with the use of residency cards, but ‘serious problems like illegal residents and continuing migration remain’.

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On Guernsey, the local Société Guernesiaise has advised on land-use planning and plays a leading role in heritage issues and management, as Sebire and David show in their case study. This importance of local input is mirrored in other islands. Corsica has its own particular needs for planning and legislation as an island, which may not be the same as those of metropolitan France. However, Furt, Maupertuis and Prunetti show that, since 2002, the Corsican Regional Assembly has had some limited powers to rule on economic, educational, environmental, developmental and cultural matters, which has helped to bring in the local voice. They conclude by saying that heritage and landscape planning will struggle to succeed without ‘a transparent, accessible, and shared consultative process’. A general lesson from the planning and policy experiences in these islands is that whatever the quality of the plan, it is handicapped by ineffectual implementation. Thus, immigration into San Andrés continues and the problems of the island worsen. Meanwhile, on Malta, Camillieri et al. show that the building conservation policy struggles with a shortage of trained staff, lack of enforcement capability and lenient sentences for cases of harm done to cultural heritage: ‘better co-ordination of all agencies involved in heritage management is still required’.

Conclusion This contribution, and the book generally, have implicitly demonstrated that the paradisiacal trope of island life could be for the birds (to struggle to bring up canaries once more). The book presents a realistic view of island life and issues, and we hope that one result of this and other works within island studies will be to enable us all to move beyond the word association from ‘island’ to ‘paradise’. Whilst islands have their own particular problems, they face issues that are common elsewhere. They can function as laboratories in which experiments, and sometimes ghastly scenarios, are played out. The impact of climate change is one such scenario. Limiting climate change would not save just Tuvalu, but maybe the planet. Islands, with their limited land availability, are also instructive of the way in which competition for land and resources fosters or catalyses tensions and other problems, especially in situations of growing density as population increases. Islands have been seen as ‘happy’, not least because of their social support networks. But these, too, are threatened in, and by, situations of increased population pressure. One solution is the development of policies and planning for land use, population and heritage conservation. And yet, the island experiences illustrated here teach us that such measures need also to be accompanied by effective implementation.

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Island lessons show that local involvement in both the development of planning and its operation is of value. This is shown in one final reference, an article chosen deliberately for its avian allusion, to sustain the canary metaphor used throughout the chapter. Rosenberg and Kormso (2001) analyse the situation of Grenada, a small Caribbean island state under pressure. Serious problems arose there in the search for suitable space in which to locate a waste disposal project to be sponsored by the World Bank. The bank bumped against the realities of island life and had to tailor its plans in accordance with input from various island groups and people, including, originally, the single voice of a local woman speaking up for the island’s national bird, the Grenada dove, Leptotila wellsi, whose habitat was threatened. Rosenberg and Kormso (2001) detail the complex subsequent saga of the landfill on Grenada, which need not be reproduced here. Suffice it to say that the dove’s habitat was taken into consideration. What is significant for us is that the authors several times use the word ‘lesson’: they demonstrate how the World Bank, the Global Environmental Facility and other agencies whose projects have ‘participatory requirements’ – with the inbuilt need to engage local people and groups in planning and policy deliberations as well as to consider the environment – could, from the small island vantage point, be seen to impact decisively on policy. The Grenada dove is another, unwitting, miners’ canary.

B AOSIS (Alliance of Small and Island States). 2009a. About AOSIS. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: www.sidsnet.org/aosis/about.html ———. 2009b. AOSIS declaration on climate change 2009. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: http://www.sidsnet.org/aosis/statements.html ———. 2009c. Small island states welcome growing support for 1.5°C climate target. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: http://www.sidsnet.org/aosis/documents/ Summit09_Press_Release.pdf Barnett, J. 2001. ‘Adapting to climate change in Pacific island countries: The problem of uncertainty’, World Development 29(6): 977–993. Byrne, J. and V. Innis. 2002. ‘Island sustainability and sustainable development in the context of climate change’, in H-H. M. Hsiao, C-H. Liu and H-M. Tsai (eds), Sustainable development for island societies: Taiwan and the world. Taipei: Asia-Pacific Research Program, Academia Sinica, 3–30. Cocklin, C. and Keen, M. 2000. ‘Urbanisation in the Pacific: Environmental change, vulnerability and human security’, Environmental Conservation 27(4): 392–403. Connell, J. and J. P. Lea. 1998. Island towns: Managing urbanization in Micronesia. Occasional Paper 40. Center for Pacific Islands Studies, University of Hawai’i and Research Institute for Asia and the Pacific, University of Sydney.

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Darwin, C. 1859. On the origin of species by means of natural selection. London: John Murray. Farbotko, C. 2005. ‘Tuvalu and climate change: Constructions of environmental displacement in the Sydney Morning Herald,’ Geografiska Annaler 87B(4): 279–294. Government of Kiribati. 1996. Kauataboa te tikirake: National development strategy, 1996–99. Tarawa: Ministry of Finance and Economic Planning. ———. 2007a. National adaptation program of action (NAPA). Tarawa: Ministry of Environment, Land and Agricultural Development. ———. 2007b. Kiribati 2005 census, volume 2: Analytical report. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: www.spc.int/prism/Country/KI/Stats/Census2005/reports/ KIR%20Report%202005%20-%20Volume%20II%20-%20FINAL.pdf Hamblyn, R. 2009. ‘The whistleblower and the canary: Rhetorical constructions of climate change’, Journal of Historical Geography 35(2): 223–236. Hamre, B. 2009. San Andrés, Colombia. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: http:// gosouthamerica.about.com/od/colregcoasts/p/SanAndres.htm Hughes, A. V. 1969. Unpublished minute, cited in E. E. Bailey (1983), Report on the [Republic of Kiribati] 1978 Census of Population and Housing, Volume III: Analytical report. Bairiki: Ministry of Home Affairs and Decentralization, 84. Lal, M., H. Harasawa and K. Takahashi. 2002. ‘Future climate change and its impacts over small island states’, Climate Research 19(1): 179–192. New Economics Foundation. 2006. The happy planet index. London: New Economics Foundation. Rosenberg, J. and F. L. Kormso. 2001. ‘Local participation, international politics, and the environment: The World Bank and the Grenada dove’, Journal of Environmental Management 62(2): 283–300. Royle, S. A. 1999. ‘Conservation and heritage in the face of insular urbanization: The Marshall Islands and Kiribati’, Built Environment 25(3): 211–221. ———. 2001. A geography of islands: Small island insularity. London: Routledge. ———. 2008. ‘From marginality to resurgence: The case of the Irish islands’, Shima: the International Journal of Research into Island Cultures 2(2): 42–55. ———. 2009. ‘Tourism changes on a Mediterranean island: Experiences from Mallorca’, Island Studies Journal 4(2): 225–240. Sanchez, J. 2005. Little known Caribbean paradise. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: www.globosapiens.net/travel-information/San+Andres-1748.html Secretariat of the Pacific Community. 2001. Population and development planning in the Pacific. Noumea: Secretariat of the Pacific Community. Simms, A. 2009. ‘Happy like Vanuatu’, The Guardian (U.K.), 13 April. Retrieved on 31 July 2010 from: http://www.neweconomics.org/blog/2009/04/14/happylike-vanuatu Theroux, P. 1992. The happy isles of Oceania. London: Hamish Hamilton. Waldren, J. 1996. Insiders and outsiders: Paradise and reality in Mallorca. Oxford: Berghahn Books. Whincup, T. 2010. ‘Te mwaneaba ni Kiribati, the traditional meeting house of Kiribati: ‘A tale of two islands’’, Shima, the International Journal of Research into Island Cultures 4(1): 113–130.

[ NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS ]

René Attard (MSc in geographic information science, Manchester Metropolitan University, UK) is a senior environment protection officer within the Heritage Planning Unit of the Malta Environment and Planning Authority, Malta. Godfrey Baldacchino (PhD, Warwick, UK) is professor of sociology and Canada Research Chair in Island Studies at the University of Prince Edward Island, Canada; visiting professor of sociology at the University of Malta, Malta; and executive editor of Island Studies Journal. John Bungitak has served as general manager of the National Environmental Protection Authority of the Republic of the Marshall Islands. Marguerite Camilleri (PhD, Cambridge, UK) is currently on assignment at the Office of the Prime Minister, coordinating the formulation of Malta’s national environment policy. She is interested in environmental policy and governance, sustainable development and the integration of sustainability concerns into land use planning. Eleonora Cassinelli is reading a PhD in anthropology of tourism at the University of Milano-Bicocca, Italy. She has undertaken research on the social and cultural impacts of tourism in Samanà, Dominican Republic, and Favignana, Italy. Heather Cover (MPA, London School of Economics and Political Science, UK) is a management analyst for Equalities & Diversity. She also works in partnership with West Lindsey District Council in Lincolnshire and Edgehill University in Lancashire, UK. She was formerly employed at the Office of the Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of The Bahamas. Charles David (PhD, Imperial College, London, UK) is manager of the Guernsey Biological Records Centre and former president of La Société Guernesiaise.

Notes on Contributors 261

Roberta Debono (MA, sustainable development, Staffordshire University, UK), is currently on assignment at the Office of the Prime Minister, coordinating the formulation of Malta’s national environment policy. She is involved in ‘state of the environment’ reporting and the sustainable development dossier. Tim A. du Feu (PhD, Hull, UK) is director of environmental protection with the States of Jersey. Jean-Marie Furt (PhD, Université de Corse) is an associate professor of tourism law at the University of Corsica, France. Marie Therese Gambin (MA in islands and small states studies, University of Malta) is a senior environment protection officer with the Malta Environment and Planning Authority, Malta. She works within the Ecosystems Management Unit, her main line of work being data management, reporting, communication and permissions in relation to biodiversity. Monique Hili (MSc, plant biotechnology, University of Malta) is an environmental assessor with the Malta Environment and Planning Authority, Malta. Her main responsibilities are in the areas of appropriate assessment and general environmental impact assessment. Marion Howard is senior lecturer at the Heller School for Social Policy and Management, Brandeis University, Waltham, MA, USA and associate director of the master’s program in sustainable international development. She is also advisor to CORALINA, the state’s sustainable development agency for the San Andrés archipelago, Colombia. Mark B. Lapping (PhD, Emory) is distinguished professor of public policy and management, and executive director at the Edmund S. Muskie School of Public Service, University of Southern Maine (USM), Portland, ME, USA. He has taught land use policy and planning, community development, natural resource economics and planning, and intellectual foundations of public policy. Prior to joining USM, he was the founding dean of the Bloustein School of Planning and Public Policy at Rutgers University, New Jersey, USA. Karen E. Lips is a landscape architect based on Prince Edward Island, Canada. She taught as an external scholar at the School of Architecture of Dalhousie University, Nova Scotia, Canada, in 2008. She holds a Mas-

262

Notes on Contributors

ter of conservation of monuments and sites from Catholic University of Leuven, Belgium (2007), where she was attached to the Raymond Lemaire International Centre for Conservation. Her research and design focus is the development of innovative approaches to conserving and enhancing the authenticity of cultural landscapes. Joseph Magro Conti (MA in archaeological heritage management, York, UK) is manager of the Heritage Planning Unit within the Malta Environment and Planning Authority, Malta. Marie-Antoinette Maupertuis (PhD, Université de Nice-Sophia Antipolis, France) is professor of economics, University of Corsica, France. Caleb McClennen (PhD Tufts) is director of marine conservation at the Wildlife Conservation Society, USA, an organization with a long-term commitment to conservation of marine wildlife and seascapes through scientific investigation, capacity building and innovative approaches, including climate change adaptation, progressive fisheries management and the challenge of improving coastal livelihoods. Luciano Minerbi (Dr. Arch., Polytechnical University, Milan, Italy) is professor of urban and regional planning at the University of Hawai’i, Honolulu, HI, USA. He consults and teaches graduate courses in indigenous issues, community, village, neighborhood and metropolitan planning and design, watershed and environmental management, land use, sustainability, and Pacific Islands planning. Dominique Prunetti (PhD, Université de Nice-Sophia Antipolis, France) is associate professor of economics at the University of Corsica, France. John T. Renouf (PhD, London, FGS) is former curator of the Museum in Jersey. Trained as a geologist, he now specializes in the study of former sea levels and consults as a geologist on archaeological matters. Stephen A. Royle (PhD, Leicester) is professor of island geography and director of the Centre for Canadian Studies in the School of Geography, Archaeology and Palaeoecology at Queen’s University Belfast, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom. He is a Member of the Royal Irish Academy. Heather Sebire (PhD, London), FSA, served as archaeology officer at Guernsey Museum, during which time she regularly wrote and broadcast

Notes on Contributors 263

about the archaeology of Guernsey and the other Channel Islands. Her books include The Archaeology and Early History of the Channel Islands (Tempus, 2005). Darrin Stevens (MSc biology, Malta) has worked in various aspects of nature protection, including with environmental NGOs, the Malta Council for Science and Technology, the University of Malta and the Environment Protection Department. He is manager responsible for Ecosystems Management at the Malta Environment and Planning Authority, Malta. Elaine Stratford (PhD, Adelaide, Australia) is head of the School of Geography and Environmental Studies at the University of Tasmania, Australia. Her scholarship draws on social theory and qualitative methods to explore, chiefly in island places, the cultural and political geographies of mobility and emplacement. Irene J. Taafaki (EdD, University of Massachusetts, USA) has been director of the Marshall Islands campus of the University of the South Pacific since 1998. An administrator in higher education, educator and author, she has published books and articles for children, teachers and parents. She has worked in the field of education in the UK, Kiribati, India and the United States. Elizabeth Taylor (MSc marine and coastal management, Bangor University, Wales, UK) is a marine biologist and director of CORALINA, the state’s sustainable development agency for the San Andrés archipelago, Colombia. She has been working in environmental management of small islands for over fifteen years, including supervising over fifty sustainable development projects. Frank R. Thomas (PhD, University of Hawai‘i, USA) is an anthropologist with interests in environmental archaeology, human ecology and cultural heritage management. He served as staff archaeologist for the Republic of the Marshall Islands Historic Preservation Office (2003–2006) and is Pacific Studies Postgraduate Chair at the Oceania Centre for Arts, Culture and Pacific Studies, University of the South Pacific, Fiji Islands. Nicola Virgill (PhD public policy, George Mason University, USA) is economic attaché at the Embassy of The Bahamas in Washington, D.C. She was formerly deputy head (Policy) at the Central Bank of The Bahamas.

[ INDEX ]

A absolutist planning in islands, xxxv Acadian settlers in PEI, 21 acute environmental issues on Majuro atoll, 249–50 Åland, Finland, xxxi, xxxvii Alliance of Small and Island States, 250, 251 Anahita and Tamarina resort schemes, Mauritius, xxxvii Anne of Green Gables, 21 Ap Lei Chau, Hong Kong, xxxvii application of visualization techniques, 25–29, 44–45 approved building permits in Corsica, 120 archaeological sites, Jersey, 110–2 areas of agricultural value, 55 areas of ecological importance, 55 areas of high landscape value, 5 Association Bonifacienne Comprendre et Défendre l’Environnement (ABCDE), 129–30 Australia, xxxii, 2 as continental, 10 B Bahamas Real Estate Association, 206, 207 Bahamas, xix–xx, xxxii, 14, 198–217, 249, 252 community, sense of, 201–2 cross-island comparison of gated communities, 206–8

enabling legal framework for second home market, 204–5 foreign direct investment, 199–201 gated communities, 201–2 globalization and development, 199–201 impact of second homes and gated communities, 208–14 land prices, 205–6 land speculation, 214 policy changes in response to growing frustration, 213–4 social exclusion, 202–4 Bahrain, xxvii Bangladesh, xxvii, xxviii Barbados, xvii and Windows to the Sea, xx Barrett Report, Jersey, 105 Bastia, Corsica, 120 beaches as public resources, xxi beaches in Favignana, 139–40 Bermuda, xxvii, xxxi, xxxvii, 205 best management practices in Hawai‘i, 154, 170 between the explicit and tacit, 16 Bikini atoll, Marshall Islands, 184 Biosphere Reserve vision and planning in San Andrés, Colombia, 228–9 Black, Annabel, 149 Bonifacio Battle in Corsica, 129–30 bornement (parish consent) in Guernsey, 79 Branders Pond, PEI, 29–32 Brehat and Île d’Yeu, France, 2–3 Brown, Greg, 25

Index

C Canada, xxi, xxxii capacity for landscape visualization, 22 Carteret Islands, Papua New Guinea, xvi cemetery as bird sanctuary, 56 challenges of atoll populations, 193 Changi International Airport, Singapore, xxxvii changing relations with the environment in Favignana, 138 Charlottetown, PEI, 21, 22, 34–35 Chile, and gated communities, 202 Ching Fu Ship Building Co., Taiwan, 187 cleansed environments, xxxv Cliff shantytown, San Andrés, Colombia, 233 Clothier Report, Jersey, 96 coast as complex asset in Corsica, 123 Commission on Land and Local Governance, PEI, xxii, 45 community based economic development, 154 Community Land Trust, Hawai‘i, 164 Compact of Free Association with the US, 177, 191 conceptions of place in Hawai‘i, 153–4 conflicts between environment and development in Corsica, 120 Connecticut River Valley, US, 25 consensual planning for place-based management in Hawai‘i, 169–70 conservation measures in Favignana, 137 construction, and consequences in Jersey, 102–4 and economic development in Malta, 48–50 consuming the coastline in Favignana, 149 Convention concerning the protection of the world cultural and natural heritage, 5

265

Convention on biological diversity, 225 Cook, James, Captain, 155 Coordination for Information of the Environment (CORINE), 72 Corporation for the Sustainable Development of the Archipelago of San Andrés, Old Providence and Santa Catalina (CORALINA), 225–9, 236, 237 Corsica, France, xvii, 12, 116–133, 249, 252, 253–254, 257 approved building permits, 120 the ‘Bonifacio Battle’, 129–30 coast as complex asset, 123 conflicts between environment and development, 120 differentiation of land parcels, 126–7 difficulties of ‘localization’, 128 economy, 117 governance of environmental and natural assets, 121–4 heritage classification, 126 heritage regulation, 124–7 high tourism density, 119 legal action as sole means of regulation, 123 legal developments, 122 natural environment, 118 Pointe de la Parata, 125 population density, 116 RAMSAR sites, 124 Sanguinaires Islands, 125 social constraints, 119 topographical constraints, 119 tourism, 117–8, 124 use conflict, 129–30 violence, 122 cottage clusters in PEI, 37–40 Cotton Bay Club, Eleuthera, Bahamas, 207 countryside zones in Jersey, 105 court of public opinion, 22 Cousin’s Shore, PEI, 38–40

266

Index

cross-island comparison of gated communities in Bahamas, 206–8 crown-of-thorns starfish, Acanthaster planci, 183 cultures and creeping globalization, xxvi D Darwin, Charles, 248 Déhus dolmen, Guernsey, 92 Deià, Mallorca, Spain, 253 Delap seaport, Majuro atoll, 188 Development Planning Act in Malta, 52 differentiation of land parcels in Corsica, 126–7 difficulties of ‘localization’ in Corsica, 128 disposal of waste in San Andrés, Colombia, 222, 236 dumping of debris in Majuro lagoon, 182 E Ebeye, Marshall Islands, xxviii economic growth and development in Hawai‘i, 160 economy in San Andrés, Colombia, 219 Eden, xxxv effective planning, 256 Eleuthera, Bahamas, 206–7 emotional geographies of heritage, 1–20 emotional geography, xxxv enabling legal framework for second home market in Bahamas, 204–5 enclaves and privatopia, xix–xx endangered rural heritage in PEI, 21–22 environment in San Andrés, Colombia, 218–9, 236 environmental education programs in San Andrés, Colombia, 236–7 environmental impact assessment, 60, 162

Environmental Initiatives in Partnership Programme, Malta, 58 Environmental Protection Authority, Marshall Islands, 188 equatorial paradox, xxvi Euclidian geometry, xxx European Economic Community, 76 European Union, xxxvii, 56, 76, 96 directives on habitats and wild birds, 56–57, 73 exceeded carrying capacity in San Andrés, Colombia, 242 experiential space, xxxiv extreme environments, 248 F familial attachment to land in Hawai‘i, 152 family planning policy in San Andrés, Colombia, 221 farm clusters in PEI, 33–37 fascination of islands, 22 Favignana, Italy, xviii, 12–13, 134–51, 249, 253 analysis of map form and practice, 141–9 beaches, 139–40 changing relations with the environment, 138 conservation measures, 137 consuming the coastline, 149 fencing strategies, 149–50 hiding strategies performed by locals on tourists, 148–9 indigenous flora and fauna, 137–8 land use, 136–7 land use conflicts, 138–9 location and context, 135–6 map availability, 140–1 mind maps, 146 second homes market, 137 strategies of protection, 149–50 tourism, 136 tourists getting lost, 148 use of maps by tourists, 147

Index

fencing strategies in Favignana, 149–50 Fiji, xxxii Flimkien għal–Ambjent Aħjar (Together for a Better Environment), Malta, 67 Floating dry dock, Majuro atoll, 187–90 flood relief project and archaeological remains, Malta, 70–71 Fondazzjoni Wirt Artna, Malta, 58, 67 foreign direct investment in Bahamas, 199–201 French River, PEI, 41–44 Front against the Golf Course, Malta, 63 Fronte di Liberazione Naziunale Corsu, 253, 254 Funafuti, Tuvalu, xxviii G Galaxy Hotel, Sliema, Malta, 50 Galilean astronomy, xxx gated communities, xix–xx in Bahamas, 198–217 in Chile, 202 in China, 201 in South Africa, 201–2 geographic information systems, 24, 29 geological sites, Jersey, 112–3 Gibraltar, xxvii Global Environmental Facility, xxxvi, 258 global warming in Marshall Islands, 183 globalization and development in Bahamas, 199–201 Godahl Beach, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, xx Godeffroy and Son, 176 Golding, William, xxxv governance of environmental and natural assets in Corsica, 121–4 government exempts itself from EIS in Hawai‘i, 168–9

267

Grand Harbour Local Plan, Malta, 60 Great Māhele land reform, Hawai‘i, 157 green zones, Jersey, 105 Grenada, xxxiii, 258 Grenada dove, Leptotila wellsi, xxxiii, 258 groundwater in San Andrés, Colombia, 235–6 Guernsey National Trust, 87 Guernsey, Channel Islands, xix, 11–12, 75–95, 249, 252, 257 common external tariff, 76 constitution of, 75–76 cultural asset management, 83 cultural assets, 82–83 development and planning laws, 79–81 disposal of sewage, 78 economy, 76–77 land use conflict, 88–92 monument protection, 84 natural and cultural assets of, 78–79 pressures on community, 77–78 protection of historic wreck, 91–92 psychology of population, 92–93 solid waste disposal, 78 statistics and population growth, 76 strategic land use, 84–85 Gulf of Saint Lawrence, 21 H H-3 freeway in Hawai‘i, 169 Hamblyn, Richard, 249 Happy Planet Index, 246, 254 Hardin, Garrett, xxxi–xxxiii Hawai‘i, US, xix, 13, 152–74, 249, 252, 253 conceptions of place, 153–4 consensual planning for placebased management, 169–70 economic growth and employment, 160

268

Index

familial attachment to land, 152 government exempts itself from EIS, 168–9 H-3 freeway, 169 household income, 156–7 identification of natural and cultural assets, 161–3 institutional setting to land use planning, 153 inter-governmental conflicts in land use, 158–9 land agreements, 154–5 land development and reform, 157–8 land for business development and international trade, 161 large private landowners and speculative rezoning, 159–60 people’s identity, 153 place-based management, 154 population movements and migration, 156 population pressures, 155–6 public land acquisitions, 167–8 taking care of the land, 154 tax revenue sharing, 155 use conflicts (cases), 165–9 use conflicts (procedures), 163–5 Hawaiian conservation values, 162–3 hedgerows in PEI, 29–33 heritage, 1–20 constitution of, 15–16 as discursive construction, 6 and emotional geography, 1–20 and environmental management, xxv heritage classification in Corsica, 126; heritage farm landscapes, 28 heritage regulation in Corsica, 124–7 hiding strategies performed by locals on tourists in Favignana, 148–9 high tourism density in Corsica, 119 historic sites and buildings in Guernsey, 85 Hōkūli‘a, Hawai‘i, 166–7

Holland, Samuel, and first land survey in PEI, 29 Hong Kong, xxvii household income in Hawai‘i, 156–7 housing impacts in Jersey, 100–1 Hugo, Victor, 75 Hulhumale, Maldives, xxxvii Human Development Index (UN), 246 Hunter Street Wharf, Hobart, Tasmania, 1, 4, 7–8 I identification and handling of natural and cultural assets in Jersey, 104–5 identification of natural and cultural assets in Hawai‘i, 161–3 identification of natural assets in San Andrés, Colombia, 225–7 illegal developments at Rabat and Mdina, Malta, 55 imageable size of PEI, 26 impact of second homes and gated communities in Bahamas, 208–14 indigenous flora and fauna in Favignana, 137–8 in-migration and pressures on land, 252–3 institutional framework in San Andrés, Colombia, 225 institutional setting to land use planning in Hawai‘i, 153 intangible values of landscape conservation, 22 inter-governmental conflicts in land use in Hawai‘i, 158–9 inter-island super-ferry project in Hawai‘i, 168–9 island backstage, 134 island form matters, 6 island land as scare resource, 251 island life, as paradisiacal trope, 257 Island Plans for Jersey, 105–6, 113 island race, 7 island way of life, xxii islandness, 4

Index

islands adapting to environmental challenges, 192 as extreme environments, 248 as laboratories, 248–9 as miners’ canaries, 246–59 and rentier revenue, xxx–xxxi as stepping stones, 3 as vantage points, 2–3 in the Western imaginary, xxxv J Jamaica, xvii Janvrin Farm, Jersey, demolition of, 109–10 Java, Indonesia, xxviii Jersey, Channel Islands, xxi, xxxi, xxxvii, 12, 96–115, 249 archaeological sites, 110–2 construction and consequences, 102–4 demographic pressures, 97–99 geological sites, 112–3 housing impacts, 100–1 identification and handling of natural and cultural assets, 104–5 island plans, 105–6, 113 island status and government, 96–97 land use conflict, 107–13 migration impacts, 99–100 pressures on land use and reclamation, 101–2 RAMSAR sites, 106, 113, 114 rural economy strategy, 106 tourism and construction, 103 K Kahana Valley, O‘ahu, Hawai‘i, 167 Kili, Marshall Islands, xxviii King’s Road, St. Peter Port, Guernsey, 90–91 Kiribati, 252, 254

269

Kwajalien atoll, Marshall Islands, 178, 182 Kyoto UN Climate Change Convention, 250, 251 L L.M. Montgomery Land Trust, PEI, 40, 45 L’Etacq, Jersey, 113 La Grande Mare, Guernsey, 89–90 La Hougue Bie neolithic tomb, Jersey, 111 La Marquanderie hoard of tribal coinage, Jersey, 111 La Rocco Tower, St Ouen, Jersey, 107–108 La Société Guernesiaise, 80, 88, 92, 93 lack of political autonomy in San Andrés, Colombia, 224 lack of resources dedicated to conservation, 72 land agreements in Hawai‘i, 154–5 land as commodity, xxix–xxxi land for business development and international trade in Hawai‘i, 161 Land Management and Sustainable Development Plan (PADDUC), Corsica, 118, 122, 123, 127, 128, 129, 131 land prices in Bahamas, 205–6 land rage, xxix land speculation in Bahamas, 214 land tenure, xx–xxii land use conflict in Corsica, 129–30 in Guernsey, 88–92 in Jersey, 107–13 in Favignana, 138–9 in Majuro atoll, 186–7 land use in Favignana, 147 in Guernsey, 85 landscape impact analysis, 25 landscape values mapping, 25

270

Index

large landowners and speculative rezoning in Hawai‘i, 159–60 lebensraum (living space), xxvi Lefebvre, Henri, xxxiii–xxxiv Legacy Land Conservation Program in Hawai‘i, 167 legal action as sole means of regulation in Corsica, 123 legal and policy framework in San Andrés, Colombia, 225–6, 240 legal developments in Corsica, 123 legislation for protection of wildlife in Guernsey, 80 lessons learnt in San Andrés, Colombia, 243–4 location and context of Favignana, 135–6 location of San Andrés, Colombia, 218 Lord of the Flies, xxxv Lord Tweedsmuir, Canada GovernorGeneral, 22 Losap, Federated States of Micronesia, xxviii loss of the commons, xxi Lukis, Frederick, 83 M Macau, xxvii Maine, USA, xviii Majuro atoll, Marshall Islands, xxii, xxviii, 13–14, 175–97, 249, 252 core environmental issues, 182 cultural assets, 183–5 dumping of debris in lagoon, 182 economy, 178–80 floating dry dock, 187–90 as fragile island state, 179 global warming, 183 history, 175–8 land use conflicts, 186–7 media, 190–1 MIRAB framework, 180 modernization after independence, 177 natural assets, 185–6 population growth, 180–2

protective legislative mechanisms, 184–5 ruined by development, 191–2 sea level rise, 183, 250 urbanization, 181–2 as UN Trust Territory, 177 Maldives, xxvii, xxxii Malé, Maldives, xxviii, xxxvii Malpeque Bay and peninsula, PEI, 21, 30, 32 Malta Environment and Planning Authority, 53 Malta, xxi, xxv, xxvii, xxviii, xxxi, xxxvii, 11, 47–74, 149, 249, 252, 257 conservation obligations and development pressures, 59–71 construction activity, 48–50 identification, protection and management of heritage, 52–59 land cover, 47–48 planning system, 49 road vehicles, 50 tourism, 51–52 managing historic environment in Guernsey, 86 managing natural environment in Guernsey, 87–88 Manhattan, New York, US, xxxvii Manton, Peter (Reverend), Jersey, 107 map availability in Favignana, 140–141 maps as spatial stories, 147 Market Buildings, St. Peter Port, Guernsey, 88–89 Mary Rose Trust, Portsmouth, UK, 92 Mauritius, xxxii, xxxvii McHarg, Ian, 25 Meacham’s historical atlas, PEI, 24, 26, 29 media in Marshall Islands, 190–1 Mediterranean killifish, Aphanius fasciatus, 68 Mediterranean seagrass, Posidonia oceanica, 121 Mi’kmaq culture in PEI, 21 Micronesian challenge, 186

Index

migration from mainland in San Andrés, Colombia, 220 migration impacts in Jersey, 99–100 mind maps in Favignana, 146 MIRAB framework in Marshall Islands, 180 modernization after independence in Marshall Islands, 177 Moen, Federated States of Micronesia, xxviii Moloka‘i Community Service Council, Hawai‘i, 166 Monaco, xxvii Mont Orgueil Castle, Jersey, 110, 111 Montgomery, Lucy Maud, 21, 45 More, Thomas, xxxv mwaneaba (gathering place and social support system), Kiribati, 255, 256 N Nasheed, Mohammed, xvi national ethnic minority in Colombia, 256 natural environment in Corsica, 118 Nature Trust (Malta), 58 Nauru, 246 neo-Malthusian ideas, xxxii New Economics Foundation, 246 New Providence, Bahamas, xx, xxviii, 198–217, 252 Newtonian mechanics, xxx non-alienation of land, xxii non-governmental organizations in Jersey, 107 Norman Customary Law in Guernsey, 79 North End (El Centro), San Andrés, Colombia, 223 Northwest coast of Jersey, 108–9 Nos Îles (Jersey document), 104, 108, 113, 114 O Ocean Club, Paradise Island, Bahamas, 205 Office of Hawaiian Affairs, 158

271

Oreor, Palau, xxviii overfishing and ecosystem degradation in San Andrés, Colombia, 220–1, 237 P Palazzo de Fremaux, Zejtun, Malta, demolition of, 66–67 paradise, xxxv Park Corner area, PEI, 26–27 people’s identity in Hawai‘i, 153 People’s Republic of China, xxxii and gated communities, 201 perceived geography and behavior, 7 Philippines, and climate change, 251 Piétri, François, 131 place identity, 7 place matters, 6 place-based management in Hawai‘i, 153 planning as political, xxxiv Plemont Holiday Camp, Jersey, 104 policy changes in response to growing frustration in Bahamas, 213–4 policy directions in heritage management in PEI, 36–37 poorly planned development in San Andrés, Colombia, 222 population density 249, 251–252 in Corsica, 116 and human behavior, xxix impact of, xxvi–xxviii in Jersey, 97–99 in San Andrés, Colombia, 220 and social tensions, 253 population growth in Majuro atoll, 180–2 in San Andrés, Colombia, 220 population movements and migration in Hawai‘i, 156 population policies in San Andrés, Colombia, 237–9 population pressures in Hawai‘i, 155–6 in San Andrés, Colombia, 221, 236 postcard perfect picture, 42

272

Index

preservation of land use in San Andrés, Colombia, 231–2 preservation of natural resources in San Andrés, Colombia, 234–7 pressures on land use and land reclamation in Jersey, 101–2 Prince Edward Island (PEI), xxi–xxii, 11, 21–46, 249, 251 Acadian settlers, 21 Anne of Green Gables, 21 as ideal laboratory, 26 Branders Pond, 29–32 Charlottetown, 21, 22, 34–35 Commission on Land and Local Governance, xxii, 45 cottage clusters, 37–40 Cousin’s Shore, 38–40 endangered rural heritage, 21–22 farm clusters, 33–37 French River, 41–44 hedgerows, 29–33 Holland, Samuel, and first land survey, 29 imageable size, 26 L.M. Montgomery Land Trust, 40, 45 Malpeque Bay and peninsula, 21, 30, 32 Mi’kmaq culture, 21 Park Corner area, 26–27 scenic heritage farmsteads, 33 viewscapes, 40–44 private islands, xxxii privatization as solution, xxxii proposed landfill near Mnajdra Temples, Malta, 64–66 protection of historic wreck in Guernsey, 91–92 protection of natural assets in San Andrés, Colombia, 240–1 psychological claustrophobia, xxix public housing development ‘Cesar Gaviria’, San Andrés, Colombia, 233–4

public land acquisition in Hawai‘i, 167–168 R RAMSAR sites in Corsica, 124 in Guernsey, 81, 93 in Jersey, 106, 113, 114 Ratzel, Friedrich, xxxvi representational space, xxxiv represented space, xxxiv resource and habitat taboos, xxxiii resource expansion as solution, xxxii Ricardo, David, xxx road rage, xxix rural economy strategy, Jersey, 106 S saline salt marshes, Malta, conservation of, 68–70 San Andrés, Colombia, xvii, xxviii, 14, 218–45, 247–8, 249, 251, 252, 253, 257 Biosphere Reserve vision and planning, 228–9 disposal of waste, 222, 236 economy, 219 environment, 218–9, 236 environmental education programs, 236–7 exceeded carrying capacity, 242 family planning policy, 221 groundwater, 235–6 identification of natural assets, 225–7 institutional framework, 225 lack of political autonomy, 224 legal and policy framework, 225–6, 240 lessons learnt, 243–4 location, 218 migration from mainland, 220 overfishing and ecosystem degradation, 220–1, 237 poorly planned development, 222

Index

population, 220 population density, 220 population policies, 237–9 population pressures, 221, 236 preservation of land use, 231–2 preservation of natural resources, 234–7 protection of natural assets, 240–1 shantytowns, 233 special population policy, 230–1 supporting policies, 229–30 tourism, 219 tutela, 231, 232 use conflicts, 227–39 Santa Cruz de Tenerife, Canary Islands, 6–7 Santa Cruz del Islote, Colombia, xxviii scale and population density, xxv–xxix scenic heritage farmsteads in PEI, 33 scheduling notifications in Malta, 61 sea level rise in Marshall Islands, 183, 250 Seaflower Biosphere Reserve, San Andrés, Colombia, 219, 228, 229 second homes market in Favignana, 137 Second World War, 13, 86, 177, 181, 184 Seychelles, xvii Shangri-La, xxxv shantytowns in San Andrés, Colombia, 233 Singapore, xxvii, xxxii, xxxvii sites of nature conservation importance in Guernsey, 80 Sliema dwelling, Malta, demolition of, 67–68 small islands and need for special management regimes, 242 social constraints in Corsica, 119 social exclusion in Bahamas, 202–4 in residential areas, 202

273

in small island communities, 202–4 Société Jersiaise, 107, 111, 112 South Africa, and gated communities, 201–2 South Tarawa, Kiribati, 254–6 space as symbolic construction, xxxiii–xxxiv; understanding of, xxx special areas of conservation, 56 special population policy in San Andrés, Colombia, 230–1 special protected areas, 56 St Ouen’s Bay, Jersey, 113 St Paul in Malta, 71 St Peter Port, Guernsey, 77 St Vincent and the Grenadines, xx, xxxii States of Deliberation in Guernsey, 76 strategies of protection in Favignana, 149–50 Structure Plan in Malta, 53, 72 Sullivans Cove, Tasmania, 2, 8 supporting policies in San Andrés, Colombia, 229–30 Sustainable Guernsey, 93 sustainable lifestyles. 193 T taking care of the land in Hawai‘i, 154 Tarawa, Kiribati, xxviii tax revenue sharing in Hawai‘i, 155 technology as solution, xxxi Theroux, Paul, 254 Thrift, Nigel, 17 total institutions, xxix tourism and construction in Jersey, 103 in Corsica, 117–8, 124 in Favignana, 136 and island economies, xvii and modernization, xviii in San Andrés, Colombia, 219 and supplementary earnings, xviii tourists getting lost in Favignana, 148

274

Index

Tragedy of the Commons, xxxi–xxxiii Treaty of Tordesillas (1494), 176 Trinidad and Tobago, xxi Turtle Bay Resort, O‘ahu, Hawai‘i, 168 tutela (writ of protection of fundamental rights) in San Andrés, Colombia, 231, 232 Tuvalu, 248, 249, 252, 254, 257 U UK Overseas Territories Conservation Forum, 93 UNESCO Man and the Biosphere Program, 219, 228, 229 UNESCO World Heritage Center, 5 United Kingdom, xxxvii, 2, 76, 96 United Nations Barcelona Convention, 57 United Nations Law of the Sea, xxx United Nations RAMSAR Convention, 57 United States of America, xxxii University of Southampton, UK, 92 University of Tasmania Art School, 8 urban conservation areas, 53 Urban Improvement Fund, 58 urbanization in Kiribati, 255 in Majuro atoll. 181–2 use conflicts (cases) in Hawai‘i, 165–9 use conflicts (procedures) in Hawai‘i, 163–5

use conflicts in San Andrés, Colombia, 227–39 use of maps by tourists in Favignana, 147 Utopia, xxxv V Valletta, Malta, 59 Vanuatu, 246 Vatican City, xxvii Verdala golf course, Malta, 62–64 viewscape analysis, 25 viewscapes in PEI, 40–44 violence in Corsica, 122 W Waimea Valley, O‘ahu, Hawai‘i, 168 Wallace, Alfred, xxxvi Wallis, Samuel, Captain, 176 Wao Kele O Puna sacred forest, Hawai‘i, 168 warm and cold water island tourism, xxvi West Moloka‘i, Hawai‘i, 165–6 World Bank, xxxvi, 258 World Heritage Sites in Malta, 52 World Wildlife Fund, xxxvi X–Y–Z zones of outstanding character, Jersey, 105