St Helena opens up to world trade

The remote island is due to open its airport, and is looking for a statistician to deal with the con

A fascinating job advert on the Guardian's board:

Statistician, St. Helena Government

A self-governing overseas territory of the United Kingdom, St Helena is an island of 47 square miles and around 4,000 people in the South Atlantic. With Cape Town in South Africa some 1,700 miles distant, the Islanders enjoy a unique lifestyle in truly unspoilt, friendly and peaceful surroundings.

St Helena is poised for the biggest transformation in the island’s history, with the imminent construction of an airport. It will grow from a centralised economy with 1,000 visitors per year to a market economy with up to 30,000 visitors per year. In order to prepare for air access Saint Helena Government is introducing a package of reforms aimed at stimulating economic growth and social development. During this period of significant change the importance of assessing the impact of policy decisions is heightened. Similarly, increased funding from donors increases the demand for reliable and timely economic, social and environmental analysis.

The island is one of the most isolated in the world. At the moment, the only access to it is a two day trip by boat from "neighbouring" (810 miles away) Ascension Island, which itself has two RAF flights a week. It is most famous as the site of Napoleon's second, more successful, exile, and much of its tourism is based around that. However, due to the difficulty of access, the three hotels on the island are around 10 per cent occupied over the year.

The creation of the airport began in 2005, and was originally planned to be ready in 2010. Inevitably, of course, the £40m building project overran, but when it does open it will radically alter the islands economy. Currently, the majority of its exports are to the UK and South Africa, and consist almost entirely of canned fish, coffee, honey, and a spirit made from prickly pear called "tungi spirit", and according to the Guardian in 2005 were worth just £200,000. The island also sold £60,000 worth of stamps alone, to collectors enthused by its right to print its own postage.

Assuming the Government's predictions of tourism numbers are correct, the proportion of the economy contributed by tourism will rise from around 3 per cent to around 50 per cent. This will be an enourmous change for the island, not just equivalent to switching economic focus, but more like, as the advert suggests, a change from a centrally planned economy to a free-market. As it stands, over half the island's population work for the government, which renders them relatively immune from economic shocks. It will be interesting to see the new dynamic play out, but whether or not it works depends on more than just the skill of the statistician they hire. Still, if you are a level 3 statistician or equivalent and fancy spending 11 months of the year on a 127 km2 lump of volcanic rock in the middle of the Atlantic, consider applying. They'll even pay for your flights, once they exist.

Jamestown, the capital of Saint Helena. Photograph: Andrew Neaum, CC-BY-SA

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

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Erdogan’s purge was too big and too organised to be a mere reaction to the failed coup

There is a specific word for the melancholy of Istanbul. The city is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. 

Even at the worst of times Istanbul is a beautiful city, and the Bosphorus is a remarkable stretch of sea. Turks get very irritated if you call it a river. They are right. The Bosphorus has a life and energy that a river could never equal. Spend five minutes watching the Bosphorus and you can understand why Orhan Pamuk, Turkey’s Nobel laureate for literature, became fixated by it as he grew up, tracking the movements of the ocean-going vessels, the warships and the freighters as they steamed between Asia and Europe.

I went to an Ottoman palace on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, waiting to interview the former prime minister Ahmet Davu­toglu. He was pushed out of office two months ago by President Recep Tayyip Erdogan when he appeared to be too wedded to the clauses in the Turkish constitution which say that the prime minister is the head of government and the president is a ceremonial head of state. Erdogan was happy with that when he was prime minister. But now he’s president, he wants to change the constitution. If Erdogan can win the vote in parliament he will, in effect, be rubber-stamping the reality he has created since he became president. In the days since the attempted coup, no one has had any doubt about who is the power in the land.

 

City of melancholy

The view from the Ottoman palace was magnificent. Beneath a luscious, pine-shaded garden an oil tanker plied its way towards the Black Sea. Small ferries dodged across the sea lanes. It was not, I hasten to add, Davutoglu’s private residence. It had just been borrowed, for the backdrop. But it reminded a Turkish friend of something she had heard once from the AKP, Erdogan’s ruling party: that they would not rest until they were living in the apartments with balconies and gardens overlooking the Bosphorus that had always been the preserve of the secular elite they wanted to replace.

Pamuk also writes about hüzün, the melancholy that afflicts the citizens of Istanbul. It comes, he says, from the city’s history and its decline, the foghorns on the Bosphorus, from tumbledown walls that have been ruins since the fall of the Byzantine empire, unemployed men in tea houses, covered women waiting for buses that never come, pelting rain and dark evenings: the city’s whole fabric and all the lives within it. “My starting point,” Pamuk wrote, “was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy window.”

Istanbul is suffering a mighty bout of something like hüzün at the moment. In Pamuk’s work the citizens of Istanbul take a perverse pride in hüzün. No one in Istanbul, or elsewhere in Turkey, can draw comfort from what is happening now. Erdogan’s opponents wonder what kind of future they can have in his Turkey. I think I sensed it, too, in the triumphalist crowds of Erdogan supporters that have been gathering day after day since the coup was defeated.

 

Down with the generals

Erdogan’s opponents are not downcast because the coup failed; a big reason why it did was that it had no public support. Turks know way too much about the authoritarian ways of military rule to want it back. The melancholy is because Erdogan is using the coup to entrench himself even more deeply in power. The purge looks too far-reaching, too organised and too big to have been a quick reaction to the attempt on his power. Instead it seems to be a plan that was waiting to be used.

Turkey is a deeply unhappy country. It is hard to imagine now, but when the Arab uprisings happened in 2011 it seemed to be a model for the Middle East. It had elections and an economy that worked and grew. When I asked Davutoglu around that time whether there would be a new Ottoman sphere of influence for the 21st century, he smiled modestly, denied any such ambition and went on to explain that the 2011 uprisings were the true succession to the Ottoman empire. A century of European, and then American, domination was ending. It had been a false start in Middle Eastern history. Now it was back on track. The people of the region were deciding their futures, and perhaps Turkey would have a role, almost like a big brother.

Turkey’s position – straddling east and west, facing Europe and Asia – is the key to its history and its future. It could be, should be, a rock of stability in a desperately un­stable part of the world. But it isn’t, and that is a problem for all of us.

 

Contagion of war

The coup did not come out of a clear sky. Turkey was in deep crisis before the attempt was made. Part of the problem has come from Erdogan’s divisive policies. He has led the AKP to successive election victories since it first won in 2002. But the policies of his governments have not been inclusive. As long as his supporters are happy, the president seems unconcerned about the resentment and opposition he is generating on the other side of politics.

Perhaps that was inevitable. His mission, as a political Islamist, was to change the country, to end the power of secular elites, including the army, which had been dominant since Mustafa Kemal Atatürk created modern Turkey after the collapse of the Ottoman empire. And there is also the influence of chaos and war in the Middle East. Turkey has borders with Iraq and Syria, and is deeply involved in their wars. The borders do not stop the contagion of violence. Hundreds of people have died in the past year in bomb attacks in Turkish cities, some carried out by the jihadists of so-called Islamic State, and some sent by Kurdish separatists working under the PKK.

It is a horrible mix. Erdogan might be able to deal with it better if he had used the attempted coup to try to unite Turkey. All the parliamentary parties condemned it. But instead, he has turned the power of the state against his opponents. More rough times lie ahead.

Jeremy Bowen is the BBC’s Middle East editor. He tweets @bowenbbc

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue