The Echus Chasma, one of the largest water source regions on Mars. Photograph: Getty Images
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Laurie Penny on Mars: Modern life is science fiction – but would you dare go on a one-way mission to Mars?

Would you sign up for a perilous journey, knowing that you’ve got just one shot at making the human race a bit better, a bit braver?

If you were offered a one-way ticket to Mars, would you take it? It’s a serious question. The first manned Mars landing, organised by a Dutch company called Mars One, has put out a call for applicants. In 2018, the planets will literally align, making a journey to the Red Planet more than feasible. You don’t have to be a trained astronaut but you must be willing to spend 521 days in a very small space with three other people, with limited supplies and drinking water reclaimed from your own effluvia. You will also be under constant video surveillance, because this mission to Mars is relying on global TV networks to cover its considerable budget. It’s the ultimate Big Brother, with no way out: after a year and a half the colonists will either shag or kill each other, or both. The ratings will be fantastic.

Most of all, you must be willing to say goodbye for ever to your family, your friends, the barista at your favourite coffee shop. This is a one-way trip: even if they make it through the gruelling physical ordeal of the journey, it is possible none of the astronauts will ever come home. Sounds like a raw deal, right?

Yet in its first few days of operation, Mars One received more than 10,000 applications for four places. This was despite a considerable entry cost designed, ostensibly, to screen out spam applicants. The company has already made a small fortune in application fees, making me wonder if it’s a scam. If so, it’s an extremely elegant one, conning millions of desperate people to hope there might be a future for the human race outside this cramped and poisoned planet, and that we might get to be a part of that future. It’s not as if Earth has a great deal going for it right now. No wonder people are falling over themselves to sign up.

It's a little ironic that I'm writing this column on Earth Day, the international celebration of the natural wonders of the third planet on behalf of a population whose leaders are doing their best to burn those wonders for money and choke the rest of us in the process. In the forty years since the first Earth Day in April 1970, with successive world governments having failed almost entirely to tackle climate change, the event has taken on the sort of grim party atmosphere of a nonagenarian's birthday party. Give grandma some cake, everybody! She might not be around to enjoy it next year! I only found out that it was Earth Day on typing the word 'Mars Mission' into the Google Search bar. This further illuminates the logic of exploring other options if you can raise the cash, which most of us can't.

So, would you go? Since I heard about the Mars project, I’ve been putting that question to everyone I meet, because I think the answer says a lot about who you are and what you value. I still can’t decide. I’d have to balance the certainty of playing a heroic role in the early history of human space exploration against the possibility of being locked in a tin can for the rest of my life with a closet Tory, or someone who finds Al Murray amusing.

Furthermore, as one of two women aboard the Mars One, I would eventually be expected to reproduce with my shipmates. Doing the deed wouldn’t pose too many problems – after 521 days adrift in the unfathomable vastness of space, I’d probably find a cheese sandwich attractive if it looked at me in a saucy way. But if I’m going to represent humanity, I’d rather it be because of my natural talents or my winning personality – anything, quite frankly, other than my uterus. Seven generations of women’s liberation activists didn’t fight for education, health access and political representation only to see the first women on Mars reduced to spare wombs. Besides, although sex in zero gravity sounds fun, childbirth is probably less so, especially after more than a year of sitting around drinking your own urine and not washing. Hmm.

Like it or not, most of us are stuck on this planet. Earth, as the physicist Carl Sagan observed, is where we make our stand. The moment you comprehend this fully is the moment recreational drug use becomes either substantially more exciting or less so, depending on what sort of person you are.

When they’re selecting the pioneers to leave the smoking remains of the earth, I will probably lack the requisite skillset for a place on one of the colony ships, because most of what I’m good for is writing articles, drinking coffee and complaining when I have to climb a lot of stairs. The closest I’ll get to outer space is watching interstellar cruisers blow each other into glittering bits on Battlestar Galactica and feeling, as always, that painful longing that digs in right under the ribcage: the understanding that my distant descendants might be lucky enough to see such wonders in real life but I never will.

I imagine that’s how my great-greatgrandparents felt when they read about marvellous inventions such as the internet and the contraceptive pill, both of which were science fiction a scant century ago, and without both of which my life would be unimaginably less free. There is something in us that is hungry, even in the most desperate times, for a future we can only half-envision, and the reason the Mars mission has captured the public imagination is that it promises something that these days is rare and precious: a real journey into the unknown.

A handful of generations ago, it was common for men and women who set off on dangerous journeys to places off the edge of the map to have almost no hope of return. In Ireland, “American wakes” were held whenever a friend or family member sailed for the US. Even if they survived the journey, nobody was expected to come home and it could take months for letters to arrive.

Modern life is science fiction. Love letters cross continents at the speed of thought and dead men sing on the radio. Before the telegram and the steam engine and antibiotics and Google Maps, this planet was simply a lot bigger and scarier. And yet people have never been content to stay at home.

One of the things that distinguish Homo sapiens from many of our competitor species is our capacity to dream up and set about stupidly dangerous endeavours just to find out what might happen. I don’t believe in God but I do believe that humanity is one long, terrible adventure that most of us, if we’re lucky, will never get to see the end of.

So, what did you decide? Would you sign up for a perilous journey, knowing that you’ve got just one shot at making the human race a bit better, a bit braver?

The good news, or the bad news, depending on your viewpoint, is that you don’t have to. You were signed up when you were born. We’re all on a journey like that and it’s called living. That’s no reason not to go to space but it might be reason to get up in the morning.

Laurie Penny is a contributing editor to the New Statesman. She is the author of five books, most recently Unspeakable Things.

This article first appeared in the 29 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, What makes us human?

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“WhatsApp isn't for parents”: how we contact all the different people in our lives

I wanted to find out how our digital hierarchies operate, so I asked people how they communicate with their family, friends, and colleagues. 

Recently, my family made an important decision. Too many conversations had petered out and decisions had been deferred because text messages had been going astray. Someone would end up calling someone else to talk for half an hour about how frustrating it was that they hadn’t replied to a question from three days ago, when all that was really required was a simple “Yes, see you there on Saturday”.

So, we became a WhatsApp-only family. It makes sense – we live on two different continents and travel quite a bit, and using the internet rather than cell service for sending text and pictures has already proved a lot more reliable. Still, though, when I need to tell my mum something and go to open the app, I can’t shake the feeling that it isn’t right. As far as I’m concerned, WhatsApp isn’t for parents; it’s for flatmates and groups of friends roughly the same age as me. It isn’t for your grandfather to pass on news of his latest Scrabble triumph.

This got me thinking – what is it about different methods of communication that make them feel appropriate to some people in our lives and not others? Why do I feel like text messages are inherently more “mum”, whereas Twitter DMs are really only for colleagues and creepy strangers? And does everyone have the same sense as I do? I’m a woman living in London in her late twenties and I work in the media: how does the hierarchy of digital communication methods look from other perspectives?

I designed a survey to try and find out. I asked respondents to select the means they use to communicate with people who occupy different roles in their lives, as well as for some basic personal information like where they live and how old they are.

I had hundreds of responses, from people of all ages and from all over the world (feedback came from places as far flung as Auckland, Puerto Rico and Kolkata). I think inevitably since I was promoting the survey via my own networks the respondents skewed to my own age group – 43 per cent were in the 22-30 bracket, but the second largest was 31-40 and the third was 51-60.

Nearly half of all respondents said that they would communicate with their mum and/or dad via phone call, while 47 per cent picked text message for siblings. The older the respondent, the more likely they were to pick phone call as the means of parental communication. Interestingly, for mums text messages came in a strong second (32 per cent), while with dads email and text tied on 24.7 per cent. The same goes for extended family – 44 per cent said they would call – but email came second on 35 per cent.

Facebook is the preferred means of communication for schoolfriends, at 52 per cent – something that was consistent across all age groups – whereas what I called “friends you’ve made as an adult” are mostly contacted via text message (56 per cent) or email (41 per cent). But there were some important distinctions made in the notes. One person commented: “When I have selected Facebook, I mean Facebook Messenger as a separate app on my phone and tablet rather than writing on their walls,” suggesting that there’s even greater nuance to how people are using the social network to stay in touch.

I’m unusual in using Twitter as a means of talking to colleagues, apparently: email came in at a whopping 70 per cent, followed distantly by text and phone call. Flat/housemates was a less conclusive spread, with 24 per cent using text messages, and 14 per cent apiece using WhatsApp and Facebook. Other messaging apps and systems that got frequently flagged for communicating with friends include: Telegram, Viber, Line, Instagram, Google Hangouts, iMessage and Skype chat. Interestingly, one person noted that “I haven't had a text from a person for months, now just a marketing channel for me”.

The majority of people still regard email as the most “official” means of digital communication, with twice as many people saying they would use it for their landlord as opposed to picking up the phone. And for the category I called “official, eg job application or complaint”, 92 per cent of respondents said they would use email.

Of course, there were lots of interactions that the survey couldn’t pick up – there were lots of comments of the kind that “I live with my mum and my partner, so it's mainly face to face”. What emerged as I was going through the data was that I am by no means alone in feeling that some methods of communication are more “appropriate” to people occupying particular roles in my life, but that we don’t agree on who goes with what.

There are myriad factors involved: when we first started using various apps and technologies; the age and tech literacy of both the person sending the message and the person receiving it; how we feel about privacy and security online; and much more besides. As technology has advanced, our means of communication have fragmented, and we’ve all gone in different directions. Somehow, it works.

That is, until my grandfather learns to use Snapchat – then all bets are off.

Caroline Crampton is web editor of the New Statesman.