Island Biogeography and the Aegean
The late great myrmecologist E.O. Wilson is known, among other things, for positing a theory of island biogeography (he and population ecologist Robert MacArthur). The basic tenets of this theory are that the species richness of an island is directly correlated with the size of the island and its distance from the mainland. Bigger island = more species. Closer to mainland = more species.
This is because proximity to the mainland allows for a higher immigration rate – it’s easier to travel a short distance than a long one – and a larger territory allows for more ecological niches – more places to carve out a living.
(There’s also stuff about large species becoming smaller – Sicilian dwarf elephants! – and small ones becoming larger – giant dormice! – but that maybe doesn’t apply to what I’m going to suggest here.)
Greece is a nation of islands. In a world where the most efficient transportation is by water and in a sea where the next bit of land is always in sight, it’s easy enough to see how the various islands of the Aegean became inhabited. But being able to get to a place is one thing; living well is another.
You can take an overnight ferry from Athens, at the far western end of the Aegean, all the way to Rhodes, at the eastern boundary. The sea on the east coast of Rhodes is the plain Mediterranean, not the Aegean anymore. (Our Trekking Hellas guide Maria informs us that some people call it the Lycian sea, but most people have no idea what that means so we shouldn’t call it that.) The ferry stops along the way, disgorging cars and passengers and trucks at ungodly hours of the night in Patmos, Kos, and Symi before finally landing at the Old Town harbor (sadly Colossos-free) some 16 hours after leaving Athens. You can also fly, which is much quicker – but then you can’t bring your car.
Rhodes is a big island. It has a Zara, a Stradivarius, and an H&M. It has a university! It has a thriving tourist economy, especially in the summer (and apparently including Russians along with the expected Brits and Germans – at least, it has Cyrilic signage along with English). But it’s still an island. That’s inherently limiting.
You can’t drive to Rhodes from mainland Greece. Sure, you can bring a car, but it’s a bit of a production and will cost you in time, money, and headache (loading a car onto a ferry at Piraeus is one of the activities Dante included in his description of a minor level of Hell). All those goods in the chain stores come by boat.
You can rent a car… but… uh…
If you grow up in Rhodes and want to stay here, your economic options are somewhat limited. You can fish, or collect sponges. You can grow grapes and make wine. You can run a taverna or hotel, or drive tourists in a bus. Sure, there are professionals and all kinds of shops, but the ecosystem can’t support as much variety as, say, the United States does.
Rhodes itself is the “mainland” for several smaller islands. Some of those don’t have their own sources of water, so Rhodes – already pressed for freshwater itself – sends water by ship out to its satellites. One of them maintains a school, even a high school, but for a miniscule group of kids.
And what do people do there to make money?
That doesn’t even get into who you will marry, a problem that gets much worse if you come from Kos, or Symi, or Tilos (population 746).
The island biogeography theory has come in for criticism, but then what theory hasn’t, and anyway, that’s what academics do. And maybe applying it to what is more practically an economics problem isn’t right, but so what. This is my blog and I can say what I want to.
This isn’t to say that islands aren’t beautiful, or that a person can’t be perfectly happy with a much simpler existence – on the contrary. It’s just a reflection that when we think of island paradises, it’s good to remember that that beautiful and peaceful way of life is partly the result of limited possibilities.
