Islomania: An Evolutionary Basis for Our Attraction to Islands
Islands hold a special place in our collective unconscious. They are places of mystery, discovery, isolation, adventure, and occasionally horror. The mainland is where ordinary life occurs, but islands are special. Gods live on islands; so do monsters.
Throughout literary history, islands have played roles in many of our most revered texts. They have been portrayed as places to confront the unknown (The Odyssey), to remake oneself (Robinson Crusoe), to start a new life (Swiss Family Robinson), to found an ideal society (Utopia), or to face our cruelest selves (Lord of the Flies).
And it's not just literature: throughout the history of mankind itself, islands have been places where exceptional individuals go beyond themselves to change the world: inventing new styles of art (Gauguin in Tahiti), creating revolutionary theories about the world (Darwin in Galapagos), or developing new ways to destroy the world (atom bomb testing at Bikini Atoll).
The undeniable romance to the idea of living on an island, spanning so much history and so many cultures, leads me to think that it must have several deeply ingrained, and probably evolutionary, bases. I am currently thinking there are two primary ones: going to an island involves a treacherous JOURNEY, and an island is a complete WORLD unto itself. There's probably much more to it than this, but these facts help lend a mythological quality to island living that goes far deeper than whatever slick marketing techniques can be mustered to entice people to a destination.
THE JOURNEY: Only a select few are born on an island; everyone else has to travel to it from the mainland. Getting to it involves getting on a boat and crossing a body of water, an environment greatly inhospitable to human life, and a place that we humans simply shouldn't be. Even in a modern boat, with lifejackets, radios and multiple other safeguards, the journey is inherently dangerous, and one can feel it. (And while an airplane involves a similar defiance of physics, being in an open-air boat has an immediacy that just can't be matched by a commercial airliner.) In a bobbing boat, with waves lapping against the hull, waters churning around, and an unfathomable deep below, one becomes highly cognizant of the primordial ritual of baptism, and takes part in the Campbellian "hero's journey" into the unknown, and unknowable.
Even without going to an island, the voyage out to sea puts one in a position to gain a new, deeper, and more nuanced perspective on mainland reality and one's life there. However, arriving at an island creates a whole new dimension to this journey, and one can enter an entirely new reality.
A COMPLETE WORLD: While it may be true that "no man is an island", an island is indeed an island, and upon stepping onto one, this fact is deeply, if inexplicably, sensed. Islands are a "whole", they are complete unto themselves. Birds and winds may carry new forms of life to an island every so often, of course; but by and large, (natural) islands are complete ecosystems resting in equilibrium. The coastline creates a definitive, undeniable edge, and everything inside must work as a singular system. This leads, in a short time, to a realization among an island inhabitant: even though the interior may be a frighteningly dense forest and not obviously comprehensible, the boundaries of the island are clear and unarguable. One knows that the land is finite, and that with enough time, it can all be understood. An island is not just a world unto itself, but a world that a mere mortal can come to make sense of. It is a place where one can gain an existential foothold in the cosmos, and know everything there is to know - at least about this one world. This godlike understanding creates a sense of tranquility that simply can't be matched on the mainland, where one can never really, truly, know where one is.
Not all islands are "Islands," in the sense I am describing. A true "Island", in the sense I mean (and in the way I think we all intuitively feel it), has no or very few people, and is not too big: otherwise it takes on too many characteristics of the mainland, and loses its "island-ness". If there are too many people on the island and a society too connected to the rest of the world, then it starts to feel like the mainland: an Island is an isolated escape, a place to find one's true self, not a place where one remains tied to customary life. Likewise, if an island is so big that it can't be readily and easily comprehended by a single person, then it again starts to feel like the mainland: a big mass of land which one can only know in bits and pieces.
Cuba, for example, thus fails as an Island, on both counts. The highly developed islands of Bermuda and the Bahamas (and many other Caribbean islands), while small, are too highly developed and too tied to mainland culture to be a true escape. And places like New Zealand and Madagascar, while largely raw and uninhabited, are too large to be exponentially understood as an island. And don't even consider the Florida Keys or Long Island: as soon as one can walk or drive there, the land is no longer an island. These places may happen to be islands by geographical definition, but they aren't "Islands."
Amble Resorts' mission, paraphrased, is to develop places that express their true spirit, or genius loci. Thus the above understanding of the Platonic Island is one of the main driving forces behind the vision for Isla Palenque, and our development will embody the kind of tranquility that can be gained by island living.
Let's begin by considering the island itself: both its size (400 acres) and its natural features (highly varied topography, lots of distinct, untouched ecosystems) make it eminently, but not easily, knowable. Isla Palenque is small enough to be understood, at a very superficial level, in one to two days of very hard hiking (it would taker closer to a week at the leisurely pace of a vacationing tourist). But it's also large enough and has enough diverse topography and distinct ecosystems that it takes at least a month to fully explore, and a few solid years to understand the natural rhythms that affect and give life to the island year to year. So Isla Palenque is not easily knowable - that would be boring - but comprehensible in a few days, and largely understandable with a few months of concerted effort; at the same time, its jungles and lagoons also contain a level of subtle mystery that reward years of living there, if one so desires.
Next, look at how our development respects these facts and creates an environment where Palenque's Island-ness can shine through. The island is being very lightly developed. Less than 5% of the area is being built upon, leaving over 95% as either undisturbed preserve (most of it), or as delicately enhanced landscape: gardens dedicated to local flora and fauna, manicured jungle, an organic farm, and the like. This means that most buildings will be obscured by jungle or gardens, and unseen by guests.
There's no way to reach Isla Palenque but by boat. It's difficult to come here, and one must make the legendary journey I've described. As you approach the island, you will see little more than the occasional roof peeking through the jungle until reaching the arrival dock, when some of the larger elements of the hotel will become visible, built in our signature raw, exotic style that indicates the "otherworldliness" of our island development. And while it won't feel completely uninhabited, homes and rooms will feel so secluded that you could be forgiven for forgetting that there were others on the island.
From this secluded vantage, you can see your mainland life anew - you can have a new, unencumbered life on the island; and when it's time to return to mainland, it can be done with new vigor, new insights, and a sense of (dare I say it?) spiritual renewal.
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Throughout literary history, islands have played roles in many of our most revered texts. They have been portrayed as places to confront the unknown (The Odyssey), to remake oneself (Robinson Crusoe), to start a new life (Swiss Family Robinson), to found an ideal society (Utopia), or to face our cruelest selves (Lord of the Flies).
And it's not just literature: throughout the history of mankind itself, islands have been places where exceptional individuals go beyond themselves to change the world: inventing new styles of art (Gauguin in Tahiti), creating revolutionary theories about the world (Darwin in Galapagos), or developing new ways to destroy the world (atom bomb testing at Bikini Atoll).
The undeniable romance to the idea of living on an island, spanning so much history and so many cultures, leads me to think that it must have several deeply ingrained, and probably evolutionary, bases. I am currently thinking there are two primary ones: going to an island involves a treacherous JOURNEY, and an island is a complete WORLD unto itself. There's probably much more to it than this, but these facts help lend a mythological quality to island living that goes far deeper than whatever slick marketing techniques can be mustered to entice people to a destination.
THE JOURNEY: Only a select few are born on an island; everyone else has to travel to it from the mainland. Getting to it involves getting on a boat and crossing a body of water, an environment greatly inhospitable to human life, and a place that we humans simply shouldn't be. Even in a modern boat, with lifejackets, radios and multiple other safeguards, the journey is inherently dangerous, and one can feel it. (And while an airplane involves a similar defiance of physics, being in an open-air boat has an immediacy that just can't be matched by a commercial airliner.) In a bobbing boat, with waves lapping against the hull, waters churning around, and an unfathomable deep below, one becomes highly cognizant of the primordial ritual of baptism, and takes part in the Campbellian "hero's journey" into the unknown, and unknowable.
Even without going to an island, the voyage out to sea puts one in a position to gain a new, deeper, and more nuanced perspective on mainland reality and one's life there. However, arriving at an island creates a whole new dimension to this journey, and one can enter an entirely new reality.
A COMPLETE WORLD: While it may be true that "no man is an island", an island is indeed an island, and upon stepping onto one, this fact is deeply, if inexplicably, sensed. Islands are a "whole", they are complete unto themselves. Birds and winds may carry new forms of life to an island every so often, of course; but by and large, (natural) islands are complete ecosystems resting in equilibrium. The coastline creates a definitive, undeniable edge, and everything inside must work as a singular system. This leads, in a short time, to a realization among an island inhabitant: even though the interior may be a frighteningly dense forest and not obviously comprehensible, the boundaries of the island are clear and unarguable. One knows that the land is finite, and that with enough time, it can all be understood. An island is not just a world unto itself, but a world that a mere mortal can come to make sense of. It is a place where one can gain an existential foothold in the cosmos, and know everything there is to know - at least about this one world. This godlike understanding creates a sense of tranquility that simply can't be matched on the mainland, where one can never really, truly, know where one is.
Not all islands are "Islands," in the sense I am describing. A true "Island", in the sense I mean (and in the way I think we all intuitively feel it), has no or very few people, and is not too big: otherwise it takes on too many characteristics of the mainland, and loses its "island-ness". If there are too many people on the island and a society too connected to the rest of the world, then it starts to feel like the mainland: an Island is an isolated escape, a place to find one's true self, not a place where one remains tied to customary life. Likewise, if an island is so big that it can't be readily and easily comprehended by a single person, then it again starts to feel like the mainland: a big mass of land which one can only know in bits and pieces.
Cuba, for example, thus fails as an Island, on both counts. The highly developed islands of Bermuda and the Bahamas (and many other Caribbean islands), while small, are too highly developed and too tied to mainland culture to be a true escape. And places like New Zealand and Madagascar, while largely raw and uninhabited, are too large to be exponentially understood as an island. And don't even consider the Florida Keys or Long Island: as soon as one can walk or drive there, the land is no longer an island. These places may happen to be islands by geographical definition, but they aren't "Islands."
Amble Resorts' mission, paraphrased, is to develop places that express their true spirit, or genius loci. Thus the above understanding of the Platonic Island is one of the main driving forces behind the vision for Isla Palenque, and our development will embody the kind of tranquility that can be gained by island living.
Let's begin by considering the island itself: both its size (400 acres) and its natural features (highly varied topography, lots of distinct, untouched ecosystems) make it eminently, but not easily, knowable. Isla Palenque is small enough to be understood, at a very superficial level, in one to two days of very hard hiking (it would taker closer to a week at the leisurely pace of a vacationing tourist). But it's also large enough and has enough diverse topography and distinct ecosystems that it takes at least a month to fully explore, and a few solid years to understand the natural rhythms that affect and give life to the island year to year. So Isla Palenque is not easily knowable - that would be boring - but comprehensible in a few days, and largely understandable with a few months of concerted effort; at the same time, its jungles and lagoons also contain a level of subtle mystery that reward years of living there, if one so desires.
Next, look at how our development respects these facts and creates an environment where Palenque's Island-ness can shine through. The island is being very lightly developed. Less than 5% of the area is being built upon, leaving over 95% as either undisturbed preserve (most of it), or as delicately enhanced landscape: gardens dedicated to local flora and fauna, manicured jungle, an organic farm, and the like. This means that most buildings will be obscured by jungle or gardens, and unseen by guests.
There's no way to reach Isla Palenque but by boat. It's difficult to come here, and one must make the legendary journey I've described. As you approach the island, you will see little more than the occasional roof peeking through the jungle until reaching the arrival dock, when some of the larger elements of the hotel will become visible, built in our signature raw, exotic style that indicates the "otherworldliness" of our island development. And while it won't feel completely uninhabited, homes and rooms will feel so secluded that you could be forgiven for forgetting that there were others on the island.
From this secluded vantage, you can see your mainland life anew - you can have a new, unencumbered life on the island; and when it's time to return to mainland, it can be done with new vigor, new insights, and a sense of (dare I say it?) spiritual renewal.
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