For well over a year now, I’ve written an article almost every single week about whatever it is that relates to my Tuesday video over on Geography By Geoff. And, really, that’s it! Nothing more was asked and I simply didn’t have time to prioritize making it into anything bigger. Well, that’s all about to change.

Subscribe now

Over the next couple of days, this Substack will look a lot different, have a completely different name, and have a bigger, bolder plan to grow it into the biggest and best geography community on the internet. A place where you can read articles about geography, watch videos about geography, and interact with others who love geography. And this means that all of my content will fold into this singular community page. That includes Geography By Geoff, of course, but also my field geography content over on GeoLex, and a third yet-to-be-announced YouTube channel that we will be launching over the summer.

Which leads me to the first big change here: the name and branding. So, without further ado, welcome to…

Over the next 48 hours this Substack will have a new name (The Bight) and a new url (thebight.co). This has a been in the works for quite a while and, obviously, I’m a big fan. A bight, one of geography’s most nuanced and obscure geographic features, is also a homonym with the word “bite.” Which makes for some fun play on words. But mostly, it’s punchy. It’s memorable. It’s highly geographic. And it’s unique. It allows me to bring everything I create under a single name, something I can’t do with the current name Geographic Geoff.

Basically: there’s so much more in the works right under my umbrella that simply doesn’t live under the Geography By Geoff branding and so, it’s time for something bigger to take over.

As part of this, there will be some big new changes to this Substack but I’m not quite ready to announce what those will be. That announcement will come with the rebrand in a couple days.

That said, I made a promise when I really started writing on this Substack that the weekly articles I’ve been writing for the last couple years will forever remain free. And that’s not changing. Every Wednesday morning, as usual, a fresh geography article, written by me, will be available to everyone who subscribes. You can read and you can comment, just like normal. The branding might be different, but the articles will remain in a similar style and format.

This is a really big year for me. Not least because, later this summer, I’m getting married to someone I truly love and admire. I couldn’t ask for a better partner than Alexa and am so happy we’ve been able to explore and see so much of the world together and share it with you all.

But this is also the year where I’ve grown my company from a single-person scrappy YouTube channel into an actual small media company with actual employees. It’s the year where my main YouTube channel Geography By Geoff will hit 1,000,000 subscribers (currently 998,961 as of this writing!). And it will be the year when I finally get to announce something I’ve been working on since spring of 2024. I don’t want to spoil it but I think you’re all gonna like it. And, definitely not least, this is the year when I truly build something massive here with this community.

So, all this is to say, I hope you stick around with the change. I’ll still be around. I’ll still be writing. I’ll still be creating. But together, we can make something really amazing right here.

Stay tuned!

Share

I’ve made a bit of a name for myself in recent years as someone who dives deep into tiny islands to unveil what they’re like. Not just geographically, but bureaucratically, economically, and culturally. Islands are, by their very nature, kind of weird. Even nature knows this! If you put a species on an island and leave it alone for a thousand years and come back, that species is going to look different because it will have adapted to its new, confined and very specific environment. Look no further than the pygmy mammoths of California’ Channel Islands to see what can happen. But I digress.

Subscribe now

The real reason for this week’s newsletter is not about what happens on islands broadly, but specifically, a region of islands that we almost never talk about: the Atlantic islands. And, yes, for this purpose I am specifically making a difference here between the Caribbean islands and the Atlantic islands. So anything from say, Trinidad and Tobago up through the Bahamas and west from there would be Caribbean. Anything outside would be Atlantic. Everyone got their geography sorted out? Great cause I don’t wanna hear about any Caribbean islands in the comments. 🫡

And, of course, the reason why I’m thinking about Atlantic islands is because this week’s video is all about Bermuda which is SO MUCH WEIRDER than even I thought before I made a whole video about it. So go check that out when you get a chance. It’s a fun one!

But let’s get on with the islands.

There are quite a few Atlantic islands that are highly discussed. Obviously, there’s the British Isles which would include Great Britain, Ireland, the Isle of Man, the Hebrides, and all the smaller ones. There’s also Newfoundland and Prince Edward Island as part of Canada. And, of course, there’s Greenland and Iceland, though I guess depending on where exactly you draw the line between the Atlantic and Arctic Oceans will depend on whether it would be included at all. These are the massive islands of the Atlantic.

But what about the Faroe Islands? St Pierre and Miquelon? The Canary Islands? The Azores? Cabo Verde Saint Helena? Ascension Island? Tristan da Cuhna? The Falkland Islands? Or the South Georgia and South Sandwich Islands? If you had ever even heard of half of these I would be impressed.

Because, let’s face it, while the Pacific Ocean is vast and extremely isolating, its islands have far more brand power and marketing behind them. Most people with a passing knowledge of geography could rattle off a half dozen Pacific Islands without skipping a beat.

So, with that, I’ve prepped a high level break down of each island, where it’s located specifically, who owns it (if anyone) and why its so weird. This isn’t super detailed because, each of these islands deserves its own full article (and video if I’m being honest) but this is what I’m doing today so… I don’t know. It is what it is!

The Faroe Islands

Owner: Denmark (Autonomous territory)

Sitting in the stormy North Atlantic between Iceland and Scotland, the Faroes feel like a moody fantasy novel come to life. Despite being an autonomous territory of Denmark, they aren’t part of the EU, they have their own language, and the population of sheep outnumbers the human residents. The landscape is entirely treeless, featuring plunging, cinematic sea cliffs and villages where the houses are topped with thick turf roofs to insulate against the biting oceanic winds.

St. Pierre and Miquelon

Owner: France (Overseas collectivity)

This island is a literal glitch in the North American map: a tiny, surviving fragment of the old French colonial empire located just a few miles off the coast of Newfoundland, Canada. I only included it here because it’s one of those places that make you go: “huh?” If you step off a boat here, you suddenly need Euros to buy your daily baguettes, the electrical outlets are European, and the gendarmes wear standard French police uniforms. It’s a surreal, freezing-cold slice of mainland France completely marooned off the coast of Canada in the North Atlantic.

The Canary Islands

Owner: Spain (Autonomous community)

Politically European but geographically African, the Canaries sit just off the coast of Morocco and are defined by their bizarre microclimates. On a single island like Tenerife, you can stand in a dense, ancient, fog-soaked laurel forest, drive an hour, and suddenly be in a bone-dry, Saharan-style desert right next to Spain’s highest peak, the active volcano Mount Teide. They are essentially a chain of rugged, volcanic spring-break destinations that also happen to have deep indigenous roots and landscapes that look like they belong on Mars.

The Azores

Owner: Portugal (Autonomous region)

Often dubbed the “Hawaii of Europe,” the Azores sit directly on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge where three massive tectonic plates crash into one another. Because of this volatile geology, the islands are a lush, green wonderland of steaming hot springs, massive caldera lakes, and rich volcanic soil overflowing with blue hydrangeas. For centuries, this isolated archipelago was the ultimate, necessary pitstop for transatlantic sailors and early aviators hoping to survive the long journey between Europe and the Americas.

Cabo Verde (Cape Verde)

Owner: Independent Republic

Cabo Verde is an independent nation of ten volcanic islands off the coast of Senegal that serves as a cultural bridge between Africa, Europe, and the Americas. The islands are stark, arid, and famously windswept, creating a harsh environment that historically caused massive emigration and diaspora. Yet, this intense isolation birthed a beautifully unique culture and a hauntingly melancholic style of music called morna, which perfectly captures the feeling of longing and ocean-bound isolation.

Saint Helena

Owner: United Kingdom (British Overseas Territory)

Saint Helena is the definition of “the middle of nowhere,” surrounded by thousands of miles of empty ocean between South America and Africa. It is most famous as the inescapable island prison where Napoleon Bonaparte was exiled and eventually died in 1821. Until its controversial and highly delayed airport finally opened in 2017, the only way to reach the island was by taking a grueling five-day mail ship voyage from Cape Town, making it a true modern-day time capsule.

Ascension Island

Owner: United Kingdom (British Overseas Territory)

Ascension is basically a barren volcanic rock that the British turned into an ecological science experiment. In the 1800s, Charles Darwin and his botanist friend Joseph Hooker devised a plan to terraform the desolate island by planting a massive, artificial cloud forest on its highest peak to generate fresh water. It actually worked, creating “Green Mountain,” a bizarre, human-made tropical jungle sitting atop an otherwise Mars-like military and communications outpost.

Tristan da Cunha

Owner: United Kingdom (British Overseas Territory)

Tristan da Cunha holds the official title of the most remote inhabited archipelago in the world. Its main settlement, wonderfully named “Edinburgh of the Seven Seas,” is home to roughly 250 permanent residents who share just a handful of surnames and rely almost entirely on subsistence farming and lobster fishing. There is no airstrip, meaning the only way to visit this tight-knit, isolated community is to endure a multi-day journey on a boat that only visits a few times a year.

The Falkland Islands

Owner: United Kingdom (British Overseas Territory, claimed by Argentina)

Floating near the frigid southern tip of South America, the Falklands are a surreal slice of rural British life—complete with red phone boxes and pubs—dropped into a harsh, sub-Antarctic tundra. The islands are famously populated by vastly more sheep and penguins than humans, and the terrain is completely devoid of native trees. Despite this desolate atmosphere, they were the flashpoint of a sudden and bloody war in 1982 between the UK and Argentina, and the lingering geopolitical tension makes them a heavily fortified outpost to this day.

The South Georgia and South Sandwich Islands

Owner: United Kingdom (British Overseas Territory, claimed by Argentina)

These islands are some of the most hostile, icy, and mountainous pieces of rock on Earth, devoid of any permanent human population aside from a few rotating researchers and government officials. What makes South Georgia incredible is that it is an absolute mecca for wildlife, hosting millions of king penguins and elephant seals that completely overrun the beaches. Towering over these animals are the eerie, rusting remains of massive abandoned 20th-century whaling stations, creating a haunting contrast between returning nature and brutal industrial history.

Have you ever been to any of these islands? If so, let me know what they were like! I’d love to visit each and every one of them someday.

Share

If you drive across the western United States, you’re gonna notice a theme: the earth is very, very erratic. There’s the jagged peaks of the Rockies and then the oddly uniform ridges of Nevada’s Basin and Range, the Cascade Mountains and the Sierra Nevadas, and even a long lengthy list of coastal mountain ranges throughout the West. This, for lack of a better word, is a crumpled, chaotic landscape of canyons, volcanoes, valleys, cliffs, and, of course, fault lines. But then, right in the middle of California, the chaos stops.

Subscribe now

This is where you’ll find the Central Valley. For 400 miles north to south, and about 50 miles across, the land is stubbornly and mind-numbingly flat. Anyone who has driven this stretch of Interstate 5 (which I have) will attest to this. It’s a massive, unbroken table of sediment, completely surrounded by towering mountain ranges. But the Central Valley is so large that sometimes you can’t even see them.

So within the context of the wrinkley, bumpy American west, the Central Valley feels like it shouldn’t exist. So, how did this massive flatland get created? With all the mountains and earthquakes that create mountains, why and how does this region exist at all?

The missing plate

Well, speaking of those fault lines and earthquakes, we have to rewind about 100 million years to the Mesozoic Era. Back then, the West Coast of North America wasn’t a coastline, it was something called a subduction zone, or an area where one tectonic plate is squeezing itself under another.

Okay so back then there was a massive piece of the Earth’s crust called the Farallon Plate which was relentlessly diving underneath the North American continent (or what it was back then, everything looked a bit different of course). As this dense oceanic plate plunged into the mantle below, it melted. That magma bubbled up to the surface, creating a colossal chain of violent volcanoes (Hello Mt Hood! Actually no it’s pretty new but I like bringing it up whenever I can 😅). Anyways, the hardened, granitic roots of those ancient volcanoes are actually what we now call the Sierra Nevada mountains today.

But what happens in the space between the deep-sea trench where the plate is diving, and the volcanoes erupting further inland?

Geologists call this in-between zone a forearc basin. I had never heard of this term either and I love geographic terms. But basically, as the Farallon Plate scraped its way under North America, it created a massive depression just ahead of the volcanic arc. The Central Valley is the remnant of that ancient, sagging sea floor.

Now, having a large depression in the Earth’s crust is only step one. Step two is filling it in. And over the next tens of millions of years, the massive volcanoes of the ancestral Sierra Nevada were subjected to intense wind, rain, and ice. The mountains eroded, and all that rock, sand, and silt had to go somewhere. Rivers carried it downhill, dumping it straight into the sinking forearc basin to the west.

This process didn’t just happen for a little while though. It happened over millions of years. As the weight of the sediment piled up, the floor of the valley actually sank further, making room for even more dirt.

Today, the Central Valley isn’t just flat, it’s surprisingly deep. The bedrock lies buried beneath an astonishing three to six miles of sediment. That’s a lot of soil! That perfectly flat surface you see is just the very top layer of the sediment settling like water in a bathtub.

But here’s the kicker: for a long time, this sediment went into the ocean. This basin was actually a shallow inland sea, open to the Pacific Ocean, not a large bowl of land. But geology wasn’t done with California yet.

So now, roughly 30 million years ago, the tectonics changed once again. The Farallon Plate was almost completely swallowed up, and the boundary between the Pacific Plate and the North American Plate transitioned from a head-on collision to a side-by-side sliding motion which birthed the infamous San Andreas Fault, the most studied and documented fault line in the entire world.

The grinding, twisting forces of this new fault system began to squeeze the crust, pushing up the sea floor on the western edge of the basin. This rising land formed the California Coast Ranges which hug the west coast. And like a drawbridge pulling up, the Coast Ranges effectively sealed the valley off from the Pacific Ocean. The inland sea eventually drained and evaporated, leaving behind the incredibly rich, mineral-dense soils that had been collecting for millions of years.

The result of all this tectonic shuffling is a geography found nowhere else in the West.

Because it’s walled off by the Coast Ranges to the west and the Sierra Nevada to the east, the Central Valley acts as a giant atmospheric bowl. The Sierras catch the winter storms sweeping in from the Pacific, storing the water as a massive snowpack (at least during wet years). When spring comes, that snow melts, funneling fresh water directly into the deep, fertile soils of the valley floor.

It is a perfect, closed-loop system for agriculture, engineered entirely by blind geological forces. Today, this freak tectonic bathtub produces a quarter of the Nation’s food.

So, the next time you drive down I-5, completely bored by the endless flat land and lots of cows, take a moment to think about what a weird area this is. You’re driving over an ancient ocean trench, filled with the powdered remains of volcanoes, entirely walled in by tectonic collisions.

Share

First, an apology! I’ve neglected this Substack for a few weeks. As you all know, this newsletter is a labor of love for me. I don’t charge anything for it. It’s simply here because I like writing and I like writing about geography. Unfortunately, this also means that when life gets busy (which oh boy has it been busy!) this is one of the first things I need to drop to make space for the things in my life and business that need to be prioritized. Also, admittedly, since I always try to tie my weekly Tuesday video topic in with whatever I’m writing about, sometimes I just don’t have a good topic that matches up. Or I’ve said all I want to say in the video about that topic. Maybe it’s a sign I need to brand out a bit. Anyways, I’ve droned on long enough. Sorry for the lack of articles, but here’s a fun one about the North Sea which is just way weirder than I ever thought.

At first glance, the North Sea seems pretty standard. It’s a big body of water separating the UK from Scandinavia and mainland Europe. But the North Sea is actually incredibly weird, surprisingly violent, and it’s built like a giant trap for water.

Subscribe now

The secret to its strangeness? It all comes down to its shape. The North Sea is essentially a massive, continent-sized funnel. A quick glance at literally any map will confirm. It’s one of those things where, once you see it, you’ll never not see it. And when you mix a funnel with angry Atlantic storms, things get chaotic fast.

The top of the funnel (the north end)

Alright, so to understand the North Sea’s weirdness, we have to look at its borders (as we always do). At its northern end, spanning the gap between Scotland and Norway, the sea is wide open. This northern boundary is broad, deep, and directly exposed to the brutal, churning waters of the Norwegian Sea and the North Atlantic Ocean.

When a deep winter depression or a massive storm rolls in from the Atlantic, roaring northwesterly winds push colossal amounts of ocean water right through this wide-open door.

But here’s the thing: if the water had a clear path to just keep flowing, it wouldn’t be a problem. But it doesn’t.

Which leads us to…

The bottom of the funnel (the sound end)

So, as that massive surge of Atlantic water travels south toward mainland Europe, two things happen with respects to the continental shelf:

First, the sea floor rises and the water gets progressively shallower. This is basic land-ocean stuff. The sea gets shallower until it’s not longer under water. This probably doesn’t need to be pointed out, but it is an important aspect for what goes on in the North Sea because there’s something else that is quite unique to this area: the coasts of England and mainland Europe taper toward each other.

At the very bottom of this funnel is the English Channel, specifically the Strait of Dover. At its narrowest point, the Strait is just 21 miles wide. That is incredibly small compared to the hundreds of miles of open water up north. People have literally swam across this strait.

The funnel overflows

So, what happens when billions of gallons of water are violently shoved into a wide opening, only to find that the exit door is practically closed?

The water piles up. It over flows. It back flows. It bursts at the seam. Whatever analogy you want. It does all the same things as when you put too much water into an actual funnel.

Basically, it can’t squeeze through the English Channel fast enough, so the water has nowhere to go but up. And this creates what meteorologists call a storm surge. The shallow bottom forces the incoming waves to grow taller and steeper, while the narrow shores compress the water, drastically raising the sea level.

This funnel effect makes the North Sea one of the most volatile and dangerous bodies of water on the planet. It’s the exact reason why the North Sea is famous for terrifyingly choppy, unpredictable waves. It’s also the reason why countries at the bottom of the funnel—most notably the Netherlands—have spent centuries building the most advanced sea walls and flood barriers in human history. They aren’t just fighting regular ocean tides, they’re fighting the pressure of an entire ocean getting wedged into a funnel. Honestly the way Amsterdam has managed to stave off the ocean is already impressive enough, but given this context… dang!

This is also why the coast of northwest Germany happens to consist of mostly mud flats. The subject of my video today which you watch at the link above.

Alright, that’s all. Nice to be back! See you next week.

Share

We often think of “The Great Lakes” as a single place in the middle of North America, straddling the border between Canada and the United States. In fact, even at the very mention, you’re probably already picturing the sprawling, sometimes-frigid expanses of Lakes Superior, Huron, Michigan, Erie, and Ontario. They are an undeniable geographic boon, holding about 21% of the world’s surface fresh water.

Subscribe now

But look across the globe to the heart of the African continent, and you’ll find another collection of massive inland seas: The Great Lakes of Africa (aka The African Great Lakes).

Anchored by the massive Lake Victoria, this network (which also includes Tanganyika, Malawi, Albert, Edward, Kivu, and Turkana) is a completely different geographic behemoth. While they share a name with their North American cousins, the forces that created them, the depths they reach, and the life they sustain couldn’t be more different.

And of course if you’re interested in just one small part of these Great Lakes, be sure to check out my video for the week:

Ice vs. tectonics

The most fundamental difference between the two Great Lake systems is how they were born and the age that are.

Let’s get this out of the way first: the North American Great Lakes are geologic toddlers, born of the last ice age. Roughly 10,000 to 14,000 years ago, as the last Ice Age came to a close, the massive Laurentide Ice Sheet retreated. As this miles-thick glacier scraped across the continent, it gouged deep basins into the earth’s crust. When the ice melted, it filled these basins with fresh water. They are essentially giant, glorious glacial puddles. And what’s crazier is that this all happened while humans roamed the earth. So, in theory, we as a species has known the world before the Great Lakes of North America, and now the world after.

Meanwhile the African Great Lakes are ancient, born of literal earth-shattering tectonic forces. Instead of being carved from above by ice, the African Great Lakes were torn open from below. They lie along the East African Rift, an active continental rift zone where the African tectonic plate is literally splitting in two. As the earth’s crust pulls apart, massive valleys drop down, creating incredibly deep chasms that have filled with water over millions of years.

Now, of course, there is one exception here: Lake Victoria. While lakes like Tanganyika and Malawi are classic “rift lakes”—long, narrow, and plunging deep into the earth’s crust—Lake Victoria is the odd one out. It is the largest lake in Africa by surface area, but it doesn’t sit in a deep rift trench. Instead, it occupies a shallow, saucer-like depression created by the uplifting of the rifts on either side of it. So still connected, but it’s not technically a rift lake.

Now, because of their violent, tectonic origins, the rift lakes of Africa boast statistics that make the North American lakes look like wading pools.

• Depth: Lake Tanganyika is the second-deepest lake in the world (behind Russia’s Lake Baikal), plunging to a incredible depth of 4,820 feet (1,470 meters). To put that in perspective, Lake Superior, the deepest of the North American Great Lakes, reaches a maximum depth of 1,332 feet.

• Volume: Because they are so incredibly deep, the African Great Lakes hold a staggering amount of water. Lake Tanganyika alone holds nearly as much water as all five North American Great Lakes combined.

• Age: While the North American lakes are around 10,000 years old, Lake Tanganyika is estimated to be between 9 and 12 million years old. Lake Malawi is roughly 1 to 2 million years old. So even their “baby” Great Lake is at least a million years older than North America’s.

The evolutionary mixing pot of the world

But here’s the biggest difference between the two.

Because of the immense age and isolation of the African Great Lakes have turned them into some of the most spectacular evolutionary laboratories on the planet, rivaling even the Galapagos Islands.

And because the North American lakes are so young and experienced extreme glacial freezing, they have relatively low levels of what we call “endemism” (or species that are found nowhere else on earth). Most of their fish migrated there from other river systems after the ice melted.

The African Great Lakes, however, have been stable, tropical underwater worlds for millions of years. This allowed a specific family of fish (such as cichlids) to undergo something biologists call adaptive radiation. From just a few ancestral species, thousands of unique, vibrantly colored species evolved, each adapting to highly specific micro-regions within the lakes.

In fact, Lake Malawi alone is home to an estimated 850 to 1,000 distinct species of cichlids. And Lake Victoria, despite a recent near-collapse due to the introduction of the invasive Nile Perch, once housed over 500 endemic cichlid species.

In these lakes, you’ll find fish that have evolved to eat only the scales of other fish, fish that crush snail shells, and fish that incubate their eggs safely inside their own mouths. It is an explosion of biodiversity that simply does not exist in the glacially carved basins of North America.

Both are masterpieces in their own right

To compare the North American and African Great Lakes isn’t to say one is better than the other. Rather, it highlights the incredible, diverse geography of our planet.

In North America, we see the lingering footprint of an ice age that recently shaped our modern landscape. In Africa, we are looking into deep time—staring down into the literal seams of the earth where tectonic plates rip apart, fostering millions of years of uninterrupted and brilliant evolution.

Both systems are “Great.” But they achieved their greatness through entirely different paths.

Share

I love Canada. It’s home to some of my very favorite cities in the world (especially Vancouver which I try to get up to every year or so). The Canadian Rockies are also so incredibly beautiful it’s almost insulting to the the United States’ Rockies. And each province really feels like it has its own unique culture within Canada, yes even the prairie provinces.

Subscribe now

But here’s the open secret about Canada that you probably already know. Despite how amazing it is, most of it is incredibly hostile to humans. I mean, if you want to understand why 90% of Canadians live within 100 miles of the US border, you don’t need to look at politics or history. You need to look at geography. Specifically, you need to look at the greatest, most dominant geographic tag team on the continent: The Canadian Shield and Hudson Bay. Together, this ancient rock formation and massive inland sea dictate everything about Canada, where people live, how they make money, and the very climate they endure.

Let’s break down how this duo rules the Great White North. And we’ll use a fun wrestling analogy to guide us through it. Because why not?

Oh and if you want to know more about the Hudson Bay specifically, do be sure to check out this week’s video. It was a FUN one!

In one corner: the Canadian Shield (The Heavyweight)

The Canadian Shield is a massive, horseshoe-shaped slab of exposed Precambrian rock covering over half of the country. It’s geologic. It’s buried underneath a loose topsoil of mostly gravel. And it’s some of the oldest rock on the planet, dating back billions of years. You’d be hard pressed to find an older pile of rocks anywhere on the planet.

During the last ice age (because doesn’t it always begin with the last ice age?), massive glaciers miles thick acted like continental bulldozers, scraping away almost all the topsoil and pushing it south into the United States (you’re welcome, Midwest and breadbasket states). When the ice retreated, it left behind a battered, scoured landscape.

This sets up the first pummeling of Canada’s geography by the geographic heavy weight that is the Canadian Shield.

Unfortunately for Canada, because the glaciers scraped away the soil, you simply can’t farm on the vast majority of the Shield. It’s a land of exposed granite, dense boreal forests, bogs (muskeg), and literally millions of lakes. Historically, the rugged terrain of the Shield made building roads and railways an absolute nightmare, effectively splitting eastern and western Canada into two distinct geographic islands.

Now all that said, it’s not all bad for Canada. What it lacks in soil, it more than makes up for in heavy metals. The Shield is packed with gold, nickel, copper, uranium, and diamonds. It makes Canada a mining superpower, but mining towns are remote and sparsely populated.

So Canada takes a bit of a geographic beating from the Canadian Shield, but it also gets a few hits back in the way of mines. In a one-on-one fight, I’d put my money on Canada overcoming the Canadian Shield. Unfortunately, there’s another geographic wrestler in the mix as well.

In the other corner: the Hudson Bay (The Ice-Cold Partner)

Sitting right in the middle of the Canadian Shield’s giant U-shape is the Hudson Bay. It is the second-largest bay in the world, a massive inland sea that was essentially formed by the sheer weight of the Ice Age glaciers pressing down on the continent’s crust.

If the Shield is the physical barrier, Hudson Bay is the atmospheric enforcer.

You see, the Hudson Bay is relatively shallow, which means it freezes over completely during the winter and takes a long time to thaw. This massive block of ice acts like an open refrigerator door in the middle of the country, dragging Arctic air violently south.

Because of the Hudson Bay, places in Canada are significantly colder than locations at the exact same latitude in Europe. Edinburgh, Scotland, and Churchill, Manitoba are roughly at the same latitude. Edinburgh rarely sees snow; Churchill has polar bears walking down the street.

The finisher move

Individually, both of these geographic entities are formidable. Any country whatsoever would struggle with them, despite any economic benefits they might also bring. But together, they are an unbeatable geographic force.

The Hudson Bay freezes the heart of the country, while the Canadian Shield ensures that even if it were warmer, you still couldn’t grow crops there. This tag team effectively renders over half of the second-largest country on Earth largely uninhabitable for mass settlement.

They execute a perfect “southward squeeze,” forcing the Canadian population into the few hospitable pockets left available: the Great Lakes-St. Lawrence Lowlands, the Prairies, and the West Coast.

What’s most fun here though is that often think of countries being shaped by treaties, wars, or visionary leaders. And Canada certainly has had plenty of those. But also Canada was (and still is if we’re being honest) shaped by an ancient rock formation and humongous, freezing bowl of water. The Canadian Shield and the Hudson Bay don’t just dominate the map, they define so much of the Canadian identity: rugged, resource-rich, and clustered together against the cold.

Fascinating!

Share

If you live in the United States, you might already be familiar with the quirks of territorial sovereignty (though actually most Americans don’t know this 😬) After all, millions of Americans live in places like Puerto Rico, Guam, the U.S. Virgin Islands, American Samoa, and the Northern Mariana Islands.

Subscribe now

Now, while these territories fall under U.S. sovereignty, the day-to-day reality of their residents is distinct from those living in the fifty states. For example, residents of Puerto Rico are U.S. citizens, but they don’t pay federal income tax on locally sourced income (though they do pay Social Security), they also lack a voting representative in Congress, and they can’t vote for the President in the general election. It’s a nuanced relationship, bound together by a flag and matters of defense, but otherwise separated by layers of constitutional law. It can get complicated and it often doesn’t work out for the territories all that well.

But that’s the United State’s territories. Which, while complicated, if you look across the Atlantic, you’re gonna find a system of geographic and political relationships that makes the U.S. territorial system look downright simple. I am, of course, talking about the vast network of continued territories and Crown Dependencies that exist under the umbrella of the United Kindom… sort of.

The British have had centuries longer to complicate things and oh boy have they taken advantage of that. So to understand the modern British footprint, we have to untangle three distinct categories: The United Kingdom, the Crown Dependencies, and the UK Overseas Territories.

Here is a breakdown of what these regions are, how they function, and, most importantly, why these distinctions matter to the people who call them home.

The United Kingdom: the core state

Let’s start with the anchor. The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland (to use its full, very long name) is a sovereign state in the world. In this way, the United Kingdom is no different from the United States, or Canada, or Germany, or China, or Kenya, and so on. They have their borders. Within those borders they make laws. Outside those borders they deal in treaties and, sometimes, even war.

And, in a similar fashion as the United States and Australia have states and Canada has provinces, the United Kingdom has its, well, kingdoms. Specifically, the kingdoms of England, Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland. Now, I’m not here to say that these are the same as the state of California in the U.S. But, for simplicity and comparison’s sake, they at least act in a similar manner under a much larger umbrella of a single government.

That government is, of course, the UK Parliament in Westminster (London). While Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland have their own devolved governments that handle local issues like health and education, Westminster retains ultimate authority over the entire country.

If you live here, you’re likely a full British citizen. You pay UK taxes, you’re subject to UK laws, and you vote for a Member of Parliament (MP) to represent you in the sovereign government. There are, of course, people who have different visas, but you get the picture.

This is relatively simple stuff as far as national sovereignty explanations go so, let’s start getting weird.

The Crown Dependencies: close to home, but a world away

Just off the coast of Great Britain lie three island territories: the Bailiwick of Jersey, the Bailiwick of Guernsey (both in the English Channel), and the Isle of Man (in the Irish Sea).

Here’s the twist though, they are not part of the UK. These are considered “Crown Dependencies.” This means they’re self-governing possessions of the British Crown (the Monarch), but not the UK government.

They have their own entirely independent parliaments (like the Tynwald in the Isle of Man, which claims to be the oldest continuous parliament in the world). They pass their own laws, set their own taxes, and manage their own economies.

The UK is only responsible for their defense and international representation (like signing treaties), and even then, the UK is supposed to consult them first. I can’t really speak for how often they do, but they should be I guess.

Because of this unique arrangement though, they are famously low-tax jurisdictions. There is no capital gains tax or inheritance tax, making them highly attractive hubs for global finance and retreats for the wealthy. Residents also live under local laws that can differ significantly from the UK. Even things like speed limits are different from the UK proper.

But perhaps most importantly, islanders fiercely protect their independence. While they carry British passports (with slight variations on the cover), they don’t vote in UK elections, and UK laws do not automatically apply to them. Not unless they independently pass their own legislation that mirror those from the mainland.

This would be as if Long Island in New York State was something called a Presidential Dependency. It had the President of the United States as its figure head, but Congress had no actual legislative jurisdiction over it. Weird right?

But there’s one more level to go down in this rabbit hole.

UK Overseas Territories: The British Empire lives?

Scattered across the globe are 14 UK Overseas Territories (OTs). These are the last remnants of the British Empire. They range from the wealthy financial hub of Bermuda and the contested Rock of Gibraltar to the remote Falkland Islands and the tiny, volcanic Pitcairn Islands in the Pacific.

There’s that famous saying from colonial times: the sun never sets on the British Empire. I actually think this might still be true. I haven’t fully mapped it out with all times of the year, but given the geographic dispersion of OTs, it certainly feels like.

Now, like the Crown Dependencies, these territories are not part of the UK proper. They are internally self-governing, with their own elected assemblies, constitutions, and local laws. And like with the Crown Dependencies, the UK retains responsibility for defense, foreign affairs, and internal security.

But unlike the Crown Dependencies, the UK government appoints a Governor to each territory, who acts as the de facto head of state on behalf of the Monarch. Crucially, the UK Parliament theoretically retains the power to legislate for the OTs, though it rarely exercises it without consent.

Since 2002, most residents hold full British citizenship, allowing them to move to and work in the UK freely. However, this is a one-way road more often than not. For example, those who are born and live in the Falklands can move to the UK to work and live with no issue. But those who are born and live in the UK can’t move to the Falklands and work and live. They need a visa just like anyone else.

And speaking of territories like the Falkland Islands (or even Gibraltar historically) the UK’s commitment to their defense is existential due to territorial claims by neighboring countries (Argentina and Spain, respectively).

Despite being subject to ultimate UK authority on foreign policy and defense, residents of OTs have no representation in the UK Parliament. When Brexit happened, Gibraltar and the Falklands were deeply affected, yet their residents had no vote in the referendum (except for Gibraltar, which was granted a special inclusion).

Why the distinctions matter

For the average person in London, the difference between a Crown Dependency and an Overseas Territory might just seem like pub trivia. But for the people living under these agreements, these constitutional boundaries dictate their daily lives.

1. Economic Survival: For places like the Cayman Islands (an OT) or Jersey (a Crown Dependency), their ability to set their own zero-or-low-tax policies is the lifeblood of their economies. If they were fully integrated into the UK, their economies would likely collapse and need to be subsidized heavily by the UK.

2. Democratic Voice: Residents of OTs and Crown Dependencies live in a democratic gray area. They govern themselves locally, but the ultimate guarantor of their security and international standing (Westminster) is a body in which they have zero elected representation.

3. National Identity: These agreements allow people to be proudly Bermudian, Manx, or Falkland Islander first, and British second. It provides the security of a major world power without the total loss of local culture and autonomy.

The British system is a patchwork quilt, stitched together over centuries of conquest, trade, and diplomacy. It’s messy, contradictory, and largely held together by tradition and gentleman’s agreements. But for the millions who live on the fringes of this post-colonial web, it’s the delicate balance that defines their place in the world.

And it certainly makes U.S. or Canadian territorial arrangements simple by proxy.

Share

The early 1900s was an interesting time for politics in the world. Usually we fixate on Europe during this period as colonial imperialism began dying out and new ideologies like fascism and communism rose in their place. The collective memory for the United States during this time was that it was a stable democracy and one that helped the Allies win not one World War, but two. Of course, history is far more complicated than that. In particular, the idea that the United States was a picture perfect democracy is certainly incorrect. While there are many angles I could take this article in, I want to focus on one particularly geographically constrained example: the great state of Louisiana.

Subscribe now

You see, during the late 1920s and early 1930s, Huey P. Long (aka “The Kingfish”) built what historians widely consider the closest thing to an absolute dictatorship ever to exist within the United States. But Long didn’t conquer Louisiana with an army, he conquered it with populist rhetoric, ruthless political mechanics, and a whole lot of concrete.

Here’s the story of how an American state became a quasi-dictatorship, and the lasting geographic scars and monuments it left behind.

The rise of the machine

So, first things first, Long’s rise to power wasn’t an accident. He didn’t just luck into it. He also wasn’t some unwitting buffoon being used by a group of powerful people. No, instead it was a highly calculated exploitation of deep-seated inequality. You see, in the 1920s, Louisiana was essentially an oligarchy run by a wealthy coalition of planters, New Orleans ward bosses (the “Old Regulars”), and Standard Oil executives. The rural poor (both white and Black) were largely ignored, disenfranchised, and left to live in crushing poverty.

Long stepped into this void with a simple, explosive message: Make Every Man a King. And because of that simple promise he was elected governor in 1928. And once governor, he immediately set about dismantling the old establishment and replacing it with something entirely new: himself. How did he consolidate this power?

• Total Legislative Control: Long treated the state legislature like a rubber stamp. He routinely stalked the aisles of the statehouse, personally shouting down opponents and physically intimidating lawmakers. He pushed through bills at breakneck speeds, sometimes passing dozens of laws in a single afternoon without anyone but Long having read them.

• The “Deduct Box”: Long required every state employee to “donate” a percentage of their salary directly to his political war chest. This untraceable cash funded his campaigns, paid off allies, and bankrolled a massive propaganda newspaper, Louisiana Progress.

• Abolished Local Autonomy: The Kingfish systematically stripped local governments of their power. He gave the governor the authority to hire and fire schoolteachers, police officers, and firefighters across the state. If a mayor defied him, Long could simply cut off their town’s funding or replace their municipal workers.

• Militarized State Police: Long expanded the state highway police into a heavily armed personal militia. He used them to raid illegal gambling houses run by his political enemies, guard ballot boxes to ensure “correct” counts, and intimidate opposition.

By 1930, Long was elected to the U.S. Senate, but he didn’t give up control of Louisiana. Instead, he installed a puppet governor, Oscar K. Allen, and continued to run the state from Washington D.C., flying back constantly to direct legislative sessions.

But dictatorships don’t just change laws, they change landscapes. And Long’s absolute control resulted in massive, unprecedented geographic and physical transformations across Louisiana.

Before Long, Louisiana’s geography isolated its people. The state had roughly 300 miles of paved roads. Rural parishes (what we call counties in most states) were cut off from major cities by swamps, rivers, and impassable mud during the rainy seasons. The geography of the state inherently fractured political power into localized, isolated fiefdoms.

Long realized that to centralize power, he had to physically connect the state to his capital. And so he went about doing just that:

1. Terraforming the transit system

Long launched one of the most aggressive infrastructure programs in American history. In just a few years, he paved over 5,000 miles of highway and built over 100 bridges. This wasn’t just public service though, it was a political ploy. By connecting isolated farmers to markets in New Orleans and Baton Rouge, Long bought their unshakeable loyalty. He also bypassed local parish bosses, linking the populace directly to the state government. Diabolical? Yes. Genius? Also yes.

2. The Huey P. Long Bridge

Believe it or not, but before Long, there was no bridge crossing the Mississippi River south of Vicksburg. Getting trains or cars into New Orleans meant relying on slow, inefficient ferries. Long, wielding the power that he did, forced through the construction of the massive Huey P. Long Bridge in Jefferson Parish. It permanently altered the economic geography of the Gulf Coast, turning New Orleans into an even more dominant logistical hub.

3. The skyscraper capitol

Perhaps the most glaring geographic monument to Long’s ego and power though is the new Louisiana State Capitol in Baton Rouge. Long hated the old, crumbling gothic capitol building. So he ordered the construction of a massive, 34-story Art Deco skyscraper. It remains the tallest state capitol in the United States. Towering over the flat Louisiana landscape, it was designed to be a constant, visible reminder of Long’s absolute dominance over the state.

4. The expansion of LSU

Long essentially adopted Louisiana State University (LSU) as his pet project. He drastically expanded its campus geography, tripling its enrollment, building a massive football stadium, and even hiring and firing the band director. He transformed a small regional college into a sprawling, modern university campus, shifting the cultural and educational center of gravity in the state.

The end of the Kingfish

The tragedy of Huey Long is the age-old paradox of the benevolent dictator. He built the hospitals, handed out free schoolbooks, and paved the roads that brought Louisiana into the 20th century. He did almost everything he promised. It’s fair to say that, without him, Louisiana would have had a much harder time becoming a modern state than it did. But the price was democracy itself.

Long’s rule ended the only way a dictatorship’s rule usually can: with violence. On September 8, 1935, Long was shot in the halls of the very skyscraper capitol he built, allegedly by Dr. Carl Weiss, the son-in-law of a political rival Long was attempting to gerrymander out of office. Long died two days later at the age of 42. But despite being more than bit of a dictator, his legacy is one that is more often than not celebrated. In many ways, Long proves that America has always liked its strong man-like dictator figures.

Today, if you drive through Louisiana, you’re driving on Long’s roads, crossing Long’s bridges, and looking at Long’s monuments. The Kingfish is gone, but the geographic and political landscape he violently reshaped remains. For better or worse.

What a story.

Share

For decades, economists have looked at Japan as the end scenario for every country as it reaches a certain level of development and economic growth. With the world’s oldest population and a birth rate that recently plunged to a record low of 1.2 children per couple, the math for Japan is, at least on paper, apocalyptic. Maybe that’s too harsh a word, but its definitely worrisome! For literally thousands of years, civilizations have required a steady stream of population growth to keep going. When population growth ceases (as has happened in many time in the past) the civilization fades away.

Subscribe now

The ancient Indus River Valley civilization is actually a great example here. Sometime around 1900 BCE, this expansive civilization that spread across modern day western India slowly shrank until, by 1300 BCE, it was gone entirely. The reasons for their decline are different from Japan, of course, but the end result is the same. Their population faded away. Modern day countries, like ancient civilizations, need people to keep humming along. And our current economic model of capitalism means that we need permanent growth in order to sustain our collective way of life.

This is certainly not a new phenomenon, of course. In fact, many countries (the United States included) would have shrunk along with Japan beginning in the early 2000s were it not for immigration. But this is a pill the Japanese public and leadership have historically refused to swallow.

So, what’s the end game here? If you won’t make more people, and you won’t let more people in, how do you keep the lights on? It’s a real immovable object means unstoppable force kind of situation.

The migration myth

There is a common misconception that Japan has no immigration. In reality, the number of foreign residents has hit a record 3.9 million in 2026. However, the Japanese “end game” for immigration isn’t a melting pot where all cultures and people mix in and eventually become one. It’s more of a labor-as-a-service model where immigrants come in, do a job and, in turn are allowed to stay. But they’re not Japanese (in terms of nationality), they’re people who live in Japan. A slight, but notable distinction.

In fact, The government recently tightened naturalization laws, extending residency requirements to 10 years and doubling deportations. The message here is clear: Japan wants workers, they don’t want citizens. And by using “Technical Intern” schemes, they are attempting to fill the 11-million-worker shortfall predicted by 2040 without fundamentally altering the country’s social fabric.

It’s a bold gamble that nobody knows will pay off.

Sanaenomics (like Reaganomics!)

If you follow Japanese politics at all, you’ll likely know that the country has a new-ish prime minister. And she is conservative with a capital C. Which means it’s probably not a surprise that under Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi, Japan has pivoted toward a “security-oriented growth model” or a strategy that moves away from the raw GDP growth of the 20th century and toward resilient stability. This means a couple things:

• Automation over integration: Japan is betting the house on AI and robotics. 75% of Japanese businesses now report using AI to offset labor shortages as an example.

• The Care-Bot Economy: While in the US and Europe, we worry about AI taking jobs, in Japan, they worry there won’t be enough AI to take them. From autonomous delivery pods to robotic nursing assistants, the goal is to maintain a high standard of living for the elderly with a ghost workforce of silicon and code.

This is Sanaenomics. Well there’s actually more that has to do with deflation and the like which ties in closer to Reaanomics, but for our purpose this gets at the point. But even a strategy around autonomous care doesn’t solve the problem of what to do with infrastructure built with 120 million people in mind and you only have 90 million or less. Which leads us to…

The “Compact City” strategy

This is actually the best thing Japan has going for it, in my opinion: they’re preparing for a managed retreat. Instead of trying to save every dying rural village, the state is encouraging “compact cities.” This involves consolidating populations into urban hubs where infrastructure, healthcare, and services can be efficiently delivered to a shrinking tax base. It’s an admission that the map of Japan will look very different in 2050 with fewer lights on the horizon, but those that remain will be brighter.

So Japan’s end game is to become the world’s first high-tech, low-population society. They’re deprioritizing growth at all cost in the face of an economic system that says you MUST have that. But the logic is that a smaller, homogenous (rightly or wrongly), and highly automated Japan is more stable than a larger, diverse, and growing Japan.

All this is to say: Japan is not “collapsing” in the sense of a sudden fall but it is slimming down rather aggressively. And they’re the first country to attempt a controlled demolition of the “infinite growth” model. If they succeed, they provide a blueprint for South Korea, China, Europe, and even Canada and the United States if recent immigration trends continue. If they fail though, they will be a high-tech museum of a civilization that chose its core identity over its existence. Either way, it’s going to be an interesting few decades for Japan.

Share

Puerto Rico is in an interesting position at the moment. It’s technically part of the United States, though it isn’t a state, but culturally it looks and feels like its own country, much like its neighbor the Dominican Republic does and is. In fact, I would be willing to wager that if you asked 10 Americans from the mainland if Puerto Rico was part of the United States, at least 9 of them would say no. This is because, despite being a U.S. territory, Puerto Rico is often left out of national conversations.

Subscribe now

And so, Puerto Rico is both American and not American at the same time (American being the commonly used English demonym for people from the United States, don’t come at me Spanish speakers). Every single person born in Puerto Rico is born an American citizen. Those people can move to California, New York, Georgia, Oregon, or any of the other states and territories at will. But because they’re not a state, they’re not quite an “equal” citizen'. At least so long as they live in Puerto Rico. They get no representation in Congress, either the House or Senate and they don’t get to vote for the President. Well, they do hold a vote, but it’s not counted towards the electoral college.

This is despite the fact that Puerto Rico, home to 3.2 million American citizens, is larger in population than 18 full U.S. states. Any argument based on population size regarding statehood is ridiculous in my opinion (Nevada was admitted with like 10,000 people), but surely this is a GLARING omission. And this has devastating effects. Because they don’t have any political representation, they don’t get proper help when a disaster strikes. They’re not able to declare bankruptcy when the bills get too high. They’re not able, as a political entity, to do many of the things 50 full other states can do. In fact, the U.S. might as well be strangling Puerto Rico. Which they are, as I highlight in my most recent video:

And so, there’s really only two paths forward for Puerto Rico at this point as this current territorial arrangement is clearly not working.

Path 1: Statehood

This is the obvious path forward. Countries, in 2026, do not want to give up any shred of land because land is power, its potential, its the ability to claim vast areas of ocean, its a lot of things in the modern age. So the clearest path forward for Puerto Rico is simple:

Make them a full state.

There’s literally nothing stopping anyone from doing this right now. I mean, there’s the political machine that refuses to do it. But it’s not like its impossible. With a couple votes and signatures, Puerto Rico, in theory, could be a state by the end of 2026. Over the history of the United States, this exact process occurred time and time again. As most recently as 1959 this happened for both Hawaii and Alaska, two other “far flung” territories with “marginal” populations. (Puerto Rico has more people than both by the way).

By making them a full state, Puerto Rico would suddenly get everything that they need to become a functional political entity. Political representation being the most important here. Right now, Puerto Ricans have to recourse to secure more money from the federal government in the same way that, say, Louisiana has when it needs more money for flood control along the Mississippi River. That requires political capital. A person in Washington D.C. who can make deals with other politicians. Who can bring forward votes towards a single issue. Who can lead or be on important committees.

But, the U.S. doesn’t seem to want to do this for Puerto Rico. They’d rather the island of Spanish-speakers be left on the side lines, forever sitting in a weird limbo of not quite part of America, but certainly not America.

Which leads to the second path:

Path 2: Independence

If Puerto Ricans aren’t going to be allowed into the United States proper, there’s only one other path for them: full independence. Let’s face it, most Americans don’t recognize Puerto Ricans as Americans anyways (again this is the common English demonym for people from the U.S., they’re obviously of “The Americas”). The average person in Idaho, or Michigan, or even Florida, probably wouldn’t notice if Puerto Rico was suddenly made into an independent country.

And again, this would fix many of Puerto Rico’s current ailments. Mostly because, out from under the United States’ laws it would suddenly be able to get its own shipment of goods from places like Brazil, or China, or South Africa which is currently can’t do under the Jones Act (it’s a whole thing, watch the video above). It would also be able to manage its own finances, which it also can’t do under the current system Congress has placed on its wayward territory.

Independence wouldn’t be easy, sure. Becoming a state would certainly be the easiest pathway. But it would also allow Puerto Ricans to finally chart their own path forward. Something it has never really been able to do despite, once again, most people not knowing Puerto Ricans are U.S. citizens.

Limbo persists

While this has been a fun article to write all about Puerto Rico and its potential options. The reality is that nothing will change anytime soon. While there are only two paths forward for the island territory, the current system of territoriality under the United States works well enough for the current political machine. And, because of that, the country will more than likely remain in this bizarre limbo, where it’s both not part of the United States but is definitely controlled by it. For Puerto Ricans, I can’t imagine a more challenging situation to be in when it comes to wanting to control your destiny. Though it is nice that Bad Bunny, perhaps the most famous Puerto Rican today, will be headlining at the Superbowl Halftime show.

Share

As I continue to build my YouTube and Substack communities, there’s something that I’ve been missing lately: cartography. Not just looking at maps, but actually making and designing maps that looks pretty and are fun and highlight places in unique ways. Maps that help tell a story using a unique piece of data. Or maps of places that don’t usually get maps. Or simply maps that show a place in a little bit of a different light.

https://www.mapsbygeoff.com/

Prior to my life as a YouTuber and Substacker (? not sure what the demonym is here), I worked as a professional cartographer. In fact, the reason why I even have a YouTube channel at all is because, through my boredom during COVID, I decided to start making a bunch of weird maps where I would then post them on Reddit. That eventually led to wanting to create animations and stories behind the maps I was creating. The rest is, as we say, history.

But this isn’t just a normal map store.

Let’s face it. Map stores are a dime a dozen these days. You can basically find a map of any place you want in a dozen different styles. In fact, for a long time I was partnered with Muir Way. It was fine and they’re a great company. But I felt like there was a need for something a little different maybe? Something where the maps themselves were just as temporal as the geography we study.

So, here’s the difference: Every other Tuesday or Friday (to be released with a video on YouTube) I’ll launch a new map featuring whatever place is highlighted in the video. At that point, a countdown begins. You’ll have 28 days (4 weeks) or until 100 copies are sold to buy one. After 28 days (or if 100 copies are sold) the map is gone. No more will be sold. The map won’t ever be available again. It’s gone and done.

All maps are designed and made by me. There’s no contractors. There’s no AI involved. It’s just me, ArcGIS Pro, Adobe Illustrator, and usually some fun piece of data I’ve found.

In this way, those who really resonate with a map or place can feel like they have something that’s unique.

There’s more information on the website if you’re interested. So go check that out when you can.

The first two maps are available now! One for tomorrow’s video about Puerto Rico and another highlighting the U.S. state of New Jersey from a couple weeks back. If either interest you, just be sure to buy before their respective times run out or if 100 copies are sold.

I have literally no idea if 100 people will buy something I make! But the goal here isn’t to sell 100 of anything really, it’s to give me an excuse to make fun and pretty maps again. I’m just happy I have a place to do that. 🤠

Feel free to ask any questions here, I’m happy to answer.

Share

Sorry for the delay in this week’s article. I was traveling on a train over the last two days and internet was spotty to say the least. The normal article time of Wednesday mornings won’t be changing.

Did you know that, in the mountains of Central Appalachia, you can still hear the hum of the coal industry? It’s growing fainter of course, but it’s certainly still there. It’s the sounds of a half-empty coal train crossing a trestle bridge in Mingo County, or the localized cough of a miner who started working the seam at eighteen and is now fighting for breath at fifty. And this is weird because… coal as a viable power source should be long gone and buried by now. In fact, for decades, economists, environmentalists, and politicians have written coal’s obituary.

Subscribe now

The data is irrefutable: since 2008, U.S. coal production has plummeted, and the number of miners in Appalachia has dropped by over 50%. Renewable energy such as solar and wind power are cheaper and provide more energy. Natural gas is simply more abundant. Even nuclear energy, despite its heinous cost, is expected to rise over the coming decades due to newer reactors that are smaller and cheaper to build. Basically, the “War on Coal” is technically over and the market won.

And yet, coal refuses to fully die. So what’s going on? Why won’t this very dirty form of energy finally go if there are much better technologies available?

A zombie economy

Unfortunately the economic engine that is coal has been incredibly hard to break. In counties across West Virginia and eastern Kentucky, the local government is addicted to coal. Through severance taxes (a tax levied on the extraction of non-renewable resources) coal has historically funded everything from road pavement to teacher salaries. In some counties, coal-related revenue still accounts for a third of the local budget.

Side note: this is not so different from Alaska and oil. But the big difference here is that oil is still very much a viable (even if incredibly harmful) fuel source.

This creates a “Zombie Economy.” The industry is basically dead (bankruptcies are quite common and profit margins are razor-thin) but the local infrastructure is so terrified of the withdrawal symptoms that they keep the industry on life support. Local politicians fight for coal not necessarily because they believe in its long-term viability, but because they have no idea how to pay for anything without it.

And while the federal government has tried to intervene through initiatives like the POWER grant program that pump millions into “economic diversification”, you can’t replace a century of economic mono-culture overnight. Tourism jobs (often the go-to for economic diversification) often pay minimum wage. But coal jobs, even now, can pay $80,000 per year. For a family in West Virginia with a mortgage, an auto loan, children to feed, and just normal daily expenses, the “green transition” looks less like a promise and more like a pay cut.

The physical toll of coal

While the economics of coal are zombie-like, the physical toll on people is terrifyingly alive. In fact, we are currently witnessing a resurgence of the “Black Lung” disease that shouldn’t be happening in the 21st century. It’s kind of crazy actually.

For those who don’t know black lung disease is an type of pneumoconiosis caused by inhaling coal dust into the lungs and the lung tissue’s reaction to its presence. It literally turns lungs black.

But while things like PPE have gotten better, modern mining in Appalachia is scraping the bottom of the barrel. The thick, easy-to-reach seams are gone. Miners are now cutting through more rock to get to thinner bands of coal. And this rock contains silica, which is far more toxic to the lungs than coal dust alone. The result? A wave of “progressive massive fibrosis” (the most severe form of black lung) in miners as young as their 30s and 40s.

This is the grim reality of the region’s loyalty to coal. The industry is literally scarring the lungs of the workforce, yet that same workforce fiercely defends the industry against “outsiders” who want to shut it down. Why? Because in a place where opportunity has dried up, danger is often preferable to irrelevance or even worse, bankruptcy.

The identity of coal

But ultimately, coal refuses to die because it has successfully embedded itself into the cultural DNA of the entire Appalachian region.

For a hundred years, the company town wasn’t just an economic arrangement, it was a total social system. The “Coal Miner” became the regional archetype of masculinity, sacrifice, and provision. He kept the lights on in America. He fueled the tanks that won WWII. He was manly, strong, rough, and all the other things that television and movies have portrayed coal miners as. Despite the health impacts, being a coal miner was almost glorified.

So when you tell Appalachia that coal is “dirty” or “outdated,” you aren’t just critiquing a source of energy. You’re telling a community that their history (their fathers’ broken backs, their grandfathers’ early deaths) was for nothing.

This creates a “cultural stickiness.” The region clings to coal not because they love the coal dust, but because they fear the void that comes after. The alternatives offered by the modern rural economy (hello Dollar General!) lack the dignity of the mine. Until the post-coal future offers not just a paycheck, but a sense of purpose and pride, coal won’t be going anywhere. You can see similar identities in the loggers of the Pacific Northwest, or the fisherman in New England. Because, after all, who are we if not our identity?

And so, Appalachia is currently living in the “long twilight” of the fossil fuel age. The mines will not close all at once. They will flicker out, one by one, as the seam runs dry or the export market shifts.

The challenge for the rest of the country is to stop looking at Appalachia with scorn or pity, and start looking at the bill. We built a nation on the cheap energy extracted from these mountains. The refusal of coal to die is, in many ways, a measure of our failure to offer a life after the death of coal.

Share

There’s basically only one commonality across the various countries of Central Asia. I mean, even within the countries, people and cultures change much more drastically and radically than even in many places in Europe. But, as far as whole countries go there’s one thing that binds Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, and Pakistan together… at least etymologically: the STAN.

Subscribe now

To the uninitiated, let’s say, western eye, these countries can sometimes blend into a monolithic block that have been terms “The Stans.” But this suffix isn’t a quirk of geography, it is a linguistic fossil that tells the story of empires, nomads, and the roots of the English language itself.

So, let’s decode the “Stan.”

The etymology of “stan”

So the suffix -stan is Persian in origin. It’s not English, or even Latin or Germanic in origin. And its actual meaning is pretty simple. It effectively means “place of” or “land of.” Which is then the simplest answer, right? The land of the Tajiks. The land of the Kazakhs. The land of the Afghans. And so on. But there are some unique geographic complexities here.

So, if you want the more complicated answer (which I’m guessing you are because otherwise, why are you here at all?) then read on.

Basically, “stan” is a cousin to the English word stand. And both words trace their lineage back to the Proto-Indo-European root *sta, meaning “to stand.” Even in modern Russian, a stan can refer to a settlement or a camp.

So, when you see a country ending in “-stan,” you are simply seeing a “Land of [People].” In this way, “land” at the end of so many European countries is no different.

• England is the Land of the Angles.

• Finland is the Land of the Finns.

• And so, therefore, Uzbekistan is the land of the Uzbeks. Or maybe the “stan of the Uzbeks” but you get the picture.

The “Stans” roll call

But while all these countries share a suffix, the stories behind the names are distinct. So here’s a quick breakdown of the “Seven Stans.”

1. The Central Asian five

These five countries are all former Soviet Republics that were lumped together in one LARGE Stan called Turkestan. When the USSR dissolved in 1991, they emerged as independent nations, keeping the names that defined their dominant ethnic groups.

• Kazakhstan: “Land of the Kazakhs.” The word Kazakh comes from an ancient Turkic word meaning “independent” or “wanderer.” It’s the same etymological root as the word Cossack.

• Uzbekistan: “Land of the Uzbeks.” The Uzbeks likely derive their name from Öz Beg Khan, a leader of the Golden Horde. Öz means “self” and Beg means “master/leader,” so it roughly translates to “master of oneself.”

• Kyrgyzstan: “Land of the Kyrgyz.” The word Kyrgyz is thought to mean “forty,” referring to the forty clans of Manas, a legendary hero who united the people.

• Turkmenistan: “Land of the Turkmen.” Simply, the land of the Turkic people of that specific Oghuz branch.

• Tajikistan: “Land of the Tajiks.” Unlike their neighbors who speak Turkic languages, Tajiks speak a variety of Persian. This name reflects their historic connection to the Iranian world.

2. The southern neighbors

These two are not former Soviet republics, but they are geographically and culturally linked to the region.

• Afghanistan: “Land of the Afghans.” Historically, the term “Afghan” referred specifically to the Pashtun people, the founders of the modern country.

• Pakistan: This one is the outlier. This is the only “Stan” that is an acronym. Yes, you read that right. Pakistan, the country, is actually an acronym. Crazy! It was coined in the 1930s by independence activist Choudhry Rahmat Ali to represent the regions of the proposed state: Punjab, Afghania (North-West Frontier Province), Kashmir, Sindh, and Baluchistan. Conveniently, Pak also means “pure” in Persian and Urdu, giving it a double meaning: “Land of the Pure.”

The ones that got away

Now, the suffix has historically been used for many more places than just these seven. It’s just that these nations don’t really exist in the same way, or are slightly different, or are simply a region. And so on. The point being: there are more stans out there!

• Hayastan: This is what Armenians call Armenia.

• Hindustan: A historic (and often current) name for the northern Indian subcontinent.

• Kurdistan: The mountainous region inhabited by Kurds, spanning Turkey, Iraq, Iran, and Syria.

• Registan: Not a country, but a famous square in Samarkand. Reg means sand, so it is a “place of sand.”

Why does any of this matter?

We often treat names as arbitrary labels, but in Central Asia, the “Stan” is a reminder of Persian cultural dominance. For centuries, Persian was the lingua franca of the Silk Road: the language of poets, courts, and commerce from Turkey to India. It was the dominant language for the world really.

Even as Turkic conquerors (like Genghis Khan’s descendants) took power, and even as Russian bureaucrats drew borders, the Persian way of naming the world stuck. It’s a testament to the region’s identity. And that’s why we still have so many Stans today!

Share

Make no mistake: the Colorado River is one of the great rivers of North America. Even if its overall (and maximum) discharge is far less than that of the Mississippi, St Lawrence, Ohio, Columbia, or many other rivers. After all, it’s the Colorado River that gave us the Grand Canyon, what of the great natural wonders of the world. And, at its height, the Colorado River roars fiercely as if its an unstoppable, unbeatable force of nature. Of all things, the Colorado River is the architect of the American West, a hydraulic engine that has moved literal mountains.

Subscribe now

Unfortunately, while the river might feel unstoppable at times, for most of the last 60 years, this gigantic force of nature has whimpered out into the sands of the Sonoran Desert, roughly 50 to 100 miles short of its natural destination: the Gulf of California. This is the artery that connects the Rockies to the sea… and it’s been severed, turning one of the planet’s most vibrant aquatic ecosystems into a desolate salt flat.

The southwest is mighty thirsty

So how does a river that drains 246,000 square miles simply vanish into the sand? The answer lies in a metaphor that has been used time and again for this exact geographic scenario: a bank account that is perpetually overdrawn.

The first line of credit that was tapped into the Colorado River occurred in 1922 with the signing of the Colorado River Compact. And, just so we’re clear, a “Compact” is a basically a state-to-state treaty that is managed by the federal government of the United States. Without one, there’s no way for a state to sign a treaty with another state. It’s against the constitution.

Anyways! The bureaucrats and politicians of the era sat down to divide the river’s water between seven US states and Mexico. Working with data from an unusually wet period, they allocated roughly 15 million acre-feet of water annually. But again, this was during an unusually wet period of time. The river rarely actually carries that much water. So, from the beginning, people promised away water that doesn’t exist most of the time.

Today, that structural deficit is colliding with a thirsty reality because roughly 40 million people rely on this water. And you can roughly divide it into two categories:

• Agriculture: Roughly 70-80% of the river’s flow is diverted to grow alfalfa, cotton, and winter vegetables in the Imperial and Coachella Valleys.

• Urban Sprawl: Phoenix, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and San Diego all siphon massive amounts to sustain desert metropolises.

On top of this over-consumption, we have “aridification.” As the West heats up, the snowpack shrinks and the soil gets thirstier, absorbing runoff before it even hits the riverbed. The river is being squeezed from both sides: less water coming in, and more straws sucking it out.

Which ultimately means one thing… because America simply isn’t going to not use up its promised share of the water.

The death of the delta

The political squabbling over water rights often obscures the physical reality of what we have done to the geography of the continent. Basically, we’ve erased a landscape.

In 1922, the conservationist Aldo Leopold explored the Colorado River Delta by canoe. He described it as a “milk and honey wilderness, ”a jungle of green lagoons, jaguars, deer, and millions of migratory birds. It was an oasis the size of Rhode Island, a riot of life in the middle of a burning desert.

“The river was everywhere and nowhere, for he could not decide which of a hundred green lagoons offered the most pleasant and least speedy path to the Gulf.” — Aldo Leopold⁴

Today, that “green lagoon” is gone.

Without the fresh water pushing out to the sea, the Delta has become a hyper-saline desert. The native willow and cottonwood forests have died off, largely replaced by invasive, salt-tolerant tamarisk (salt cedar) or bare mud.

The damage extends into the ocean itself. The upper Gulf of California relies on the brackish mix of river water and seawater to act as a nursery for shrimp and fish. Without the river’s nutrients and silt, the marine food web crashes. The Vaquita porpoise, the world’s most endangered marine mammal, is teetering on extinction partly because the ecosystem it calls home has been fundamentally altered.

But the death of the river is not just an ecological disaster, it’s a cultural one as well.

The Cocopah people have lived in the Delta for thousands of years. Their name literally translates to “People of the River.” Their culture, diet, and spiritual life were built entirely around the river’s flow and the fishing it supported.

When the Hoover and Glen Canyon dams choked off the flow, they effectively destroyed a way of life for an indigenous culture. And while the people are still there today, the Cocopah are often left with a dry riverbed and a fight for cultural survival, forced to dredge murky channels in hopes of finding fish that once thrived in abundance.

Why this matters to you

But why should someone in Denver, Salt Lake City, or Los Angeles care about a dry delta in Mexico? It’s distant. It’s another country. It doesn’t directly affect the people living in those cities or regions.

But a closed basin is a dying basin. You see, a river system is designed to flush. It carries salts and minerals from the mountains down to the ocean. When you stop that flow, the salt has nowhere to go but into the soil and the groundwater. As the water is used and reused upstream, salinity rises, damaging crops and forcing expensive desalinization efforts. And that salinity builds up as the river increasingly doesn’t make it as far.

Basically, yhe dried-up Colorado River Delta is a canary in the coal mine. It’s the physical manifestation of our unsustainability as a species. If the river doesn’t reach the sea, the system is broken. It proves we are living beyond our ecological means.

Is there any hope?

The story of the Colorado is grim, but it’s not over! There is some hope, albeit a distant one.

In 2014, the US and Mexico agreed to a localized experiment known as Minute 319. As part of it, they released a “pulse flow” of water from the Morelos Dam to mimic a natural flood. And for a brief, glorious moment, the river made it to the sea again. Vegetation bloomed, birds returned in droves, and communities in Mexico held festivals on the banks of a river they hadn’t seen in decades.

It proved that the Delta can be healed and that nature, despite appearing dead, can be revived. The ecosystem is resilient, but it’s also thirsty. And saving it requires us to value the Delta as much as we value our lawns and alfalfa fields. Until then, the Delta and the Colorado River at large will remain a literal ghost of its former self.

Share

Happy New Year! I hope you had a happy holiday period. Apologies for the lack of articles, it was trying enough keeping up with all of my other content making and the normal weekly Substack articles fell by the wayside. But now that things are back to being normal, I’m back to writing here again!

If you walk into a deli in northern New Jersey’s Bergen County and want a “pork roll” you’ll likely be ordering something called a “Taylor Ham” instead. Conversely, if you go to a Wawa in southern New Jersey’s Camden County and ask for “Taylor Ham,” you might be politely asked to leave. Or just corrected that it’s called a “pork roll.” The point being though that there’s a very real divide in New Jersey that persists to this day.

You see, New Jersey is not one state. It’s two distinct cultures, two economies, and two media markets trapped in a single trench coat, pretending to be a unified entity. And while we treat the North/South Jersey divide like a quirky local rivalry such as with a debate over breakfast meats or whether you root for the Eagles or the Giants in the NFL, the divide is very real. You see, New Jersey has an actual colonial divide that simply didn’t survive into statehood.

Subscribe now

Looking back at the colonial record, it becomes clear that this identity crisis isn’t an accident. For 28 years, New Jersey was split into two separate colonies: East Jersey and West Jersey. They had different capitals, different constitutions, and different religious makeups. But then, in 1702, Queen Anne reunited them into a single royal colony.

I don’t know if Queen Anne was wrong or not in doing this, but what I am saying is that this divide has created the very split New Jersey we still see today. In fact, I’d argue that northern New Jersey is far more different from southern New Jersey than North Dakota is from South Dakota.

But let’s figure out how New Jersey got to where it’s at today.

It all goes back to the British (of course)

Upon capturing New Amsterdam and the Dutch North American holdings, the British Empire found itself with quite a lot of territory in between its Massachusetts and Virginia colonies. And the Duke of York, who inherited New Amsterdam (and promtly renamed it New York) ended up giving away what would become New Jersey to two of his buddies, Sir George Carteret and Lord Berkeley of Stratton.

Now, the logical thing to at this moment was probably to jointly rule the single land mass as one entity and split any revenues. But that’s not what these two did. Instead, they split the colony in half and created East Jersey (Carteret) and West Jersey (Stratton). Stratton then, almost immediately sold his proprietorship of West Jersey to the Quakers.

This was all done via a document called the Quintipartite Deed (1676) that formally sliced the province in half diagonally.

• East Jersey (roughly North Jersey today) was held by Sir George Carteret. It was settled largely by Puritans from Long Island and New England, along with Scottish immigrants. Its capital was Perth Amboy. It looked toward New York Harbor. Its commercial instincts were sharp, urban, and Calvinist.

• West Jersey (roughly South Jersey today) was sold to a group of Quakers, including William Penn. Its capital was Burlington. It looked toward the Delaware River in the south and was largely egalitarian, agrarian, and culturally mild.

The line they drew (the “Keith Line”) wasn’t perfect, but it acknowledged a geographic reality that we still see today: The geology and hydrology of the state pull in opposite directions. The northeast drains into the Hudson and the Atlantic; the southwest drains into the Delaware.

Benjamin Franklin later famously described New Jersey as “a keg tapped at both ends,” drained by New York to the north and Philadelphia to the south.

By forcing these two distinct spheres of influence into one political unit, the British Crown guaranteed that New Jersey would never develop a singular, cohesive center of gravity.

If the separation had held, East Jersey would today be a powerhouse maritime state. It would likely be a dense, urbanized corridor—essentially a massive extension of the New York metro area, but with its own sovereign identity, perhaps rivaling Connecticut or Massachusetts in political clout.

West Jersey, meanwhile, would have evolved into a distinct Mid-Atlantic commonwealth. With its Quaker roots, it might have looked more like a coastal version of Pennsylvania—agricultural, suburban, and centered entirely on the Delaware Valley economy.

Reunification

Unfortunately, there’s no splashy answer for why the two merged back into a single colony. The reunification in 1702 was largely a matter of administrative convenience for the British Crown and a way to solve land disputes between the proprietors and the then the Quakers. And so, they all surrendered their governing rights, and New Jersey became a single royal colony.

But this reunification didn’t solve the underlying cultural rift. They just papered over it.

Fast forward to today, and we’re left with a state legislature that has to balance the needs of a commuter belt serving Wall Street with the needs of a region that shares more DNA with Eastern Pennsylvania. We have a “Central Jersey” that exists solely as a demilitarized zone where the two sides mix uneasily.

There’s no single major media market that New Jersey can call their own and they’re the only state completely sandwiched between two external media giants (NYC and Philly). This means New Jersey’s politics rarely gets the coverage it deserves because their news is filtered through the lens of their larger, more prominent neighbors (the most recent gubernatorial election aside).

And so, if East and West Jersey had remained separate, there likely wouldn’t be any of the usual jokes about being the “armpit” of New York or the shadow of Philly. And instead there would be two distinct, logical states that more accurately represent the two halves unique cultures.

• East Jersey: The industrial, high-density engine in the north (oddly enough).

• West Jersey: The garden state of the Delaware Valley in the south.

But as the French say: c’est la vie.

Share

If you learned anything about Greenland and Iceland well in primary school, you likely heard the famous paradox “Iceland is actually green, and Greenland is actually ice” and the reason why their names seemingly fly in the face of reality.

Subscribe now

This is one of geography’s favorite anecdotes, a story of Viking deception and trickery that has survived for a millennium. The popular legend claims that the Vikings deliberately swapped the names to fool pirates and unwanted settlers. As the story goes, they named their lush, beautiful island “Iceland” to scare people away, and the frozen wasteland “Greenland” to lure enemies to their doom.

It’s a fantastic story. It’s clever, it’s ironic, and it paints the Vikings as master trolls of the medieval world.

There is just one problem:

It ain’t true!

While the names are indeed a bit of a mismatch today, they weren’t the result of a coordinated conspiracy to switch the labels. The real story involves a depressed sailor, a PR-savvy exile, and a global shift in climate.

Why we love the “bait and switch” myth

Why has the “conspiracy theory” version of history remained so popular? Basically, as humans, we love irony! The idea that a name is the exact opposite of reality is naturally memorable. For example the Holy Roman Empire was neither holy, nor Roman, nor really an empire in the traditional sense.

The myth also appeals to our perception of Vikings. We like to imagine them not just as brutes, but as cunning strategists. The idea of a “medieval marketing scam” where pirates are tricked into sailing toward glaciers while the locals enjoy green meadows is simply too entertaining to fact-check.

The reality of Iceland

The reality is that Iceland wasn’t named to trick anyone. It was named by a man who was having a terrible year and he was pretty grumpy about it.

In the 9th century, a Viking named Flóki Vilgerðarson (often called Raven-Flóki) set out to settle the island. At the time, the island had other names, including Snæland (Snowland) and Garðarshólmur (Garðar’s Isle).

Unfortunately, Flóki’s trip was a disaster. According to the legend, his daughter drowned en route. So a pretty rough beginning. But upon arrival, he was so enchanted by the good fishing that he forgot to harvest hay for his livestock which lead to all his animals starving to death once winter rolled around.

Depressed and ruined, Flóki hiked up a mountain in the spring to check the weather. He looked out into a fjord (likely Vatnsfjörður) and saw it choked with drift ice from Greenland. In a fit of bitterness, he renamed the country Ísland (Iceland).

When he returned to Norway, he told everyone the land was worthless. However, his crewmen disagreed, spreading rumors that “butter dripped from every blade of grass.” The “butter” rumor won out, and settlers flocked there anyway, keeping Flóki’s bitter name despite the lush summer landscapes. Which isn’t surprising because the Vikings were, if nothing else, always looking for more places to settle.

The reality of Greenland

Now if Iceland’s name was born of depression, Greenland’s name was born of ambition.

About a century after Flóki, a volatile Viking named Erik the Red was exiled from Iceland for manslaughter (a habit he had picked up from his father, who was exiled from Norway for the same reason, yada yada no need to get into the details). So Erik sailed west and discovered a massive landmass.

Unlike the “Bait and Switch” myth suggests, Erik wasn’t trying to protect Iceland. After all, he was banished from it. For all we know, he greatly disliked Iceland at the time. But he did want to start his own colony where he could be a chieftain.

Erik knew that to build a settlement, he needed people. And so he returned to Iceland after his exile and pitched the new land to his fellow Vikings. The Saga of Erik the Red explicitly states his reasoning:

“He called the land Greenland, for he said that people would be more tempted to go there if it had an attractive name.”

It was, effectively, a real estate scam. It very well may be the oldest real estate scam in history.

But it was once greener

There is a crucial piece of the puzzle often missed: The Medieval Warm Period.

When Erik the Red arrived in Greenland (around 985 AD), global temperatures were significantly higher than they would be until basically today. In fact, a study found that average temperatures in Greenland exceeded the average temperature between 1961–1990. So the southern fjords of Greenland were likely much greener, potentially supporting birch forests and grazing land for sheep and cattle.

At the same time, the drift ice that Flóki saw in Iceland was a real threat to navigation. So, to a Viking in the year 990 AD, Iceland was a place where you might get trapped by sea ice in the winter and Greenland was a place with green, grassy fjords ripe for farming.

So the names weren’t really a trick to swap settlers. Though I supposed Greenland may have been a small trick. A diet trick if you will. They were named by two different men, 100 years apart, with totally different motivations.

The irony we see today is largely due to the cooling climate that followed (the Little Ice Age), which buried Erik’s green settlements under ice, leaving us with the confusing map we have today. And, perhaps in another level of irony, we very well may come full circle once again and Greenland will become green due to the current climate change that’s seeing the arctic regions warm and more than twice the global average.

Share

To the average tourist, Corsica is the Île de Beaut (if I have my French correct), a rugged paradise of granite peaks that’s notorious for its scent-filled maquis scrubland. It’s the birthplace of Napoleon Bonaparte and a jewel in the French crown. But if you scratch a bit deeper than the surface of this Mediterranean island you’ll find a history defined not by calm and welcoming integration, but by perennial conquest, resistance, and a fiercely distinct identity that has never quite made peace with Paris.

For centuries, Corsica has existed in a state of suspended animation between belonging to itself and belonging to another. Its modern history is a cycle of colonization, a violent yearning for liberty, and an enduring question that remains unanswered: Should Corsica finally be allowed to govern itself?

Subscribe now

The perennial colony

Geography is destiny in my opinion (which is probably not a surprise coming from me), and Corsica’s position in the heart of the Mediterranean has made it a strategic prize for almost every major power in the region for millenia. Before it was French, it was a possession of the Greeks, the Etruscans, the Carthaginians, the Romans, the Vandals, and the Ostrogoths. It was not merely a territory but a frontier outpost, constantly fortified against the next invader.

However, it was the Republic of Genoa that left the deepest scar. Genoa, if you’re unfamiliar is an old Italian Kingdom located in the northwest of modern day Italy (though not as far north as Turin or Milan). For nearly five centuries, Genoa ruled the island with a capitalist grip, treating it as a resource to be exploited rather than a society to be developed. This era planted the seeds of the Corsican vendetta and a deep-seated mistrust of foreign authority. It also gave rise to the island’s most revered hero, Pasquale Paoli.

In the mid-18th century, Paoli led a successful rebellion against Genoa, establishing the Corsican Republic. For fourteen years, Corsica was an independent nation-state. And it was a beacon of Enlightenment ideals, boasting one of the world’s first modern democratic constitutions, a document that even influenced the American revolutionaries. During this brief golden age, Corsica proved it was capable of self-governance, education, and justice.

Unfortunately, its independence and enlightened form of government wouldn’t last long.

The French conquest

The dream of independence was shattered not by internal failure, but by a transaction. In 1768, a debt-ridden Genoa famously “sold” its rights to Corsica to King Louis XV of France under the Treaty of Versailles. The Corsicans were not consulted. They woke up one morning as independent people (though still claimed by Genoa), and the next, subjects of France.

The transition was violent. Paoli’s forces were crushed by the French army at the Battle of Ponte Novu in 1769. The island was pacified through military might, and the French administration began a centuries-long process of assimilation. The Corsican language, a romance language closely related to Tuscan Italian, was marginalized, eventually banned in schools and administration. The island’s economy remained underdeveloped, leading to mass emigration. For generations, Corsicans felt they were treated as second-class citizens, their island functioning as little more than a reservoir of civil servants and soldiers for the French Empire. A role that Corsicans have been very familiar with.

The return of independence?

The dormant embers of nationalism reignited furiously in the 20th century. As the French colonial empire collapsed in Algeria and Indochina, Corsicans began to look inward. They saw an island that remained economically stagnant while the French mainland prospered.

The turning point came in 1975 at Aleria, where a group of autonomists occupied a wine cellar to protest corruption and economic scandals involving French settlers from Algeria (pieds-noirs). The heavy-handed response by the French state (sending in armored vehicles and 1,200 gendarmes) radicalized the movement.

From the ashes of Aleria rose the FLNC (National Liberation Front of Corsica). For the next four decades, the island was gripped by a campaign of violence. In many ways, this was not dissimilar from the Troubles that gripped Northern Ireland during in the late 1900s. It wassn’t a civil war, but a “clandestine struggle.” The FLNC orchestrated thousands of bombings, targeting French government buildings, banks, and holiday homes owned by non-residents. These “blue nights” were intended to make the French occupation costly and untenable.

The violence reached its boiling point in 1998 with the assassination of Prefect Claude Érignac, the highest representative of the French state on the island. But this assassination had the opposite affect on the independence movement. In fact, the shock of this murder alienated many moderate nationalists and forced a reckoning within the movement. While the FLNC eventually laid down its arms in 2014, the sentiment that drove them remains alive.

The case for autonomy

Today, the Corsica is no longer violent in the same way, but the political battle is louder than ever. Nationalist parties now dominate the Corsican Assembly, holding a clear democratic mandate. The argument for independence, or at the very least significant autonomy, is compelling.

First, there is the cultural imperative. Corsica possesses a distinct language and culture that is rapidly eroding under the pressure of homogenization. Without the legislative power to make Corsican co-official and mandatory in schools, a power currently blocked by the French Constitution, the language is destined to die. This one is particularly interesting because if you know anything about France, its that they are very strict about maintaining their own language (French) as the dominant language within their country. So while it might seem like an “easy win” for Corsica to get language rights for their own island, the likelihood of France giving in to that seems unlikely,

Second is the reality of insularity. Economic policies designed for the industrial north of France or the agricultural plains of the Loire often make little sense for a mountainous Mediterranean island. Corsican leaders argue that they need specific legislative powers to manage land speculation, protect the environment from over-tourism, and tailor tax laws to an island economy.

Finally, there is the European precedent. Just south of Corsica lies Sardinia, an Italian island with significant autonomous status. Sicily, the Balearic Islands, and Catalonia all enjoy degrees of self-rule that Corsica is denied. And of course there’s Scotland in the United Kingdom. France though remains one of the most centralized states in Europe, a “Republic one and indivisible” that views regional autonomy as a threat to its very existence.

Corsica is not the Riviera, nor is it Paris, Aquitaine, Normandy or any of the other regions of France proper. It’s a distinct geopolitical entity with a history of sovereignty and a capacity for self-rule that was frankly stolen, not given. While full independence poses severe economic challenges (Corsica is heavily subsidized by Paris) the status quo is increasingly indefensible. Recognizing Corsica’s specificity through constitutional autonomy isn’t a sign of French weakness, but it’s likely the only path to a lasting peace for the island.

Share

Quick update for you all. A few weeks ago, Michael, the brains behind the very popular urbanism-centric Millennial Dream Substack invited me onto his podcast to discuss all things Geography, YouTube, creator life, and more. It was a whirlwind discussion and one that I thoroughly enjoyed! If you’d like to give it a listen you can check it out right here:

I don’t often sit down for podcasts, especially since I’m traveling so much but it was fun reliving how I even got into this crazy business and where it might lead me to next.

Nothing more than that. Back next week with your regularly scheduled geography article. 🤠

Share

First! Apologies for no article last week. I’d like to be able to blame the Thanksgiving holiday in the states as the reason, but the real reason is that I’ve been traveling a lot through Morocco, southern and western Europe and just lost track of time. It just happens sometimes.

If you were to look at a map of the world and guess the order in which homo sapiens (the type of human that we are all a part of) spread around to the continents after leaving Africa, common sense would suggest a simple ripple effect. Surely, given its proximity, the earliest homo sapiens would walk next door to Europe before sailing off to Australia, right?

Common sense, in this case, is wrong… possibly! I’ll get to why its only “possible” in a bit, but the point to make here is that the human history of Australia is so much older than we give it credit for. If it’s not necessarily as old as Europe, the fact that there’s even debate about it is pretty dang impressive.

One of the most counter-intuitive facts of human history is that our ancestors were likely painting rock art in the tropical heat of Northern Australia while Europe was still a fortress of ice with neanderthals (the type of human we’re not part of). This made the northern continent largely impenetrable to homo sapiens.

Subscribe now

Here’s how the timeline breaks down, and why the “remote” continent of Australia was inhabited at least around the same time as the “Old World” of Europe.

The Australian timeline

To understand the scale of this migration, let’s look at the dates. While exact years are always debated in archaeology, the consensus has shifted in the last decade. Here’s what I could find:

• Australia (Sahul): Arrived ~65,000 years ago (based on the Madjedbebe rock shelter findings).

• Europe: Definitively arrived ~45,000 years ago. But there’s some evidence that could suggest anywhere from 55,000 to 60,000 years as well.

• The Americas: Arrived ~15,000–20,000 years ago.

So humans were likely living in Australia for at least 5,000 years but possibly as much as 20,000 years before they permanently settled in Europe. That’s an incredible concept because the distance between Africa (where homo sapiens migrated from) to Europe and Australia is wildly different. So how did we skip an entire continent that was so close? The answer lies in the path of least resistance.

When homo sapiens left Africa (roughly 60,000–90,000 years ago), they didn’t just wander aimlessly. They likely followed a “Southern Route” along the coasts of Arabia, India, and Southeast Asia. And they did this for a couple reasons:

First there was the climate. Tens of thousands of years ago the planet was much colder than it is now. This meant that places such as Europe was largely encased in ice year around, or otherwise just very hard to survive in. But this souther route was tropical and coastal. It offered a consistent diet of seafood (rich in omega-3s for brain development) and didn’t require complex cold-weather technology like sewing heavy furs or building insulated shelters. It was also much closer to the home of Africa. The comfortability of this route would prove to be the main decision factor in migration.

But also, this route acted as a “superhighway.” Populations could expand rapidly along the beachheads of the Indian Ocean without facing significant geographic barriers, such as the incredibly challenging mountainous terrain of Europe, until they hit the end of the line.

When these migrants reached Southeast Asia, the world looked different. Sea levels were much lower, exposing continental shelves that don’t currently exist. This enabled a migration that required little, if any, vessels that could sail in the ocean. In fact, there were two large land masses back then that no longer exist today:

• Sunda: The islands of Indonesia (Java, Sumatra, Borneo) were connected to mainland Asia in a giant landmass called Sunda.

• Sahul: Australia, New Guinea, and Tasmania were all connected into one massive continent called Sahul.

Between Sunda and Sahul lay Wallacea—a zone of deep ocean trenches and islands.⁹ Even with lower sea levels, early humans could never walk to Australia. There was always at least 80 kilometers (50 miles) of open ocean to cross, often with currents so strong they would push a swimmer out to sea.

Which means something even more incredible! The first Australians were mariners. Roughly 65,000 years ago, they built rafts or boats and intentionally crossed the horizon, making them the world’s first open-ocean voyagers. This kind of migration so long ago really can’t understated and its way Australia’s aboriginal populations are so incredibly important to the humans at large. They’re a direct connection to one of the most remarkable feats of human migration on the planet.

But let’s get back to Europe.

Why was Europe So Hard?

If humans could build boats and cross oceans, why couldn’t they just walk into Europe? Europe is, geographically speaking, right next door to Africa. The delay in settling Europe wasn’t about distance; it was about resistance. And resistance of a few different things:

1. The ice barrier

Europe 50,000 years ago was not the temperate place it is today. It was deep in the grip of the Last Glacial Period. The climate was harsh, dry, and brutally cold. For a species evolving in the African tropics, Europe was an alien, hostile environment requiring technologies (tailored clothing, superior fire control) that took thousands of years to perfect.

2. The neanderthal fortress

Europe wasn’t empty. It just wasn’t home to homo sapiens. Instead, it was the stronghold of homo neanderthalensis.

Neanderthals had lived there for hundreds of thousands of years. They were physically stronger, adapted to the cold, and skilled hunters. Early modern humans trying to enter Europe faced direct competition for resources with a species that knew the terrain perfectly.

For thousands of years, the Levant (modern-day Israel/Syria) effectively acted as a border zone. Modern humans and Neanderthals likely traded territory there, but we couldn’t push fully into their European heartland until their numbers began to dwindle or our technology gave us a decisive edge.

The big picture

The colonization of Australia flips the script on how we view “primitive” humans. We often imagine that history is a straight line of progress: that we conquered the easy, nearby lands first (Europe) before figuring out how to reach the hard, distant ones (Australia).

The reality is that adaptation dictates destination. It was easier for our ancestors to traverse thousands and thousands of miles (or kilometers) of tropical coastline and invent maritime navigation than it was to survive a European winter or outcompete a Neanderthal.

So, while our cousins were shivering at the gates of Europe, the first Australians were already mastering a new continent, isolated by the sea, where they would develop the oldest continuous living culture on Earth.

And this is why Australia continues to fascinate me every single day.

Share

The general consensus amongst continents is that Africa has had a rough go of it over the last few hundred years. First there was the global slave trade which plundered and kidnapped millions of people and sent them around the world to work in brutal servitude. Then, after the slave tried largely (but not entirely) died down, there was the race to colonize Africa by Europe. While not a direct continuation of slavery, it’s at least close enough to make for an apt comparison. And, finally, once Europe had extracted as much wealth as possible and “benevolently” allowed the continent’s people to govern themselves, things generally fell into disarray with coup after coup after coup (mostly because of all the colonization which bred ethnic tensions and power vacuums).

I could go on about Africa’s general unluck in life, but I don’t want to write anymore about it. Instead, I want to focus on some of the successful countries. Because, while success has been limited, its worth highlighting that some countries have managed to buck the overall trend.

Subscribe now

These six countries have leveraged everything from diamonds and oil to luxury tourism and prudent banking to climb the global wealth ladders. So here’s how they did it, ranked by their estimated 2025 GDP per capita (also known as Purchasing Power Parity) as listed by the International Monetary Fund (IMF).

1. Seychelles

• Population: 121,000

• GDP (PPP): $4.27 Billion

• GDP Per Capita: $42,000

• Global Rank: 56

The tiny archipelago of Seychelles is currently the wealthiest nation in Africa on a per capita basis. While many island nations rely on volume tourism, Seychelles bucked the trend by pivoting early to an “exclusive” model, focusing on high-value, low-impact luxury travel that protects their environment while generating massive revenue. This is bolstered by a robust tuna fishing industry, which accounts for a significant portion of their exports. By maintaining a small, highly educated population and strictly managing their natural resources, they have achieved a standard of living comparable to Southern Europe.

2. Mauritius

• Population: 1.3 Million

• GDP (PPP): $40 Billion

• GDP Per Capita: $32,000

• Global Rank: 77

Mauritius is often cited by economists as the “gold standard” for African development. Unlike its resource-rich neighbors, Mauritius had no oil or diamonds to rely on at independence. Instead, they diversified aggressively. They moved from a sugar-dependent colony to a manufacturing hub (textiles), and eventually into a sophisticated service economy driven by high-end tourism, financial services, and information technology. Their success comes from stability (as it usually does for countries) and a strong governance and rule of law that have enticed foreign investment that shies away from more volatile regions.

Mauritius, of course, just so happens to be the subject of my video this week.

3. Gabon

• Population: 2.5 Million

• GDP (PPP): $57 Billion

• GDP Per Capita: $25,000

• Global Rank: 90

Gabon represents a very different path to wealth: the resource windfall. This central African country holds significant oil reserves and a small population, a formula that usually results in high per capita wealth. But unlike many oil states that stripped their land bare, Gabon has maintained nearly 88% of its rainforest cover, recently attempting to pivot toward “green oil” and timber sustainability. All that said, their challenge remains diversification. Their wealth is heavily tied to the fluctuating price of a barrel of crude oil.

4. Egypt

• Population: 109 Million

• GDP (PPP): $2.4 Trillion

• GDP Per Capita: $21,700

• Global Rank: 138

Egypt is the giant on this list, which actually makes it more impressive than you might think. While the other entrants have small populations, Egypt manages to generate high output despite housing over 100 million people. Their economy bucked the trend through sheer diversity. They possess a little bit of everything: significant hydrocarbon reserves (natural gas), a massive tourism sector largely immune to global trends due to the pyramids’ timeless appeal, and the Suez Canal, a geopolitical toll booth that captures a slice of global trade. This diversity in economy allows them to weather shocks that would otherwise cripple a single-resource economy.

5. Equatorial Guinea

• Population: 1.8 Million

• GDP (PPP): $33 Billion

• GDP Per Capita: $20,500

• Global Rank: 97

Equatorial Guinea is perhaps the most extreme example of resource reliance. Once one of the poorest parts of the continent, the discovery of massive offshore oil reserves in the 1990s catapulted them to the top of the economic rankings almost overnight. Their “success” is purely geological as they sit on an ocean of oil with a population smaller than Houston, Texas. It serves as a stark contrast to Mauritius, wealth here comes from extraction rather than policy innovation. And how long this wealth lasts remains to be seen.

6. Botswana

• Population: 2.7 Million

• GDP (PPP): $52 Billion

• GDP Per Capita: $19,000

• Global Rank: 104

Botswana is the mainland success story. Following independence, they discovered the world’s richest diamond mines. In many places, this leads to the “resource curse” and civil war. Botswana, however, bucked the trend by immediately implementing strong democratic institutions and long-term fiscal planning.⁴ They used diamond revenue to fund education and infrastructure rather than private armies. Today, they are moving beyond mining into high-end safari tourism and banking, proving that resource wealth can be sustainable if managed with foresight.

Wealth vs. stability

I do want to call out one important thing to note though: a high GDP does not always guarantee a peaceful or equal society. For example, while both Gabon and Equatorial Guinea rank high for wealth, they don’t appear at the top of really any safety index I could find.

In fact, when we look at the safest countries in Africa (typically measured by the Global Peace Index), the list shifts. Mauritius often takes the number one spot, proving that their economic model delivers both cash and calm. Botswana also appears high on this list, reinforcing its reputation as a stable democracy. However, new names appear here too. Madagascar frequently ranks as one of the safest nations on the continent despite having a much lower GDP than the countries listed above, highlighting that social cohesion isn’t always tied to financial abundance (though I do want to point out that there are currently civil unrest issues hitting the country). Similarly, Namibia consistently ranks as one of the safest and most stable environments in Africa, leveraging its vast, sparsely populated deserts to create a peaceful, albeit quieter, success story.

So, all that’s to say, if money and success are often correlated with each other, but maybe often shouldn’t be.

Share