At the edge of the earth rise

If the whole world collapsed tomorrow, the global financial system failed and national borders became vulcanised. De Cunha would be fine. The potato would be reinstated as the national currency and life would calmly move on.

These farmers on the edge of the earth rise, at the edge of the galaxy have made isolation their national export. Stories of shipwrecks, storms, okalolies and eruptions float back over the sea to those ill with connectivity. The great cities of Europe swoon over da cunha's solitude from behind a computer screen.

As the world becomes a logistical landscape, shaped by a pervasive network of  distribution, delivery, consumption and disposal Tristian stays a fully realised commune. The functioning of Tristian is summated on one page in the notebook of the council. Every citizen knows what goes in and what leaves the island's system. Entropy exists in each albatross egg.

Lobsters and potatoes are grown, children are born and as they become wild they roam the rim of the dormant volcano. Okalolies go hunting on old years night for those who've been naughty or nice. Families are ruled by posterity, the Repettos and the Swains know where they have come from and where they are going.

Each family owns two cows, no more, no less. They have heard the stories, they know the environmental devastation of Easter Island. It looms as specter warning Tristanians about overgrazing and over population. Finally what leaves the island, the little export they have, are novelty  stamps, coins, crayfish and a few young Tristanians on the search for better wifi.