A Small Place
Nearly half the Falkland Islanders are immigrants. What draws people to a grim chunk of rock in the South Atlantic?
STANLEY, Falkland Islands—It came as no surprise that the Stanley Arms pub served Cornish pasties and Strongbow Cider, or that the youngest of the three guys stooled up at the bar was complaining that Britain wasn't as it used to be—why, recently, an English lady he tried to help with her groceries practically slugged him, she was so scared of being mugged. After all, I was in Stanley, the capital of the Falkland Islands, which are a kind of superdistillate of Englishness in the same way that, say, Baghdad's Green Zone is an über-U.S.A. as designed by Burger King. What was curious was that the bartender, K.J., was one of the 150 or so Saints who live on the Islands. Not saints of the religious variety, but African-descended immigrants from the tiny tropical island of St. Helena, a place most famous for being Napoleon's final prison exile. Oddly, considering the 1982 war that Britain fought with Argentina over the Falklands, K.J. was wearing the soccer jersey of Club Atlético Independiente, a premier league team based in the suburbs of Buenos Aires. He wasn't exactly the image of your typical English "Kelper," as islanders are known.
For decades, the Falkland Islands have been a mix of punch line and trivia question, its popular image that of a few hundred boozy, inbred sheep farmers living on a rock in the South Atlantic. During the so-called Falklands conflict, British troops memorably dubbed the locals "Bennies" after Benny Hawkins, the village-idiot character in the British soap opera Crossroads. And, indeed, after going for a run on my second day on the islands and finding myself held still by the famous driving winds, I wondered why a dimwitted penguin, much less a sentient human adult, would willingly move there. The word grim comes to mind: Besides sandpaper winds, the islands are blessed with a skin-frying ozone hole, a near complete lack of trees, and import-dependent stores where sad tomatoes fetch $4.15 a pound (about twice what FreshDirect charges in Manhattan).
But there they were: gaggles of immigrants. Every five years, the islands conduct a census with the Orwellian precision that is possible only on remote islands with a population of 2,478. Besides enumerating statistical curiosities—the number of dishwashers, for example, rose from 130 in 1996 to 338 a decade later—the census notes the surprising facts that only 53.2 percent of the 2006 population was born on the islands, and 25 languages other than English are spoken in Falkland homes. Among the immigrants are 650 U.K.-born residents, plenty of them Kelpers whose parents had moved to the United Kingdom to look for work and who themselves returned after the conflict. But there are also 153 Saints, 131 Chileans, 36 Australians, 26 New Zealanders, and a sprinkling of Germans, Russians, Indonesians, and Filipinos. Even an Argentine or two.
The 1982 conflict reminded the British government of the islands' existence. After the war, the government set up a ₤45 million reconstruction-and-development fund for the Falklands and declared the nearby fishing grounds and oil fields property of the islanders, which uncorked an economic boom that turned the Falklands into the polycultural economic beacon it is today. One British diplomat told me one of her colleagues jokes that the islanders should raise a monument to Leopoldo Galtieri, the Argentine military dictator who had the brilliant idea of invading the islands to save his fading government, Wag the Dog-style.
The recent wave of immigration lends the islands the atmosphere of a South Seas Qatar, where foreign workers are imported to do the work that locals can't or won't (although, to the Falklands' credit, they offer a clear path to residency and British citizenship). Chileans and Saints work in restaurants and stores, Russians do marine research, an Englishman runs the tourist bureau, and the head of the local bank is from Indonesia. It's a weirdly exclusive group, given that if you want to stay, the only way to get through the British military air base at Mount Pleasant (the only access to the islands) is to have a pre-arranged job contract with a company that has signed a form of bond taking responsibility for you. With such a strict entry regime, unless you're a cruise-ship day-tripper or a birdwatcher who has flown in on holiday, the only way to be unemployed on the islands is to be a resident retiree or an unemployable, native-born drunk.
Ian Mount is a journalist based in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His work has appeared in the Wall Street Journal, the New York Times, Food & Wine, New York, Monocle, and other publications.