Cities, as we know and love them, can range in size, structure, and culture, but in the overwhelming majority of cases, historically architects chose to build up these human habitats by bodies of water—for the easy exchange of goods and people. Urban planner Dorraine Duncan and urban designer Jhordan Channer, the founders of 

—a network of civic thinkers responding to the critical urban issues that affect island cities—now grapple with what it means to be a city. The center of their thinking is their hometown of Kingston, Jamaica, which is situated among the Caribbean Islands and is faced with mounting pressures of tourism, ecological change, and natural disaster. From our home base in New York City, we discuss with Island City Lab what makes our cities relational, how we could rethink cities in the face of the environmental crisis, and how relationship-building might be the only way out of this mess… if there is one.

 We wanted to start with your thoughts on cities as habitats. Is it correct to view them this way? We think of cities as something we created, but how much control do we really have, especially in places where climate impacts how a city lives?



 Cities are relational; they’re about people and relationships, with infrastructure mediating those interactions. Unlike car-dependent suburbs, cities are about connections across people and environments. They’re man-made, shaped by power structures. So, I think of cities as relational systems formed by power dynamics, rather than habitats.



 In the Caribbean, especially, cities are products of capital accumulation, created to extract resources for Europe. Cities like Kingston or Port Royal were strategically placed for exploitation. Through Island City Lab, we're looking at cities as relational, but also as spaces of extraction, shaped by capital.



 That’s an interesting way to frame things, but how does climate impact island cities, especially Caribbean cities, beyond obvious issues such as, say, flooding?



 Island City Lab focuses on how crises, especially climate crises, manifest through infrastructure. The Caribbean is on the front lines of climate change. Some cities, like Kingston, have entered "climate departure," signaling a shift in environmental stability. Our focus is on the relationship between climate ecology and urban retrofit. We’re learning to think of architecture not just as infrastructure, but as adaptable, people-centered systems.

We're constantly faced with hurricanes, droughts, water scarcity, earthquakes, and volcanoes, and the political opportunism that follows these disasters is often more harmful than the disasters themselves. For example, Puerto Rico’s electricity grid and Barbuda’s communal land are being broken apart for luxury real estate development. The climate emergency in the Caribbean is complex, extending beyond environmental issues to political and economic exploitation.



 After hurricanes like Irma, Maria, and Beryl, I’ve rethought the idea of permanence in cities. What does it mean to live in a city when each year we’re dodging catastrophes like hurricanes? We can strengthen foundations, but how do you deal with a category-five hurricane or volcanic eruptions? Maybe cities need to be seen as transient, cyclic systems rather than permanent, legacy ones.



 Are there examples of cities adopting this more transient approach?



 The issue is private property. Indigenous Caribbean people moved freely across the land, but land has become a commodified unit. This makes it hard to think about cities as transient, even when land is transformed by disaster. Radical rebuilding happens, but the idea of ownership locks cities into immobile frameworks.



 Speaking of set places where people live, The Cassava Piece project is focused on a specific community. Could you talk about how the project came about and what it might teach us more broadly?



 With re:arc institute’s support, we're developing a decentralized solid-waste management system in Cassava Piece, a self-built community in Kingston. Waste management is a public health emergency, and it’s especially bad in informal communities. Self-built communities often lack access to public services because of narrow roads and irregular layouts, making it hard for garbage trucks to reach them.

This issue has been longstanding, and we're trying to understand how the community developed alongside the gully, which was once marginal land for peasants. Public service delivery is difficult, and people often burn or dump waste in gullies because no services are available.



 What’s a “self-built community”?



 “Self-built community” refers to communities that were self-organized and developed without formal planning. While “informal” is often used, it’s misleading. These communities are not informal, but have been self-organized, and in many ways, they function with formal systems, even though they are not recognized officially.



 How do people in the community view land, especially regarding waste management?



 The community’s relationship with the land is fluid. They claim land, and it changes hands frequently, making infrastructure interventions tricky. We’re trying to engage in a process of continuous verification with them because the land and development are constantly evolving.



 Many communities like Cassava Piece are studied repeatedly, but not listened to. We did a community survey and found that residents have been vocal about waste disposal issues. The government has repeatedly ignored their needs, despite clear signs of poor waste management.



 How is this information communicated to the broader public?



 We’ve created a website and a WhatsApp group to share project updates with the community. We’re also conducting workshops and building a 3D model of the community, along with renderings of potential waste management solutions. This approach gives residents more accessible ways to engage with the information.



 Tourism plays a big role in Caribbean economies. How do spaces for tourists versus locals create tensions or synergies in the cities?



 The commodification of public resources is a big issue. In Jamaica, many beaches are inaccessible to locals because of hotel developments. Hotels occupy land once used for sugar production, continuing the legacy of colonial extraction. The tourism industry has taken over much of the coastline, leading to a loss of public spaces and exacerbating wealth inequality.

Tourism is extractive in many ways, with much of the money going abroad. The housing market has shifted to cater to tourists, particularly with platforms like Airbnb, leading to displacement of locals and massive suburbanization. It's a complex issue, as tourism is both a significant economic driver and a force of extraction.



I think the tourism industry is like the plantation economy Part Two. Both involve terraforming landscapes for maximum benefit—bulldozing lush forests for monocropping. A similar process has occurred in tourism, not just in the Caribbean but also in places like Miami. Many of Jamaica's iconic beaches were once wetlands—mangroves and swamps—like much of Miami. To extract wealth, environments are often flattened or destroyed. Now, we're seeing beach erosion and sea level rise in places that were once complex mangrove forests, which acted as important natural barriers. This is how extraction manifests—by taming environments.



That raises the question of whether there's an ethical way to travel, or perhaps it's best not to be a tourist at all. Are there solutions beyond, for example, restoring plant life?



I’m not sure I’m convinced tourism works for the Caribbean. I recently read a book about the first international hotel in Jamaica, built by the United Fruit Company. As they expanded their banana empire, they also bought up waterfront properties, starting the tourism industry. The book explored how foreigners consolidated land, leaving black peasants landless, dependent on selling labor in plantations, factories, or tourism. This dynamic continues today—land dispossession and economic dependence. I’m not sold on tourism, nor on fixing it. Any industry should aim to reduce dependence, but tourism, sugar, and call centers don't do that.



Tourism also commodifies our culture for a global market. For example, Carnival in Jamaica has become one of the region's most expensive parties. Last year, [hurricanes] Marion and Jose walked across collapsing infrastructure to participate. Another issue is transforming our culture into a commodity. A Ghanaian prime minister once said tourism should be a "happy accident" after we've defined ourselves. Many Caribbean countries have only recently gained independence, yet we risk falling back into dependence and commodification. This reflects broader global financial influences as well.



We’d like to discuss migration. How does migration from the Caribbean factor into your work? Do you focus more on communities on the ground?



Migration is part of every Caribbean island's story. Some islands even encouraged migration to deal with landlessness and poverty. In Puerto Rico after WWII, and in the British West Indies, people were encouraged to migrate to the UK. Almost every Caribbean person has family living elsewhere, and we have some of the highest rates of migration among educated people. Jhordan and I are part of that too. Migration is just a reality for island life—people leave seeking opportunities, and some return with wealth, which can displace and harm local communities.

As Jhordan mentioned, the housing market in Jamaica is increasingly driven by the diaspora—people in Canada, New York, or the UK. When foreign money enters a struggling economy, it can cause chaos in the housing market. Some properties in Jamaica are more expensive than those in Brooklyn or Manhattan. While the diaspora can help the island, it also contributes to economic inequality.



The diaspora is often told they can "build Jamaica" through real estate investment. They are key players in the Airbnb market and the commodification of housing. Remittances, too, are crucial to the economy, sustaining many lives locally. While family abroad offers access to education and better opportunities, the influx of foreign money is also driving up costs and making life harder in Jamaica.



It’s a lot to consider. We’re curious: do you think there is such a thing as a Caribbean city? Can Miami be considered a Caribbean city, both culturally and geographically? Is it useful to think about this, or is it somewhat ignorantly flattening?



I’m not sure. They call Miami "Kingston 21," another district in Jamaica, due to its strong Caribbean ties. People travel between Jamaica and Miami for shopping trips. It feels like a short mall visit. But I don’t know enough about Miami to classify it as a Caribbean city outside of its connection to Caribbean people. While there are shared colonial histories, the governance and history of Miami make it hard to categorize as a Caribbean city.



Many Caribbean politicians dream of their cities resembling Miami in the future—it’s an aesthetic aspiration. Miami is the closest first-world city to us, and in some ways, it feels more achievable than cities like New York or London. But like many Caribbean cities, Miami also experiences high economic inequality and depends on tourism and real estate. The systems of extraction in both places are very similar. Maybe that's why we subconsciously think, "We could be like Miami," as the same forces are at work in both Miami and cities like Kingston or San Juan.



What is the future you see for Caribbean urbanism? What does Island City Lab aim to achieve in this regard?



We haven’t realized that future yet. We’re still stuck in a neo-colonial space. When I think about a Caribbean city that can develop spaces and infrastructure independent of these forces, I’m excited, but I can’t fully imagine it yet. Still, there are people working towards it. While I’m not glorifying poverty, there are moments when communities self-organize and co-design spaces without market forces or government regulation. These spaces reflect Caribbean culture and climate. At Island City Lab, we want to democratize space-making, understanding that decisions are often made by a few people. We want to open the doors and bring more people into the process, learning together through success and failure.

This interview has been condensed and edited for clarity.

Dorraine Duncan

Jhordan Channer 

On living at the forefront of climate disaster. 

Island Cities

Dorraine is a city planner, policy analyst, and researcher dedicated to reimagining and decolonizing Caribbean infrastructures. Through community engagement, historical analysis, mapping, and systems thinking, she critically analyses urban infrastructure, and supports communities in their efforts to recreate more resilient and just infrastructures.

Dorraine Duncan

Island CitiesIsland Cities

Dorraine DuncanJhordan Channer