A lot of people complain that driving across the United States is boring. Having done the coast-to-coast trip seven times now, I can’t agree. Sure, the stretches through the Corn …read more

Le réalisateur et superviseur VFX Seb Caudron nous présente son dernier projet : le clip Lunae Veritatis (Stay). Réalisé pour The Avener. Un projet qui a demandé trois mois de travail à l’équipe impliquée. La production s’est appuyée sur

In 2024, Egypt completed its 1,155km stretch of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway, a 10,228km‑long road connecting 10 African countries – Egypt, Sudan, South Sudan, Ethiopia, Kenya, Tanzania, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana and South Africa.   The imaginary of ‘Cape to Cairo’ is not new. In 1874, editor of the Daily Telegraph Edwin Arnold proposed a plan to connect the African continent by rail, a project that came to be known as the Cape to Cairo Railway project. Cecil Rhodes expressed his support for the project, seeing it as a means to connect the various ‘possessions’ of the British Empire across Africa, facilitating the movement of troops and natural resources. This railway project was never completed, and in 1970 was overlaid by a very different attempt at connecting the Cape to Cairo, as part of the Trans‑African Highway network. This 56,683km‑long system of highways – some dating from the colonial era, some built as part of the 1970s project, and some only recently built – aimed to create lines of connection across the African continent, from north to south as well as east to west.  Here, postcolonial state power invested in ‘moving the continent’s people and economies from past to future’, as architectural historians Kenny Cupers and Prita Meier write in their 2020 essay ‘Infrastructure between Statehood and Selfhood: The Trans‑African Highway’. The highways were to be built with the support of Kenya’s president Jomo Kenyatta, Ghana’s president Kwame Nkrumah and Ghana’s director of social welfare Robert Gardiner, as well as the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa (UNECA). This project was part of a particular historical moment during which anticolonial ideas animated most of the African continent; alongside trade, this iteration of Cape to Cairo centred social and cultural connection between African peoples. But though largely socialist in ambition, the project nevertheless engaged modernist developmentalist logics that cemented capitalism.  Lead image: Over a century in the making, the final stretches of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway are being finished. Egypt completed the section within its borders last year and a section over the dry Merille River in Kenya was constructed in 2019. Credit: Allan Muturi / SOPA / ZUMA / Alamy. Above: The route from Cairo to Cape Town, outlined in red, belongs to the Trans‑African Highway network, which comprises nine routes, here in black The project failed to fully materialise at the time, but efforts to complete the Trans‑African Highway network have been revived in the last 20 years; large parts are now complete though some links remain unbuilt and many roads are unpaved or hazardous. The most recent attempts to realise this project coincide with a new continental free trade agreement, the agreement on African Continental Free Trade Area (AfCFTA), established in 2019, to increase trade within the continent. The contemporary manifestation of the Cairo–Cape Town Highway – also known as Trans‑African Highway (TAH) 4 – is marked by deepening neoliberal politics. Represented as an opportunity to boost trade and exports, connecting Egypt to African markets that the Egyptian government view as ‘untapped’, the project invokes notions of trade steeped in extraction, reflecting the neoliberal logic underpinning contemporary Egyptian governance; today, the country’s political project, led by Abdel Fattah El Sisi, is oriented towards Egyptian dominance and extraction in relation to the rest of the continent.  Through an allusion to markets ripe for extraction, this language brings to the fore historical forms of domination that have shaped the connections between Egypt and the rest of the continent; previous iterations of connection across the continent often reproduced forms of domination stretching from the north of the African continent to the south, including the Trans‑Saharan slave trade routes across Africa that ended in various North African and Middle Eastern territories. These networks, beginning in the 8th century and lasting until the 20th, produced racialised hierarchies across the continent, shaping North Africa into a comparably privileged space proximate to ‘Arabness’. This was a racialised division based on a civilisational narrative that saw Arabs as superior, but more importantly a political economic division resulting from the slave trade routes that produced huge profits for North Africa and the Middle East. In the contemporary moment, these racialised hierarchies are bound up in political economic dependency on the Arab Gulf states, who are themselves dependent on resource extraction, land grabbing and privatisation across the entire African continent.  ‘The Cairo–Cape Town Highway connects Egypt to African markets viewed as “untapped”, invoking notions steeped in extraction’ However, this imaginary conjured by the Cairo–Cape Town Highway is countered by a network of streets scattered across Africa that traces the web of Egyptian Pan‑African solidarity across the continent. In Lusaka in Zambia, you might find yourself on Nasser Road, as you might in Mwanza in Tanzania or Luanda in Angola. In Mombasa in Kenya, you might be driving down Abdel Nasser Road; in Kampala in Uganda, you might find yourself at Nasser Road University; and in Tunis in Tunisia, you might end up on Gamal Abdel Nasser Street. These street names are a reference to Gamal Abdel Nasser, Egypt’s first postcolonial leader and president between 1956 and 1970.  Read against the contemporary Cairo–Cape Town Highway, these place names signal a different form of connection that brings to life Egyptian Pan‑Africanism, when solidarity was the hegemonic force connecting the continent, coming up against the notion of a natural or timeless ‘great divide’ within Africa. From the memoirs of Egyptian officials who were posted around Africa as conduits of solidarity, to the broadcasts of Radio Cairo that were heard across the continent, to the various conferences attended by anticolonial movements and postcolonial states, Egypt’s orientation towards Pan‑Africanism, beginning in the early 20th century and lasting until the 1970s, was both material and ideological. Figures and movements forged webs of solidarity with their African comrades, imagining an Africa that was united through shared commitments to ending colonialism and capitalist extraction.  The route between Cape Town in South Africa and Cairo in Egypt has long occupied the colonial imaginary. In 1930, Margaret Belcher and Ellen Budgell made the journey, sponsored by car brand Morris and oil company Shell Credit: Fox Photos / Getty The pair made use of the road built by British colonisers in the 19th century, and which forms the basis for the current Cairo–Cape Town Highway. The road was preceded by the 1874 Cape to Cairo Railway project, which connected the colonies of the British Empire Credit: Library of Congress, Geography and Map Division This network of eponymous streets represents attempts to inscribe anticolonial power into the materiality of the city. Street‑naming practices are one way in which the past comes into the present, ‘weaving history into the geographic fabric of everyday life’, as geographer Derek Alderman wrote in his 2002 essay ‘Street Names as Memorial Arenas’. In this vein, the renaming of streets during decolonisation marked a practice of contesting the production of colonial space. In the newly postcolonial city, renaming was a way of ‘claiming the city back’, Alderman continues. While these changes may appear discursive, it is their embedding in material spaces, through signs and maps, that make the names come to life; place names become a part of the everyday through sharing addresses or giving directions. This quality makes them powerful; consciously or unconsciously, they form part of how the spaces of the city are navigated.  These are traces that were once part of a dominant historical narrative; yet when they are encountered in the present, during a different historical moment, they no longer act as expressions of power but instead conjure up a moment that has long passed. A street in Lusaka named after an Egyptian general made more sense 60 years ago than it does today, yet contextualising it recovers a marginalised history of Egyptian Pan‑Africanism.  Markers such as street names or monuments are simultaneously markers of anticolonial struggle as well as expressions of state power – part of an attempt, by political projects such as Nasser’s, to exert their own dominance over cities, towns and villages. That such traces are expressions of both anticolonial hopes and postcolonial state power produces a sense of tension within them. For instance, Nasser’s postcolonial project in Egypt was a contradictory one; it gave life to anticolonial hopes – for instance by breaking away from European capitalism and embracing anticolonial geopolitics – while crushing many parts of the left through repression, censorship and imprisonment. Traces of Nasser found today inscribe both anticolonial promises – those that came to life and those that did not – while reproducing postcolonial power that in most instances ended in dictatorship.  Recent efforts to complete the route build on those of the post‑independence era – work on a section north of Nairobi started in 1968 Credit: Associated Press / Alamy The Trans‑African Highway network was conceived in 1970 in the spirit of Pan‑Africanism At that time, the routes did not extend into South Africa, which was in the grip of apartheid. The Trans‑African Highway initiative was motivated by a desire to improve trade and centre cultural links across the continent – an ambition that was even celebrated on postage stamps There have been long‑standing debates about the erasure of the radical anticolonial spirit from the more conservative postcolonial states that emerged; the promises and hopes of anticolonialism, not least among them socialism and a world free of white supremacy, remain largely unrealised. Instead, by the 1970s neoliberalism emerged as a new hegemonic project. The contemporary instantiation of Cape to Cairo highlights just how pervasive neoliberal logics continue to be, despite multiple global financial crises and the 2011 Egyptian revolution demanding ‘bread, freedom, social justice’.  But the network of streets named after anticolonial figures and events across the world is testament to the immense power and promise of anticolonial revolution. Most of the 20th century was characterised by anticolonial struggle, decolonisation and postcolonial nation‑building, as nations across the global south gained independence from European empire and founded their own political projects. Anticolonial traces, present in street and place names, point to the possibility of solidarity as a means of reorienting colonial geographies. They are a reminder that there have been other imaginings of Cape to Cairo, and that things can be – and have been – otherwise. 2025-06-13 Kristina Rapacki Share

June 3, 20255 min readAre We Ready for Death in Space?NASA has quietly taken steps to prepare for a death in space. We need to ask how nations will deal with this inevitability now, as more people start traveling off the planetBy Peter Cummings edited by Lee Billings SciePro/Science Photo Library/Getty ImagesIn 2012 NASA stealthily slipped a morgue into orbit.No press release. No fanfare. Just a sealed, soft-sided pouch tucked in a cargo shipment to the International Space Station (ISS) alongside freeze-dried meals and scientific gear. Officially, it was called the Human Remains Containment Unit (HRCU). To the untrained eye it looked like a shipping bag for frozen cargo. But to NASA it marked something far more sobering: a major advance in preparing for death beyond Earth.As a kid, I obsessed over how astronauts went to the bathroom in zero gravity. Now, decades later, as a forensic pathologist and a perennial applicant to NASA’s astronaut corps, I find myself fixated on a darker, more haunting question:On supporting science journalismIf you're enjoying this article, consider supporting our award-winning journalism by subscribing. By purchasing a subscription you are helping to ensure the future of impactful stories about the discoveries and ideas shaping our world today.What would happen if an astronaut died out there? Would they be brought home, or would they be left behind? If they expired on some other world, would that be their final resting place? If they passed away on a spacecraft or space station, would their remains be cast off into orbit—or sent on an escape-velocity voyage to the interstellar void?NASA, it turns out, has begun working out most of these answers. And none too soon. Because the question itself is no longer if someone will die in space—but when.A Graying CorpsNo astronaut has ever died of natural causes off-world. In 1971 the three-man crew of the Soviet Soyuz 11 mission asphyxiated in space when their spacecraft depressurized shortly before its automated atmospheric reentry—but their deaths were only discovered once the spacecraft landed on Earth. Similarly, every U.S. spaceflight fatality to date has occurred within Earth’s atmosphere—under gravity, oxygen and a clear national jurisdiction. That matters, because it means every spaceflight mortality has played out in familiar territory.But planned missions are getting longer, with destinations beyond low-Earth orbit. And NASA’s astronaut corps is getting older. The average age now hovers around 50—an age bracket where natural death becomes statistically relevant, even for clean-living fitness buffs. Death in space is no longer a thought experiment. It’s a probability curve—and NASA knows it.In response, the agency is making subtle but decisive moves. The most recent astronaut selection cycle was extended—not only to boost intake but also to attract younger crew members capable of handling future long-duration missions.NASA’s Space MorgueIf someone were to die aboard the ISS today, their body would be placed in the HRCU, which would then be sealed and secured in a nonpressurized area to await eventual return to Earth.The HRCU itself is a modified version of a military-grade body bag designed to store human remains in hazardous environments. It integrates with refrigeration systems already aboard the ISS to slow decomposition and includes odor-control filters and moisture-absorbent linings, as well as reversed zippers for respectful access at the head. There are straps to secure the body in a seat for return, and patches for name tags and national flags.Cadaver tests conducted in 2019 at Sam Houston State University have proved the system durable. Some versions held for over 40 days before decomposition breached the barrier. NASA even drop-tested the bag from 19 feet to simulate a hard landing.But it’s never been used in space. And since no one yet knows how a body decomposes in true microgravity (or, for that matter, on the moon), no one can really say whether the HRCU would preserve tissue well enough for a forensic autopsy.This is a troubling knowledge gap, because in space, a death isn’t just a tragic loss—it’s also a vital data point. Was an astronaut’s demise from a fluke of their physiology, or an unavoidable stroke of cosmic bad luck—or was it instead a consequence of flaws in a space habitat’s myriad systems that might be found and fixed? Future lives may depend on understanding what went wrong, via a proper postmortem investigation.But there’s no medical examiner in orbit. So NASA trains its crews in something called the In-Mission Forensic Sample Collection protocol. The space agency’s astronauts may avoid talking about it, but they all have it memorized: Document everything, ideally with real-time guidance from NASA flight surgeons. Photograph the body. Collect blood and vitreous fluid, as well as hair and tissue samples. Only then can the remains be stowed in the HRCU.NASA has also prepared for death outside the station—on spacewalks, the moon or deep space missions. If a crew member perishes in vacuum but their remains are retrieved, the body is wrapped in a specially designed space shroud.The goal isn’t just a technical matter of preventing contamination. It’s psychological, too, as a way of preserving dignity. Of all the “firsts” any space agency hopes to achieve, the first-ever human corpse drifting into frame on a satellite feed is not among them.If a burial must occur—in lunar regolith or by jettisoning into solar orbit—the body will be dutifully tracked and cataloged, treated forevermore as a hallowed artifact of space history.Such gestures are also of relevance to NASA’s plans for off-world mourning; grief and memorial protocols are now part of official crew training. If a death occurs, surviving astronauts are tasked with holding a simple ceremony to honor the fallen—then to move on with their mission.Uncharted RealmsSo far we’ve only covered the “easy” questions. NASA and others are still grappling with harder ones.Consider the issue of authority over a death and mortal remains. On the ISS, it’s simple: the deceased astronaut’s home country retains jurisdiction. But that clarity fades as destinations grow more distant and the voyages more diverse: What really happens on space-agency missions to the moon, or to Mars? How might rules change for commercial or multinational spaceflights—or, for that matter, the private space stations and interplanetary settlements that are envisioned by Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos and other tech multibillionaires?NASA and its partners have started drafting frameworks, like the Artemis Accords—agreements signed by more than 50 nations to govern behavior in space. But even those don’t address many intimate details of death.What happens, for instance, if foul play is suspected?The Outer Space Treaty, a legal document drafted in 1967 under the United Nations that is humanity’s foundational set of rules for orbit and beyond, doesn’t say.Of course, not everything can be planned for in advance. And NASA has done an extraordinary job of keeping astronauts in orbit alive. But as more people venture into space, and as the frontier stretches to longer voyages and farther destinations, it becomes a statistical certainty that sooner or later someone won’t come home.When that happens, it won’t just be a tragedy. It will be a test. A test of our systems, our ethics and our ability to adapt to a new dimension of mortality. To some, NASA’s preparations for astronautical death may seem merely morbid, even silly—but that couldn’t be further from the truth.Space won’t care of course, whenever it claims more lives. But we will. And rising to that grim occasion with reverence, rigor and grace will define not just policy out in the great beyond—but what it means to be human there, too.

A new central staircase leads to a contemporary basement free of Hausmannian flourishes. Batiik Studio signals the shift with a mix of contemporary materials: a white resin banister curls onto a silvery travertine platform sourced from Artefacts, while bespoke cherry wood shelving rises along the wall. A Rosanna Lefeuvre painting completes the picture. Without erasing the flamboyant bones of the home, Benichou and Jallet skirted around them, crafting wall panels for select sections—like a single stretch in the living room, or a wall behind the primary bedroom’s headboard—that protect and sometimes curve around moldings, scaling back the grandeur. Sculptural by nature and rendered in white, each new plane—some smooth and matte, some textured like the surface of a painting—runs along decorative stretches of molding like a veil, creating clean and contemporary surfaces for hanging art.With Haussmannian details to spare throughout the apartment, the new walls aren’t permanent (future owners can remove them, revealing the original walls again), but eclipse key sections where moldings are almost oppressive. The edited version, a more artful form of White-Out, adds a new contemporary layer that gives the home, and the owners’ art, room to breathe.Clad in white materials that match the walls and with no overhead storage, the cooking area virtually disappears. “The client didn’t want the kitchen to look like a kitchen,” adds Benichou, nodding to the sculptural island. A minimal, travertine Garnier & Linker Lipari task light hangs over granite countertops sourced from Paris’s Artefacts. Vintage Scandinavian stools add texture along with a mixed-media artwork by Eva Jospin, and a Batiik Studio–designed wooden door leads to a new work kitchen (to hide any mess). Batiik Studio designed a one-of-a-kind dining table that breaks into two pieces, depending on how many guests are over (the fixed smaller piece creates space along the wall for things like sculptures and flowers when not in use). With boulder-like legs and a curving shape, it adds complexity against the room’s rectangular symmetry. Frédéric Pellenq chairs from Kolkhoze and a vintage Louis Poulsen Artichoke light enhance the contrast. Beyond the walls, new horizontal surfaces make space for sculptural pieces. In the living room, a faceted fireplace in gray-toned travertine adds sharp geometry to the ornate space. Jutting out on either side and along the mantle are plinth-like surfaces for objects tall and small. In the kitchen’s dining area, Benichou and Jallet flexed their talent for bespoke furniture, creating a dramatic ceramic-topped wooden table that swoops into the center of the room—a stage for rotating sculptures and dinner parties alike.The apartment’s modern basement was, literally, a whole different story. There were no ornate moldings with which to compete, no historic charms to challenge. And so it was a blank slate for Benichou and Jallet to do what they do best: create.With only a small window in the crafts room, using white across all surfaces—even bespoke storage and a resin floor—made the space as bright as possible. A vintage wooden table paired with vintage Pierre Chapo stools atop a beige Toulemonde Bochart Lion rug give warmth to the pristine palette.

LUBBOCK — Every winter, after the sea of cotton has been harvested in the South Plains and the ground looks barren, technicians with the High Plains Underground Water Conservation District check the water levels in nearly 75,000 wells across 16 counties. For years, their measurements have shown what farmers and water conservationists fear most—the Ogallala Aquifer, an underground water source that’s the lifeblood of the South Plains agriculture industry, is running dry. That’s because of a century-old law called the rule of capture. The rule is simple: If you own the land above an aquifer in Texas, the water underneath is yours. You can use as much as you want, as long as it’s not wasted or taken maliciously. The same applies to your neighbor. If they happen to use more water than you, then that’s just bad luck. To put it another way, landowners can mostly pump as much water as they choose without facing liability to surrounding landowners whose wells might be depleted as a result. Following the Dust Bowl—and to stave off catastrophe—state lawmakers created groundwater conservation districts in 1949 to protect what water is left. But their power to restrict landowners is limited. “The mission is to save as much water possible for as long as possible, with as little impact on private property rights as possible,” said Jason Coleman, manager for the High Plains Underground Water Conservation District. “How do you do that? It’s a difficult task.” A 1953 map of the wells in Lubbock County hangs in the office of the groundwater district. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] Rapid population growth, climate change, and aging water infrastructure all threaten the state’s water supply. Texas does not have enough water to meet demand if the state is stricken with a historic drought, according to the Texas Water Development Board, the state agency that manages Texas’ water supply. Lawmakers want to invest in every corner to save the state’s water. This week, they reached a historic $20 billion deal on water projects. High Plains Underground Water District General Manager Jason Coleman stands in the district’s meeting room on May 21 in Lubbock. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] But no one wants to touch the rule of capture. In a state known for rugged individualism, politically speaking, reforming the law is tantamount to stripping away freedoms. “There probably are opportunities to vest groundwater districts with additional authority,” said Amy Hardberger, director for the Texas Tech University Center for Water Law and Policy. “I don’t think the political climate is going to do that.” State Sen. Charles Perry, a Lubbock Republican, and Rep. Cody Harris, a Palestine Republican, led the effort on water in Austin this year. Neither responded to requests for comment. Carlos Rubinstein, a water expert with consulting firm RSAH2O and a former chairman of the water development board, said the rule has been relied upon so long that it would be near impossible to undo the law. “I think it’s better to spend time working within the rules,” Rubinstein said. “And respect the rule of capture, yet also recognize that, in and of itself, it causes problems.” Even though groundwater districts were created to regulate groundwater, the law effectively stops them from doing so, or they risk major lawsuits. The state water plan, which spells out how the state’s water is to be used, acknowledges the shortfall. Groundwater availability is expected to decline by 25% by 2070, mostly due to reduced supply in the Ogallala and Edwards-Trinity aquifers. Together, the aquifers stretch across West Texas and up through the Panhandle. By itself, the Ogallala has an estimated three trillion gallons of water. Though the overwhelming majority in Texas is used by farmers. It’s expected to face a 50% decline by 2070. Groundwater is 54% of the state’s total water supply and is the state’s most vulnerable natural resource. It’s created by rainfall and other precipitation, and seeps into the ground. Like surface water, groundwater is heavily affected by ongoing droughts and prolonged heat waves. However, the state has more say in regulating surface water than it does groundwater. Surface water laws have provisions that cut supply to newer users in a drought and prohibit transferring surface water outside of basins. Historically, groundwater has been used by agriculture in the High Plains. However, as surface water evaporates at a quicker clip, cities and businesses are increasingly interested in tapping the underground resource. As Texas’ population continues to grow and surface water declines, groundwater will be the prize in future fights for water. In many ways, the damage is done in the High Plains, a region that spans from the top of the Panhandle down past Lubbock. The Ogallala Aquifer runs beneath the region, and it’s faced depletion to the point of no return, according to experts. Simply put: The Ogallala is not refilling to keep up with demand. “It’s a creeping disaster,” said Robert Mace, executive director of the Meadows Center for Water and the Environment. “It isn’t like you wake up tomorrow and nobody can pump anymore. It’s just happening slowly, every year.” [Image: Yuriko Schumacher/The Texas Tribune] Groundwater districts and the law The High Plains Water District was the first groundwater district created in Texas. Over a protracted multi-year fight, the Legislature created these new local government bodies in 1949, with voter approval, enshrining the new stewards of groundwater into the state Constitution. If the lawmakers hoped to embolden local officials to manage the troves of water under the soil, they failed. There are areas with groundwater that don’t have conservation districts. Each groundwater districts has different powers. In practice, most water districts permit wells and make decisions on spacing and location to meet the needs of the property owner. The one thing all groundwater districts have in common: They stop short of telling landowners they can’t pump water. In the seven decades since groundwater districts were created, a series of lawsuits have effectively strangled groundwater districts. Even as water levels decline from use and drought, districts still get regular requests for new wells. They won’t say no out of fear of litigation. The field technician coverage area is seen in Nathaniel Bibbs’ office at the High Plains Underground Water District. Bibbs is a permit assistant for the district. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] “You have a host of different decisions to make as it pertains to management of groundwater,” Coleman said. “That list has grown over the years.” The possibility of lawsuits makes groundwater districts hesitant to regulate usage or put limitations on new well permits. Groundwater districts have to defend themselves in lawsuits, and most lack the resources to do so. A well spacing guide is seen in Nathaniel Bibbs’ office. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] “The law works against us in that way,” Hardberger, with Texas Tech University, said. “It means one large tool in our toolbox, regulation, is limited.” The most recent example is a lawsuit between the Braggs Farm and the Edwards Aquifer Authority. The farm requested permits for two pecan orchards in Medina County, outside San Antonio. The authority granted only one and limited how much water could be used based on state law. It wasn’t an arbitrary decision. The authority said it followed the statute set by the Legislature to determine the permit. “That’s all they were guaranteed,” said Gregory Ellis, the first general manager of the authority, referring to the water available to the farm. The Braggs family filed a takings lawsuit against the authority. This kind of claim can be filed when any level of government—including groundwater districts—takes private property for public use without paying for the owner’s losses. Braggs won. It is the only successful water-related takings claim in Texas, and it made groundwater laws murkier. It cost the authority $4.5 million. “I think it should have been paid by the state Legislature,” Ellis said. “They’re the ones who designed that permitting system. But that didn’t happen.” An appeals court upheld the ruling in 2013, and the Texas Supreme Court denied petitions to consider appeals. However, the state’s supreme court has previously suggested the Legislature could enhance the powers of the groundwater districts and regulate groundwater like surface water, just as many other states have done. While the laws are complicated, Ellis said the fundamental rule of capture has benefits. It has saved Texas’ legal system from a flurry of lawsuits between well owners. “If they had said ‘Yes, you can sue your neighbor for damaging your well,’ where does it stop?” Ellis asked. “Everybody sues everybody.” Coleman, the High Plains district’s manager, said some people want groundwater districts to have more power, while others think they have too much. Well owners want restrictions for others, but not on them, he said. “You’re charged as a district with trying to apply things uniformly and fairly,” Coleman said. Can’t reverse the past Two tractors were dropping seeds around Walt Hagood’s farm as he turned on his irrigation system for the first time this year. He didn’t plan on using much water. It’s too precious. The cotton farm stretches across 2,350 acres on the outskirts of Wolfforth, a town 12 miles southwest of Lubbock. Hagood irrigates about 80 acres of land, and prays that rain takes care of the rest. Walt Hagood drives across his farm on May 12, in Wolfforth. Hagood utilizes “dry farming,” a technique that relies on natural rainfall. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] “We used to have a lot of irrigated land with adequate water to make a crop,” Hagood said. “We don’t have that anymore.” The High Plains is home to cotton and cattle, multi-billion-dollar agricultural industries. The success is in large part due to the Ogallala. Since its discovery, the aquifer has helped farms around the region spring up through irrigation, a way for farmers to water their crops instead of waiting for rain that may not come. But as water in the aquifer declines, there are growing concerns that there won’t be enough water to support agriculture in the future. At the peak of irrigation development, more than 8.5 million acres were irrigated in Texas. About 65% of that was in the High Plains. In the decades since the irrigation boom, High Plains farmers have resorted to methods that might save water and keep their livelihoods afloat. They’ve changed their irrigation systems so water is used more efficiently. They grow cover crops so their soil is more likely to soak up rainwater. Some use apps to see where water is needed so it’s not wasted. A furrow irrigation is seen at Walt Hagood’s cotton farm. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] Farmers who have not changed their irrigation systems might not have a choice in the near future. It can take a week to pump an inch of water in some areas from the aquifer because of how little water is left. As conditions change underground, they are forced to drill deeper for water. That causes additional problems. Calcium can build up, and the water is of poorer quality. And when the water is used to spray crops through a pivot irrigation system, it’s more of a humidifier as water quickly evaporates in the heat. According to the groundwater district’s most recent management plan, 2 million acres in the district use groundwater for irrigation. About 95% of water from the Ogallala is used for irrigated agriculture. The plan states that the irrigated farms “afford economic stability to the area and support a number of other industries.” The state water plan shows groundwater supply is expected to decline, and drought won’t be the only factor causing a shortage. Demand for municipal use outweighs irrigation use, reflecting the state’s future growth. In Region O, which is the South Plains, water for irrigation declines by 2070 while demand for municipal use rises because of population growth in the region. Coleman, with the High Plains groundwater district, often thinks about how the aquifer will hold up with future growth. There are some factors at play with water planning that are nearly impossible to predict and account for, Coleman said. Declining surface water could make groundwater a source for municipalities that didn’t depend on it before. Regions known for having big, open patches of land, like the High Plains, could be attractive to incoming businesses. People could move to the country and want to drill a well, with no understanding of water availability. The state will continue to grow, Coleman said, and all the incoming businesses and industries will undoubtedly need water. “We could say ‘Well, it’s no one’s fault. We didn’t know that factory would need 20,000 acre-feet of water a year,” Coleman said. “It’s not happening right now, but what’s around the corner?” Coleman said this puts agriculture in a tenuous position. The region is full of small towns that depend on agriculture and have supporting businesses, like cotton gins, equipment and feed stores, and pesticide and fertilizer sprayers. This puts pressure on the High Plains water district, along with the two regional water planning groups in the region, to keep agriculture alive. “Districts are not trying to reduce pumping down to a sustainable level,” said Mace with the Meadows Foundation. “And I don’t fault them for that, because doing that is economic devastation in a region with farmers.” Hagood, the cotton farmer, doesn’t think reforming groundwater rights is the way to solve it. What’s done is done, he said. “Our U.S. Constitution protects our private property rights, and that’s what this is all about,” Hagood said. “Any time we have a regulation and people are given more authority, it doesn’t work out right for everybody.” Rapid population growth, climate change, and aging water infrastructure all threaten the state’s water supply. [Photo: Annie Rice for The Texas Tribune] What can be done The state water plan recommends irrigation conservation as a strategy. It’s also the least costly water management method. But that strategy is fraught. Farmers need to irrigate in times of drought, and telling them to stop can draw criticism. In Eastern New Mexico, the Ogallala Land and Water Conservancy, a nonprofit organization, has been retiring irrigation wells. Landowners keep their water rights, and the organization pays them to stop irrigating their farms. Landowners get paid every year as part of the voluntary agreement, and they can end it at any point. Ladona Clayton, executive director of the organization, said they have been criticized, with their efforts being called a “war” and “land grab.” They also get pushback on why the responsibility falls on farmers. She said it’s because of how much water is used for irrigation. They have to be aggressive in their approach, she said. The aquifer supplies water to the Cannon Air Force Base. “We don’t want them to stop agricultural production,” Clayton said. “But for me to say it will be the same level that irrigation can support would be untrue.” There is another possible lifeline that people in the High Plains are eyeing as a solution: the Dockum Aquifer. It’s a minor aquifer that underlies part of the Ogallala, so it would be accessible to farmers and ranchers in the region. The High Plains Water District also oversees this aquifer. If it seems too good to be true—that the most irrigated part of Texas would just so happen to have another abundant supply of water flowing underneath—it’s because there’s a catch. The Dockum is full of extremely salty brackish water. Some counties can use the water for irrigation and drinking water without treatment, but it’s unusable in others. According to the groundwater district, a test well in Lubbock County pulled up water that was as salty as seawater. Rubinstein, the former water development board chairman, said there are pockets of brackish groundwater in Texas that haven’t been tapped yet. It would be enough to meet the needs on the horizon, but it would also be very expensive to obtain and use. A landowner would have to go deeper to get it, then pump the water over a longer distance. “That costs money, and then you have to treat it on top of that,” Rubinstein said. “But, it is water.” Landowners have expressed interest in using desalination, a treatment method to lower dissolved salt levels. Desalination of produced and brackish water is one of the ideas that was being floated around at the Legislature this year, along with building a pipeline to move water across the state. Hagood, the farmer, is skeptical. He thinks whatever water they move could get used up before it makes it all the way to West Texas. There is always brackish groundwater. Another aquifer brings the chance of history repeating—if the Dockum aquifer is treated so its water is usable, will people drain it, too? Hagood said there would have to be limits. Disclosure: Edwards Aquifer Authority and Texas Tech University have been financial supporters of The Texas Tribune. Financial supporters play no role in the Tribune’s journalism. Find a complete list of them here. This article originally appeared in The Texas Tribune, a member-supported, nonpartisan newsroom informing and engaging Texans on state politics and policy. Learn more at texastribune.org.

Macworld If you use your laptop or tablet for long stretches of time, it’s worth it to make sure you’re comfortable. Being mildly uncomfortable is a whole lot worse when you stretch it over eight hours. If you don’t want to hunch down to work at your screen, try the Adam Elements CASA HUB 360. It can elevate your laptop or tablet, and it has a built-in USB-C hub to connect all your other devices. It’s also on sale for $99.99 (reg. $129). The CASA HUB 360 is compatible with a range of Apple devices, including the MacBook M4, M3, M2, and M1 series, as well as iPads. It includes a USB-C Power Delivery input, 4K HDMI output, two USB-A ports, SD and microSD card slots, a 3.5mm AUX audio jack, and an extra USB-C port. Whether you’re editing video, streaming 4K content, transferring files, or charging your device, this hub covers the essentials. The stand is made from lightweight aluminum alloy with silicone pads that help it stay put on your desk or kitchen counter. It’s foldable and tool-free to adjust, which means it can easily go from office setup to portable travel companion. Whether you’re working, watching videos, or following recipes in the kitchen, it keeps your screen elevated and stable. If you want to work comfortably, get the Adam Elements CASA HUB while it’s on sale for $99.99. Adam Elements CASA HUB 360 8-in-1 Aluminum Foldable USB-C Hub StandSee Deal StackSocial prices subject to change.

TL;DR: Save big with this sleek, refurbished MacBook Air (2017) for only $199.97—limited-time deal, includes free shipping. Not everyone needs the latest MacBook that costs more than a month’s rent. If you’re looking for a sleek, reliable laptop that still packs a punch without ruining your budget, this refurbished Apple MacBook Air 13.3″ (2017) is your new best friend. For just $199.97, you get the real deal—1.8GHz Intel Core i5 processor, 128GB SSD, and Intel HD Graphics 6000. Whether you’re working, studying, streaming, or casually online-shopping for things you don’t need (no judgment), this Mac handles it all. The 13.3″ display is bright and clear, battery life stretches up to 12 hours, and yes—it’s light enough to toss in your bag and forget it’s even there. This MacBook is Grade A/B refurbished, which means it may have some minor scuffs or dents; however, it has been fully tested and is ready to use. Perfect as a travel laptop, get this refurbished Apple MacBook Air while it’s still available for just $199.97 (reg. $999) with free shipping. Apple MacBook Air 13.3″ (2017) 1.8GHz i5 8GB RAM 128GB SSD Silver (Refurbished)See Deal StackSocial prices subject to change.

John Edwards, Technology Journalist & AuthorMay 27, 20254 Min ReadSharon Mandell, CIO of Juniper NetworksSharon Mandell, chief information officer of Juniper Networks, has held various CIO and CTO roles over the past 25 years, each building upon her previous experience and matching her current life phase. In her current role, Mandell is in charge of IT strategy and implementation for an enterprise that offers high-performance networking and cybersecurity products to service providers, businesses, and public sector organizations. In a recent email interview, Mandell discussed the options available for CIOs looking to further advance their careers. What should be the next logical career step for a current CIO? That really depends on the individual CIO, their time in the role, the scope of their responsibilities, the scale of the companies they've worked for, and most importantly, their personal interests and aspirations. The next step could be another CIO role at a larger company in the same industry, or a shift to a different industry -- smaller, same-sized, or even larger -- if the challenge is compelling. It could be a smaller organization with a mission or opportunity that you’ve always wanted to take on. Some CIOs take on adjacent or additional functions -- customer support, engineering, marketing, HR. I haven't yet seen a CIO move into CFO or chief counsel, but with the right background, it's not out of the question. Related:You could step into a COO or even CEO role. Some [CIOs] move into venture capital or advisory roles. There's no single "right" next step -- it's about what makes sense for your unique path and purpose. When is the best time to make a career move? When you feel like you're no longer having a significant impact or adding meaningful value in your current role. I've often felt taking on new roles can feel like being thrown into the deep end of the pool -- completely overwhelmed at first, but eventually you develop a vision and begin driving change. When those changes start to feel incremental instead of transformative, it may be time to move on. Sometimes, opportunities show up when you're not actively looking -- something that fills a gap in your background, stretches you in a big way, or offers a challenge you’ve always wanted to take on. Even if you're happy where you are -- not that the CIO role is ever truly comfortable -- you’ve got to be open to those moments. When is the best time to stay in place? I don't like leaving a role when I've taken a risk on a project, a technology, or a transformation and haven't yet seen it through to a solid or stable outcome. Related:I also don't want to leave a leadership team holding the bag, especially if I've been pushing them outside their comfort zones. I want my peers to understand why I've made certain decisions, and that usually means staying long enough to deliver real results. That said, sometimes opportunities won't wait. You’ll have to weigh whether staying to finish something or making a move offers more long-term value. At the end of the day, I want the people I leave behind to want to work with me again should the right opportunity arise. What's the biggest mistake CIOs make when planning a career move? Chasing title, prestige, or compensation as the sole driver of the decision, or assuming that "bigger" is always better. At the end of the day, what matters most is the people you surround yourself with, the impact you're able to make, and what you learn along the way. The right role should stretch you, challenge you, and allow you to contribute meaningfully to the organization's success. That’s what makes a career move truly worth it. Is there anything else you would like to add? I’ve never been someone who obsessively mapped out a career trajectory. I've made decisions based on what felt right for my life at the time. There were points when I took smaller roles because they gave me the balance I needed as a single mom. I passed on big opportunities because I didn't want to relocate. I've moved back and forth between CIO and CTO roles more than once. Related:The common thread has been this: I look for roles that challenge me, expand my perspective, and give me big new experiences to grow from -- even if I know they won't be easy or fun. Those are the ones that build grit, resilience, and passion. The money, title, and scope tend to follow if you execute well. I may not end up with the biggest job or the highest salary, but I’ve had one heck of a ride, and that’s what makes it all worth it. Read more about:Network ComputingAbout the AuthorJohn EdwardsTechnology Journalist & AuthorJohn Edwards is a veteran business technology journalist. His work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, and numerous business and technology publications, including Computerworld, CFO Magazine, IBM Data Management Magazine, RFID Journal, and Electronic Design. He has also written columns for The Economist's Business Intelligence Unit and PricewaterhouseCoopers' Communications Direct. John has authored several books on business technology topics. His work began appearing online as early as 1983. Throughout the 1980s and 90s, he wrote daily news and feature articles for both the CompuServe and Prodigy online services. His "Behind the Screens" commentaries made him the world's first known professional blogger.See more from John EdwardsWebinarsMore WebinarsReportsMore ReportsNever Miss a Beat: Get a snapshot of the issues affecting the IT industry straight to your inbox.SIGN-UPYou May Also Like

A lot of product designers who are more environmentally conscious now are looking at sourcing recycled materials when conceptualizing new products. Consumers are also more curious about the ingredients and materials used to create products they are considering and for some, it plays a major factor in that decision. There is also a growing trend towards incorporating a minimalist kind of aesthetic in these sustainable designs since of course we want to use few resources when producing things. The LANOVA TERRA Biowaste Table Lamp exemplifies the fusion of sustainability and minimalist design.Developed by NOI Creative for Lanova, this lighting solution utilizes agricultural byproducts—such as coffee grounds, rice husks, and wheat bran—to craft a lamp that is both environmentally conscious and aesthetically aligned with Nordic design principles. The Terra lamp stands out by transforming organic waste into a functional and elegant home accessory. By repurposing materials that would otherwise contribute to landfill waste, the lamp not only reduces environmental impact but also brings natural textures and tones into interior spaces. Designer: NOI Creative The Terra lamp’s design goes beyond mere aesthetics, deeply embedding principles of sustainability into its very structure. Its compact, modular form is a deliberate choice aimed at minimizing environmental impact from the outset. By allowing the lampshade to nest snugly within the lamp’s body, the overall volume of the packaging is significantly reduced. This not only translates to less material used for packaging itself but also optimizes space during shipping, leading to lower transportation emissions, a crucial factor in reducing a product’s carbon footprint. Furthermore, the lamp’s aesthetic is carefully considered, with soft curves and a simple two-part construction that embodies the essence of Nordic design. This style, often characterized by its clean lines, functionality, and warm, inviting feel, aligns perfectly with the principles of minimalism, ensuring the lamp remains timeless and avoids unnecessary embellishments that would require more resources. This thoughtful design extends to the user experience, prioritizing ease of assembly and practical storage. These features contribute to Lanova’s overarching commitment to sustainable living by creating a product that is not only eco-friendly but also seamlessly integrates into a conscious lifestyle. However, the vision behind the Terra lamp stretches far beyond its tangible form. It symbolizes a fundamental shift in thinking, championing the adoption of renewable materials and the implementation of responsible design practices throughout the industry. By boldly showcasing the untapped potential of biowaste in product design, the Terra lamp transcends its function as a mere light source, becoming an inspiring symbol of innovation and a powerful advocate for environmental stewardship within the home decor landscape. The LANOVA TERRA Biowaste Table Lamp stands as a testament to the powerful synergy between environmental consciousness and minimalist design. By ingeniously repurposing agricultural byproducts, NOI Creative and Lanova have not only crafted an elegant lighting solution but have also illuminated a path towards a more sustainable future for the home decor industry, proving that innovation and responsibility can beautifully coexist. The post Lanova Terra Lamp turns biowaste materials into light source first appeared on Yanko Design.