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Marine Policy xxx (2019) xxx-xxx

Contents lists available at ScienceDirect

Marine Policyjournal homepage: www.elsevier.com

In oceans we trust: Conservation, philanthropy, and the political economy of thePhoenix Islands Protected AreaMarc–Andrej Felix Mallin a, b, ∗, Dennis C. Stolz a, Benjamin S. Thompson a, Mads Barbesgaard c

a National University of Singapore, Department of Geography, 1 Arts Link, AS2 03–04, 117568, Singaporeb King's College London, Department of Geography, London, WC2R2LS, United Kingdomc Lunds Universitet, Institutionen for kulturgeografi och ekonomisk geografi, Sölvegatan 12, Lund, 223 62, Sweden

A R T I C L E I N F O

Keywords:Blue economyFor-profit conservationEnvironmental governanceOcean grabbingSIDSImpact investing

A B S T R A C T

US-based philanthropies have long contributed to environmental conservation through non-repayable donations,but some are now beginning to embrace novel investment strategies that are profit-orientated. From the van-tage points of political economy and geopolitics, this article investigates the potential ramifications of this shiftin funding for large-scale marine protected areas (LMPAs), which have been widely promoted to enhance ma-rine biodiversity and manage sustainable fisheries. Specific attention is given to the Phoenix Islands ProtectedArea (PIPA) in Kiribati, where finance from US-based philanthropic foundations is intended to support the op-eration and management of the LMPA and eventually compensate the government for forgone revenues fromfishing licences, via the creation of a trust fund. Content analysis of key documents is conducted to empiricallytrace the political, legal, and financial evolution of PIPA. The findings demonstrate how, in accepting financefrom philanthropic foundations, the government of Kiribati gradually relinquishes its decision-making leverageover PIPA's territory and resources. Hence, it is contended that certain legal and financial provisions could actas under-acknowledged and purposive drivers of ‘ocean-control grabbing’. Results further reveal that achievingfinancial sustainability for the PIPA conservation trust fund has proven difficult, opening up discussions on theextent to which PIPA could be capitalised in other ways. More broadly, the paper engages with recent debateson for-profit conservation, ocean grabbing, and the blue economy.

1. Introduction

Within the fields of environmental conservation and ocean gover-nance, large-scale marine protected areas (LMPAs) are gaining signif-icant attention and application for the protection of marine ecosys-tems [1]. LMPAs comprise geographical spaces >30,000km2 that arerecognised and managed through legal and institutional structures toachieve ecological and socio-cultural outcomes [2,3]. The recent up-take of LMPAs is partly spurred by international targets for coastaland island states to protect >10% of their maritime jurisdiction by2020 [4,5]. Since the mid-2000s, more than 20 LMPAs have beenestablished across the Pacific and Indian Oceans; several within themaritime territory and Exclusive Economic Zones (EEZ) of Small Is-land Developing States (SIDS) [6,7]. A number of US-based founda-tions have been involved in the development of most of these LM

PAs, acting as financiers and/or campaigners [6,8]. Yet, the role ofthese organisations in LMPA development, as well as the wider (i)politico-economic and (ii) geo-political implications for SIDS, remainambiguous.

Firstly, investigating politico-economic implications for SIDS is par-ticularly timely, given the evolving nature of US-based philanthropy.Conventionally, philanthropy comprises private initiatives for the pub-lic good that are not-for-profit, and therefore non-repayable on thepart of the recipient [9]. In this sense, philanthropic money has longbeen used to finance an array of both marine and terrestrial con-servation initiatives [8,10,11]. However, as Holmes [12] notes, “theprecise means by which philanthropy creates, transforms and mobi-lizes money [and] political resources … and turns them into conser-vation practices are unclear, and there is a need for more empiricalcase studies which investigate this process”. Following an increaseduptake of ‘neoliberal conservation’ models, which

∗ Corresponding author. National University of Singapore, Department of Geography, 1 Arts Link, AS2 03–04, 117568, Singapore.Email addresses: felix.mallin@u.nus.edu (M.F. Mallin); dennis.stolz@u.nus.edu (D.C. Stolz); benjamin.thompson@u.nus.edu (B.S. Thompson); mads.barbesgaard.2321@keg.lu.se (M.

Barbesgaard)

https://doi.org/10.1016/j.marpol.2019.01.010Received 1 June 2018; Received in revised form 16 January 2019; Accepted 22 January 2019Available online xxx0308-597/ © 2019.

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encourage the introduction public-private partnerships (PPP) and mar-ket-based conservation strategies [13], ocean conservation is beginningto be promoted as a for-profit investment opportunity [14–18]. Al-though at a nascent stage, this trend is expected to become more perti-nent following the emergence of ‘impact investing’ [16,17,19], wherebyphilanthropists treat giving akin to their profit-orientated business andinvestments, often seeking a financial return-on-investment (RoI) [20].

Secondly, the geopolitical implications of LMPAs are ambiguous andlittle researched: while some authors posit that their implementationmay aid coastal states to strengthen their sovereign control over mar-itime jurisdictions (e.g. Refs. [5,21]), other scholars have cautionedagainst the occurrence of ‘ocean-grabs’ (e.g. Refs. [22–24]). Ocean grab-bing has been heuristically defined as comprising acts of dispossessionor appropriation of use, control, or access to ocean space or resourcesfrom prior resource users, rights holders, or inhabitants [25]. As ar-gued by Bennett et al. ([25] p.66), interrogating whether and how “ma-rine conservation [is] aiding primitive accumulation and helping to jus-tify ocean grabbing” is warranted. As such, this paper adopts an ex-tended scope, conceiving ocean grabbing as “grabbing the power tocontrol” ocean-space ([26] p. 850). This moves the analysis beyondcurrent scholarship on ocean grabbing that is limited to questions of(good) governance and local socio-ecological wellbeing [3,25,27]. Al-though the local spatial politics of LMPAs have recently received criti-cal attention [3,28–30], this paper posits that important geopolitical im-plications have been largely neglected. In this sense, the predominanceof US-based philanthropies in LMPA development must be scrutinisedagainst potential geopolitical rationales.

Combining these two closely-interwoven lenses, this paper aims toinvestigate the financial and institutional processes that drive LMPA de-velopment, and explores potential political and economic ramificationsfor SIDS. Specifically, it uses the case study of the Phoenix Islands Pro-tected Area (PIPA) in Kiribati to scrutinise the extent to which a collab-oration with US-based foundations affects the country's economic andpolitical decision-making power over its globally recognised LMPA. Theobjectives are: (i) to theoretically clarify the economic stakes and inter-ests of philanthropies in for-profit conservation (specifically impact in-vesting), and contextualise these interests within the wider politico-eco-nomic and geopolitical frame of the blue economy (see Section 2); (ii)informed by these considerations, and scrutinising a range of key doc-uments, to empirically trace the political, legal and financial develop-ment of PIPA (see Section 4). In doing so, the paper illustrates a range oflegal, financial and political implications that have already arisen, andthat may arise in the future.

2. Conceptualising the nexus between ocean conservation,philanthropy, and SIDS

Section 2.1 explains how LMPAs have emerged against the back-drop of the ‘blue economy’, and why this emergence warrants scholarlyresearch that scrutinises the politico-economic and geopolitical devel-opments that accompany LMPA development. Section 2.2 clarifies thesignificance of the shifts in philanthropy-driven conservation from do-nation towards profit-oriented finance models. Finally, in Section 2.3,the authors critique the manner in which for-profit conservation hasbeen conceptualised previously, identifying several ambiguities, beforedemonstrating how for-profit conservation may be mobilised via impactinvesting – thereby more clearly explaining the financial processes in-volved. Although many of the key terms used in this article do not havestandard definitions, the working definitions used are shown in Table 1.

Table 1Glossary of terms relevant to this article.

Term Explanation

Transaction typesPhilanthropy Private initiatives that provide money for the public good,

focusing on the social and environmental quality of life.Traditionally, philanthropy does not seek direct profits andtypically involves making donations or non-repayable grants tonon-governmental organisations (NGOs). It is noted thatphilanthropy may have a different meaning in non-Westerncultures.

ImpactInvesting

An emergent way of performing philanthropy that moves awayfrom non-profit giving towards using such monies asinvestments. Impact investments provide finance to companiesand organisations, with the objective of generating financialprofit whilst producing social and environmental improvements.

SocialEnterprise

An organisation whose business model is profit-oriented, butalso wants to achieve positive social and/or environmentalchange for the benefit of society.

Actor typesPublic

Foundation(US)

Public foundations may receive capital from multiple donors,e.g. governments, the public, private foundations, super-richindividuals. Public foundations receive tax-exemption (US Code§ 501(c)(3)), provided the government approves their charitablemission. The mission is defined in a ‘charitable missionstatement’ and outlines which social/ecological aims areimportant to the foundation's ethic, and how these aims aregoing to be targeted by their giving. Decisions are usually madeby a board.

PrivateFoundation(US)

Private foundations are typically set up by super-richindividuals, families or corporations, who define the charitablescope of their foundation. Similar to public foundations, privatefoundations are tax-exempted after their charitable mission hasbeen approved (US Code § 509). Decisions are made by thefounders.

Super-rich Often termed ‘high net worth individuals (HNWIs)‘, the super-rich are individuals or families whose private fortune exceedsUSD 1 billion.

Fund typesEndowment

FundFunds that make repeated withdrawals from a foundation'sinvested capital. An endowment fund is used for specific needssupporting the charitable mission and the foundation's operatingprocess.

ImpactInvestmentFund

An entity that receives money from impact investors and investsthem on their behalf – in ways that help generate financialreturns. This can be done by (1) making grants to trusts, or (2)making loans to social enterprises. The money for the impactinvestment fund comes from foundations, development banks,and private equity investors.

External Fund Sources of finance provided by governments, developmentbanks, or private equity to support activities of endowment orimpact investment funds.

Legal-financial constructSpecial Purpose

VehicleA legal entity created for conservation financing purposes. In thecontext of raising capital, conservation financing vehicles(usually a trust or private limited company) are employed topool money from a variety of investors and act on their behalf.In the context of conservation, these investors may comprise offoundations, development finance institutions, institutionalinvestors or private equity funds.

Trust A specific financing vehicle, established under the jurisdiction ofa host country but usually made congruent with US Code §501(c) (3). Governed by a board of directors, which allocate andraises financial endowments according to the trust's charter. Themanagement of investments is often outsourced to a third-partyinvestment manager.

ConservationContract

Legally binding agreement struck between conservation actor(e.g. foundation, SPV, corporation or individual) and agovernment or territorial rights-holder, usually entailing acommitment to biodiversity conservation in exchange forfinancial and/or operational support.

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2.1. LMPA conservation in the emerging blue growth era

Following a number of concurrent climate, environmental, energy,food and financial crises in the late 2000s [31,32], decision-makers ofcoastal and island states have been collaborating with the heads of de-velopment banks, environmental NGOs, and transnational corporationsaround the concept of a ‘blue economy’ and a vaguely defined agendafor ‘blue growth’ [22,33]. In subsequent years – and especially follow-ing Rio+20 – a number of these actors have met regularly to discussthe future of the oceans under the auspices of, inter alia, The Econo-mist's ‘World Ocean Summits’ and the ‘Our Ocean’ conferences. Thesefrequent meetings reflect the idea that the ocean and its resources arebeing “increasingly recognised as indispensable for addressing many ofthe global challenges facing the planet in the decades to come, fromworld food security and climate change to the provision of energy, nat-ural resources and improved medical care” ([34] p. 13). However, thediverse array of actors involved has created competing perspectives onwhich of these ‘global challenges’ should be prioritised – be it protect-ing the livelihoods of small-scale fishers, ensuring the best opportuni-ties for the private sector, or quantifying the economic value of marineecosystems in order to highlight the importance of protecting them [35].These different priorities, in turn, envision different roles for states andnon-state actors in relation to the control and use of ocean-space. Thus,the discussions around the character and nature of the blue economy of-ten intervene in ongoing debates around the United Nations Conventionon the Law of the Sea (UNCLOS). With its ‘sectoral’ and ‘fragmented’approach, the existing regime is increasingly framed as inadequate toaddress converging crises, and hence new management tools are advo-cated (see e.g. Refs. [36,37]).

In this context, area-based governance arrangements such as Ma-rine Spatial Planning (MSP) and LMPAs are being promoted to recon-cile competing stakeholder interests, and conserve marine ecosystems[29,34,38,39]. Yet, although these arrangements can determine whereeconomic activities can and cannot take place, they can also “formaliseproperty relations of the sort deemed critical for private investment”([40] p. 5). This situation is particularly pertinent for states across theGlobal South, which are often the focus of marine conservation-initia-tives, but whose national economies to a large extent depend on differ-ent extractive activities in their ocean-space. In such cases, state gov-ernments face the problem of ensuring economic growth, at the sametime as adhering to global conservation conventions and targets that ad-vocate taking vast areas of ocean-space out of production. Nonetheless,LMPAs are becoming increasingly widespread – especially so in the Ex-clusive Economic Zones (EEZ) of SIDS across the Pacific Ocean [6].

Whilst the socio-ecological impacts of MPAs (large or otherwise) re-main mixed (e.g. Refs. [4,41–43]), encouragingly, no-take MPAs mayhelp increase the biomass, density, and size of marine organisms [44],and benefit adjacent fishing grounds via spill-over effects [45]. Yet con-versely, a global study found that 59% out of 87 MPAs failed to fulfilthree out of five criteria deemed necessary to generate positive ecolog-ical outcomes: fully protected, enforced, isolated, >10 years old, and>100km2 in size [41]. Others have additionally noted that there is ageneral lack of data to even assess “how MPAs are doing” [46]. Specificcase studies have also critiqued MPAs for marginalising and burdeningfishers [47,48], while fishers may seldom accept conservation interven-tions that add regulations to the status quo [49,50].

Beyond these immediate socio-ecological impacts, the rise of LM-PAs also needs to be analysed from a broader politico-economic andgeopolitical perspective [5,6,25,51]. The new institutional infrastruc-tures required can lead to important shifts in ‘who is controlling

what’ across vast portions of ocean-space. For example, the 200,000km2

LMPA set up in the Republic of Seychelles as part of a larger debt-re-structuring deal involving macroeconomic and structural reforms underthe auspices of the International Monetary Fund, was actively spurredon by The Nature Conservancy [40]. Through the PPP that was set upto manage this LMPA, The Nature Conservancy will play a formalisedkey role in the monitoring and managing of 30% of the Seychelles' EEZ.As noted by Silver and Campbell [40] – and with reference to the casediscussed in Section 4 of this paper – these shifting dynamics around thecontrol and use of ocean-space through LMPAs are not unprecedented,and remain in need of further research. In light of the discussion around‘ocean grabbing’, further research seems particularly prescient when theorigin, nature, and consequences of the capital involved in these pro-jects appears “somewhat opaque” ([40] p. 10). This need becomes morevisible, when recognising the extent to which a subset of US-based phil-anthropic foundations are involved in global ocean conservation fund-ing [52].

2.2. Emerging financing models for philanthropy-driven conservation

As with public charities, conservation non-profits are entirely depen-dent on external funding [53]. Conservation has traditionally been fi-nanced by philanthropic sources in the form of grants that prioritizeconservation outcomes over RoI [11,54]. In recent years, the mantraof ‘conservation's financial crisis' has become increasingly prominentin the literature [55,56]; for example, scholars have shown that donorcommitments made at the 1992 Rio Earth Summit have not been met[11]. Indeed, it has been claimed that meeting such targets may requirea ten-fold increase in conservation funding [56]. In light of this, newbusiness models and investment vehicles combining conservation out-comes with a financial RoI are emerging, in order to attract new in-vestors that could bolster conservation financing [16,17]. These emerg-ing investment strategies have been collectively termed ‘for-profit con-servation’ [57]. For-profit conservation connotes an array of investmentmodels through which foundations and super-rich individuals can “takethe plunge into the financialisation of conservation” in order to “tap into[…] deeper capital pools” ([16] p.5). In prioritising projects that can de-liver financial RoI alongside a positive conservation impact, it can beenargued that this investment model reinterprets what is being conservedfrom ‘nature’ to ‘nature's capital’ [58].

Such reinterpretations are likely to continue, as philanthropy is be-coming increasingly influenced by capitalism; spurred by neoliberal ide-ologies, the ‘act of giving’ has been progressively subjugated to finan-cial motives, markets, actors, and institutions [59]. In particular, impactinvesting has emerged as a novel investment strategy. Impact investingoriginated in the United States, due to the presence of enabling lawsthat allow two main types of foundations: (1) private foundations, usu-ally set up by super-rich individuals or families, and (2) public founda-tions, which receive their funds from a variety of sources. Both typesof foundations have long supported non-profit organisations, includingthose involved in marine conservation [60,61]. By the US tax code, bothpublic and private foundations are required to direct only 5% of theirfinancial assets annually to the charitable mission of non-profits. Theremaining 95% is usually invested in conventional financial markets toaccrue high financial returns [62]. Crucially, impact investing enablesfoundations to redirect these 95% towards for-profit investments in so-cial enterprises and projects that create positive social and environmen-tal impact [60,63]. Apart from the creation of RoI, such enterprises andtheir business models are supposed to work according to the charita-ble mission of the foundation. With profit margins reaching up to 30%,impact investments can be used to cover the costs of running a foun

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dation, at the same time as sustaining the value of mobilised endow-ments. At the current juncture, the critical issue for conservation phil-anthropies remains to find suitable investment targets, since the scopeof social enterprise models that can absorb sufficient amounts of invest-ment capital is still limited. Along these lines, the role of impact invest-ing in financing nature conservation is gaining increased research atten-tion, since the field is expected to generate a greater deal flow for in-vestors in the future [8,15,16,63].

Meanwhile, impact investments are beginning to target marine con-servation. For example, New York-based investment firm EncourageCapital has developed concrete blueprints for small, industrial, and na-tional-scale impact investments targeting sustainable fisheries in Chile,Brazil, and Philippines [19]. A national-scale initiative is planned in thelatter, encompassing “a hypothetical $34.0 million PPP impact invest-ment to improve IUU (illegal, unreported, and unregulated) fishing” inthe province of General Santos ([19] p. 2). It is envisioned that thesefinancial flows will be employed to modernise the General Santos FishPort (the largest tuna port in the Philippines), and to develop and op-erate new technology to monitor the 429 vessels that officially use theport. According to the investment blueprint, IUU fishing is the result ofweak monitoring and transparency, and leads to estimated losses of USD620 million per year across the country. Based on a PPP-agreement, “in-vestors would be compensated through the ongoing collection of portfees and rental revenues” – with projections suggesting that investorscould achieve 15–22% RoI over a 33-year period ([19] p.1). At the in-dustrial scale, investors channel their money directly into seafood com-panies via an impact fund to profit from value-chain upgrades; at thelocal scale they invest in fishers (e.g. new fishing gears) and smaller pro-cessing facilities to increase fishing standards, product quality, and cre-ate access to global export markets [19]. The precise ways in which con-servation is financed through impact investing is now explored, buildingon recent conceptualisations of for-profit conservation.

2.3. Conceptualising for-profit conservation via impact investing

For-profit conservation has been conceptualised in a report by CreditSuisse, World Wildlife Fund, and McKinsey [15] – and one diagram hasbecome particularly well-known (see Fig. 1). Although it offers a help-ful overview, certain key aspects of this diagram are too ambiguous toallow for specific investment strategies (such as impact investing) to befully understood. Key reasons for this ambiguity are the following:

⁃ Fig. 1 distinguishes between ‘philanthropy’ and ‘HNWIs’ (super-richactors) – but in reality, these are most-often identical. In this way, theauthors disregard the fact that a subset of philanthropy can/has be-come profit-oriented.

⁃ It is only possible to make an equity investment into a social enter-prise, which requires the creation of a legal entity (e.g. trust) to ac-quire and re-distribute use rights. However, this is not made clear inFig. 1, which does not differentiate between inter alia ‘trust funds’ and‘equity investments’ – grouping them both as unrelated ‘investmentstructures’.

⁃ Relatedly, Fig. 1 incorrectly uses the term ‘investment structures’ tolabel a box, since the terms listed in this box in fact denote ‘invest-ment strategies’. An actual ‘investment structure’ is represented by theentirety of Fig. 2 (see below), within which there are different ‘invest-ment strategies’ (e.g. grant making and equity/bond investment).

⁃ Fig. 1 makes it impossible for the viewer to grasp how the ‘activationof cash flow’ can lead to (presumably) positive and measurable out-comes for an ‘ecosystem with conservation needs’.

In general, viewers of Fig. 1 cannot see the institutional infrastruc-ture of for-profit conservation. This is because key institutions suchas foundations, banks, and impact investment funds are all omittedfrom the picture. Hence, it is unclear how capital is operationalisedand institutionalised. As a result of this inaccurate display,

Fig. 1. Flow diagram of how for-profit conservation is conceptualised in the report by Credit Suisse, World Wildlife Fund, and McKinsey & Company (2014, p.11).

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Fig. 2. Flow diagram depicting how for-profit conservation via impact investing is conceptualised in this article. Boxes show the key entities; red arrows depict the processes of setting uplegal structures that facilitate the transfer of financial flows; blue arrows depict financial processes occurring once social enterprises have started operating successfully and value is beingcreated. Numbered boxes link the figure to the main text. (For interpretation of the references to colour in this figure legend, the reader is referred to the Web version of this article.)

the viewer loses track of the way in which money passes from the phil-anthropist, via a bank, to the impact fund, and into the trust. In otherwords, the figure does not capture how different investment processesrely on one another. For instance, only by gaining access to use rightsgranted via a trust can a social enterprise be established. The am-biguity of this figure creates challenges when interpreting for-profitconservation. For one, Dempsey and Suarez ([14] p. 667; 634) haveused this very figure to conclude that, “conservation remains in manyways a terrible investment”, and that “accumulation by conservationremains more fiction than fact”. If the goal of profit-making is consid-ered, then Dempsey and Suarez are correct: there is, indeed, a great dis-crepancy between the stated potential to transform nature conversationinto a profitable business, and the observation that investments remain“small, marginal, and geographically constrained”. However, Dempseyand Suarez do not fully clarify why this discrepancy exists, mainly be-cause no distinction is made between money as money, and money ascapital [64]. Yet, without clarifying what constitutes ‘capital’ in conser-vation, neither [14,15] adequately answer the central question: how cancapital generate a financial return?

The case studies by Encourage Capital reveal that concrete labourpower is required to produce surplus value and generate a profit. Thislabour is employed on fishing vessels or in fish processing industries, forinstance. Hence, this paper proposes to adopt an understanding of cap-ital as a process, in which money is invested into productive labour toearn more money [65]. The benefits of this conception are now demon-strated using the investment structure of impact investing (see Fig. 2).Although it is noted that the processes described in Fig. 2 may not begeneralisable for all cases – because (i) the interpretation is US-centricfor reasons discussed in section 2.2, and (ii) for-profit conservation re-mains a nascent strategy that could unfold in many ways – this is, nev-ertheless, a compelling way in which for-profit conservation could berealised (see Fig. 2).

A conservation intervention through impact investing will involve anumber of foundations, funded with endowments from the super-rich(#1). In collaboration with a bank and/or investment firm (e.g. En-courage Capital), the foundation sets up an external impact invest-ment fund. On behalf of the foundation, the investment firm placesendowments in this fund, thus creating a capital pool. This capital

pool may be expanded via financing from Development Finance Institu-tions (DFIs) (e.g. International Finance Cooperation) or external privateequity (#2). The fund starts operating after the creation of a SpecialPurpose Vehicle (SPV). The SPV is a distinct legal entity, such as a Trust,that can partner with state governments or other legal rights-hold-ers, and allocate conservation investments (#3). Through contractualarrangements, the government confers legal privileges to the SPV (e.g.temporary or permanent concessions), allowing the latter to manage theconservation area. In addition to some form of financial compensationfor the government (e.g. credit transfer, debt swap, taxation, etc.), theSPV provides money to refurbish infrastructures – under the assumptionthat the agreement between the SPV and the state government aims todeliver socio-environmental benefits (#4). However, the structure of theSPV will usually introduce new (often foreign) actors into the manage-ment of the conservation area by creating a PPP. These new actors willtend to be linked to the source of the conservation endowments. TheSPV's board members may then operate as patrons of the conservationarea, exercising significant control over management and use-right deci-sions. Use rights can be bought by businesses and social enterprises (e.g.fishing companies or processing firms), which are set up under the guid-ance of the foundation and fund (#5). Businesses and social enterpriseswould then be allowed to utilise the respective maritime territory andmarine resources under a certain fee or royalty agreement with the SPV.This concludes the red section of Fig. 2 (#1–5).

Within a national-scale SPV (akin to the Philippines blueprint, see2.2.), locally organised social enterprises involved in smaller- and indus-trial-scale ventures would be financially backed by the impact invest-ment fund and work for-profit (#6). Hence, funding the national-scaleSPV, and funding social enterprises are separate activities. Once op-erational, the social enterprises would pay interest to the impact in-vestment fund (#7). The generated cash flow would partly be rein-vested (#8), whilst the remainder would flow back to the foundationand its patrons as an RoI (#9). In this sense, ‘conservation’ becomesgeared towards profit-generation. While the architecture of the SPVinstitutionalises the area and its resources as a special form of pub-lic-private-property, the labour performed in the social enterprises will

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produce a surplus value, which would also partially flow back to thesuper-rich – providing additional RoI on their initial endowment. Thisconcludes the blue section of Fig. 2 (#6–9). If successful, all processes(red and blue sections) become fully interlocked, and turn ‘conserva-tion’ into a profitable investment.

In the context of impact investing, Fig. 2 provides greater claritythan Fig. 1 because it clearly emphasises the institutional infrastructures(boxes) and underlying legal/financial processes (arrows) in a completeand sequential fashion. Fig. 2 demonstrates that real profit – that is, sur-plus value – derives from the labour power applied to land and naturalresources in the conservation area. This surplus is then handed over,in the form of interest, to the impact investment fund, which providedthe initial credit to kick-start the social enterprise. Capital in general,but also in the case of for-profit conservation, always presents itself asa closed circuit of social relations. This involves the metamorphosis ofmoney into value-adding labour and natural resources, which, if effec-tively combined, generate new value. These values, taking the form ofproducts and services, are then sold on the market [66]. Yet, due toits dependence on financial markets, investment climates and politicalarrangements, the realisation of financially self-sustaining or even prof-itable conservation projects presents itself more difficult in practice thanin theory, as this paper will elucidate in the subsequent case study (seealso [15,16]).

3. Methods

The developments explained in section 2, and the existing and po-tential implications of these developments, are explored using the caseof the Phoenix Islands Protected Area (PIPA), located adjacent to thePhoenix Islands, the central island chain group of the Republic of Kiri-bati (see Fig. 3). Due to its pioneer status, geographical size, and in-ternational publicity, it is a well-known LMPA in the conservationcommunity. The key actors involved in PIPA are the Government ofKiribati (GoK), Conservation International Foundation (CI), and NewEngland Aquarium Corporation (NEAq). Although the inception, de-sign, and development of PIPA has been detailed in previous stud-ies [67], this article seeks to more deeply scrutinise the fi

nancial, institutional, and legal provisions that shaped PIPA's past andpresent, as well as investigating how these provisions may direct its fu-ture.

Methods involved sourcing a comprehensive array of texts, whichunderwent rigorous content analysis – the objective and systematicanalysis of text [68]. Some of these texts are legal documents, includ-ing: PIPA's Regulations [69] linked to Kiribati's Environment (Amend-ment) Act 2007, the PIPA Conservation Trust Act [70], PIPA's Manage-ment Plans [71,72], the 2005 and 2011 Memoranda of Understand-ing (MoUs) signed by the key actors [73,74], and the 2014 Conserva-tion Agreement [75]. Other published and grey literature on PIPA wassourced through internet searches and outreach, specifically: press re-leases from CI and NEAq, PIPA Newsletters, several project documents,as well as academic scholarship. In a few instances, personal communi-cations with a present and a former high-ranking I-Kiribati State official,as well as a present PIPA official, are included to corroborate the tex-tual evidence. These communications – anonymised for reasons of strictconfidentiality [76] – took place within the scope of a different researchproject, which was conducted by the first author in Kiribati betweenMay and July 2016 [77].

4. Results & discussion

4.1. The establishment of the Phoenix Islands Protected Area in Kiribati

Although there are different accounts of the sequence of events thatled to PIPA's designation in 2006 and its subsequent juridification in2008, the fact that US-based CI and NEAq acted as decisive driversand engineers behind the venture is well-documented [67,78]. Muchof the early lobbying work revolved around NEAq's Greg Stone, whoconvinced then-President Anote Tong of Kiribati in the early 2000sto enter into a partnership with the American organisations. Follow-ing NEAq's ‘Primal Oceans’ project that had explored the Phoenix Is-lands in search of “some of the last virtually untouched areas in theglobal ocean” ([67] p. 294), NEAq suggested a suitable size and lo-cation for a protected area in Kiribati's remote island

Fig. 3. Map showing the location of Kiribati within the Pacific, and the location of PIPA (408km2) within Kiribati's tripartite EEZ (3.5 million km2).

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group to Anote Tong, and a few other I-Kiribati officials [79–81]. Overthe course of his three-term incumbency from 2002 to 2015, Tongsought to make the establishment of one of the world's largest marineconservation sites a key legacy of his presidency [82]. As a project ofpolitical prestige, PIPA has been set against the discursive backdrop ofa nation that finds itself under the imminent threat of “drowning” un-der rising sea levels [77], and hence earned Tong worldwide distinctionas an environmental leader [83]. Ever since, Tong's promotion of PIPAas a “contribution to humanity and the common good of all” [84] hasgone hand in hand with the rhetoric of CI who brands PIPA as an “oceanwilderness area of immense global value” [85]. It has also been toutedas a key site for research into the various pressures of climate change[86].

The first step towards institutionalising PIPA was a Memorandum ofUnderstanding (MoU) signed between CI, NEAq, and the Minister of En-vironment, Land and Agricultural Development, who acted on behalf ofthe cabinet in 2005 [74]. This and subsequent MoUs represent the intentto cooperate between the three parties without the creation of a legal re-lationship. A decisive milestone of the first MoU was the passing of the2008 Phoenix Islands Protected Area Regulations, which required a “majorrevision of Kiribati law […] culminating in the passage of the Environ-mental Amendment Act 2007” ([67] p. 296). The Regulations formallyinstated PIPA as a Category 1B Wilderness Area pursuant with the In-ternational Union of the Conservation of Nature (IUCN) 1994 Guidelinesfor Protected Area Management Categories. The designated area comprises11.3% (408,250km2) of Kiribati's EEZ [81]. Moreover, the MoU pro-vided the foundations for installing a management committee and oper-ation plan for PIPA [67].

Most importantly, the MoU specified that the three parties (GoK,CI, and NEAq) intended to change Kiribati's legislation to allow forthe creation of an LMPA under a joint legal-governance structure [74].Moreover, the promise of an appropriate compensatory mechanism wasnecessary to justify the long-term closure of parts of Kiribati's fish-ing grounds. For the GoK, a no-take zone was deemed a particularlychallenging commitment, since the designated closure area surroundingparts of the Phoenix islands constituted an important source for pelagicTuna fisheries, which had long contributed a significant share to Kiri-bati's income from Distant Water Fishing (DWF) fleets [67,87]. Indeed,license fees have formed the major albeit highly volatile source of rev-enues for the GoK since independence from Britain in 1979 [88]. Theestablishment of PIPA further meant that the government rescinded itsprevious ambitions to establish a domestic offshore fishing fleet, whichhad long been envisaged to reduce Kiribati's dependence on license fees[87]. Ultimately, the three parties agreed on the development of a novelform of marine conservation contract. The proposed mechanism hasbecome well-known as PIPA's “reverse fishing license scheme”, underwhich an endowment fund would eventually compensate the govern-ment for a conferred amount of forgone license revenues [89].

The release of funds on the parts of philanthropists and other in-vestors logically hinges on maintaining a stable political alliance withthe GoK. This meant that Tong not only required international recog-nition, but also had to be internally equipped with sufficient politicalleverage to overcome opponents that had expressed strong reservationsagainst PIPA for fears of significant budget income losses [87,90,91].Demonstrating their commitment to advance the conservation projectthrough initial research and restoration projects in PIPA, CI and NEAqthen pressed to have PIPA recognised as a World Heritage Site underUNESCO norms [86]. PIPA's inscription on the world heritage list in2010 was a first major success for the three parties. For Tong's cab-inet, additional political incentive to proceed with PIPA came withthe prospect to fulfil the CBD's Aichi target to conserve 17% of ter-restrial and 10% of coastal and maritime

territory by 2020 [67]. Having passed initial hurdles, the next step toformalise the LMPA was the creation of a legal structure and a SPV.

4.2. Conservation by “trust”: the legal and financial architecture of PIPA

Since 2004, operational and management costs were largely basedon grants and donations from a variety of sources, including the GoK,CI, NEAq, the Oak Foundation, the Moore Foundation, the World Bank'sGreen Environment Facility (GEF), Critical Ecosystem Partnership Fund(CEPF), and the Governments of Australia and New Zealand [71,81,92].For the key stakeholders, GoK, CI and NEAq, it soon became clear thatit would take some time until PIPA could be able to become finan-cially self-sustaining [81]. The establishment of the PIPA ConservationTrust (henceforth: PIPA Trust) as a tax-exempt public charity formalisedthe envisaged legal and financial architecture in 2009. This requiredthe passing of a legal act through the Kiribati Parliament (‘Maneaba niMaungatabu’). The respective Phoenix Islands Protected Area Conserva-tion Trust Act (henceforth: PIPA Act), nominally presented to parliamentby the Tong Cabinet, had in fact been drafted by a Boston-based lawfirm hired by CI and NEAq [93].

Within the adopted trust structure, the three founding members (CI,NEAq, and GoK) each appoint one director by default, with up to six fur-ther directors to be added at the boards discretion. Crucially, the trustis set up in a way that the non-governmental side always holds the ma-jority of seats on the board, and by means of a special majority vot-ing clause, also a controlling vote on all financial, procedural, and tech-nical matters [70]. Admitting the clear imbalance of decision-makingpower leverage within the trust structure, Tong stated that “Kiribati hasrepresentation on PIPA Trust Board [sic] but does not have a controllinginterest” ([91] p.5, emphasis added). Furthermore, certain mechanismswithin the PIPA Act give the board considerable leverage to undertakeex post modifications of the arrangement. Firstly, the PIPA Act ([70] cl.15.5(b)) stipulates that the board can adopt and amend the by-laws ofthe trust. Thereby the board is empowered to insert provisions that donot need parliamentary approval, since by-laws are secondary legisla-tion under authority delegated by parliament. Secondly, a provision isincluded ([70] cl. 15.5(a)) that lends the Board the power to requestmodifications of the PIPA Act. Technically, this does not give the Boardthe authority to actually force these amendments to be made, for onlythe parliament can legally make the amendments. Nonetheless, in prac-tice, the legal provisions suggest that the mandate to request amend-ments lends the Board considerable authority as long as parliament doesnot actively obstruct the request through close scrutiny before voting itthrough. The evidence gathered for this analysis indicates that the spe-cific leverage exerted by the non-governmental side over PIPA-relateddecisions significantly depends on the board members’ working rela-tionship with the respective cabinet [90]. Ultimately, parliament is ableto repeal or amend the PIPA Act. Conversely, however, as long as the actremains operative law, parliament appears to be largely omitted fromall important decisions made by the Board.

Similar cues are found with regards to the development of PIPA'smanagement policies. The PIPA Act clearly specifies that “the boardwill not make any decisions about the content of the management plan,which remains the sovereign responsibility of the government” ([70]p. 14). Yet, contrary to this stipulation, and akin to the afore-men-tioned drafting process of the PIPA Act, PIPA's first Management Plan(2010–2014) was actually devised externally, by CI [94]. This makesTong's declaratory foreword – “This Management Plan is the expressionof the Kiribati's peoples' commitment to take care of our planet for thegood of mankind” ([72] p. 2) – appear rather incongruous with the defacto evolution of the document.

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Lastly, the PIPA Act sets out the provisions for the financial organi-sation of the trust's assets. Even though the legal domicile of the PIPATrust is Kiribati, the PIPA Trust was specifically designed so that itwould receive charitable status under American law (i.e. US 501 3c taxexemption status). The trust charter further stipulates that the actual en-dowments would not need to be held in Kiribati, and that any incomesgenerated by the PIPA Trust are exempted from taxation in Kiribati andthe US [70]. This arrangement was justified with the expectation thatmost future investments would originate from the US. The respective fi-nancing vehicle – the PIPA Trust Endowment Fund (PTEF) – is managedby a private externally contracted investment manager, who is taskedwith capitalising the fund following the investment guidelines adoptedby the board ([70] cl. 21.2). These guidelines are solely dependent uponthe by-laws, and hence elude full parliamentary scrutiny [70,94].

Revenues from the endowment are intended to support the core costsof managing and operating the different entities subsumed under thetrust and the trust itself. The annual operating and management costsof the PIPA was referenced at US $550,000 in 2013 [95]. In 2013, thePTEF received the first two tranches of $US 2.5 million, respectivelycommitted by the GoK and CI's Global Conservation Fund. The GoKdrew the contribution (with unanimous parliamentary approval) fromKiribati's Revenue Equalisation Reserve Fund [96], a sovereign wealthfund that was set up during the decolonisation period to receive a frac-tion of the royalties that the British Phosphate Company had derivedfrom plundering Banaba (Ocean Island) over the course of the 20th Cen-tury [97,98].

In investment terms, these early endowments are catalyst invest-ments committed to attract further donors and investors, and hence arenot geared to an immediate financial return. As part of its PIPA fundraising campaign (“PIPA Trust Fundraising Framework”), CI called onthe now-defunct Clinton Global Initiative – part of the Clinton Founda-tion – to promote the LMPA to potential investors [99]. Attraction ofinvestors, however, was slow to get the desired momentum [71]. A cap-italisation target of $US 13.5 million had been set for 2014 [95], but lit-tle further investment beyond the initial $US 5 million endowment wasachieved. By the end of 2014, only a further $US 5 million was commit-ted in the form of a sinking fund to the trust by the Waitt Foundationand Oceans 5, which received board membership in return [71,78].

Notwithstanding, a first ‘Conservation Agreement’ was signed be-tween the PIPA Trust and the GoK in April 2014. This agreement – keptstrictly confidential – determines the financial and other operationalobligations held by both parties (see also Section 4.3). Contrary to theMoUs signed between the GoK, NEAq and CI, it is important to notethat this agreement represents a contract with legally binding obliga-tions for Kiribati and the PIPA Trust, whilst CI and NEAq are exemptedfrom any direct liabilities ([75] cl. 16). Moreover, it comprises a disputeresolution clause, which would invoke international arbitration underthe auspices of the New Zealand International Arbitration Center in caseof a breach of obligations ([75] cl. 15.1). This additional layer of legalentanglement adds further complexity and potentially significant judi-cial costs, in the hypothetical event of a dispute arising from the agree-ment. It has been noted that the adoption process saw the ConservationAgreement presented as a fait accompli to parliament without a preced-ing motion or debate in parliament [78,90]. In 2015, this fact led to aninquiry by former President and member of the then-opposition party,Teburoro Tito, questioning the Tong government over the rationalesguiding their obscure line of action. The answer provided was that theGoK was afraid to lose the recent endowment committed by the WaittFoundation and Oceans 5 if not acting swiftly enough [78]. The initialterm of the agreement will last until 2020; however, either party mayend the agreement after the third year by giving six months' notice ([75]

cl. 10). Having examined the institutional, legal and financial architec-ture, the next sub-section examines PIPA's uncertain financial viabilityin recent years.

4.3. Changing perspectives on compensation and PIPA's post-2015trajectory

Contrary to common perception at the time, pelagic tuna fisherieswithin most of PIPA were not discontinued after 2008, because the ini-tial endowments were far too small to compensate the GoK for foregonerevenues at the same time as supporting the operation and managementof PIPA [89]. Both the 2005 (amended in 2008) and the 2011 MoUs, aswell as the PIPA Act left the question of compensation open to a sub-sequent refinement of the PIPA Trust's endowment strategy, which, inturn, would hinge on a valuation of PIPA's resources and operating costs[70,73,74]. Until December 2014 only 3.12% (12,714 km2) remainedclosed to all fisheries, and 12% restricted to some activities [92]. Beforethe end of his last term, Tong and his cabinet sought to speed up theactual implementation of PIPA. While initially a 25% closure was envis-aged as a next conservation step, the cabinet unexpectedly announcedto turn 99.4% of PIPA into a no-take zone from January 2015 by Presi-dential decree [92].

Though a key aspect of PIPA's pre-2015 development, the actual im-plementation of a revenue compensation scheme has been protracted. Inorder to grapple with the difficulty of calculating the approximate valueof potentially forgone catch volumes and in preparation for an eventualpayment of fees, a PIPA Tuna Working Group was set up under the Con-servation Agreement, which is intended to provide a “formula based onthe vessel day scheme for determining whether there is a loss in fees toKiribati associated with the closure of the PIPA in connection with fish-ing under the PNA [Parties to the Nauru Agreement] vessel day scheme”([75], Conservation Protocol II.2). Waiving claims for compensation un-til at least 2020, the agreement also specifies that future fees may onlybe paid in case of an excess of funds after settling administration, oper-ation and management costs ([75], Conservation Protocol II.4).

Following much improved terms and conditions for Kiribati underregional fishery agreements [95], Kiribati's revenue income from tunalicense fees reached a record high in the year after PIPA was fully closed[100]. As a result, the compensation arrangement seems to have becomea secondary consideration for the time being. Beyond the question ofcompensation, however, still looms the hitherto unfulfilled anticipationto achieve financial sustainability for the PIPA Trust. In view of a funda-mentally different global investment climate and diminished rates of re-turns for lower risk fund investments on capital markets after 2008, ear-lier expectations of a fund capitalisation in the range of more than USD100 million appear to be bold estimates in hindsight [87]. This changingfinancial reality is already reflected in the Conservation Agreement, andin post-2014 donor commitments that are only targeted at implemen-tation and management support, but specifically exclude compensation.Nonetheless, a 2017 UN Environment Programme report on PIPA con-cludes that the current “situation casts significant doubt on the abilityof the PIPA Trust Fund to sustain both itself and the full managementoperations of PIPA” ([92] p.38).

Finally, with the end of Tong's presidency in early 2016, there wasconcern among the US-based actors that PIPA would receive less sup-port by the new government under Taneti Mamau, which had pre-viously been in the opposition. Equally, the working relationship be-tween the foundations and parts of the state bureaucracy seemed tohave deteriorated in recent years [92]. Yet, whilst the new Kiribaticabinet appears more orientated towards economic development andresource exploitation [101] – including future deep-sea mining –

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rather than conservation [77], no moves have been made to terminatethe agreement or dissolve the PPP by any involved party at the time ofwriting.

4.4. ‘Selling nature to save it?’ – possibilities of turning PIPA for-profit

The previous three subsections have highlighted key aspects of PI-PA's evolution and the nature of its institutional, legal and financial ar-chitecture. Firstly, it has been shown that PIPA was primarily orches-trated through the strong nexus built between US-based foundations andprevious GoK cabinets, rather than through wider stakeholder consul-tations or parliamentary procedures. Secondly, it was shown that thestructures put in place to govern PIPA as a PPP confer considerableleverage over key decision-making questions to the non-governmentalside. Thirdly, it was indicated that PIPA's financial viability is all butcertain at present, all the while there is uncertainty about its actual con-servation outcomes. All things considered, there is a clear gulf betweeninitially envisaged and present long-term sustainable financing of PIPA,which somewhat echoes Dempsey and Suarez ([14] p. 667) query “…why do conservationists continue to insist on [a “selling nature to save it”model] when its rewards have continued to remain out of their reach?”(see Section 2.2). In seeking a tentative answer to this question, atten-tion now turns to more closely scrutinise the potential future develop-ment of PIPA in relation to the evolving nature of philanthropic financefor marine conservation (see also Section 2.3).

To begin with, the wider scope of conservation-focused and non-con-servation related investments as well as potential sources for revenuegeneration, enabled by the specific PIPA Trust structure, require elu-cidation. Apart from financing operation, zonation, and managementcosts, most investments into PIPA have been channelled into island,coastal, and reef restoration projects thus far. Some infrastructural andtourism-related developments have been advanced (i.e. a PIPA BusinessPlan, a PIPA Tourism Development Plan, and a Kanton Atoll Infrastruc-ture Report), but logistical complications and the remoteness of PIPAhave inhibited any serious progress so far [92]. In addition to these un-dertakings, some provisions in the PIPA Act allow for the current scopeof activities to be expanded. In spite of a discursive emphasis on conser-vation activities throughout the regulatory prescriptions set out by thePIPA Act and Regulations, certain provisions were incorporated that al-low for a more broadly-constituted understanding of what defines LMPAconservation [69,70]. Of particular note is a vague stipulation listedunder “secondary activities” in the PIPA Act ([70] cl. 7(a)), which ref-erences “sustainable development activities”. This specific terminologyleaves much room for interpretation on part of the PIPA Trust board,which could link such activities with the trust's codified array of rev-enue sources. Besides non-repayable endowments and returns from in-vestments into capital markets, the trust is entitled to generate revenuesthrough “proceeds from the sale, lease or transfer of tangible and in-tangible property; proceeds from services provided by the Trust; excep-tional and miscellaneous income or gains; and any other appropriatesource of funding” ([70] cl. 22.1(g, h i, j)). Put plainly, together withthe board's specific powers to request amendments, these stipulationsmean the current financial and institutional framework could be alteredwith relative ease, such that, for instance, an eventual shift towardsfor-profit conservation via impact investing could be incorporated with-out substantial modifications. Such a shift could conceivably becomemore likely if the existing financial strategy turns out to be unsuccessfulin the future.

In the event that a for-profit model is implemented, the PIPA Trustcould provide the legal basis for the optional creation of differentfor-profit strategies, such as RoI-focused social enterprises (see Sec-tion 2.3). The potential scope such ventures could entail is limited

by the PIPA Act and Regulations, but could encompass a variety of in-dustries promoted under the blue economy as long as they can be classi-fied as “sustainable development activities” (see also Section 2.1). Sincethe creation of a “new asset class” is highly complex and will not happenovernight [16], at the same time as aspirations to transform PIPA maybe difficult to realise on geographical and political grounds, a for-profitshift remains a hypothetical issue of consideration at this stage. How-ever, given the consolidation of an LMPA network across the Pacific [6],as well as the expectation of an increasing focus of impact investmentstargeting biodiversity conservation over coming years [17], it wouldbe a critical error for scholars and policy-makers to miss out on study-ing the implications of such developments in detail and alert apriori totheir potential political-economic implications. Ultimately, time is onthe side of super-rich: the more degradation, the bigger the decline infish stocks, the less pristine global ecosystems become - the more likelyit is that capital will seek to extract a monopoly rent from LMPAs dueto them representing comparatively intact ecosystems [64]. This presup-position makes it imperative to inspect the power distribution betweennon-governmental and governmental actors in existing and emergingLMPA structures, as will be discussed in the final section.

4.5. Potential geopolitical implications of ‘ocean-control grabbing’

In light of campaigns that highlight the negative impacts ofocean-space enclosure and resource grabs on small-scale fisherfolk[23,33], the proliferation of large marine conservation areas since theearly 2000s has come under critical scholarly scrutiny (e.g. Refs.[25,40,51]). Yet in its theorisation of ocean grabbing, much of theemerging literature seeks to establish direct links between emerging(re)distributive arrangements and specific ‘measurable’ adverse effectson marginalised local groups (such as dispossession or spatial exclu-sion). The ‘check-box’ model on ocean grabbing put forward by Ben-nett et al. ([25] p. 66), for instance, suggests that ocean grabs only oc-cur where clearly adverse impacts on ‘human security and livelihoods’and/or ‘social-ecological wellbeing’ may be determined. This definition,however, does not take the more established and empirically, concep-tually, and methodologically developed literature on ‘land-grabs’ intoaccount [102–104]. If, instead, studies on ocean grabbing were to fore-ground the role of capital, thus incorporating “grabbing the power tocontrol” ocean-space in their conceptual purview, it follows that thephenomenon of resource enclosure “does not always result in disposses-sion” of communities on the ground ([26] p. 850). For instance, manyLMPAs encompass extensive ocean-spaces that have hitherto not beeneconomically exploited, other than through DWF fleets. Here, the cre-ation of a conservation area does not per se need to coincide with exclu-sionary or immediately measurable socially conflicting outcomes (e.g.closure of traditional fishing grounds). Yet, as the preceding sectionshave shown, certain shifts in the control and use of vast areas of Kirib-ati's EEZ are taking place through PIPA (similar to the Seychelles LMPA[40]), laying the groundwork to accommodate future shifts in who ispotentially able to derive benefits from its eco-systems.

While the ‘local’ is clearly important – indeed, some have high-lighted the underspecified human impact of PIPA on a local scale,including the limitations imposed on local sovereignty and some ofthe existing rights of local communities [3,78] – it is equally impor-tant, following the possibility of understanding ‘ocean grabbing’ as‘ocean-control grabbing’, not to lose sight of processes and dynamicsat higher geographical scales. Speaking after the launch of PIPA, GregStone, then-head of CI's Global Ocean Program, sketched out the foun-dations' vision: “what we need to do now is look at the whole Pa-cific Ocean in its entirety and make a network of MPAs across thePacific so that we have our world's largest ocean protected

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and self-sustaining over time” [80]. This bold vision has since come tofruition as new protected areas have mushroomed across the Pacific un-der the guidance and seeming control of US-based foundations; in par-ticular the PEW Charitable Trusts [105]. Looking at a network of LM-PAs in the Pacific Ocean, Giron ([6] p.113) rhetorically asks, “Is it sheerchance that Kiribati is situated along the American geostrategic linelinking Hawaii to the American Samoa Islands and framing the easternlimits of the tuna heartland? […] Or that the maritime area correspond-ing to PIPA has an abundance of cobalt-rich marine crusts?” From thefirst PIPA Management Plan (2010–2014) it is inferred that the “GoK[…] wishes to keep the option of ocean mining operations open” ([72]p. 27). While not an indication, it is also noteworthy that Greg Stone,who had a pivotal role in establishing PIPA on behalf of NEAq and CI,is now Chief Ocean Scientist and Board Member for Deep Green Re-sources, a Canadian seabed minerals company, which was able to se-cure a survey license in Kiribati's area of the Clarion Clipperton FractureZone [106], before Kiribati was able to pass a Seabed Minerals Act in2017 [107].

In light of the conceptual uncertainty as regards the definition ofocean grabbing, and the ongoing evolution of PIPA, it cannot be saidwith certainty that this particular LMPA represents a conclusive caseof ocean grabbing. Nonetheless, an approach to ocean grabbing thatis more attuned to political, financial and legal power relations – asdemonstrated here – allows us to consider the long-term impact of trans-ferring control over maritime jurisdictions and marine resources.

5. Conclusion

Since the early 2000's, US-based philanthropies have taken anagenda-setting role in large-scale ocean conservation, by becoming lead-ing stakeholders in the establishment of jointly-governed LMPAs. Thisarticle has interrogated how this development within marine conser-vation is paralleled by a broader shift toward ‘for-profit’ conservationpractices, which is partly catalysed by the reorientation of US-basedconservation philanthropy towards RoI-geared investment strategies. Inthis vein, the article has theoretically and conceptually contributed tounderstanding the emerging investment strategy of ‘impact investing’ innature conservation, by clarifying the institutional, financial, and legalmeans by which this process can be operationalised. It has also indicatedhow financial opportunities expected to be derived from impact invest-ing may realign philanthropy-driven marine conservation practices inthe near future.

In light of the specific position occupied by SIDS in LMPA de-velopment, a close scrutiny of the established and well-known PIPAconservation project has been conducted. The PIPA case study servesto furnish an understanding of the power structures that may evolvefrom philanthropy-driven marine conservation. Although PIPA partlyresembled a ‘paper park’ up until it became a 99.4% no-take in Jan-uary 2015, this article does by no means dispute that the establish-ment of PIPA may have led, or could lead, to positive conservationoutcomes. Indeed, recent evidence suggests fishing activity in PIPAfell “to nearly zero” after its full closure on January 1st, 2015, al-though it is important to note that fishing effort had increased sig-nificantly during preceding years, due to a combination of the an-nouncement of PIPA's impending closure [108], and a strong El Niñoevent [109]. It is also acknowledged that PIPA could deliver bene-fits that are generic to other MPAs, such as safeguarding provisioningecosystem services through intact marine food webs [67], and miti-gating future risks to the oceans, including species range shifts due toclimate change [7]. Nevertheless, as Wilhelm et al. ([1], p.24) state,“the disadvantages of large MPAs include difficulties of surveillance,enforcement and monitoring of vast offshore areas, as well as high

total costs.” These challenges linger for PIPA, and interject with the cen-tral arguments of this article – that the specific financial and legal archi-tecture of PIPA entails a number of politico-economic and geopoliticalimplications.

Within the perimeters of the current PPP-structure of PIPA, con-trol over ocean-space gravitates away from the governmental side to-wards that of US-based institutions and individuals. Moreover, it canbe contended, that the existing legal and institutional structure of PIPAposes a range of latent risks for Kiribati, since certain provisions maybe used as stepping stones towards further consolidating control onpart of non-governmental actors. In particular, the special majority voteon trust decisions, the possibility to create by-laws without parliamen-tary scrutiny, as well as the trust's prerogative to determine capital en-dowment, investment and revenue strategies for PIPA, explicitly har-bour such risks. More implicitly, as pointed out, CI may have under-mined Kiribati's sovereign leverage over PIPA in certain ways, by au-thoring crucial documents and legal texts beyond the scope of its for-mally agreed remit. As much as this denotes specific deficiencies withinthe Kiribati state apparatus – especially in light of the small circle ofI-Kiribati government officials involved in PIPA's evolution – it also sug-gests that democratic processes were consciously undermined by all in-volved parties in order to set up the LMPA outside the scope of the pub-lic eye. As an alternative to complex PPP-conservation arrangements,the following question must be posed: could the GoK achieve (equally)sustainable tuna fisheries through the implementation of a simple fish-ing ban for designated areas, which could even include a ban for thehigh seas area between its different island groups as a condition of li-censing to DWF?

In emphasising the role of capital and in considering the paramountphenomenon of ‘ocean grabbing’ to encompass processes of ‘ocean-con-trol grabbing’, this article concludes that by establishing joint gover-nance structures in the form of PPPs and LMPA gazettement, states' ju-risdictional leverage may undergo a tacit transfer towards organised for-eign capital. Scholars and policy-makers are therefore tasked to givemore in-depth consideration to the underlying politico-economic andgeopolitical implications of LMPA-based conservation interventions forSIDS and other littoral states. This call becomes all the more pressing,(i) as the involvement and (monetary) stakes of US-based philanthropyin the blue economy are likely to be raised in the future, and (ii) as phil-anthropy becomes more profit-orientated.

Declarations of interest

None.

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