Issues

Where next for Nairobi’s mobility? The city’s ‘boda boda’ drivers think e-bikes are the next step

It’s 06.00 and Augustine Khaemba is riding his Spiro Commando electric motorcycle into Nairobi’s CBD, looking for a fare. Khaemba is one of thousands of boda boda riders in the city – an occupation that has boomed since import duty was scrapped for motorcycles up to 250CC in 2008. Today the two-wheeled taxi sector is worth about $5.2bn (€4.6bn) a year. In 2024 some 5,000 of the country’s 69,000 new motorcycle registrations were electric. By 2025, that share had hit about 15 per cent. Across Africa, the International Energy Agency (IEA) counted about 70,000 electric two-wheeler sales last year. In most of the world, electrification means cars. Here, it’s arriving on two wheels.

By 07.30 the streets in Nairobi’s CBD have seized up. Motorcycles squeeze between taxis and private cars, while minibuses jostle for space. But Khaemba slips noiselessly through the chaos. “Silence is good,” he tells Monocle over his shoulder. Most of his morning passengers are traders bound for Gikomba, one of Africa’s largest second-hand clothing markets. An inner-city trip of 45 minutes will set them back about KES200 (€1.38); when it rains, fares can double. Until earlier this year, Khaemba drove an old Bajaj Boxer 150CC petrol motorcycle. Most passengers prefer his new ride. “Female customers like the absence of fumes and burns from the exhaust pipes of petrol motorcycles.”

The “fuel” for his Spiro Commando – a recharged battery – costs about KES300 (€2) a day, half what he spent on petrol for his old bike, though his weekly repayments for the purchase have risen from KES3,100 (€21.33) to KES4,520 (€31.10). All told, he is about KES650 (€4.47) a week better off – not an insignificant sum in Kenya. But what he has really gained is convenience. When Khaemba’s fuel runs low, he pulls up at one of Nairobi’s many battery swap shops, lifts out his spent pack and slots in a charged one. The whole manoeuvre takes under a minute, with one battery carrying him almost 100km. Battery-swapping stations began popping up around 2022 and are now all over the city. Compact steel cabinets, sometimes fitted into existing petrol stations, they are often brightly branded, with stacks of pre-charged batteries waiting to be swapped.

Musyoki Muindi is the managing director of Enzi Electric Motor Co, which runs several swap stations. He spent years in the petrol business before switching to electricity in 2021 and believes there is one fundamental difference between the two systems: with electric bikes, the vehicle and the energy supply can be part of the same business, which is impossible with petrol given the space required and the regulations around selling fossil fuels. Electric motorcycles cost less to run too. In 2024 about 91 per cent of Kenya’s electricity came from renewables. The government has announced a goal of 30 per cent of motorcycles to be electric by 2027, introducing VAT exemptions on EV imports and reducing excise duty to 10 per cent to help it achieve this end.

Similar measures are being taken elsewhere in the region, making African cities pioneers in electric mobility. Ethiopia has banned imports of all combustion vehicles and Rwanda has put a moratorium on petrol-burning motorcycles registrations in Kigali. Kenya is trying a gentler approach but there are still bumps in the road. “While two-wheelers are good at curbing carbon, they haven’t been so good at making the city tidy,” says Lorna Kariuki of non-profit Women Shaping Cities. Electric bikes still take up road space and safety is also an issue. According to the National Transport and Safety Authority, 1,148 motorcyclists died on Kenya’s roads in 2025. Nairobi City County is drafting a new transport plan but effective measures will take time. Still, drivers like Khaemba are mostly concerned with their bottom lines, which are improving. By 20.00 he is heading back towards his neighbourhood, Kasarani, his silent bike disappearing into the traffic.

Ikea’s innovative new Kompishäng furniture is designed for people who move house a lot

When consumer research showed that Ikea was under-serving young city dwellers who move frequently because of regular job changes and short tenancy contracts, it decided to visit their homes to find out more. “The demographic is limiting their belongings but still want furniture worth keeping,” says Ikea product developer Dora Ding. The result is Kompishäng, a line of household pieces that a single person can transport without needing a van.

Designing the collection, which includes a folding desk and other items adapted for portability, was more than a matter of figuring out how to make things lighter. The desk, for example, has a solid pine top and sturdy steel legs but had to be easy to carry and affordable; its handle was tested in various shapes before an ergonomic steel version was selected. One of the team’s key discoveries was that renters grow emotionally attached to plants but find moving big ones to be a hassle. This resulted in the jute plant pot, which has “a warm, natural material that gives it a homely feeling”, says designer Wiebke Braasch. “It has a protective sleeve that pulls up to protect the leaves in transit.”

Kompishäng reflects the reality that though frequent movers tend to own less, many still want objects that last. Ikea, which pioneered modern flat-packing, is now proposing a next step: furniture designed with its second, fifth or 10th home in mind.
ikea.com

Further reading:
Objects to soothe your space: The best interior-design pieces that bring nature into your home

Ten iconic European design pieces to cosy up your living space this winter

Around the world in 40 designs: The best furniture, country by country

The show goes on at the Tuschinski, Amsterdam’s most spectacular cinema where ‘everything is interesting’

In the summer of 2012, the Royal Theatre Tuschinski, a cinema close to Amsterdam’s bustling Rembrandt Square, received a phone call from the concierge of a local hotel. “We have a VIP who wants to go to the movies,” the cinema’s manager, David Hanemaayer, recounts the caller telling him. The VIP in question wanted to watch Intouchables, a French film that had become a global box-office hit. That same weekend, Madonna was in town for two sold-out concerts as part of her MDNA tour. Hanemaayer put two and two together. The team at the Tuschinski had to hustle to arrange English subtitles for the screening (the film had been showing with Dutch subtitles). Then, on the Friday night, the Queen of Pop entered the theatre through the back door and took her seat in the majestic surroundings.

Madonna’s choice of venue should come as no surprise. The Tuschinski is a marvel of design. The mesmerising mix of styles includes art deco, art nouveau and the Amsterdam school, a Dutch architecture movement characterised by expressive, fantastical shapes that was popular between 1910 and 1940. When the venue opened in 1921, there were three theatres inside that hosted cinema screenings and live performances. Sometimes audiences were treated to both: in the grand main cinema, live entertainers would open the evening in lieu of the trailers to which we are accustomed today. On the first floor, an intimate cabaret theatre, La Gaîté, hosted performers including Marlene Dietrich and Josephine Baker. Today, it’s a smaller screening room, and the Tuschinski is part of the largest cinema chain in the Netherlands, Pathé.

Its six screens show mostly Hollywood movies, with arthouse pictures popping up in the programming every now and then. When Monocle visits, the Tuschinski has just reopened after nine weeks of long-overdue renovations. On the ceiling above the entrance to the main cinema, a colourful art deco painting has been restored to its original splendour. Also striking are the custom-made new red chairs. But the most urgent renovation concerned its 25-year-old lighting. When one of the lights would fail, there was no way to replace them. Now, they have all been switched for LEDs. “There isn’t a single cinema or concert hall that wants the lights to not go on or off again,” says Hanemaayer, who has been the Tuschinski’s manager for 18 years.

The refresh has been about upkeep rather than overhaul. The Tuschinski is a national heritage site inside and out – it cannot be significantly altered. When it opened more than a century ago, artists were recruited to provide everything from the stained-glass windows to the murals and lights. Look up in the main cinema and you will see an extravagant lamp by Christiaan Bartels, made to resemble a peacock’s tail. It’s surrounded by peacock patterns painted by Johann Kromhout. The bird, a symbol of beauty and immortality, also adorns the walls of the ground-floor foyer.

Critics initially turned up their noses at the mishmash of styles. It wasn’t until much later that the Tuschinski’s design was celebrated. Standing in the aisle, Hanemaayer points to the bottom of the balcony: a patch of vibrant patterning peeks through the grey paint. “Sometime in the 1930s, they decided that they didn’t like it anymore,” he says. Elsewhere, Dutch painter Pieter den Besten created 18 portraits of women in 1931, only for them to be covered five years later. They weren’t found again and restored until 2000.

Abraham Tuschinski, the venue’s founder, insisted that the balconies had no pillars to ensure unobstructed views. Instead, there’s a long beam inside the cinema that acts as a counterweight. As a result, the main balcony sinks about 3mm when it is filled with moviegoers, then bounces up again once the theatre empties. “The story goes that you would hear it creaking in the middle of the night,” says Hanemaayer. “The night porter thought it was the phantom of the Tuschinski.” Hanemaayer remarks that “everything is interesting in this building”. It’s quite a shame, then, that audiences spend most of their time inside the Tuschinski with the lights off.
pathe.nl

What to wear and pack for the journey: The essential items to fill your carry-on with

Stylist: Kyoko Tamoto
Model: Sera T
Groomer: Sandra Hahnel

Taiwan is putting itself back on the global art stage and the world is taking notice

A diplomatic row erupted at this year’s Gwangju Biennale in South Korea. Despite its original billing, the “Taiwan Pavilion” was renamed the “NTMOFA Pavilion” – after the National Taiwan Museum of Fine Arts – on promotional posters made by the event. The move sparked protests from artists, curators and Taiwan’s culture ministry, which called it an act of political censorship. When organisers restored the original name, China withdrew from the biennale. Beijing’s embassy in Seoul stated that it went against the One China principle.

This wasn’t the first time that Taiwan had to fight for its name during a major art event. In 2003 geopolitics stripped it of national pavilion status at the Venice Biennale. At the São Paulo Art Biennial in 2002, organisers scrubbed “Taiwan” from artist Chien-Chi Chang’s nameplate after China threatened to withdraw from the event. In response, six countries gave letters from their own signs to spell out the T-word on the artist’s wall. Taiwan’s contemporary-art scene often draws attention for these disputes but the republic is starting to build a reputation that goes beyond headline spats. New cultural policies, a generational handover in patronage and fresh capital are converging to put the island’s art scene on the global map.

Spurred by the 2015 Museum Act, which established frameworks for public funding and regional museum networks, ambitious art projects are emerging across Taiwan, alongside a wave of urban development. In the north, the New Taipei City Art Museum anchors the Sanying Cultural Corridor, served by a recently launched train line that winds past mountain river valleys. In the northwest, the Taoyuan Museum of Fine Arts is opening in phases across three sites. Its Hengshan Calligraphy Art Center and Children’s Art Center are already up and running, building momentum for the 2028 debut of the main museum building, designed by Pritzker Architecture Prize winner Riken Yamamoto and Taiwan’s Joe Shih.

Further south, Taichung is showing off its own Pritzker pedigree. Sanaa’s Green Museumbrary (more elegant in Chinese, where the words “green”, “museum” and “library” combine to mean “a beautiful picture”) opened in late 2025, bringing together the Taichung Art Museum and Taichung Public Library in a verdant park setting. In a couple of years, Frank Gehry’s China Medical University Museum of Fine Arts will also arrive in Taichung in metallic resplendence, promising the city its own Guggenheim effect.

These buildings aren’t just showpieces. “Many of these new museums are working to look into their own regional art history, building up local cultural assets,” says Yi-Hsin Lai, the director of the Taichung Art Museum. However, their sights are equally set on global exchange. Horizon Ablaze, one of her museum’s summer shows, was curated by teams from Taiwan, the Philippines and Panama.

On a weekday at the Museumbrary, the building’s porous, silver-white mesh lets in light as readily as people. Students and office workers dropping off books end up in the same café queue as families who stroll in from the surrounding parkland. At the New Taipei City Art Museum, meanwhile, hikers straight off the trail come to rest in its shaded plazas, before wandering into the galleries. These places are not only drawing in a seasoned art crowd but becoming part of civic life and bringing in new audiences.

Running parallel to this infrastructure boom is a surge in private capital. Taiwan’s art market has long been powered by family wealth: those with industrial, shipping and property fortunes known for keeping blue-chip works behind closed doors. “Mainstream collecting power still sits with patrons who are about 50 years old,” says Viola Yao, the art director of commercial fair Art Taipei. “But the 30-to-45 age group is steadily growing, many representing second-or third-generation wealth.”

Taiwan’s new money comes from technology. Claudia Chen, the chair of the Taiwan Art Gallery Association and a co-founder of Liang Gallery, notes that some 30 per cent of Art Taipei buyers consist of foreign technology executives based in the city, with some semiconductor and supply-chain founders spending tens of millions of Taiwan dollars on a single artwork.

These buyers have helped new art fairs in the region to take off. “Since Frieze Seoul launched in 2022, it has brought a flood of Taiwanese collectors to the city,” says Chen. “Taiwanese collectors are famous for their strong buying power. Once South Korean galleries experienced this, it gave them huge confidence in the Taiwan market. There were only nine South Korean galleries participating in Art Taipei in 2023. We have 25 this year.”

It’s not just the financial clout of Taiwanese patrons that’s leaving an impression. “I work across Asia and I meet Taiwanese collectors everywhere,” says Minju Kweon, Frieze Seoul’s VIP consultant. “They are young and very serious. They go everywhere – fairs, museums, galleries – to learn and experience things first hand. It’s inspiring for us art professionals to see.” Globally connected and studious, these new collectors do not just amass art. They build galleries and museums, commission works, embrace experimental mediums and stage exhibitions and talks.

“As a new generation of sophisticated collectors emerges, we’re seeing a growing appreciation for conceptual rigour over purely object-based aesthetics,” says Shelly Wu, who founded TKG+ in 2009 as an experimental counterpart to the gallery of her mother, Tina Keng. TKG+ champions moving-image art, a medium that draws from Taiwan’s technology infrastructure and cinematic legacy. “Independent project spaces here act as vital research hubs, offering artists complete freedom for experimentation and unfiltered discourse,” says Wu.

In the southern port city of Kaohsiung, Yaman Shao and her father opened Alien Art Centre in 2018. They chose to restore a disused military hostel rather than build something new and kept traces of the site’s Cold War past. Hospitality is the Shaos’ family trade, with The Amnis hotel and the Yuimom Residence to their name. Reflecting the city in which it’s based, Alien is a relaxed place to wander. The corridors are airy and free of stuffiness, though the programming is serious. James Turrell’s light installation “Corinth Canal” is a permanent centrepiece here.

“I see Alien Art Centre as a platform to archive our times,” says Shao. In 2021, at the height of the NFT frenzy, she looked into virtual art and emerged from her research with an optical wall sculpture by Italian artist Getulio Alviani instead (no NFTs involved). Her explorations of digital art’s roots in optical and kinetic art movements resulted in Alien staging Alviani’s first solo show in East Asia. Shao, who is keen to bring art out of galleries to be appreciated in everyday life, adorns herself with Japanese artist Jiro Kamata’s wearable glass-lens pieces. Art also permeates the family’s properties. One of its bars serves a JT red & yellow, a cocktail that renders Turrell’s light and colour fields in a glass.

In Taipei’s post-industrial Neihu district, Vicky Chen, the founder of Tao Art, tasked architect Jun Aoki to transform a nondescript office unit into an intimate salon. Beyond the gallery rooms are a tearoom and a living room showing a rotating selection of Chen’s father’s antiques, alongside pieces from her own collection. She trained at New York’s Parsons School of Design and her programming moves between disciplines. When we visit, US painter Robert Rauschenberg’s mixed-media works hang in conversation with pieces by Taiwan-born designer Jason Wu.

In 2025, in tandem with a presentation at the Asia University Museum of Modern Art in Taichung, Tao Art staged a show of works by Japanese artist Tatsuo Miyajima, known for his LED counters that cycle the numbers one to nine. Miyajima said that showing his installations at both venues at once let each do what the other couldn’t: the gallery helped to express his core philosophy, while the museum venue translated the ideas for a broader public.

Like many of her peers, Chen is a patron rather than just a collector. In 2023 she invited French conceptual artist Laurent Grasso to Taiwan for his first solo show here and backed the work that followed later that year: the film Orchid Island, which was shot off Taiwan’s coast. “He took Orchid Island to Paris, New York, Tokyo and Daejeon,” says Chen. “This is meaningful to me because we introduced him to Taiwan and he introduced Taiwan to the world.”

In 2002 it took six other countries to spell Taiwan’s name on a wall in São Paolo. Now the island’s own art scene is putting that name on everyone’s lips.

Address book
Visiting Taiwan? Here are the cultural spots not to miss.

Alien Art Centre
Kaohsiung
There’s no rush at this leafy sanctuary. People come with time to sit through the two-and-a-half-hour light-and-colour sequence of James Turrell’s installation “Corinth Canal”.

Taichung Art Museum at Green Museumbrary
Taichung
A must visit for art lovers, design pilgrims and bibliophiles alike. The museum shop is run by bookshop-cum-gallery Pon Ding and the library has a foreign-language section.

New Taipei City Art Museum
New Taipei City
Hike, cycle or take the new Sanying train (with cars conceptualised as mobile art museums) to get here. Make time for a stroll in the sculpture park.

Tao Art
Taipei
Japanese artist Tatsuo Miyajima’s number installation in the tearoom window gives the city a digital pulse.

Taoyuan Museum of Fine Arts
Taoyuan
The first parts of this new complex to open, Hengshan Calligraphy Art Center and Children’s Art Center, are served by the airport MRT line and high-speed rail.

TKG+ Gallery
Taipei
Set in a basement, TKG+ gives space to experimental art, showing video, photography and new media artworks from Taiwan and across Asia.

From battery-powered trains to sleeper services, here are the ideas shaping the future of rail at Innotrans 2026

Changing from the London Underground’s Piccadilly Line to a Railjet bound for Innsbruck before hopping on a KTX to Seoul would normally require a few days’ travel. Not so at this year’s Innotrans, where all three kinds of trains are parked within walking distance. The world’s largest transport-tech fair is held biennially in Berlin and this edition’s biggest talking point is AI. It’s expected to lead to “a golden age in rail”, as more than one executive puts it, and is being promoted for, among other things, analysing workers’ posture in railway factories (“good for their backs”), scanning depots for vandalism (“good for buses”) and anticipating disruption caused by protests (“good for France”). And, of course, it’s being touted for its cost-cutting capabilities.

But not every cost-saving measure requires an algorithm. German mobility firm Hübner’s new aerodynamic fairing (a type of corrugated bellows), for example, smooths the gap between coaches. “It’s a small change with a big effect,” Dirk Wimmer, the company’s head of technology, tells Monocle. “By cutting drag, operators can save tens of thousands of euros in energy costs a year.” The design also reduces noise and protects cables.

Elsewhere, ideas familiar from cars and smart homes have found their way onto the rails. Siemens presents not so much a locomotive as a “smartphone on wheels”. Its Vectron X comes with its own app store. Drivers can, among other things, heat the cab remotely before turning up for work. Others are showing off battery-powered trains such as that of Chinese manufacturer CRRC, which pitches a modular battery-and hydrogen-powered locomotive as a greener option for freight. The promotional film demonstrates this with an interesting choice of cargo: coal.

The host nation supplies some of the more experimental ideas. Monocab is an autonomous rail taxi designed to revive disused rural lines. Its lightweight, self-balancing pods can travel in both directions on a single rail and be summoned with – you guessed it – an app. “Germany has about 6,000km of unused railway lines,” says Monocab’s Thomas Schulte. “At least half could be suitable for reactivation and it’s similar in other countries.” The team is aiming to have a working system by 2030 and has already received enquiries from Japan, the US and Australia.

Bavarian multinational Max Bögl, meanwhile, is betting on magnetic levitation, with test tracks south of Nuremberg and in Chengdu. “People might be sceptical but the advantages are considerable,” says Felix Niebler, Max Bögl’s head of product. “It’s quiet and weather-resistant, and the infrastructure costs only a fraction of a conventional underground line. You could carry passengers during the day and containers at night at up to 150km/h.”

While Elon Musk has given up on the Hyperloop, the idea lives on in Munich. Researchers there want to send passenger capsules through tubes at up to 700km/h. “We have built a small test track,” says Domenik Radeck, a postdoc at the Hyperloop programme of Technical University Munich. “Next comes a 3km-to-5km track to prepare the technology for commercial use. There’s a long way to go but it could change the way we commute.”

Back in the present, with night-train services booming across Europe, another race is under way: to build the best train bed. Talgo is presenting sleeper trains designed for overnight services between Stockholm and northern Sweden. Berlin start-up Nox plans to begin running overnight services across Europe in 2027, with business travellers firmly in its sights. “Our seats were inspired by long-haul business-class seats on planes,” says Thibault Constant, one of Nox’s co-founders, as he shows Monocle a suite in which the seat unfolds into a two-metre bed (click here to read the full report).

Czech manufacturer Borcad has its own solution: Flatwhite, a private compartment built around its first fully lie-flat rail seat. “Passengers appreciate the additional comfort,” says Tomáš Mutina, a marketing specialist at the brand.

The UK has a presence here too. British design agency PriestmanGoode’s Day/Dream concept turns existing carriages from daytime lounges into sleeping accommodation without requiring operators to buy dedicated sleeper trains.

Also from the studio is London’s latest Underground trains, which look positively miniature beside their bulkier mainline counterparts. “These are designed for some of the city’s oldest tunnels, so they are quite compact,” says Kirsty Dias, the managing director of PriestmanGoode, who worked on the redesign. From 2027, they will replace the Piccadilly Line’s 1970s fleet, bringing such luxuries as walk-through carriages, wider doors and, for the first time on a deep-level Underground line, air conditioning.

“The most brilliant thing about working on this is that everyone in London has such a strong relationship with it,” adds Dias. “It’s a train, yes, but it’s much more: it’s part of the fabric of London life.”

Height of ambition: How the Pittsburgh Institute of Aeronautics trains the aircraft technicians the industry needs

“This flight has been delayed due to maintenance.” It’s among a frequent flyer’s least favourite announcements – and a shortage of technicians could make it even more familiar. It’s a workforce as crucial to safe aviation as pilots but there aren’t enough of them. McKinsey estimates that the global shortfall could reach about 22,000 by the end of 2026 and almost triple by 2029. But one school in western Pennsylvania is working to close the gap.

In a market where employers are short of technicians, the selling point of the Pittsburgh Institute of Aeronautics (PIA) is rigour. A trade school can’t cut corners. “What we do here is just too important not to reinforce the integrity of the education,” says Phil Klein, PIA’s vice-president of education. “When I’m 35,000 feet in the air, I want to know that the people who worked on that aircraft are highly competent and did their job correctly.”

At PIA, that competence starts being built at 07.30, with 300 students held to strict punctuality and dress-code guidelines as part of the school’s career-preparation philosophy. When Monocle arrives at PIA’s primary campus on the grounds of the Allegheny County Airport, students are dressed for work in long-sleeve shirts emblazoned with the cheeky motto of a school that is almost a century old: “Fixin’ it right since 1929.” In one class, students, mostly in their twenties and early thirties, are hunched over soldering irons and leaning into jet engines. In another, they’re seated at workbenches, layering Kevlar and carbon fibre to create a panel analogous to the landing-gear door on a Boeing 727. Once this mock aircraft part is complete, instructor Tim Mahoney whacks it with a hammer to simulate typical damage from a hailstorm, a bird strike or a rock kicked up off the tarmac. Then it’s the students’ job to fix it, taking temperature readings to ensure that the repair holds up to the same standard as the original part. While working through the project, expertise is dispensed by Mahoney, a lead aircraft technician for United Airlines at Newark Airport. He knows what’s at stake in getting every repair right and conveys that sense of responsibility to his charges. “You can’t pull over in the air,” he says.

Aviation maintenance is a cerebral skilled labour. “I liked the idea of working with my hands and my head,” says 20-year-old Nicholas Yanan, taking a break from replacing a gear on an encoding altimeter in the school’s avionics workshop. The recent graduate has taken a job with French transport manufacturer Alstom, working on its automated people-movers. Many of his peers have found roles at major carriers such as Delta and United.

“When PIA graduates show up for an interview, they have an 80 per cent chance of getting hired just because of how prepared they are,” American Airlines regional training manager Michael Young tells Monocle via phone from Washington, during an industry lobbying week on Capitol Hill. He adds that schools such as PIA were instrumental in convincing lawmakers to modernise the aviation maintenance curriculum four years ago – removing the requirements, for example, to build balsa wood models more akin to a hobbyist’s project than anything a modern-day technician would find on an Airbus frame. It’s a reflection of a school that is interested not just in churning out graduates but in giving students the confidence to rise to challenges in a tightly regulated industry, with very real life-or-death consequences. “You might have mechanical skills but are we seeing a student that’s motivated, prepared, respectful and isn’t nervous?” says Young. For graduates who are part of the lineage that’s been fixin’ it right since 1929, the answer is almost always yes. “PIA is one of the schools in the country that sets the bar.”
pia.edu

Are seaplanes making a comeback? These next-generation aircrafts companies are poised to make a splash

Aircraft that take off and land on water have long been costly, niche and reserved for hard-to-reach locations or luxury resorts. But advances in technology are sparking renewed interest. Could the next generation of seaplane finally be ready to take to the skies?

Norwegian company Noemi Aerospace’s emission-free model could kick-start a sea change – and at a fraction of the expense of its predecessors. “If we can deliver cost efficiency in a quieter, more luxurious modern aircraft that gives the passenger a better experience and is better for the environment – and allows the operator to make more money – we will have a win-win formula,” says Noemi’s founder and CEO, Eric Lithun. “The same aircraft can carry passengers, cargo or VIPs and be adapted for firefighting and military applications.” Noemi plans to offer its seaplane with conventional engines, electric motors and hybrid options to suit a variety of locations and available infrastructure. But like many upstart outfits, the company still has some runway to cover. Its first full-scale flight isn’t slated until 2027.

The problem isn’t one of enthusiasm but rather of economy. “Aviation is a difficult business in which to make money,” says Lithun. “And conventional seaplanes are three times more efficient at losing money,” he adds. Other turbulence to be circumvented includes the additional weight and drag created by floats and the maintenance costs that accompany saltwater environments (the sea wreaks havoc on engines). Make improvements in these areas, however, and the business case becomes much clearer – especially since it’s easier to maintain electric motors.

Other innovations in the sector are challenging the very definition of an aircraft. In Switzerland, Jekta is testing a scale model of a far larger amphibious vehicle: the 20-seat PHA-ZE 100. With this flying boat, the Payerne-based aircraft manufacturer has also been exploring hybrid, hydrogen-fuel-cell electric propulsion, which could provide greater range than batteries alone. A scale model has already undergone water and flight testing, though entry into commercial service remains several years away.

Across the border, Germany’s Dornier Seawings continues to put its distinctive, composite-hulled Seastar amphibious aircraft through its paces. And in the US, Regent has a vast manufacturing facility where it’s working with transport companies and carriers including Japan Airlines to build something that isn’t technically an aircraft at all: its electric “seaglider” is designed to skim a few metres above the water at speeds of up to 300km/h. In effect a boat that flies, the Viceroy Seaglider is certifiable as a marine vessel (indeed, it’s flown by mariners rather than pilots) but boasts some of the advantages of a seaplane. Like its future-facing counterparts, a full-scale passenger vehicle has yet to complete a proper commercial mission but optimism abounds. “This is the first of its kind,” Billy Thalheimer, the CEO of Regent, told Monocle at the 2025 Dubai Air Show. “You could argue that it’s really the first new mode of transportation since the helicopter – something that floats, foils and flies.”

More conventional seaplane models, such as the rugged Twin Otter made by De Havilland Canada, are capturing the industry’s attention too. The company has been buoyed by the production of its far larger Canadair waterbomber, the new DHC-515. Demand for the so-called “Super Scooper” has risen significantly as a result of the wildfires that have ravaged Europe this year. Production is now under way for clients in Croatia, France, Greece, Italy, Portugal and Spain. As wildfires become more frequent and severe, the emergency role of seaplanes is expected to keep increasing.

In theory, the seaplane market should be a simple sell. Conventional aviation is expensive and requires a lot of infrastructure. Airports need enormous tracts of land, runways and costly ground equipment, as well as lengthy journeys to and from the cities that they serve. Seaplanes, by contrast, bring much of their infrastructure along for the ride. If you can combine a suitable stretch of water with a dock, you’re 80 per cent of the way towards creating a suitable airport.

Nowhere has demonstrated this way of working better than the Maldives, where seaplanes are an integral part of the national transport infrastructure. Trans Maldivian Airways operates 66 Twin Otters and, at its busiest, more than 400 flights a day, connecting Malé with resorts scattered across the country’s atolls. Many of those islands have neither the space nor the need for a conventional airport.

Islands are ideal test locations for seaplanes but there has also been some success with the concept in urban contexts. Canada’s Harbour Air has built a network in and around British Columbia that connects cities such as Nanaimo, Seattle and Vancouver. Its downtown-to-downtown services demonstrate one of the seaplane’s most attractive qualities: it can bypass the hassle of using airports on a city’s outskirts. But other carriers such as Tailwind Air, which attempted to regularly connect Manhattan’s East River and Boston Harbor, have fallen by the wayside because of spiralling costs. Tailwind filed for bankruptcy in January.

“We don’t view seaplanes as niche,” says the CEO of Harbour Air, Bert van der Stege. “They’re an essential service for coastal communities and commuters, providing a fast and reliable connection. Seaplanes remain the best and quickest way to access remote and premium locations, whether in the form of scheduled flights to popular destinations such as Whistler or a private charter for a beach drop-off at some of the province’s most remote luxury resorts.”

So is this a seaplane renaissance, as new technologies redefine the capabilities of waterborne aircraft? Or another spike in floatplane optimism that’s doomed to disappoint? The answer isn’t clear. After decades of such services being confined mostly to places that have no realistic alternatives, manufacturers are asking whether updated propulsion, fresh designs and tweaked operating models can make them relevant beyond where they are strictly necessary.

There will always be reasons for caution. The history of aviation is littered with futuristic aircraft that attracted headlines and sizeable orders before disappearing. The common thread running through these projects, however, is that each positions the seaplane as a solution that uses existing infrastructure. It’s not a panacea but, with the right lift, the world’s waterways might begin to look less like obstacles than infrastructure that’s crying out to be used. All of which suggests that the hitherto bumpy ride for seaplanes could yet give way to a soft landing.

Maritime technology company Ulysses is building devices for where machines should replace humans: underwater

The HQ of Ulysses lies in the shadows of downtown San Francisco’s towers. Unlike the AI start-ups and trillion-dollar hyperscalers that are housed in slick offices nearby, this maker of autonomous subsea vehicles occupies an industrial warehouse with an interior that’s softened by vibrant art depicting the ocean. The company is working on a series of important but knotty issues associated with operating below the ocean’s surface. Currently, whether you’re trying to figure out why a subsea cable has stopped working or restoring a sea-grass meadow, you need specialist crews and costly surface-control vessels. Ulysses wants to replace this using autonomous vehicles.

The company was founded in 2023 by Akhil Voorakkara, Will O’Brien, Jamie Wedderburn and Colm O’Brien to solve an environmental problem – how to plant sea-grass seeds without putting someone in galoshes. Ulysses makes devices that are being sent on missions such as surveying, assessing broken pipelines and maritime defence. In April it announced a $38m (€33.4m) funding round, led by venture capitalists Andreessen Horowitz, and has already reported $5m (€4.4m) in sales.

When Monocle visits, Wedderburn, the chief technology officer of Ulysses, takes us on a tour, showing us parts being made for a product called Mako, named after the shark species. “The person designing a component is also the one who is milling it,” says Colm, who serves as the company’s chief operating officer.

The Ulysses story began when Wedderburn was hiking with a marine-biologist friend who volunteered on sea-grass restoration projects in Scotland. The task involved wading through mud to plant individual seeds. Sea grass shelters fish, stores carbon and protects shorelines. Wedderburn thought that this could all be automated. His team’s first prototype had a patched-together collection of motors and pumps, plus a tank that was first tested with sesame seeds. Trials in Western Australia were fraught. “The mechanism was a disaster,” says Wedderburn. “It flooded and got corroded. But the robot itself worked really well.”

Though the robot functioned successfully and at a low cost, however, putting it to sea required a crewed boat. So Ulysses is also developing an unmanned surface vessel that can carry, launch and recover its underwater vehicles. The aim is to sell the entire system required to perform difficult work at sea without in-person human involvement. If successful, it could change how the ocean can be monitored and maintained. Ulysses wants to offer clients more than visual checks – including software that will allow a robot to repair, say, a leaking pipeline in the same way that current devices allow a surgeon to remotely operate on a patient. “We’re at the diagnostic phase right now,” says Wedderburn.

Back in the workshop, Colm details the lessons that he learnt while working with Red Bull Racing in one of the world’s most competitive arenas: Formula 1. He says that it taught him to keep improving a product even after it has been shipped. Ulysses trains engineers to make their own parts. This, says Colm, removes delays and lost information that can occur when work is passed between specialists. “It’s not a weeklong process that goes between three people,” he says. “It’s a one-day process and stays in one person’s head.” It’s also cheaper than buying parts from other countries, such as China.

Defence deals are increasingly important to the company, though the founders are clear about their red lines: the operative word is defence. Wedderburn says that Ulysses has already sold vehicles to the US Navy that can offer mine countermeasures, locate unexploded ordnance and, with partners, counter enemy unmanned vehicles. None were in any active combat zones at the time of our visit.

For Colm, the work requires more than enthusiasm for an engineering challenge. He’s frustrated by the public bombast and bluster of some defence-tech companies. “I would say that what’s missing in pop culture is a little bit of seriousness about what we’re building,” he says. That attitude extends to what the company promises customers. He says that clients are told that development is ongoing, rather than selling “vapourware” – claiming that products are more capable or reliable than they actually are. Even as Ulysses builds vehicles for customers, he says, “We’re not yet satisfied with our product.”

But serving several markets simultaneously does raise a question about Ulysses’s strategy. Is the core business thesis muddled? Conservation helped to start the company but generates less revenue than defence or commercial work. Colm doesn’t see that breadth as a distraction but rather as evidence of the technology’s usefulness. What Ulysses is building is a platform for doing physical work underwater, regardless of the specific environment in which it’s ultimately used. “We truly believe that conservation work is core to the business,” he says. Those who argue that Ulysses should concentrate on commercial projects or defence, he adds, “just do not understand the magnitude of the problem”.

In Western Australia, where the Ulysses tests began, the company’s work with the Ozfish Seeds for Snapper programme in Cockburn Sound has helped to produce four hectares of new sea-grass meadow. It’s a step change from what humans alone were able to achieve. Wedderburn plans to return to Perth with a larger seed tank and a new Mako hull for another planting trial. Ulysses might have found plenty of other work for its robot fleet but there are still meadows to restore.
theoceancompany.com

The search for Iraq’s lost film legacy: Inside Baghdad’s cinema archive

Long after the Iraq War, central Baghdad’s former Green Zone remains a strange, disconcerting place, cut off from the bustle and charm of this ancient city. Checkpoints lead to a vast, open space that is largely empty of people. The crossed swords of Saddam Hussein’s monstrous Victory Arch loom overhead. It’s an area that many would usually avoid. But here, along with the blast walls and holed-up diplomats, is an extraordinary archive, a treasure trove saved from destruction.

Inside a collection of cement buildings is a series of cool, dark rooms – a contrast to the blazing heat outside. In one of them, Hassan Al-Sudani stands among piles of film canisters. Some are laid out on the floor to dry; others are stacked on shelves. Several of the cases are rusted through, while a few are burnt black. Logos of long-defunct production houses are stamped on the tins. The names of films –Flaming Borders, Loch Ness Monster, Qadisiyya (Short Version) – are written on strips of tape on the sides. Because of missing labels and the lack of a comprehensive index, what’s inside the canisters is often a mystery.

Until recently, Al-Sudani lived in Sweden, where he and his wife built a life after fleeing Iraq in the 1990s. He returned to Baghdad in 2023 to lead the effort to find, catalogue and restore Iraq’s lost film archives, which had been scattered, looted and neglected over decades of conflict. Al-Sudani has a doctorate on the relationship between memory and cinema; his current work explores the same themes. “But this time it’s for all Iraqi people.”

The country’s film culture boomed in the mid-20th century. Production company Baghdad Studio was founded in the late 1940s and there were more than 100 cinemas across Iraq by the middle of the following decade. Then, in 1979, Saddam became president. Under his rule, censorship and international sanctions limited creativity and access to filmmaking materials. But the biggest blow came after the US-led invasion in 2003, says Oday Rasheed, the Baghdad-born director of the critically acclaimed Underexposure – the first feature to be shot in the country after the beginning of the war. Saddam’s Ba’athist regime had maintained a film archive, though some films were deliberately destroyed or made inaccessible to the public. After the invasion, this collection was scattered, with many reels stolen or damaged. Even films that were not deliberately destroyed were in danger. “We had an intellectual war with the incoming Iraqi administration just to get these films stored at the right temperature,” says Rasheed. “The Iraqi summer was harming them.”

The director rescued what he could from opportunistic looters and the searing heat, carrying armfuls of 16mm newsreels to store at his family home. “They lived in the same room as my mum,” he says. “If she was OK, then the 16mm was OK.” Last year, Rasheed returned them to Al-Sudani, who was busy searching the country for everything that had survived.

Al-Sudani also looked in government departments, offices, basements and theatres. Some of the films were held by the security and intelligence services; others, like Rasheed’s saved reels, were in the hands of private citizens. He compares his work to that of an archaeologist. “Imagine me at the Sumerian sites, digging and finding the tablets,” he says.

Among the films that were recently restored is Said Effendi, director Kameran Husni’s 1950s classic that tells the story of a teacher and his family navigating neighbourhood politics as they look for a place to live. Following its restoration, completed with the help of the French National Audiovisual Institute, it was screened in Baghdad for the first time in decades. The cinema was packed, with people sitting on the floor. Many lingered after it finished.

Some of the films that Al-Sudani has unearthed were known to exist. Others, however, were surprises. He tells Monocle that when the film of King Faisal II’s coronation was discovered among the decaying reels, he felt “an overwhelming joy. It was never shown until now and still in good condition. It was as though I had discovered treasure,” he says. His delight shows how much emotional and historical weight these films carry.

The reassembling of the archive isn’t just about looking backwards. Al-Sudani’s return to Iraq is part of a broader homecoming for the country’s intellectual diaspora.

A fresh cultural and artistic community is emerging, intent on building something new and replacing the image of a war-ravaged, impoverished country with one that is more nuanced, complex and optimistic. If there is to be a bright future for Iraqi cinema – and, indeed, the country – the past must first be understood and preserved. The work to recreate the film archive contributes to that. “This is everything,” says Al-Sudani. “This is our identity, first and last. It’s the cause of the homeland.”

New to Iraqi cinema? Here are three films to start with

1.
‘Said Effendi’ (1957)
Kameran Hosni
This newly restored social-realist classic explores the housing crisis, unemployment and social tensions in a Baghdad neighbourhood. It tells the story of a schoolteacher and his family who are evicted from their home and face difficulties settling somewhere new.

2.
‘Underexposure’ (2005)
Oday Rasheed
Shot in a docufiction style, Oday Rasheed’s debut follows a crew making a film during the 2003 US invasion of Iraq and the subsequent occupation. The first feature film shot in the country since the start of the war, it reflects both the horror of the conflict and the euphoria that greeted the end of Saddam-era censorship.

3.
‘The President’s Cake’ (2025)
Hasan Hadi
This tragicomic drama follows a nine-year-old girl called Lamia, who has been selected to bake a cake for Saddam Hussein’s birthday. It interrogates how children navigated the moral and political landscape of rural Iraq in the 1990s. The President’s Cake won the Camera d’Or at Cannes in 2025.