The Santa Marta conference on phasing out fossil fuels has just wrapped up, and by most accounts, it was a meaningful step forward. For the first time, 57 countries — representing more than half of global GDP — gathered explicitly to discuss ending the fossil fuel era. Colombia presented the world’s first national roadmap for full phaseout. A new international science panel was launched. Political momentum is building. At least, that is the talk.
But only 20% of fossil fuelers were present, and it is at most suggested that some countries begin to publish or discuss more specific pathways, such as timelines for the phase-out of coal, oil, and gas. Like the environmentalists have been doing already for the last 25 years.
The next major climate milestone is already casting another shadow over that ‘progress’ — not because of what will be decided there, or not, but because of how people will get there and at what expense.
The Next Stop: Tuvalu
One of the most symbolic venues under discussion for the follow-up of Santa Marta is Tuvalu, the tiny Pacific island nation that is itself among the most vulnerable to climate change. Rising sea levels threaten to swallow the country entirely within decades. If any place embodies the urgency of the fossil fuel crisis, it is Tuvalu.
The problem is getting there.
Tuvalu has just one international airport, served by a handful of flights per week. There is no direct route from anywhere in Europe. A typical journey from London alone involves at least three flights — via a major hub, then Fiji, then the final hop to Funafuti — and takes between 30 and 45 hours. In practice, most travelers spend two to three days in transit each way.
The Carbon Cost of Showing Up
The climate math is brutal. A return flight from London to Tuvalu covers roughly 30,000 to 35,000 kilometers and produces an estimated 4 to 7 tonnes of CO₂ per person. To put that in perspective, the average person worldwide emits around 4 tonnes of CO₂ in a year. A single trip to Tuvalu can exceed that.
The financial cost is similarly steep — tickets typically range from €2,000 to €5,000, with last-minute or peak bookings reaching €9,000 or more.
Multiply that across the thousands of delegates, negotiators, journalists, and observers who attend a major climate conference, and the cumulative footprint becomes deeply uncomfortable.
The Paradox at the Heart of Climate Diplomacy
This is not a new problem. Climate conferences have long struggled with the contradiction of flying the world’s decision-makers to distant locations to discuss cutting emissions. But Tuvalu sharpens that contradiction to a fine point.
As Amnesty International noted after Santa Marta: “For 30 years, COPs have failed to confront the root causes of the climate crisis head on.” The Santa Marta conference itself emerged precisely because existing multilateral processes were not delivering. Yet the format — fly everyone in, talk, fly everyone home — remains unchanged.
The outcome of Santa Marta was described by observers as a diplomatic step forward, not a final settlement. Hard decisions were deferred. Financing remains unresolved. Binding commitments are still absent. Meanwhile, the carbon cost of the next gathering is already accumulating.
Maybe you think we exaggerate. Then try this:
Go to Google maps,
search for Tuvalu,
try to find it.
A Symbolic Irony
There is something both powerful and troubling about holding a climate conference in Tuvalu. Powerful, because no backdrop makes the stakes more vivid than a nation preparing to disappear beneath the ocean. Troubling, because reaching it requires one of the most carbon-intensive journeys a person can make.
If the age of fossil fuels is truly ending — as Santa Marta insisted it must — then perhaps the age of flying thousands of people around the globe to agree on that fact should end too.
The world’s most climate-vulnerable nation deserves to be heard. The question is whether we need to fly there to listen.
