The Utopia Experiment

by Dylan Evans

  ‘I’m feeling a lot better, thanks. I think I’ll be out of this place soon.’

  ‘Well you certainly sound better,’ said Agric. ‘You’ve got your voice back at least.’

  ‘It’ll do you a world of good to get back into the swing of things,’ said Pete. ‘Get some fresh air again, do some digging, bake some bread.’

  And then it dawned on me; they expected me to just carry on like before, as if nothing had happened! Perhaps they didn’t want to believe my mental illness was real, because that would call into question the whole experiment. If the whole thing was merely the product of a deluded mind, what did that say about them? They believed in it all far too much now to let any doubts creep in.

  Only when I finally left the experiment would they accept that I had taken leave of my senses. But that would be because I left, not because I started the experiment in the first place. That way they could continue telling themselves that Utopia was a great idea, not a crazy thing dreamt up by a madman. Indeed, you’d have to be mad to leave the place, they thought, because it was something special, an oasis of sanity in a world gone crazy, a refuge from a civilization that was about to implode, a place to create a future from the ashes of the past.

  A few days later, Dr Satoshi agreed that I was ready to leave the hospital. I wasn’t back to my normal self; far from it. It took me over a year before I felt completely normal again, and even longer before I could be really honest with myself about what had happened in Utopia. But after a month in hospital I was just about functional, and that was a big improvement compared to when I’d arrived.

  I shook Dr Satoshi’s hand and thanked him for everything he had done for me – for being so frank with me, for taking the time to read some of my writing and telling me that I would write again some day, for not jumping to the wrong diagnosis and giving me antipsychotic medication. He smiled a broad smile.

  ‘You’ve had a very narrow escape, Dylan. I don’t think you realize how close you came to a very nasty ending.’

  It sounded rather exaggerated, but perhaps he was right.

  ‘May I give you a few last pieces of advice?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Go somewhere and settle down for a while. Build up a new life for yourself. Give it time. Don’t go rushing off again after a year. Put down some roots.’

  It didn’t sound very appealing, to be honest, but I could see I needed some stability in my life after everything that had happened.

  ‘And one more thing,’ he added. ‘Don’t get involved in a relationship for a while.’

  ‘How long should I wait?’ I asked.

  ‘I think three years should be enough.’

  Three years! That sounded a bit extreme. But then, I thought, with the first bit of humour in a long time, all I would need to do to follow his advice would be to relay it to any woman who might be interested in me. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t date you; my psychiatrist says I’m not allowed to go out with anyone for three years.’ That would scare them off.

  Then I gathered together my belongings – a few clothes and some books – and stuffed them in a big plastic bin liner. And I walked out of the hospital door for the last time.

  Romay was there to pick me up and take me back to Utopia. I still recall the icy feeling of fear that crept up my spine as I walked down the dirt track and saw the Barn again for the first time in over four weeks. It was a grey, overcast day, and there was nobody in sight.

  I pushed open the stiff wooden door and peered inside. Nothing had changed. The same dank smell of fetid water, the unwashed dishes piled up by the makeshift sink, the assortment of tools and breadcrumbs scattered across the big wooden table, the motley collection of old chairs.

  I sat down and tried to gather my thoughts. This would be difficult. I had decided to tell the volunteers that the experiment was over, and it was time for everyone to go home. Delivering such a message would be hard at the best of times, but I was still far from well. The anxiety that had overwhelmed me in the weeks leading up to my admission to hospital had diminished somewhat, but it was nonetheless quite debilitating.

  Agric appeared at the doorway. His face broke into a warm grin, and he came towards me with his arms outstretched. I let him hug me, and put my arms gingerly around him to hug him back, but I felt like Judas. I couldn’t look him in the eye.

  ‘It’s over,’ I said.

  ‘You mean you’re better?’

  ‘No, I mean the experiment is over. I don’t believe in it any more.’

  ‘Of course you feel like that now,’ said Agric, taking a seat. ‘You’ve only just come out of hospital. You still need time to recuperate.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve made my mind up. It’s time for everyone to go home.’

  ‘You can’t send people back now, Dylan. It’s too late. People believe in this project. They have spent weeks – months in some cases – trying to make this work. You can’t end it now.’

  I just shook my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

  Agric suddenly looked ashen-faced. He turned round and went out, leaving me alone in the gloom.

  The volunteers, it soon became clear, had no intention of leaving. And there was nothing I could do about that. When Zimbardo ended the Stanford Prison Experiment, he could simply shoo the participants out of the basement of the psychology building. But when you have a bunch of volunteers camped out in the Scottish Highlands, it’s not quite so easy to get them to clear off. I soon realized that there was no way I could make them leave if they didn’t want to.

  To the volunteers, my announcement that the experiment was over was just another symptom of my mental illness, another sign that I hadn’t fully recovered. They felt pity for me, they looked after me, they cooked for me and let me rest, but they didn’t take me seriously. I was as isolated as ever.

  I hadn’t anticipated this at all. From the comfort of my hospital bed, I had imagined everything being much simpler. I would announce that the experiment was over, and everyone would pack up and leave. There would be some cries of protest of course, some recriminations, some tears – but then people would accept the inevitable and start gathering up their belongings. The idea that they would just ignore me and carry on hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  Now I was flummoxed. It seemed like I was back where I had been before my admission to hospital, watching my experiment rush forward without me, like a horse that had thrown off its rider and was now racing out across the plains, towards who knew what dangers. And then it dawned on me that it wasn’t really my experiment any longer, that it hadn’t really been my experiment for a while now, that it had evolved into something quite different, and that was actually my way out, because I couldn’t leave my own experiment but I could leave if it was someone else’s.

  And so, quietly and secretly, while the volunteers went about their work, I hatched my escape plan.

  Those last few weeks I spent in Utopia, in between being discharged from hospital and making my dramatic escape, felt dreamy and unreal. Outwardly, I guess I didn’t seem all that different to the shuffling, shadowy figure who had lumbered around in the weeks preceding my admission to hospital. But inside I felt calmer, and more determined to act. I knew now that at some point soon I would be leaving, and it was just a question of making the necessary arrangements. That was still hard – my ability to plan anything was still severely compromised, and my thoughts were as hazy as ever – but at least I could see a light at the end of the tunnel.

  The only times when my anxiety returned were in the evenings; while Agric stoked the Rayburn, and Graham chopped vegetables, I sat in the corner, shaking silently, feeling my body shrink and twist.

  I wondered what the other volunteers made of the fact that the founder of the experiment was a mere ghost who hardly said a word, and who looked on, impotent, while his brainchild went on its merry way with scarcely a nod in his direction.

  New volunteers continued to arrive. One was Greg Collins, a postal worker f
rom Lancashire. Greg was large and stocky, with a bald head and a large round face. He was in his late thirties, and spoke very slowly. He seemed in a bit of a daze for the first few days, and confided that Utopia was a bit of a culture shock for him, after living in Preston for over twenty years. He also confessed that he had a weak spot for ready-meals, and found it hard to adjust to the idea that you had to plan ahead several hours before eating. But within a week he was happily lighting the Rayburn in the morning and baking bread with Agric, before spending several hours outside gardening or chopping wood. I envied him, and felt sure he must have been disappointed with me for being so useless.

  Agric was now fully in charge, though he would often deny it. He was clearly in his element as he scampered about from one task to the next, instructing Pete here in the art of brewing beer, sending Greg out to gather some firewood there, all the while chatting excitedly about the looming financial crisis, which was already gathering like a storm on the horizon.

  On 9 August, Agric was jubilant.

  ‘People really wet their pants today!’ he announced triumphantly. ‘It’s beginning, I tell you! In retrospect the global recession may well be seen to have started today.’

  He got that right. The active phase of the 2007–8 financial crisis can be dated from precisely that day, after BNP Paribas terminated withdrawals from three hedge funds citing ‘a complete evaporation of liquidity’.

  Agric had been following all the news with great interest on his little wind-up radio. He told us over supper how the central banks had been forced to step in to provide liquidity so that normal market operations could continue. ‘It’s happened before,’ he remarked, solemnly, ‘like just after 9/11, which nailed us to this path we’re on now.

  ‘It’s an ever higher and stretching thinner tightrope,’ he continued, mixing his metaphors. ‘It’s going to snap sooner or later, you know.’

  He forecast a global depression worse than in the 1930s. Combined with the effects of peak oil, it would cause the global financial system to collapse ‘within perhaps just a few months’, or ‘a handful of years’ at most. Money would then cease to have any value.

  ‘We’ve passed the point of no return,’ he concluded gravely. ‘Our only hope now is to create lifeboat communities like this one, repositories of knowledge and survival skills, and prepare for life after the crash.’

  Early one morning in September, while it was still dark and misty, I made my way to the shipping container that held my few remaining possessions. The doors creaked loudly but it was far enough away from the yurts not to wake anyone. I hunted around inside with my torch and retrieved the boxes with my books – unopened for over a year – piling them up one by one on the dirt track nearby. And then I waited for the van to arrive.

  With my diminished mental capacities, even something as simple as finding a man with a van to drive my stuff back down to England had been challenging. Sitting there by my boxes of books as the first rays of dawn crept over the hillside, I wasn’t even sure whether he would turn up.

  When I heard the faint sounds of an engine and then saw the van make its bumpy way down the track towards me, I was still bleary-eyed and not quite sure if it was real. But as we loaded the boxes into the van, I felt a weight slip from my shoulders, and I smiled a genuine smile for the first time in many months. I was free.

  After the van had left, I went back to the Barn and found Socrates sleeping by the Rayburn. I picked him up and put him in his cat-box – the same one in which he had made the long journey to Scotland over a year before – but spared him the Valium. I put him on the back seat of my old clapped-out Peugeot 206. It was battered and muddy but it still worked, and I could just about drive. And so, without any farewells, I drove down that old dirt track for the last time, and headed south.

  The Utopia Experiment was over. But the volunteers were still there. Later, I learned that they had renamed it the Phoenix Experiment, reflecting their view that it had risen from the ashes of Utopia.

  Six years after I left Utopia, Agric was still living on site, for six months each year at least, as if he had ‘planted himself there with his tatties,’ said Romay. He had converted a part of the Barn into a bedroom, which Angus said was still a dreadful mess. By contrast, his vegetable patch was looking very neat, and had expanded to include a community-funded polytunnel – a makeshift greenhouse made of polyethylene, stretched over a series of hoops.

  Several other volunteers would also make occasional visits to the site to help tend the crops and chew the fat with Agric. In December 2009 Greg sent me a Christmas card. He had tracked me down to the university in Ireland where I was teaching, and written a touching message inside the card about how the Utopia Experiment was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and how it gave meaning to his life. Seeing that he worked as a postman and lived alone in a small council flat, it perhaps wasn’t so surprising that spending a few weeks now and again in the Scottish Highlands, working outdoors with breathtaking mountains as a backdrop, seemed so wonderful in comparison. But it moved me all the same, and I was glad that, for at least some people if not for me, there had been something utopian about the whole experiment after all.

  In 2010 a rumour reached me that the volunteers still expected me to return to Utopia one day, when I had recovered my senses, just in time for the final collapse of civilization, to lead them once again as we all journeyed into the post-apocalyptic future together. It sounded fanciful, as if I had inadvertently created some kind of cult. I’m sure the volunteers never really believed any such thing. In any case, I clearly wasn’t cut out to be cult leader.

  The first requirement for any cult leader is that he believe his own bullshit. It’s amazing how convincing someone can be if they have unshakeable faith, even if what they believe is completely ridiculous. When the poor victims of Jim Jones followed him out to his remote compound in Guyana, his complete and utter certainty must have played a large part in convincing them. And their conviction must surely, in turn, have helped to fuel Jones’s certainty, in a mutually reinforcing shared delusion. In my case, however, the more the volunteers believed in me, the less I believed in myself. I’m quite relieved, though, that I didn’t have what it takes to be a cult leader. In the end, it was a lack of conviction that saved me.

  Adam continued to surprise me. A few days after I arrived back in England, exhausted, to spend some time recuperating at a friend’s house in Kent, he emailed me from Germany. He told me he had spent the past few months in Bosnia, living with a farmer who used no machinery.

  I shook my head in disbelief. Bosnia? And what the hell was he doing in Germany? How on earth did he manage to do all that travelling with no money?

  In November he emailed me again. He was still in Germany, and was building another yurt village. By the following March he was in Austria, and asked me to send him 170 euro so he could buy a new guitar. A few months later I received an email from him in his new guise as ‘Father Abraham’ in which he invited me to visit the new Rainbow Church website and sign up for an online master class in ‘How to Become a Saint in One Mayan Cycle’.

  Then I lost touch with Adam completely for several years. It was not until June 2014, as I was putting the finishing touches to this book, that I heard from him again. Under the subject line ‘Healing the past’, he wrote that he had some useful information to pass on to a few special people around the world. Apparently, the Great Spirit had informed him that I was one of the lucky few.

  Over the course of a few more emails I discovered he was still in Germany, and had reinvented himself as an artist. On one of his webpages, there was a photo of him in a black beret, crisp white shirt and braces, looking every inch the bohemian painter.

  I laughed out loud, relieved that the old bugger wasn’t dead, as I had feared, and impressed once again at his sheer chutzpah.

  15. CIVILIZATION AND ITS DISCONTENTS

  It took every last drop of energy and concentration to drive all the way down from the Hig
hlands to the place in Kent where a friend had kindly agreed to let me stay and recuperate from my Scottish odyssey. I spent most of the next two months in bed, getting up only to smoke the occasional cigarette, or drive to the shop to buy frozen pizza, which I would consume, without relish, before diving straight back under the duvet. As I lay in bed, for hours on end, trying to sleep even when I was no longer tired, a memory of Utopia would occasionally flash into my mind, and I would be gripped by a blind panic, an icy terror, and I would shut my eyes even tighter and try to wish myself back into my old cottage in the Cotswolds, as if by sheer force of will I could turn back the clock and erase the whole of the previous year.

  I think for a while I seriously believed I might be able to perform that miraculous feat, and it was only slowly that I realized the futility of such magical thinking. As time wore on, I gradually came to accept that I would never be able to go back in time, nor lie in bed for ever; I would have to start rebuilding my life. ‘You’ll have to start again,’ Dr Satoshi had told me, and though it seemed an overwhelming task, an impossibly daunting journey, I finally began to take the first baby steps on what I knew would be a long road ahead. I would spend the morning trying to summon up the courage to face reality, and by midday I would finally crawl out of bed and switch on my computer, and search the web for jobs.

  I had burnt all my bridges in Britain, I thought, so I started applying for academic positions abroad. I approached the task with a grim determination, and painfully hacked together a CV, which I emailed joylessly to various universities in Germany, Holland and Ireland. Finally I got invited to a job interview in Cork, on the south coast of the Irish Republic.

  The whole process of booking flights, preparing a presentation, and hauling myself over to Ireland was a huge effort, requiring all the concentration and strength I could muster. But a couple of weeks later, there I was, giving a talk on emotions and robots to the assembled professors and post-docs at the Cork Constraint Computation Centre, a research group attached to the Computer Science Department at University College Cork. After a year or so in the wilderness, trying to live without modern technology, I was back in the world of artificial intelligence, knocking on the door of the future that I had once repudiated with such animosity and disdain.