At the Edge of the Desert Page 7

  The air inside the polythene tunnel was heavy with the aroma of tomatoes and manure. Dozens of plastic bags, plump with damp soil, lay side by side, covering most of the floor. Each bag was split lengthwise with stiff-haired plants poking out the dark cuts. I filmed a woman carrying two new sacks to the far side of the tunnel where she placed them neatly at the end of the row. She waved when she saw us.

  ‘It’s bigger than I expected,’ I said after the generator switched off.

  Will continued explaining his irrigation method to my camera as we went out to the water tank – a smaller version of the Harmony tower – where I asked how often he bought fresh water.

  ‘Twice a week,’ he said. ‘It’s our biggest expense after food and diesel.’ (This reminded me to ask him for money.) ‘We’re striving to achieve a balanced ecosystem here, but we need more space. I’m buying that plot of land.’ He pointed in the direction of some rocks. ‘Do you think you might be able to film me out here?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Giving my lecture? I like your idea of making something for the Web.’

  ‘No, it’s too noisy for that. Wind plays havoc with my cheap mics. But I’ll take some shots of you now if you’ve got the time. I want to pan across to Harmony so that your audience gets a feel for just how vast this part of the world is. Those bakkies will give a good sense of perspective.’

  ‘You keen to do this now?’

  ‘Sure. Let’s go.’

  Despite the strong breeze, my shirt was so wet it stuck to my back. In the drowning heat, I regretted eating nothing but chocolate for lunch. With my free hand shielding my lens from sandy air, I captured the distant figure of a man welding Harmony’s wind turbine. We were approaching the solar array, a collection of photovoltaic panels in various states of repair, angled towards the sun.

  ‘That’s Keanu,’ Will said. ‘I’m going to have a word with him about my latest blueprints.’

  I panned away from the Brit and the welder to the clear sky far behind them where a microlight flew low towards Diaz Point. It followed the coastline and eventually circled back over the water, its engine increasing in pitch as it fought the headwind on its slow push south.

  Will motioned to me from a line of rocks dotting the earth, all painted white, marking some sort of perimeter.

  ‘Our shooting range,’ Will explained when I caught up.

  ‘Check this out,’ Keanu said. Without warning he shot six bullets at a paper target. He lay his gun on the ground in order to wave his arms about, kicking the air like a samurai, in what I assumed must be a martial arts demonstration for my benefit. He bowed to my camera when it was over, coughing loudly and violently on standing upright. He was young enough to be in high school.

  ‘You’re eager,’ I said.

  Given Namibia’s wide-open spaces – barely two and a half million people in a country twice the size of Germany – I wasn’t convinced that anyone would pay for the privilege of shooting in Harmony’s makeshift range when they could just as easily fire their weapon almost anywhere else. But I kept the thought to myself.

  I couldn’t help voicing my concern that there were no barriers separating the range from the rest of Harmony. That Will was relying on the shooters to keep their weapons trained on his hand-painted targets and not on whoever happened to be tending vegetables.

  ‘But that’s just crazy,’ Will said.

  ‘Stray bullets?’ I suggested.

  ‘What about them? I’m not about to start building walls.’

  He was soon explaining how savagery, barbarity, civilisation and barriers had always frustrated passional attraction. Barriers, mostly.

  ‘If I’m honest, none of this is new. Theories about social movement have been around for thousands of years, but metaphysics and politics have suppressed most of them. Hard science entertains questions of fact, but passional attraction interrogates those facts. Although I do fret that no one will understand what I’m on about.’

  I assured him his ideas made perfect sense.

  Pleased with my response, he said, ‘You think so? It’s just that I sometimes worry I’m trying to achieve the impossible. I mean, I’ve gone over my calculus and can’t find any errors, but I do wonder.’

  ‘Anyone who visits this place will see how serious you are.’

  Will rubbed his hands with excitement: ‘The next time you come, you must arrive early. Our day will soon begin at 3.30 a.m.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘Even for the windsurfers?’

  My response puzzled him. ‘Those guys aren’t part of Harmony. They’re just a source of hard currency. Amanda rents to a few of them but we’ll give them the boot when we need the space. Let me put it this way: no one will be compelled to wake up at three-thirty. We’ll all do so willingly. Our day will run from four in the morning until ten at night. We’ll kick off with two work sessions of a couple hours each: cleaning or gardening, depending on schedules. It’ll vary to facilitate enthusiasm.

  ‘Breakfast is from seven to seven-thirty and then another three work sessions – anything from shoe-making to admin – until one o’clock. Lunch takes fifty minutes, and afterwards we give thanks for ten, and that’s followed by work until 8 p.m. when everyone gathers to agree their schedule for the next day. Supper at eight-thirty. Entertainment, and finally bed. You should film a day-in-the-life.’

  His talk of meals reminded me that although I’d been at Harmony for about an hour, other than the chocolate, I’d not eaten all afternoon. I said, ‘So according to your timetable, I’m in time for lunch?’

  ‘At the moment our schedule is more of an art than a science. We’re debating … deciding if the number of meals ought to be increased. I’m telling you what Harmony will be like once everyone settles into passional relationships, Henry.’

  ‘So no one’s currently up at 3.30 a.m.?’

  ‘Well, no. Not yet. I’m evaluating possibilities. For example, I expect it shan’t be long before breakfast is served at four-thirty, lunch at eight—’

  ‘A.m.?’

  ‘A.m.,’ he confirmed. ‘Breakfast at 4.30 a.m. and lunch at 8 a.m. Clear your mind of its societal assumptions. Dinner at one o’clock, perhaps a snack at six – I’m undecided – and finally supper at 9 p.m. followed by entertainment. And one day soon, when Harmony is operating properly, we won’t need to sleep because our work will be so enriching. Suited to our personalities and temperaments, it’ll refresh and invigorate us.’

  ‘And what about weekends?’ I said. ‘Or is that another—’

  ‘Societal assumption? Yes. Civilisation has conditioned us to divide our lives in terms of Saturdays and Sundays. But Harmony renders the concept of weeks – indeed holidays – meaningless.’ He let out a deep sigh, as if unable to summon enough strength for a fuller explanation. ‘But, for the moment, suffice it to say – at least until we’ve formed our passional relationships – we work five days and take our weekends off like the rest of you. But one day all that will change …’

  Back in the main building, Will revealed his small-scale model of Harmony made out of egg cartons and tin cans. Two miniature wings – living areas, consulting rooms and workshops – extended from either side of the existing rotunda. The desalination plant was on the to-be-purchased land near the rocks he’d shown me during our walk.

  ‘I designed everything,’ he said, ‘from our architecture to the timetable. I’ve adapted kibbutzim agricultural methods to the Namibian climate, and to my philosophy. One day we’ll work in luxurious workshops and gardens.’

  Will had switched off the overhead fluorescent light to prevent flicker, and he’d sent word to everyone in the building to keep doors and windows shut so that my microphone didn’t pick up the generator’s dull thud or other noises. Not optimal conditions, but I didn’t have much choice – it was Dogme filmmaking out of necessity. And because I’d encouraged the windsurfers to go about their business, a dreadlocked man began decanting resin from a 55-gallon drum into a plastic b
ucket behind Will.

  ‘Our biggest problem is a lack of water. And topsoil. I mean, they’re huge issues. But, geopolitically speaking, Lüderitz is the safest place on the planet right now, and has absurd amounts of sunlight and wind to boot. And it’s a matter of time before technology lets us produce cheap, fresh water.’ Behind him, the windsurfer walked the heavy drum back under the stairs before carrying his bucket and paintbrush up to the first floor.

  ‘You’re an expensive bit of kit,’ Will told the empty condensed-milk tin that represented the desalination plant. Back to my lens: ‘Too expensive for the time being. Boringly, soil almost costs the earth, but when we’ve sorted the agri-tunnels we’ll be able to look after the soil we’ve invested in, love it and care for it, and, with luck, rarely have to replace it.’

  A handwritten note, sellotaped to the side of the board, said that Harmony could accommodate 15 000 people.

  ‘Who knows?’ he said when I asked about the figure. ‘I chose fifteen to begin with because not everyone can see what’s in front of them. Or imagine the possibilities. As it happens, I’ve made a few changes to my plans since I built this miniature, and now I’m aiming for 20 000.’

  I mentioned that I hadn’t recognised any local Buchters in Harmony on our tour.

  ‘Keanu’s Namibian,’ Will said somewhat defensively.

  ‘Any others?’

  ‘What we’re focusing on,’ he said, ‘for a couple years, at least, is strengthening our core team. Hopefully in the not-too-distant future a group of London psychotherapists will invest in Harmony. But until then, we’ll run co-operatively: dividends paid in proportion to the amount of work done plus initial contribution. Right now we need hard currency, which is why we’re inviting foreigners who no longer feel like they belong in the West to join us. Establishing a core group takes time. But before that team is a passional union, we can only accept people able to invest in us.’

  ‘In other words, no locals?’

  ‘Well, that’s one way of looking at it. But our two main goals – bearing in mind we have seven – are industrial attraction and passional equilibrium. And to achieve these goals we need dollars and pounds sterling.’ He paused. ‘You know what? Let’s film my lectures here!’

  Although the room was adequate for nefarious purposes – such as my intended documentary about him – no one would believe that this place, this building site, was good for promoting Harmony. No, he’d need to make a bit of an effort if he wanted to attract new members. It would also be more interesting for my audience if I varied locations.

  ‘It’s probably best if we find somewhere else,’ I suggested. ‘At least until you’ve decorated.’

  ‘I don’t follow you.’

  ‘You want to give your new recruits the best impression of Harmony, don’t you? You’re not wanting them to assume it’s still under construction?’

  This thought clearly hadn’t occurred to him before, and he glanced at the unplastered walls and ceiling as if seeing them for the first time.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I suppose this might look unfinished to the untrained eye, but we’re creating something new here. We don’t have time for pretty just yet.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘Of course not. Someplace else, then.’ He paused. ‘I could try the school. Do you like the idea of the school? Your sister knows the local principal, who could help us.’

  ‘Perhaps somewhere a bit smarter than a school?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘I’m only making suggestions.’

  He was nodding. ‘Of course.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ I said. ‘These theories are clearly important to you, but you should talk about yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The other evening at my sister’s place, you told me about your time in London. Your difficulties.’

  ‘Oh, that,’ he said, scratching his crown. ‘All that stuff’s a bit melancholy for what I’m trying to do here.’

  ‘I think it could help people.’

  ‘I don’t know. Amanda doesn’t like me talking about it. She says it re-traumatises me.’ He brought his hands in front of his chest, palms together, as if to pray, but instead let his lips and nose rest on his fingertips.

  ‘You don’t have to tell them exactly what happened to you,’ I said, ‘but you should reveal something.’

  ‘And you think that’s a good idea? I know at least one person who will say it’s a very bad idea.’

  ‘What I’m saying is that you’re going to need to make yourself vulnerable – no, that’s not the right word. Relatable. If you want your audience to relate to you, you have to connect with them. But at the same time, I don’t mean you should strip away your defences and bare everything.’ After giving him a moment to consider this, I said, ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘It’s painful stuff, Henry. And embarrassing. And even more so for Amanda to listen to.’

  ‘I’m sure you can find a way of emotionally connecting with your audience that wouldn’t expose you or Amanda.’

  ‘Why should I tell anyone about that time in my life?’

  Formulating my response was more difficult than I’d expected, especially because just then a man I’d not met before was attempting to attract the Brit’s attention by waving his arms, but I settled on: ‘You have theories about how we relate to capitalism and society. They appeal to our intellect: either we’ll buy your argument or we won’t. But if you’re willing to share something personal about yourself, it’ll resonate with us. Human beings relate to emotion. We can’t help ourselves.’ Unsure if I’d explained myself sufficiently, or if Will was even listening to me now that he’d seen the other guy, I suspected that he would prefer to find an intellectual fix for this emotional disconnect, no matter what I said.

  ‘Time for giving thanks,’ Will said, as if the words were self-explanatory, before following the man outside, in the opposite direction to the polytunnel, to an area about the size of a football pitch marked out with small white rocks. I recognised Keanu from the shooting range standing alone in the centre of this rectangle.

  ‘He’s our “athlete”,’ Will said.

  Keanu began calling out names as a tall woman hammering a bass drum swaying from her neck walked slowly towards him. A dozen people followed her, a few keeping time with the beat like soldiers on parade while the rest shuffled after. They organised themselves into two groups facing Keanu.

  Meanwhile, Amanda had come to join Will and me. I’d not seen her during my tour, and she smiled thinly, perhaps more for my camera than for me, which made it difficult to gauge her reaction to the procession in front of us.

  ‘There’s room for a hundred people out there,’ Will whispered to me. ‘Just imagine two- or three-dozen groups, with standard-bearers, divided into sections, like an orchestra. Each headed by a spiritual advisor. One day we might include livestock in the ceremony.’

  His hot breath irritated my ear, and I was grateful when both it and the drumming ceased. I had to wrinkle my eyes because the glare made me nauseous.

  The soft-headed beaters hung limply from the tall woman’s wrists as everyone, including Will, bowed their heads. My scalp tingled as it burnt in the sun. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could bear standing there without protection, especially not after my excursion to the polytunnel, but the parade was too valuable for me to ignore.

  ‘We acknowledge and worship God,’ Will announced in a clear, loud voice.

  There was a bang on the drum followed by applause. Everyone clapped as the people on the field waved white flags they’d kept hidden until now. A small dust-devil chased itself around the platoons.

  The marchers executed an about-turn, and ambled away from the rectangle. The colour began to drain away from my world, and as I watched it fade I remember thinking, Oh, this is happening.

  Will kept speaking, oblivious to my monochrome state: ‘In the future we’ll sing a hymn – which I’ve not had
time to compose – before our afternoon work session.’

  I might have taken this as my cue to grab a quick shot of him staring at the empty parade ground, because I stepped forward. He turned to look at me with great surprise. Him watching me watching him, as the hot earth slipped from under my feet.

  An open pack of marie biscuits lay on the linoleum table between Amanda, Will and me. A fresh pot of rooibos tea brewed on the sink. Although I found it difficult focusing my attention, I was in Harmony’s small kitchen, and the two Brits were watching me with concern.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’ Amanda said.

  My head hurt from where it must have hit the ground.

  I said, ‘I need a sec. Where’s my camera?’

  ‘Here,’ she said. It was on an empty chair between us. The lens still good, and no sign of damage to the body.

  ‘I’ve been in the sun too long.’

  They made me drink their tea; I despised the biscuit’s solid crunch as I attempted to chew it.

  ‘Better?’ Amanda said.

  ‘I think so.’

  After chatting a few minutes, she excused herself. She left her half-eaten biscuit softening in the tea that had splashed into her saucer. Will and I contemplated the soggy remains. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of his and Amanda’s relationship, or his involvement with my sister, whatever that might be.

  ‘Making the world a better place,’ he said, as if to himself.

  Against my better judgement, I left my camera where it was when I said, ‘Tell me about London.’

  My request caught him unawares: ‘Tell you about London? But you know that I’d come to the end of my rope, Henry. Everything had fallen apart. You know all that.’ He nodded at my camera. ‘I don’t mind. Film me, if you’d like. I really don’t mind. If I was still in London at the minute, I’d probably have topped myself. Perhaps you’re right: people might connect with me and learn from my mistakes.’