Page 9 of Ecotopia


  Americans are familiar with rumors of sexual depravity in Ecotopia, but I must report that the sexual practices of these families seem about as stable as ours. Generally there are more or less permanent heterosexual couples involved—though both male and female homosexual couples also exist, and I gather that same-sex relationships pose less of a problem psychologically than they do with us. Monogamy is not an officially proclaimed value, but the couples are generally monogamous (except for four holidays each year, at the solstices and equinoxes, when sexual promiscuity is widespread.) Single members of the families often take up with lovers from outside, and sometimes this results in the addition or subtraction of a family member. There seems to be a continual slow shifting of membership, probably something like what must have happened with our “extended families” a few generations back.

  I have made extensive inquiries about Ecotopian attitudes on the kind of eugenic population planning which has been discussed so passionately in the U.S.—either the aiding of natural selection by deliberate breeding, or farther-out possibilities such as cloning, whereby actual genetic duplicates of superior individuals might be produced, or even modification of gene structures to produce a race of supermen. However, no Ecotopian scientist or citizen has been willing to discuss such matters, which they view with great distaste. Nor, when I have ventured the hypothesis that man may be only a “missing link” between the apes and a later, superior humanity, have I obtained any response except condescending incredulity. Their reluctance to enter into such speculations may show the extent to which Ecotopians have blinded themselves to the exciting possibilities offered by modern scientific advances. But it also shows that they are more willing than we to live with the biological constitutions we now possess.

  * * *

  (May 21) Everybody suddenly glued to TV sets. Ecotopian monitor systems, which seem to be extremely sophisticated for both nuclear and general pollution, have detected a sudden increase in the radiation level of air blowing in from the Pacific. Cause still unknown. Much speculation, on the streets and in media: Chinese nuclear blast gone out of control? Accident in a Japanese fission plant? Conflict on the Chinese-Russian border? Nuclear submarine accident offshore? People anxious, depressed, angry. They turn in a crisis to the TV, which they watch in tense groups, but not in the passive, dependent fashion of Americans—they actually shout at it, and the switchboards are flooded with picturephone callers. Vera Allwen and her foreign minister were obliged to appear within an hour and on the defensive, answering angry citizens who put pointed, difficult questions about why their government can’t do anything. (Also hotheads who think commando teams should be sent to disable plants in Japan, China, Siberia which emit wastes into air or sea!) Allwen says she is preparing a stiff protest to whoever turns out to be responsible. Meanwhile Ecotopian ships and agents are on a crash program to locate the pollution source. So far dead silence from the U.S. wire services, which are received in Vancouver and relayed here, though our satellite reconnaissance must have spotted what happened.

  There is a widespread tendency to blame technological disasters on Americans, so I haven’t been made to feel terribly welcome in the last few hours. Groups I have been with, watching Allwen and other national politicos, seem to think the Ecotopian government is too tolerant of pollution coming in from outside. Talk about “reparations” on TV—apparently some international pollution-fine system is really being proposed. The Japanese will love that.

  Have been watching all this mostly from Franklin’s Cove, where I moved today, at their invitation (and urged by Marissa, who doesn’t like hotels at all). “You’re a journalist, aren’t you?” they said; “Well then, you ought to live with us!” A welcome thought, and I guess I can find the time for their cooking and cleaning work crews. My little room’s on the top floor; dormer window looks out toward Alcatraz—a green hump looming out of the Bay, with its cheerful orange lighthouse tower. Hard to believe such a peaceful grassy island once housed our worst desperadoes, and was covered with concrete and steel.

  (Later) Have found the work crew experience a little unnerving. First time I joined one it was for after-dinner clean-up. I pitched in, American-style, scurrying around carrying dishes to the sink area. After a few moments I realized people had stopped their general chatter and were staring at me. “My God, Will,” said Lorna, “whatever are you doing, running a race?” Everybody else laughed.

  I blushed, or felt like it. “What do you mean?” “Well, you’re hauling dishes like you were being paid by the dish. Very un-Ecotopian!” I looked around, suddenly conscious that everyone else had been working very leisurely by comparison. Lorna and Brit had developed a sort of game in which they took turns washing and giving each other little back rubs. Bert was meanwhile telling about a funny encounter he had had that day with a reader who threatened to beat him up. And Red was drinking beer and not doing much of anything; occasionally, when his attention fell on a dirty pot or something, he would bring it over to the sink.

  “Don’t you want to get it done with?” I replied defensively. “When I have a job to do I like to get it over with. What’s wrong with a little efficiency?” “A little goes a long way, Will,” Lorna said. “Our point of view is that if something’s worth doing, it ought to be done in a way that’s enjoyable—otherwise it can’t really be worth doing.”

  “Then how does anything get done?” I asked exasperatedly. “You don’t mean to tell me washing dishes is exactly fun?” “It is the way we do it,” said Bert. “Almost anything can be, if you keep your eye on the process and not on the goal.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll try it.” So I goofed off in the Ecotopian manner—drank a little beer, tossed some knives and forks into the sink, told a joke I’d heard that day, then wiped a few tables. But it was hard to keep my pace down, and harder still to keep in good touch with the other people—I’d focus on the task, and blot them out. But they noticed this, and invented a game around it. “Hey Will!” they’d yell, “we’re here!” And somebody would tickle me, or give me a pat. They’ll retrain me yet.

  (May 23) Marissa’s got positively hypnotic powers: when she’s here I lose track of time, obligations, my American preconceptions. She exists in a contagious state of immediate consciousness. Somewhere far back in her head must be the forest camp, her responsibilities there, her plans to return tomorrow. But she seems to be able to turn them absolutely off and just be. She seems capable of anything—she’s the freest and least anxious person I’ve ever known. To the extent I can get in on this, I begin to feel high and a little strange, as if I was on some kind of drug. I keep thinking she is like a wild animal: of course she responds to the influences and constraints of the other animals around (me included) but these are not inside her head, somehow. She’s highly unpredictable, moody, changeable, yet wherever she is, she’s always right there, with me or whoever it is. (I don’t know how to deal with the jealousy I feel when she turns her attention, like a beautiful searchlight beam, on somebody else. But I bear it.)

  Not that we lie around in bed all the time—have actually been fairly busy, wandering around to visit people she knows, taking expeditions so she can show me her favorite San Francisco places, eating at peculiar little restaurants, laughing, sometimes just sitting and watching people or birds or even trees. She has special trees all over the place, and they’re really important to her. (Thinks I should write a column on the trees of Ecotopia!) She studies their characters, revisits them to see how they’ve grown and changed, likes to climb in some of them (she’s agile and sure-footed), is immensely happy if they’re thriving and cast down if they’re not. Even talks to them—or rather mutters, since she knows I think it’s kind of crazy.

  I realize I am growing terribly attached to her. What seemed at the beginning like a lark, the usual brief liaison of a travelling man, has quickly gotten terribly serious. Marissa is clearly a powerful and remarkable person: sees through my bullshit, but sees something valuable under it. By comparison
I look back at Pat as almost an artificial person, vapid and rigid and horribly, horribly controlled. Even Francine, my beloved nutty Francine, with whom I’ve had such giggles and pleasures, begins to seem lightweight. With Marissa I get into feelings I never knew were there: a deep, overwhelming, scary sharing of our whole beings, as well as our bodies. There’s no denying it—we’re beginning to love each other. And despite her free ways, and her still living with Everett at the camp, she has some fierce possessive streak for me—gets angry whenever my return comes up.

  Went sailing on the Bay yesterday, with a couple of people from the Cove. Marissa invited her brother Ben. Older brother; turns out to be surly and viciously anti-American. As soon as we had pushed off he came right at me with arguments and charges. I tried to parry politely but it didn’t help. It’s early in the season and the wind doesn’t come up strongly yet, so we veered around trying to set the sails for a while. Then everybody lay down on the foredeck, getting some sun and watching the water go by. I went aft to sit with Ben, and offered to take the tiller. He scowled and said abruptly, in a low voice, “What the hell are you messing around with my sister for? Goddamn Americans can’t keep their hands off anything!” I answered mildly, “We like each other—what’s wrong with that?” “You know what’s wrong with it, you stupid bastard—you’re really getting to her, and then you’re going to take off.” “I’ve never concealed my intentions from anybody, Ben.” He looked at me. “I ought to just push you overboard, and not turn back!” He made a sudden movement with his hands. I grabbed the rail, thinking he might really try something. He grinned wickedly. “You creep!” I said. “What do you mean, trying to run your sister’s life? Making threats? Think you’re the Mafia or something?” At this the others, hearing us, sat up and came back aft. Ben and I exchanged mean looks. “We were just having a little argument,” he said. I got up and sat beside Marissa on the other side of the cockpit. She looked at me, then at Ben. “I’ll tell you about it later.” I said. “So will I,” Ben shot back.

  We sailed on, over to an abandoned whaling station on the east side of the Bay, and put in there for a while. It’s a museum now, with chilling exhibits about whaling and the extinction of mammals generally. Ben lost no chance to point out how Americans and their technology had been in the forefront of this tragic and irreversible process. And indeed I hadn’t realized how far it has gone: it is a horrible story. Our role in it was heavy, and thousands of marvelous creatures that once inhabited this earth have now vanished from the universe forever. We have gobbled them up in our relentless increase. There are now 40 times more weight of humans on the earth than of all the wild mammals together!

  Marissa mostly stared at the displays of whale life (Ecotopians have incredible wildlife photographers—they must literally live with the species they are filming—though as far as I can tell Ecotopians don’t take ordinary snapshots of our quick-freeze-the-moment type.) It turns out she has swum with dolphins, but won’t say much about the experience except that it was enormously exciting and quite scary.

  On the way back we passed shrimp boats and other small fishing craft—apparently the Bay, once an open cesspool, has again become the fertile habitat which estuaries naturally are (thus my ardent informant). Was proudly told how many metric tons of tiny, succulent Bay shrimp are consumed and shipped out daily; even clams, whose shells the local Indians once piled into huge refuse mounds, have returned to the mudflats.

  Windblown, a little sunstruck, a little drunk, we returned at dusk to the Cove and to bed. “Ben is really a good brother to have, but I’ve never been able to get him to know where to stop,” Marissa said apologetically. (I had noticed her lecturing him on the dock as we were stowing the boat’s gear away.) “He cares about me a lot, even if I’ve never gotten him to understand me. He never likes to see me taking risks. It’s a relic of the family past, I guess—when women supposedly had no independence at all. But without taking risks, I wouldn’t feel I was alive.” She smiled at me, with a sweet but inscrutable companionableness, and lay down in my arms.

  What can I possibly mean to this incredible woman? She evades my questions about what she thinks of me. When she is back at the lumber camp, she evidently sleeps and lives with Everett as before; yet little by little, she spends more of her free time with me. Yet she makes good-humored fun of me, correcting my ecological mistakes (like wasting wash water or electricity) as if she was the highly advanced person and I a kind of bumpkin, not yet fully acclimated to civilized life.

  Sometimes, when I say something about how Ecotopians, or she herself, appear to me, she becomes very quiet and attentive. The other night I mentioned their way of holding eye contact for what seems to me excessively long times, and how this stirred up feelings it is hard for me to handle. “What feelings?” she asked. “Nervousness, a desire for relief, to look away for a while.” “And if you withstand the nervousness and go on looking?” (All this, of course, with her great dark eyes intent upon mine.) “Then I guess tenderness, and a desire to touch. —It makes me afraid I’ll cry.” “You strange person—of course you can cry!” She gave me a long, strong hug.

  I had to explain. “Not in our country! Maybe here you can teach me, though. I don’t have to be so guarded here, with you.” “All right,” she said, a faint puzzlement in her eyes. Can I be, for her, some kind of Mysterious Stranger—exotic in spite of myself?

  SAVAGERY RESTORED:

  ECOTOPIA’S DARK SIDE

  Marshall-by-the-Bay, May 24. After much negotiation, I have now been permitted to observe that monstrous custom which has inspired so much horror toward Ecotopia among civilized nations: the Ritual War Games. Yesterday I became, so far as I know, the first American ever to witness this chilling spectacle. My companions and I rose before dawn and took a train north from San Francisco to the town of Marshall. Then a walk of 20 minutes (passing two of the small homemade shrines that dot the Ecotopian landscape) brought us to a hill overlooking a rolling, open piece of country with a creek flowing through it down to the marshy edge of the water.

  When we got there, preparations for the ritual were well under way. Two bands of young men had gathered, one on each side of the creek. Perhaps 25 were on each side. Each group had built a fire, and prepared some kind of drink in a large cauldron—apparently a stimulant to anesthetize themselves against the terrors to come. Each man (they ranged from about 16 to 30) had a large, dangerous spear, with a point of sharpened black stone. And each man was painting himself with colors, in primitive, fierce designs.

  After a time, when several hundred spectators had gathered, a signal was given on a large gong. At this, the spectators became tense and silent. The “warriors” deployed along both banks of the creek, taking up positions about a spear-length apart. One group, seeming more aggressive, began a war chant that sounded quite blood-thirsty, though also perhaps a bit reminiscent of our athletic cheers. When the other side seemed to hesitate and back off from the creek, the aggressive group crossed it, brandishing their spears, and began a series of rushes up the other side.

  The defenders, however, could not be panicked. Whenever a number of attackers pressed hard against one of their men, his neighbors gathered to his defense, shouting and bringing their spears to bear; and this flexible, fluid, shifting pattern of offense and defense seemed to prevail all along the line. Occasionally a group would gather and rush at the opponents’ line. But this rush would soon be countered, though often at the cost of very close calls with the sharp obsidian blades.

  This went on, with much shouting and the crowd growing increasingly excited, for perhaps half an hour—the warriors returning occasionally to their cauldrons for refreshment. Then suddenly a scream went up from one end of the line. My attention had been elsewhere, so I did not actually see the fatal blow, but others later told me a warrior had slipped on the grass during one of the rushes, and an opponent had seized the chance and managed to run a spear entirely through his shoulder.

  At this, all hostilities
miraculously ceased. The two tribes retreated to their original positions. Partisans of the “winning” side appeared joyful, almost ecstatic, slapping and hugging each other; the losers’ partisans were downcast. Doctors appeared from among the onlookers, and began attending to the wounded man. There was a lot of blood on the grass, but from comments around me I gathered that the victim was not in grave medical danger despite his nasty wound.

  The victors now began a dance of celebration. Their partisans came down the hill to join them. Musicians struck up, and dancing began. The warriors shared their cauldron with all, in an atmosphere of excited jubilation. Some of the leading warriors on the winning side went off with women into the bushes. On the losing side there appeared to be a good deal of lamentation, crying, and writhing around. After a time the fires were stoked up again, food was brought out, and a feast began to take shape. This was held at the camp of the winners; they magnanimously offered to feed the defeated side—who accepted deferentially.

 
Ernest Callenbach's Novels