幽灵公社：一次远离尘嚣的尝试

文/Michelle+Nijhuis+译/耿烨蔚

20 years ago， seven friends bought a cheap piece of land in western Colorado. Like most people who do such things， they were young， idealistic， and generally overjoyed by their ability to survive on almost nothing at all.

The land was cheap for good reasons： it was high on a mesa1）， thick with rocks， and spiked2） with scraggly juniper trees. Worse， it was uphill from the irrigation ditch3）. To locals， all land was defined by its position above or below the ditch， and land above was useless， too dry for growing anything but a few cows. People who invested in it were desperate or fools. Or both.

But the friends saw something different in the land. They saw acreage they could afford at a time in their lives when everyone they knew was struggling just to make rent. They saw sheltered spots where they could try building their own houses. They saw a place where they could unplug from the electrical grid—and from a society they saw as wasteful and destructive.

So they pooled their savings， paid up and moved in. For the first time in their lives， the friends were living as they thought they should， consuming as little and reusing as much as they could. They went without electricity or telephones， hauled water and groceries up the hill by hand， and rode their bikes even through the snow and ice. The houses multiplied bit by disorderly bit， built with mud and old wood and hazily remembered Boy Scout skills， insulated with straw and the discarded refrigerator. Over time， the place became more civilised.

They invested their time in the ways they thought mattered， teaching and writing and tending to the sick. They fell in and out of love. There were marriages and， eventually， a baby. There were late-night campfires， and wide-angle views of sky and stars and thunderstorms.

Those first years should have been hard， and at times they were. But mostly， they were full of jokes and adventures and something close to contentment.

When I married into the land， a few years after the commune began， I was as enthralled as the original seven pioneers. I， too， was an idealist and a wannabe do-it yourselfer.

I loved the tiny straw-bale house my husband had built on the downhill edge of the property， not only for its simple beauty but also for its efficiency： cool in summer and warm in winter， it seemed to sip energy as delicately as a hummingbird. I loved my neighbours， whose chaotic résumé ranged from carpentry to Japanese translation. I didnt mind the composting toilets4）. There seemed no more perfect place to be.

Though we werent separate from the world， it was easy to forget the connections. A rutted gravel road， our only line to civilisation， snaked around the steep northern edge of the property. We were a mile and a half from town， 30 miles from a Wal?mart， 70 miles from a Starbucks， and more than an hours drive from anything that qualified as an airport. The quiet was thick and heavy， except when the coyotes5）， with their healthy sense of theatre， howled into the moonlight.

For a long time， the isolation was romantic. And we knew it was part of what had made the land affordable in the first place， allowing us to insulate ourselves from mortgages and power outages. But as we discovered， it made us vulnerable， too. When Nancy， a chiropractor6）， was diagnosed with breast cancer， she moved east to be closer to her extended family and to medical care. One by one， for one reason and another， the original landowners ran up against7） the limits of the place， and regretfully they left for different lives.

Finally， on a spring day a decade and a half after the seven friends bought the land， my husband， our infant daughter and I found ourselves the only permanent residents of the entire 80 acres， living in what suddenly felt like a gatehouse to nowhere.

The land wasnt easy to love. The locals had warned as much， and for years I hadnt believed them. But when the place emptied， I started to see it as others did. During the hot， dry summer that followed， our wide-open spaces choked with pale weeds， and the juniper trees seemed to crowd in on us. The cool relief of fall spiralled8） quickly into winter， which seemed darker， colder， and longer than ever. I stumbled blearily through new-parent sleep deprivation， telling myself that everything would look better in the spring.

We were lucky， though， my husband and I. We were healthy， with a roof over our heads and satisfying work， and while the neighbourhood was quieter than we liked， the isolation was no mortal threat. And after a year or so， it began to ease. Two of the landowners returned from teaching jobs in a nearby city. Families and couples came to housesit and rent， exclaiming over the mountain views and keeping us company around the campfires.

Our daughter learned to walk， then run， on the rocky ground， and soon she was climbing our garden walls. The stray vine outside the front door bore a huge orange pumpkin that somehow survived the grasshoppers， deer and ravens.

My husband and I looked around. The place was still beautiful. We chose it again， ghosts and weeds and all， and then again.

But we， too， were testing the limits of the place and ourselves， testing our tolerance for isolation and aridity9）. Finally， like pavement weakened by too many cycles of heat and frost， our resistance buckled and cracked.

My husband， a teacher， had begun to crave more stimulating work than he could find in our nearby small town. Our daughter was happy here now， with us and our dog and the occasional visit from a friend； but what would her teenage years be like？ What had for so long been heaven for us could feel like prison to her.

So we sighed， and thought， and talked. We chose to go. We left as our friends had before us， quietly and regretfully， with promises to return often. Unplugging from the electrical grid was easy， or relatively so. What we didnt realise was that we needed the human grid， too. We could replicate it for a while in our beautifully isolated little neighbourhood， but in the end the longing for deeper， sturdier， more numerous human connections pulled all of us away from the mesa.

Its easy to see our experiment as a failure， as yet another innocent， short?lived attempt to shrink the resources that all of us used. But I dont think so. My familys 15 years there changed the land， and it changed each of us. We dont use any more power than we did off the grid， and we drive less. The habit of frugality has stuck， so much so that its no longer a hardship.

Our Colorado ghost commune persists without us， populated by a rotating cast of strangers and old friends. A few have settled there for good， but most will move on as we did， taking their stories and， with luck， their new habits with them. Yet all of us leave some piece of ourselves behind. As we scatter over states and continents， we remain connected， a human grid tempered in flickering campfires.

20年前，七个朋友在科罗拉多州西部买了一块便宜的土地。像大多数做这种事的人一样，他们年轻，充满理想。而且，对于自己能在几乎一无所有中生存下来，他们普遍感到欣喜若狂。

这块地之所以便宜，是有充分理由的：位于高高的山顶上，到处都是石头，散布着稀稀疏疏的柏树。更糟的是，这块地位于灌溉渠的上方。对于当地人来说，所有土地的价值都取决于其位置在渠之上还是之下。渠之上的土地毫无用处，太干燥，除了可以养点牛之外，什么也种不了。投资这种地的人，要么是走投无路，要么是愚蠢，要么就是既走投无路又愚蠢。

但这几个朋友对那块地却不这样看。他们看到的是一块自己能买得起的土地，在他们人生的那个时期，他们认识的每个人都在为了付房租而拼命奋斗；他们看到的是一片可以遮风挡雨的地方，他们可以在那里尝试建造属于自己的房屋；他们看到的是一个可以远离电力网络的地方，在那里他们可以脱离这个在他们看来铺张浪费、充满破坏性的社会。

于是他们把存款凑起来，付清地款，搬到了那里。这是他们人生中第一次按照自认为正确的方式生活：尽可能耗费少一点，尽可能重复使用。他们过着没有电也没有电话的生活，用手提水和杂物上山，即使冰雪交加，依然骑自行车出行。房子杂乱地一点点多了起来，都是用泥巴和旧木头建成的。建房的技巧还是当童子军时学会的，但建房时已经记不太清了。房子保温隔热用的是稻草和废弃的冰箱。随着时间的推移，这里越来越像一个文明之地。

他们把时间花在自认为重要的事情上，教学、写作、照料病人。他们坠入爱河，而后又不再相爱。有人结婚了，最后还有了小孩。这里有深夜的篝火，有一览无遗的天空和星宿，还有暴风雨。

前几年本应比较艰辛，有时也的确如此，但多数时候都充满了欢声笑语、冒险和近乎心满意足之感。

这个公社运行几年后，我便嫁到了这里。和最早的七位拓荒者一样，我也被吸引住了。我也是一名理想主义者，一个想自己动手做事的人。

我喜欢丈夫在这块地的山坡下沿用稻草捆建的小房子，不仅仅因为房子有一种简朴的美，还因为它的功效：房子冬暖夏凉，似乎就像蜂鸟一样巧妙地吸收能量。我喜欢邻居们，他们的履历五花八门，有干木匠的，也有当日语翻译的。我不介意堆肥式厕所。似乎没有比这里更美好的地方了。

尽管我们没有与这个世界隔离，但很容易忘记与外界的联系。印有车辙的碎石路蜿蜒于这块地北部峭壁的边缘，是我们通往文明的唯一线路。我们距离城镇1.5英里，距离沃尔玛30英里，距离星巴克70英里，去任何能称得上机场的地方都需要一小时以上的车程。寂静是厚重的，只有当土狼凭着良好的剧场感在月光下嚎叫时，这种寂静才会被打破。

在很长一段时间里，这种与世隔绝是浪漫的。我们明白这也是我们最初能够买得起这块地的部分原因，让我们可以远离按揭和停电。但我们发现，这也使我们变得脆弱起来。脊椎按摩师南希被诊断出患有乳腺癌后，搬去了东边，离自己的大家庭更近，也便于接受治疗。由于各种原因，原先的土地所有者们都感受到了这个地方的局限性，为了追求不同的生活，一个接一个带着遗憾离开了。

最后，在七个朋友买下这块地15年后的某个春日，我和我的丈夫以及襁褓中的女儿发现，我们一家成了整块80英亩土地上唯一的永久居民。我们突然感觉像是居住在一座门楼里，但门楼后面什么也没有。

这块地很难让人喜欢。当地人这么警告过，多年来我都不信。但当这里变得空荡荡之后，我的看法开始和他们一样了。春天之后就是干燥炎热的夏天，灰白色的杂草填满了空旷的户外空间，柏树好似朝我们挤来。凉爽的秋天让人松了一口气，却又迅速转入冬季。这一年的冬天似乎比以往更加黑暗、寒冷、漫长。作为新晋家长，我睡眼惺忪、跌跌撞撞地熬过了被剥夺睡眠的那段日子，告诉自己到了春天一切都会好起来。

不过，我和丈夫都是幸运的。我们身体健康，有自己的房子，有令人满意的工作。虽然街坊太安静，我们有点不喜欢，但这种与世隔绝的生活并不是致命的威胁。大概一年多之后，这种孤独感就开始缓解了。有两位土地所有者从附近城市教完学回来了。有的人拖家带口而来，有的只有夫妻俩来，他们或帮忙照看房子，或租住房屋。他们对山景赞叹不已，围着篝火陪伴我们。

我们的女儿学会了走路，然后学会了在石路上奔跑，不久就开始爬上花园的围墙。前门外四处蔓延的藤蔓上结了一个巨大的橙色南瓜，不知道何故竟没有被蚱蜢、鹿和乌鸦吃掉。

我和丈夫环顾四周，这个地方依旧美丽。我们再一次选择了它，选择了幽灵、杂草和这里所有的一切，之后又再次选择这里。

但是我们也在检验这个地方和我们自身的极限，检验我们对于孤独和乏味的忍耐力有多大。像周而复始的酷热和严寒会毁坏道路一样，最后我们的抵抗力也崩溃坍塌。

我丈夫是一名老师，他开始渴望找一份更有激情的工作，比他在附近小镇上找的工作更充满刺激。那时，女儿有我们和狗陪她，偶尔还有朋友来访，她在这里过得很快乐。但她长到十几岁时怎么办？这么长时间以来对我们来说就像天堂一样的地方，对她可能就会像牢房一般。

于是，我们叹息，苦思冥想，谈论商议，最后选择离开。和之前离开的朋友们一样，我们也是安静地带着遗憾离开的，并承诺一定会时常回来看看。远离电力网络很容易，或者说相对而言比较容易。但是，我们没有意识到，我们也需要人际网络。我们可以暂时在那一小片与世隔绝的美丽街区复制这种人际网络，但最终我们还是向往更加深入、更加牢固、人数更多的关系网，这促使我们全部从山上搬了出来。

人们很容易把我们的尝试看作一次失败的案例，看作缩减人类所用资源的又一次本意良好但短命的尝试。但我不这么认为。我们一家在那里住了15年，改变了那里，那里也改变了我们每一个人。我现在用的电不比远离电网时多，而且我们很少开车。节俭已经成为一种根深蒂固的习惯，以致我们一点也不觉得难。

没有了我们，我们的科罗拉多幽灵公社依然存在，一群群陌生人和老朋友轮番到来。有些人永久在那里定居下来，但大多数人将像我们一样离开，带着各自的故事，运气好的话还会带着新的习惯。然而，我们大家都留下了一点属于自己的东西。尽管我们分散在不同的州和大陆，我们依然保持联系。那是在闪烁的篝火旁形成的人际网络。

1. mesa [?me?s?] n. [地]平顶山

2. spike [spa?k] vt. 使增添风味（或趣味）

3. ditch [d?t?] n. 沟渠

4. composting toilet：堆肥式厕所，是一种以极少水量冲厕，甚至是无水的厕所，排泄物流入便池中，混合木糠、椰棕或泥炭藓等物质带氧分解成堆肥。

5. coyote [k?????ti] n. 土狼

6. chiropractor [?ka?r???pr?kt?（r）] n. 按摩师；（尤指）脊椎指压治疗师

7. run up against sth.：遭遇（未料到的困难）

8. spiral [?spa?r?l] vi. （费用、价格等）急剧增长，急速上升

9. aridity [??r?d?ti] n. 无趣；乏味