One of the more bizarre birthday gifts ever bestowed on me arrived by email. I had to read it a couple of times, if only to fully manage my disappointment: an Alpaca walk.
I had little appetite to get up close and personal with an animal I knew little about; and I’d read that they spit. Having, no doubt, gleaned this intelligence from social media, I had little evidence to test the veracity of this claim but immediately my susceptibility to seek out fate was rattled. If there is dog mess, I will step in it; give me a choice of straws, and I will inevitably pick the shortest one. C’est la vie you may say, but if I see obvious risk ahead, I try to mitigate the consequences. On this occasion, not taking up the unusual invitation wasn’t an option, and I had already seen in my mind the green gunk I would be wearing once I came within spitting distance. I instinctively knew that my Alpaca would be the most misbehaved of mammals.
The day eventually arrived and I – somewhat reluctantly – trudged off to the farm. The pre-brief acknowledged my worst fears – they did indeed spit, but not persistently, rarely without warning, and not usually at humans – the “usually” word hung in the air; I kind of knew that I would be the exception. Since their staple diet is grass, I was confident in my earlier assertion of its colour and gave myself a metaphorical pat on the back whilst preparing for the imminent discoloration of my front.
Taking hold of Fred’s reins, I tried not to outstare him – I didn’t want to be provocative. A couple of minutes into the circuit walk my fears seemed wholly ridiculous. Fred was the ultimate docile fluffy companion. Walking within a cohort of around fifteen Alpacas, each accompanied by a novice handler, I reflected upon the sage words of the resident expert who led the trail – Alpacas are herd animals and will instinctively follow the leader of the pack. Since the head of the herd was setting the pace, Fred and his chums simply followed suit. I smiled as I reflected on my individuality; my right to make choices and follow my own path. Who would want to be an Alpaca when destiny, fortune, and fame is powered by the spirit of human uniqueness? Then the penny dropped ─ the rest of the human herd on that sunny morning were acting no differently. Nobody was darting off at tangents, reversing direction, or standing still. In that moment I was utterly confused – my favourite dais of discovery. Are humans herd animals too? Surely not.
Dr Noam Shpancer – author of The Good Psychologist – is representative of the widely held scientific view that we pretty much act like Alpacas, especially when our core behaviours are analysed. “Human beings are herd animals. We survive only in highly coordinated groups. Individually, we are designed to pick up social cues and coordinate and align our behaviour with those around us.” With a sombre assertion he added, “Social disapproval provokes the brain’s danger circuits.” Compliance with the group is calming and in the words of the Borg “resistance is futile.” You Trekkies will get that last sentence.
As an explicit example of the darkest side of this equation, political theorist and philosopher Hannah Arendt proposed that the Holocaust wasn’t purely the result of the actions of psychopaths, but was ultimately facilitated by normal humans placed under incredible pressure to conform. I would cite less obvious contemporary examples that nonetheless caused incredible division between millions of citizens: the election of Donald Trump as President in the US and BREXIT in the UK.
In his revealing book, “Herd: How to Change Mass Behaviour by Harnessing Our True Nature,” author Mark Earls argues that our base instincts are controlled by social as opposed to individual drivers. In a nutshell, we gain purpose and a sense of self by way of our association with the herd, often dominated by societal norms that may not necessarily be to our benefit. His four principles that model behaviours are:
1. Social Proof ─ We look to others for guidance on how to behave.
2. Social Learning ─ We learn from others.
3. Social Identity ─ We define ourselves by our social group.
4. Social Influence ─ We are influenced by others.
I decided to undertake my own social experiment in order to test Earls’ principles and asked a randomly selected and shuffled group of seven friends to join me in what I sold as a “legendary literary experiment.” The rules of engagement were simple – the first writer would start a story ─ any topic, genre, or style – with a contribution of between a hundred and three hundred words. The baton would then be passed over anonymously to the next participant, before being concluded by the last author.
A postman, operating from an office in Southeast London, had a daughter who managed a medium sized equestrian stable. One morning she contacted her father, and, in a mild state of distress, she asked if he knew anyone who could supply a horsebox as the scheduled transport had let her down and it was now time critical to get the move under way. Her dad said it would not be a problem and he would move the animal using a wagon assigned to him for work purposes. The vehicle was fitted with a tail lift, so manoeuvring the horse should be reasonably easy. The plan went accordingly. The wagon, with horse safely on board, was travelling along a fairly quiet road in the Kent countryside; however, travelling in the opposite direction was a senior area Royal Mail manager. The eagle-eyed manager recognised which depot the wagon was from and realised it was way off route. The manager immediately u-turned, caught up with the P.O. wagon, and encouraged the driver to pull over.
“Why are you pulling over?” She asked her dad who now bore the look of a man about to receive a lethal injection. “That yellow Honda Civic that flagged us down is my boss. They call him Andy the Axe because he likes sacking people.” They both looked back to see Andy getting out of the banana monstrosity and start to approach the rear of the trailer. “Floor it!” she yelled with such force her dad immediately took off up the country lane with a jerk and a jolt, causing the trailer to spray gravel and mud across the bonnet and windscreen of the car making it look like a bizarre pudding. The Range Rover pulling the trailer had some guts and before bewildered Andy could clear his screen they were off and trundling through the lane heading towards a level crossing ─ as they approached, the bell started to ring out and the barrier started to descend trapping them with Andy the Axe close on their heels.
As the Range Rover slowed for the descending barrier, Andy took a risk and manoeuvred himself in front of the larger vehicle and trailer and slammed the breaks on causing the postman to stop with a suddenness his daughter was not expecting. “I’m losing my job,” the deflated man spoke quietly. “Floor it!” the daughter yelled at her father. “Put him through the barrier!” The man looked at his daughter. “What?” he exclaimed. “If you want to save your job then put him through the barrier and do it now.” She looked up the tracks. “The train will be here soon. No one else is here; put him through the barrier before he gets out of the car!” The postman engaged drive on the automatic car and gently pushed forward until he felt a bump on the bumper of the Honda Civic. “Floor it dad!” she shouted again. He complied and with one great step of his right foot the accelerator pedal met the carpeted floor.
Pushing the car through the barrier, they stopped just before the tracks; Andy was in such a position that he would surely come to harm if he didn’t act fast. He couldn’t accelerate backwards as his vehicle was too small to push the might of the Range Rover so, before the train came, he quickly managed to manoeuvre his small car across the tracks and through the barrier on the other side. The postman and his daughter looked shocked, what would they do now; they had no way of escaping Andy the Axe who was patiently waiting on the other side of the tracks. Just then the mighty train rumbled down the tracks. Knowing this would give them some precious time, the postman and his daughter turned their car in the opposite direction and sped off before Andy had time to pursue them. As they sped back down the country roads the shear panic was clearly visible on their faces.
The electronic chirping brought Susan abruptly from her slumber. Light bled through and around her bedroom curtains, heralding the start of another day. She yawned widely. The morning fog slowly cleared from her mind, with abstract fragments of a partially remembered dream dancing across her early morning thoughts. Postman… horse… a speeding train… Susan made a mental note to temper her late-night cheese consumption. She slid out of bed and, almost on autopilot, headed down to the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine. While the water boiled noisily in the background, she began to plan the day ahead. She consulted the list she had hastily scribbled on the notepad the night before: 1. Book hair appointment. 2. Catch up with Steve. 3. Need milk… fuck! I guess I’ll be having it black this morning. 4. Zoom meeting with the team at 11:00. Susan froze. Meeting at 11:00. What will I tell them? She thought. The cold fingers of dread danced down her spine.
As the Nespresso machine whirred and spitted into action, she tried to get some more clarity of what the pictures meant. At the moment they were just single images, but she knew they linked up somehow…she just didn’t know how exactly! She picked up the phone and dialled Lucious Locks, the salon she had been using for years. The receptionist answered and said that Enrique, her favourite stylist, was available at 1100? Could she miss the Zoom meeting with her team?
As the magic beans brought her to life, Susan made the first decision of the day; hair over Zoom. She would delay, and while Enrique worked his magic, she would mentally list agenda items. She logged on and moved the meeting to later that day, informing her staff that she had urgent work to complete before she attended the university campus where she was employed. As she sipped her coffee Susan drifted to the window of her first floor flat. She was looking forward to the weekend and a long hack on her favourite horse from the nearby stables. Her wandering mind was brought to a standstill by the sight of the rear corner and broken lights of a small yellow car protruding from the bushes by the exit from the drive. It stirred something in her mind, but she was annoyed that once again it appeared the local youths had decided that her driveway was the perfect location to leave a car they no longer required. Later that morning, as she left for her hair appointment, Susan remembered the car. She really ought to notify the police of its presence. She jotted down the registration number and, as she walked by, glanced across, curious to know how it had got into that position ─ as she did, she froze. The bonnet and windscreen were smeared with what appeared to be mud ─ she was suddenly certain she had seen the car before ─ but where? Susan approached. To her horror, she realised there was a man in the driver’s seat, slumped forward with his head resting on the steering wheel ─ Steve! The memories flooded back. Susan realised that if she left via the alternative route, she could claim to have no knowledge of the car. Enrique beckoned….
The End
Proof I would contend that emphatically illustrates that Earls principles are alive and kicking in this experiment and if you are reading this Mr Spielberg, I want to negotiate my cut on the film rights beforehand.
On reflection, my journey with Fred was more than a kind – if odd – present. Are we more like Alpacas? Heck, yes. Some of us may be furrier than others, and some may spit less, but in the final reckoning we are more like Fred than I had ever imagined, and maybe – just maybe ─ you should heed the wisdom of American writer Mark Twain: “Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to reform (or pause and reflect).”
Thanks to,
Marnie Cotton
Robert Lewis
Frankie Franklin
Paula Searle
Sean Ellis
and the other shy contributors!
© Ian Kirke 2023 & all uncredited photographs
Title photograph by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash
@ianjkirke