Since 2015, Tang and his wife, Xing Zhen, have been living in a reclusive, mountainous part of Minhou county, in southeastern Fujian province, about two hours’ drive from the capital, Fuzhou. Joined by a small band of like-minded Chinese, most in their early 30s, they have turned their backs on city life to form “Another Community”.

Other, older, more successful self-sufficient communes in mainland China count at least 100 members. Tang’s Another Community numbers about a dozen, and some don’t live here full time as they cannot yet sustain themselves without working odd jobs. From a children’s book designer to a public-health expert, a film­maker to a Cisco security expert, members used to grind out a living in the mainland’s mega­cities, which Tang describes as “a homogenous, single-minded value system”. The commune, on the other hand, formu­lates its goals by committee. It is aiming for 30 residents by the end of 2020, 150 by 2030 and 300 by 2036.

Laying the foundation, Tang and Xing believe, is the most arduous part. “In the future, with enough people, we can do everything ourselves,” Xing says.

Born in 1914, John Seymour spent time with African tribes, who depended only on nature and one another. The experience left him deeply affected, and inspired him to write The Complete Book of Self-Sufficiency (1976), which sold more than a million copies in 20 languages, including Chinese, to the Love Generation. It has since been updated for the Tangs and Xings of late capitalism.

Instead of bragging about their careers or snapping photos of meals in fancy restaurants, commune members aim to live in harmony with nature, free of societal pressures and expectations, working towards self-sufficiency – in electricity, food, clothing, soap – and their mission state­ment, to “let natural energy flow and return to nature”. But far from being anti­thetical to urban existence, “we wanted society to see that there can be many other ways of life that give people dignity”, says Tang.

Having grown up in Qingdao, a city in Shandong province that now has a popula­tion of nine million, Tang saw pressure on resources increase, personal space diminish and housing prices multiply.

Wang Hailong, 34, used to work in management at a private primary school in Beijing, a good job that provided him with a small but comfort­able flat. He had a loving family and enjoyed spend­ing weekends with his friends. But still he felt a deep dis­satisfaction. He travel­led through the main­land as far as the Tibetan plateau, where he saw nomadic high-plains herders who, though poor, seemed at peace. When he learned of Tang’s attempts to start a self-sufficient com­mune through an online fund­raiser, he was intrigued.

“I had no idea then what the community would be like,” says Wang. But four years after he first boarded a plane from Beijing to Fujian, he is now a cornerstone of Another Community. “In cities, you always compare yourself to others, what they have, and that makes you really nervous.”

His job and his flat in Beijing are gone, and he couldn’t be more relieved. “Even if we had money here, there’s no place to spend it,” he says.

In his black-rimmed glasses and brandedjacket, Wang still looks like a city boy, but his jeans hang loosely on skinny legs as he drives a spade into the ground. Farm work is “a new thing for me”, he says, unearthing rain­worms and cockchafer grubs – some tiny, others thick as fingers, but once exposed, all wriggle back under – signs of fertile, healthy soil.

The lease for the commune’s 202 hectare plot – almost three times the size of Beijing’s Forbidden City – costs 200,000 yuan (HK$223,500) a year and is paid for by the Zhenro Foundation, which is committed to advancing society by supporting innovative projects endeavouring to use environmental resources more efficiently. “It’s a good match,” Tang says (out of the 100 or so organisations he wrote to seeking funding, it was the only one that replied).

Decisions regarding land use, which crops to grow, and consumption of electricity or water are reached through discussions in which each member’s voice is heard and respected. Though democratic in principle, Tang says it’s more “consensus-based”. And while Another Community does not elect a leader or have a hierarchy, there is a division of labour. Wang is in charge of farming.

Where he used to grow herbs in little pots in his Beijing flat, now he grows carrots, potatoes, beans and corn. He has to take scale into account, observe the weather, assess the fertility of the soil and find suitable crops. None of the members had any farming experience, so Wang took it upon himself to study agriculture, forestry cultivation and natural farming at the provincial univer­sity. Others are enrolled in classes that teach self-sus­tenance, including farming, sewing and how to safely work with electricity.

The hardest part, says Xing, has been making their own clothes – growing fibre, spinning it into thread, weaving it into textiles and sewing a wearable garment. Xing set up a studio on the ground floor of a rented farmhouse, equipped with three looms that she built from scratch; a beam of sun­light hits the indigo-dyed threads as she rhythmically push­es the strings together. A shirt takes about two weeks to make, and that doesn’t include the time needed to plant, grow and harvest kudzu, a fast-growing vine whose fibre has been woven into fabrics for more than 5,000 years. In the past, commune members tried growing cotton, and bought yak wool from Tibet, but neither seemed sustainable.

The meals they eat are another sign they have a long way to go. Rice for porridge is bought from a nearby organic farm, and though the dark-coloured, herbal liquor served after the evening hotpot is home-brewed, they rely on store-bought sauces and meat, purchased with savings or dona­tions. But this doesn’t faze them. It is a long-term project, and given the concrete lives they left behind, return­ing to nature was bound to take time. As Tang plunges his chop­sticks into the hotpot for a piece of spicy chicken, he explains that this hasn’t been his first attempt at creating a self-sustaining community.

Around 2010, Tang lived in a small hut on Laoshan, a mountain located about 30km from Qingdao. On a slope often shrouded in mist, he learned about planting seasons and natural fertilisers; how to extract salt from seawater and brew his own vinegar, soy sauce and beer.

“Another Land” inspired his Qingdao friends and attracted hundreds of volunteers, from univer­sity students to office workers, all curious about Tang’s attempt to be at one with nature. They made soap, crafted shoes and clothes, and installed solar panels and a self-made wind turbine. At times, they used a bicycle to generate electricity.

Tang says that until they learned how to make their own cooking pots, their diet consisted largely of raw peppers, but despite the hardships, he was content and would look out on the land and contemplate the day’s achievements and failures with pride – a feeling he says he never had in Qingdao.

Tang’s father, Tang Lin, was a wealthy consultant who “teaches bosses of companies how to make more money”, and raised his son “to think independently”. Tang Snr did not favour a traditional school education, his son says, and “neither did I, because I understood that school was there to land you a job, which was only there to make you a lot of money”. So aged 15, Tang Guanhua dropped out to start his own business.

Tang Snr was proud: his son had wits and talent, and perhaps by the time he turned 18, he would have followed his father’s steps as an entrepreneur, founded his own company and made his millions. “I completely rejected his ideas,” says Tang Guanhua, sitting cross-legged on a thin mattress inside a small, weather-worn caravan, plucking the strings of an acoustic guitar.

Within the commune, the caravan is his haven, a private place, midway between the site where Wang is attempting to build a home, and Tang and Xing’s more per­manent, self-built house, which resembles an igloo.

As a high-school dropout, Tang initially made about 100,000 yuan a year as a self-employed advertising designer. He gained recognition for his graphics and hung out with progressive, rebellious youths who, like him, wanted nothing less than to change the world, the way many young artists do.

In the spring of 2008, Tang frequented art events around Qingdao, where at one exhibition, he met Xing, then a securities analyst, and daughter of the artist who was showing that night. “We are very different and I knew that right when I met him,” says Xing. For about three years, they remained just friends. “We had a long trial period,” Tang jokes.

Xing, tilling a patch of garden in rubber boots, rolls her eyes. Even in paradise-in-the-making, couples bicker – the two don’t agree on when they started dating. Xing, who was working a nine-to-five office job at China Securities, was drawn to Tang’s bohemian lifestyle, intrigued by discussions with his friends about art, music and films. Tang would do his creative work at night, while Xing slept.

Initially, the couple rented a flat in downtown Qingdao for 30,000 yuan a year, but rent hikes squeezed them out of the city centre. They moved several times, always on the lookout for more affordable places away from town. Then, Xing says, “Tang suggested setting up a sustainable community. We knew nothing. We didn’t know how to make stuff, and I had a lot of questions”. They agreed to start by taking baby steps.

Xing kept her job, making a base salary of 10,000 yuan a month plus a generous bonus – which often makes up the bulk of an employee’s income – while Tang packed up and moved to Laoshan. Having no idea whether his project would work out, Xing visited twice a week, providing moral and material support, while becoming more open to the idea of self-sufficient living.

When they married, in 2012, Xing wasn’t the only one who had to make concessions. Tang Snr wanted his son to be happy but he struggled with friends and relatives who thought the young man was wasting his life, and blamed the father for not being stricter, for having spoiled him and for giving him too much freedom.

“Friends accused me of not educating Guanhua in the right way, like going to college or university,” Tang Lin says. “People would say I had ruined my child’s future, but I think he should pursue what makes him happy.”

Tang Guanhua’s happiness on Laoshan didn’t last long though. Developers moved in and, by the time real estate speculation had plateaued, Tang was once again being squeezed out. By then, Tang says it would have been time to move anyway. Though he had tried to be a rural hermit, his time on Laoshan made him see that true self-sufficiency could be obtained only with the right support network.

“There were so many things we had to learn, and we realised we can’t do it without help,” he says. “You need a commune.”

The couple moved to rural Fujian in around 2015, and Another Land became Another Community.

The first home Tang built on the current site was made of shabby plywood, uninsulated and leaky. His father came to visit last year and didn’t have much to say about the experience, other than that he could tell it was a struggle. “The dream was plump,” he says, “but the reality was bony.”

Building the “igloo” dome where the couple live took Tang more than six months. “It feels different to live in a house like this,” he says. “You feel like the house is part of you.” It’s spartan. Tang has a big office chair with heavy cushions, and there’s a dried fern in a vase for decoration. In the bathroom, a hole in the floor serves as an organic squat pot. Instead of flushing water, sawdust is poured down the hole.

There is a tap in the kitchen, however. Tang is proud of the running water since at first they had to use a well in a nearby village, but as it served several hundred people, disputes arose. “The lesson was: if you want freedom, you have to be inde­pendent,” Tang says. So they picked a spot for their own well at the bottom of the hill, next to a swampy stretch of meadow where two mules graze, and started to dig. When they finally saw water seep through the dark brown soil, they were exhilarated. They covered the well with tarpaulin and fenced it off with wooden sticks to keep the mules from defecating there.

Until now, no one has taken issue with the project, but legally speaking, “housing” on the commune’s land is not allowed, and Tang worries that the government will eventually demolish any permanent structures. His caravan – along with a small cave dug into the hillside, and a new collection of tents – hedges against this eventuality. Whether there’s running water or not, Tang will always have a need to live outside “the cage … to create different worlds outside the cage”.

On Laoshan, he kept six chickens. Each morning, he says, “they would just want to break free, to break the boundary” of their fence. In the evening, the chickens would happily return to their cages. Tang believes that it was the knowledge that it was their own choice that mattered to them.

“I think that’s the nature of all living beings.”

Translation by Xiong Lingling