In 2030, after years of bleating from the sidelines, a motley mix of the nation’s most fervent idealists finally decided to put their cabbages where their mouths were.
Disgusted with Australia’s so-called environmental backsliding—failing to meet its 43% emissions reduction target, failing to build tens of thousands of wind turbines, and failing to become the renewables superpower it promised the world—they did what few middle-class dreamers, equipped with useless Arts degrees and heads full of green fantasies, would ever consider. They left.
Taking inspiration from the 1893 New Australia movement, when 283 disgruntled Australians decided that New Holland was not the promised land after all, they uprooted themselves and sailed for Paraguay aboard the Royal Tar to establish a new colony free from the horrors of beer, capitalism and individuality.
In the same vein, our new-age settlers charted a course for a recently emerged volcanic island in the Southern Ocean—untouched by human hand and, more importantly, free from the destructive impact of farmers, miners, and materialistic consumers.
They called their vessel the Green Dream, captained by none other than Greta Thunberg herself, fresh off a keynote speech at the Global Veganism and Virtue Signalling Summit in Iceland. The passengers were a Noah’s Ark of ideology: unemployed philosophers, socialists, communists, teal independents, extinction rebels, animal rights activists, anti-live exporters, open borders advocates, degrowth economists, regen ag zealots, TikTok influencers, former Ag Ministers and the entire front row of every “Farmers for Climate Action” rally.
The manifest was carefully curated. No sheep or cattle allowed—live export was verboten. No dogs (animal cruelty), no horses (symbols of colonisation), and no working animals of any kind. Cats, however, were welcome. Unregulated, unloved and entirely feral, they prowled the decks like the reincarnated spirits of bureaucrats past, looking for places to sleep while others toiled around them.
Chooks, being free-range only, took to the rigging. Food, naturally, was vegan. Cabbage featured nightly, accompanied by quinoa and animal-free milk. The carbonistates had banned combustion engines and the regen devotees had banned gas refrigeration, so perishables perished. Fishing was outlawed—a compromise between the marine park lobby and the anti-fishing faction, who believed even casting a line was a form of aquatic violence.
In the absence of a protein source, tensions simmered. When the wind dropped and the solar panels failed, the batteries died—and so did the last of the optimism. Accusations flew. The anarchists insisted no one be in charge, while the communists formed a central committee. The vegans suspected the regen farmers of fishing at night. The Teals formed a subcommittee to draft a 78-point consensus-building framework on leadership, which the anarchists promptly set alight using the only remaining copy of How to Start a Fire Without Hurting the Planet.
After weeks adrift and a steadily declining cabbage supply, land was sighted. Cheers rang out. They had found it: a pristine island, rich in promise, poor in people. But before they could set foot ashore, an emergency debate erupted. Was this island truly unclaimed? Could they claim it without offending the spirit of Terra Nullius? The onboard Indigenous Elders Caucus decreed settlement could only occur if invited by traditional owners—provided those traditional owners were of sufficient pigmentation.
With blessing secured from the onboard Elders (who had by then assumed diplomatic control of the galley and wine cellar), a welcome to country was made after suitable compensation was handed over in cash (no cards accepted) and the settlers disembarked. The island was paradise: fertile soils, bubbling springs, towering forests, fruit trees, untapped oil and gas, and coal seams running like veins beneath the hills. Everything they hated about Australia, but somehow, here, it was different. Pure.
Naturally, no one was allowed to touch any of it.
Axes and knives were ceremonially thrown into the ocean to prevent deforestation and animal slaughter. The marine park alliance immediately retrieved them under the pollution clause, leading to a minor diplomatic incident involving the Vegan Security Council.
No fires were permitted—carbon emissions. No homes were built unless constructed from renewables or salvage, which immediately saw the ship stripped of its timbers. The lack of materials resulted in a housing crisis. Several attempted to build shelters out of palm fronds, only to be thwarted by the “No Palm Exploitation” lobby.
Farming was declared a necessary evil, but only if regenerative, organic, and performed without disturbing the soil, altering the water table, or growing monocultures. A hidden wheat planting by the farmers for Climate Action was discovered and promptly composted by the Diversity in Crops Committee, while all agreed that hemp was exempt.
The pacifists demanded a policy of no conflict, which clashed immediately with the anti-capitalist cell, who insisted conflict was essential to class liberation. The welfare advocates requested a basic income scheme, but no one could agree who would do the work, who would grow the food, or how to value labour when capitalism was outlawed.
Beer was banned (alcohol being a patriarchal tool of oppression), and communal kombucha brewing began in earnest, while the smoking of weed was encouraged as a means of overcoming the growing aversion to an endless diet of yams and coconuts.
By week three, a powerful strain of algae had taken over the main water supply and a faction of foragers had declared it was sentient and could not be halmed, forming a new religion around its spores.
Then came the day someone, in a desperate bid to stay warm, ignited a controlled burn using a stick and a sunbeam. The carbon tally went into the red. Greta was horrified and was last seen retreating over the horizon in the ships schooner heading for the carbon neutral mecca of Gaza.
In desperation they tried to radio home. But the batteries were flat, and with no concrete allowed, the wind farm could not be established. The ABC appeared briefly to report back on the success of the new colony but refused to come ashore when they heard there were no Indigenous inhabitants for them to say sorry to.
So, they were stuck.
Just like the real-life New Australian settlers in Paraguay, whose dreams of a socialist utopia sank under the weight of internal infighting, strict conformity, and unreal ideals. It turns out you can’t feed a society on ideology and lecturing alone.
By the end of the year, the cats had formed their own breakaway territory. The chooks had all been eaten. The regen farmers were caught fermenting beets in an illegal biodigester. The Teals were suing each other for non-compliance with the inclusion charter, and the communists had collectively disappeared—presumed to have joined the anarchists in the hills, the farmers for climate action were planning for others to make more sacrifices while the indiginous kept on about needing a voice.
The few true believers gathered each evening beneath the sacred fig to reflect on their journey—holding hands in a circle of healing, lit only by glowworms (fire being banned as a violent form of light), and took turns tearfully confessing what they missed most: warmth, meat, 4G reception, but committed to do more to reduce their carbon footprint.
The great irony of it all? After flatly rejecting an offer from the US Navy to save them—on the grounds that it might increase their carbon footprint—they instead petitioned the United Nations to send a sailing ship, but they never got a reply.
The last we heard, most of the surviving colonists were offered “rehabilitation opportunities” on a nearby island nation—an unnamed regional superpower with a suspiciously large navy and a fondness for “strategic partnerships.” Apparently, the Green Dream had drifted into its newly extended exclusive economic zone. Sovereignty was negotiated at bamboo-point, and a treaty was signed on recycled toilet paper using ink made from crushed sea urchins.
From there, the idealists were lovingly relocated to rural inland provinces for “carbon rebalancing and decolonial soul realignment.” The reeducation curriculum was extensive: morning coal appreciation rituals, afternoon shovel therapy in open-cut mines, and nightly readings from The Little Red Book of Emissions Positivity.
Some, broken but beaming, have since appeared on state-run television tearfully praising the wisdom of the Supreme Planner, explaining that carbon, like love, is best when shared in abundance. Others weren’t so lucky—they’ve reportedly been reassigned to the “post-growth ploughshare brigade,” pulling tillers in rice paddies once meant for oxen, a living testament to what true zero-emissions agriculture looks like.
And so ends the Green Dream—less a cautionary tale and more a Monty Python reboot of Cast Away meets 1984. It turns out utopia is easier imagined than engineered, especially when the architects mistake ideology for infrastructure, slogans for sustenance, and feelings for fuel.
Postscript: A Cautionary Tale from Paraguay
For those wondering how the original New Australia experiment panned out—well, it didn’t. After just a few months of communal living in the Paraguayan jungle, the dream began to rot faster than their shared lentil stew. William Lane, their fearless leader, stormed off to start his own splinter utopia (because nothing says unity like a good schism), and the rest promptly descended into boozy bickering, doctrinal disputes, and the age-old socialist problem of who actually does the work.
Many eventually trudged back to Australia with their socialist caps in hand, while a stubborn few stayed behind, married locals, and got on with life in towns like Nueva Londres and Villarrica. Their descendants—now fluent in both Spanish and irony—can still be found there today, often hunched over WhatsApp, begging distant Aussie cousins for sponsorship visas. Turns out, even utopia gets sweaty when it’s 40 degrees and the quinoa won’t sprout.
