George Hansen: You know, this used to be a helluva good country. I can't understand what's gone wrong with it.
Billy: Man, everybody got chicken, that's what happened. Hey, we can't even get into like a second-rate hotel, I mean, a second-rate motel, you dig? They think we're gonna cut their throat or somethin'. They're scared, man.
George Hansen: They're not scared of you. They're scared of what you represent to 'em.
Billy: Hey, man. All we represent to them, man, is somebody who needs a haircut.
George Hansen: Oh, no. What you represent to them is freedom.
Billy: What the hell is wrong with freedom? That's what it's all about.
George Hansen: Oh, yeah, that's right. That's what it's all about, all right. But talkin' about it and bein' it, that's two different things. I mean, it's real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace. Of course, don't ever tell anybody that they're not free, 'cause then they're gonna get real busy killin' and maimin' to prove to you that they are. Oh, yeah, they're gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you about individual freedom. But they see a free individual, it's gonna scare 'em.
Billy: Well, it don't make 'em runnin' scared.
George Hansen: No, it makes 'em dangerous.
~Easy Rider (1969)
We encountered the abandoned shuttle-stop on the outskirts of Niland, California along the road leading east into the oblivion of the vast Sonoran Desert. On the side was a fanciful mural bedecked with bright, colorful flowers, an over-sized "Peace" sign, and the almost mocking declaration that we were about to enter Slab City, the "last free place."
It's a bit of an odd "Welcome Mat" for a place that is essentially no place. At least in the conventional and generally-accepted sense of the word "place." For Slab City is not even Niland, a bleached and saline little town that sits on the southeast shore of the Salton Sea baking for the majority of the year in the relentless and searing heat of the cruel desert sun. Niland has churches, but no bars. It has no Starbucks. It has no fun. It only has God's condemnation and heat. Scorching, fucking heat. But at least Niland is an actual, recognized place with streets and houses and other trappings of organized society. It even has it's own "dot" on the Rand-McNally Road Atlas. Not so Slab City. So how could this no-place beyond the boundaries of no-place possibly be the "last free place?"
Beyond that, we found the shuttle-stop message a bit unnerving because of what it portends. After all, America is the land of the free. All of America. I know this because Francis Scott Key said so. And we all collectively sing about how free America is at every sporting, school, social, or civic event we attend. So just what in the hell are the denizens of Slab City trying to insinuate here? Is this welcome message intended as some back-handed poke at the freedom joke that's been played on all of us? What did the "Slabbers" know that we didn't know? This needed further investigation.
So we pushed forward along the uneven gravel road straight into the heart of absolute freedom. It's an eclectic domain populated by a wide assortment of characters all looking to "drop out" for their own personal reasons. Vagabonds, vagrants, artists, nudists, gypsies, preppers, pot-smoking hippies, Jesus freaks, doomsday prophesiers, drug dealers, criminals, and destitute retirees in tatty RVs just trying to make it across the finish line before the the money runs out. They are all here, drawn to this forsaken and forgotten place by the promise, or a least the hope, of being able to exist completely unencumbered by the conventions, the rules, the constraints that bind the rest of civilized society. It's a place of and for free spirits and free thinkers. Alexander Supertramp was here. So was Leonard Knight who spent the majority of his twilight years building Salvation Mountain, his folk-art tribute to the Almighty.
But once in the confines of Slab City "proper," one quickly comes to understand that absolute freedom may not look exactly like the mind's eye ideal. Discarded shoes hang from branchless trees. Abandoned cathode-ray television sets litter the landscape. Broken glass glints and shimmers on the desert floor. Tireless automobiles rest in the sand on their axles slowly being eaten by rust. Discarded tarpaulin, plastic sheets, and plywood are strewn hither and yon. Unfettered personal liberty is a chaotic, sordid, and messy affair. It's practitioners are a dirty and dangerous lot. A good number of "freedom-loving" Americans would like to see them brought to heel. Or worse. George Hansen understood this even though Billy did not.
And then there's the incongruity here amidst all the lack of societal oppression and subjugation. Slab City may be the last free place, but it's not total anarchy. Here, like pretty much everywhere else in the world, the idea of absolute freedom is tempered by the reality of community. Even if that community is nothing more than a bunch of folks eking out existence in a scatter-shot assemblage of rotted-out single-wides, broken-down buses, and the occasional faded tent. It is also moderated by the fact that the "Slabbers" are living in a fish bowl that they didn't ask for and probably don't want. That's because these days, their brand of living is so novel, and their DIY level of self-sufficiency is such a curiosity to the rest of us, that they have become a sort of tourist attraction. Freedom tourism is now a thing in America. Thus, the "last free place" is ironically peppered with hand-scrawled signs more reflective of a heavily-regimented master HOA than of a do-as-you-please Utopian enclave ("Keep Out," "Private Residence," "No Trespassing," etc.).
There's also rules here. Adjacent East Jesus, which several signs make clear is NOT Slab City, has an extensive list of "rules" you must follow if you visit. Don't arrive after dark. Don't smoke. Don't put your shit in the refrigerator. Don't do drugs. Stay the fuck out of the music room. Don't park in the wrong place. And, oh yeah, pay us $15/night per person to stay here. I don't necessarily begrudge East Jesus its rules or economic opportunism, but I can see why Slab City might want to disclaim association with it.
Oddly, there is also more community structure here than the disorder might otherwise first suggest. There's an Internet Cafe. There is a well-stocked community library/less well-stocked bar that is open 24/7/365. There is a hostel. And there are actual named "streets" such as "Fred Street" where, presumably, Fred lives.
And finally, there's "the fuzz." When driving through Slab City, you necessarily have to move slowly. You do this primarily because the dirt roads running through the area are rough and can kick up a lot of dust when you pass over them. Thus, to protect your suspension, and out of basic respect for the Slabbers, you take your time moving through the area. And slowing down is consistent with the whole vibe of the place anyway. But as we were creeping along the main road through the slabs on the day of our visit getting our eyes full of all the wonderful wonders it has to offer, two Imperial County Sheriff's Department SUVs came roaring past us as if we were on the open highway. Maybe it was just me, but the oppressive and faceless efficiency of their movement, the implicit disdain they exhibited by speeding through the area in pairs, their entire authoritarian aura communicated one thing to everyone within eye-shot of them: you are not as free as you think you are and we are here to make sure you don't forget that.
Later that evening, we camped in the open at Corvina Beach along the shore of the Salton Sea. The "beach" here is comprised of billions of invertebrate shells and thousands of desiccated Talapia carcasses which makes a surprisingly comfortable natural mattress. Our camp mates were an older couple and a single retiree, both Snowbirds from Canada who were riding out the cold season in this more hospitable clime. The former pair spent their time gluing Popsicle sticks together and hawking the resulting creations to passerbys as kitsch; the latter was a gray-haired, dope-smoking gentleman from Ontario with some sort of serious medical condition. He was traveling America alone in a van he had partially converted, but never quite finished. He had $7 to his name, not even enough to pay the fee imposed by the State of California for the privilege of sleeping. So he guerrilla camped and then hastily left early the next morning before the Ranger came snooping around and demanding money from him. He never said it, but I got the impression that this might have been his final rodeo, his last epic adventure.
So what does it all mean? Does Slab City live up to its own hype? Is it the "last free place" in America? Well, after spilling all of these words, I just don't know. It's complicated. Because freedom is a relative concept and absolute freedom is a unicorn. It probably doesn't exist other than as an abstract concept. And even if it does exist, I'm not sure anyone has ever seen it or will ever see it. Beyond that, I know there are folks tucked away in all sorts of lesser-known nooks and crannies living life on their terms. Are these locations materially less free than Slab City? I suspect not. But I do know that if the folks occupying these lesser-known spaces know what's good for them, they'll keep their lesser-known spaces lesser-known. Otherwise, it won't be long before the monied-interests seek to economically exploit them and law enforcement starts flexing its muscles and demanding allegiance to good public morals and social order.
At the end of the day, I guess it really doesn't matter how free Slab City is relative to everyplace else. All that matters is that the place exists and that the Slabbers, either by circumstances or choice, are living there. Not on your terms. Not on my terms. Not on God's terms. On their terms. And who gave them permission to live this way? Nobody did. They did. And that's the way it should be.
But once in the confines of Slab City "proper," one quickly comes to understand that absolute freedom may not look exactly like the mind's eye ideal. Discarded shoes hang from branchless trees. Abandoned cathode-ray television sets litter the landscape. Broken glass glints and shimmers on the desert floor. Tireless automobiles rest in the sand on their axles slowly being eaten by rust. Discarded tarpaulin, plastic sheets, and plywood are strewn hither and yon. Unfettered personal liberty is a chaotic, sordid, and messy affair. It's practitioners are a dirty and dangerous lot. A good number of "freedom-loving" Americans would like to see them brought to heel. Or worse. George Hansen understood this even though Billy did not.
And then there's the incongruity here amidst all the lack of societal oppression and subjugation. Slab City may be the last free place, but it's not total anarchy. Here, like pretty much everywhere else in the world, the idea of absolute freedom is tempered by the reality of community. Even if that community is nothing more than a bunch of folks eking out existence in a scatter-shot assemblage of rotted-out single-wides, broken-down buses, and the occasional faded tent. It is also moderated by the fact that the "Slabbers" are living in a fish bowl that they didn't ask for and probably don't want. That's because these days, their brand of living is so novel, and their DIY level of self-sufficiency is such a curiosity to the rest of us, that they have become a sort of tourist attraction. Freedom tourism is now a thing in America. Thus, the "last free place" is ironically peppered with hand-scrawled signs more reflective of a heavily-regimented master HOA than of a do-as-you-please Utopian enclave ("Keep Out," "Private Residence," "No Trespassing," etc.).
There's also rules here. Adjacent East Jesus, which several signs make clear is NOT Slab City, has an extensive list of "rules" you must follow if you visit. Don't arrive after dark. Don't smoke. Don't put your shit in the refrigerator. Don't do drugs. Stay the fuck out of the music room. Don't park in the wrong place. And, oh yeah, pay us $15/night per person to stay here. I don't necessarily begrudge East Jesus its rules or economic opportunism, but I can see why Slab City might want to disclaim association with it.
Oddly, there is also more community structure here than the disorder might otherwise first suggest. There's an Internet Cafe. There is a well-stocked community library/less well-stocked bar that is open 24/7/365. There is a hostel. And there are actual named "streets" such as "Fred Street" where, presumably, Fred lives.
And finally, there's "the fuzz." When driving through Slab City, you necessarily have to move slowly. You do this primarily because the dirt roads running through the area are rough and can kick up a lot of dust when you pass over them. Thus, to protect your suspension, and out of basic respect for the Slabbers, you take your time moving through the area. And slowing down is consistent with the whole vibe of the place anyway. But as we were creeping along the main road through the slabs on the day of our visit getting our eyes full of all the wonderful wonders it has to offer, two Imperial County Sheriff's Department SUVs came roaring past us as if we were on the open highway. Maybe it was just me, but the oppressive and faceless efficiency of their movement, the implicit disdain they exhibited by speeding through the area in pairs, their entire authoritarian aura communicated one thing to everyone within eye-shot of them: you are not as free as you think you are and we are here to make sure you don't forget that.
Later that evening, we camped in the open at Corvina Beach along the shore of the Salton Sea. The "beach" here is comprised of billions of invertebrate shells and thousands of desiccated Talapia carcasses which makes a surprisingly comfortable natural mattress. Our camp mates were an older couple and a single retiree, both Snowbirds from Canada who were riding out the cold season in this more hospitable clime. The former pair spent their time gluing Popsicle sticks together and hawking the resulting creations to passerbys as kitsch; the latter was a gray-haired, dope-smoking gentleman from Ontario with some sort of serious medical condition. He was traveling America alone in a van he had partially converted, but never quite finished. He had $7 to his name, not even enough to pay the fee imposed by the State of California for the privilege of sleeping. So he guerrilla camped and then hastily left early the next morning before the Ranger came snooping around and demanding money from him. He never said it, but I got the impression that this might have been his final rodeo, his last epic adventure.
So what does it all mean? Does Slab City live up to its own hype? Is it the "last free place" in America? Well, after spilling all of these words, I just don't know. It's complicated. Because freedom is a relative concept and absolute freedom is a unicorn. It probably doesn't exist other than as an abstract concept. And even if it does exist, I'm not sure anyone has ever seen it or will ever see it. Beyond that, I know there are folks tucked away in all sorts of lesser-known nooks and crannies living life on their terms. Are these locations materially less free than Slab City? I suspect not. But I do know that if the folks occupying these lesser-known spaces know what's good for them, they'll keep their lesser-known spaces lesser-known. Otherwise, it won't be long before the monied-interests seek to economically exploit them and law enforcement starts flexing its muscles and demanding allegiance to good public morals and social order.
At the end of the day, I guess it really doesn't matter how free Slab City is relative to everyplace else. All that matters is that the place exists and that the Slabbers, either by circumstances or choice, are living there. Not on your terms. Not on my terms. Not on God's terms. On their terms. And who gave them permission to live this way? Nobody did. They did. And that's the way it should be.
