I tell you what…I get disappointed so often on my journey that, if it wasn’t a completely ludicrous notion I would start to think there is something wrong with me instead of everybody else.
I came to the end of civilization for a glimpse at the post-apocalyptic world so that I could have a reason to root for humankind. I do not. All is lost. The end is nigh. I really wanted to abandon all hope ye who enter and all that shit so we could finally start over but instead the road to despair doesn’t come equipped with a primrose path.
It started off ok. I drove along the coast of the Salton Sea.
California is weird. In normal places we have combed golden beaches. In far off places that you will never go to, they have black sand or white sand beaches. In California they have the desert setting from the Road Runner cartoons that go right to the edge of the large body of water. Something about that doesn’t make sense.
The Slabs are located about 4 miles from the town of Niland, CA. I am not insulting the good people of Niland (and from what I saw, they really are good people) but it is not what one would call a thriving community by today’s standards. But, then again, fuck today.
Niland has a Mexican restaurant, a gas station and a couple of small grocery stores. They sell liquor, but just the basics. I had stopped as far back as Mecca (about 30 miles away) when I began my hunt for a bottle of Jameson. I was told each time that I probably would not find something so exotic in this part of the state. Ok. Whatevs. I snagged a bottle of Seagrams. (pic related)
Norwalk, Connecticut! Trés Cosmopolitan!
I can rough it in the wild.
I stopped in Niland to goose the economy and take another look for Jameson – my downfall will surely be my need to be certain.
The streets appear dirty and neglected because of the desert’s incessantly blowing sand. The buildings are washed of color by the unforgiving sun. Off to my right was a fire truck and the cadre of emergency personnel attending to a shirtless, grubby, thickly-bearded, fellow who was in some sort of distress. Clearly he was a denizen of The Slabs, but yet, when needed, the on-call folks responded and gave aid just like he was a human being. That is very encouraging.
I stepped out of the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and was immediately greeted with a friendly, “Hey! How you doing today?” by a large, black man who was filling a jug at the Glacial Water vending machine on the porch of the store.
I smiled, answered and continued hesitantly – waiting to see if his greeting was a prelude to asking me for something. It was not. He was just being how people should be. I was being suspicious as fuck. Hmm.
No Jameson to be found.
I drove out past the county landfill, across too many railroad tracks and was just about to assume that I was on the wrong road when I saw the hill.
I knew to look for it.
It is inscribed with messages of love and other mumbo-jumbo.
Presently, I saw a shack…
You have never played the video game Borderlands. You are too old. You have never even seen it played because you are a decent person who would never let their children or grandchildren play a game with such gratuitous violence and mostly unnecessary sex. So, when they play it – and they do play it – they make sure you remain clueless. The game, like all today, is played on-line and involves competing against 12 year olds across the world who, via in-game headset communication, clear up any lingering doubts I may have had about my sexual identity while simultaneously informing me of how often they engage in coitus with my mother. It is amazing living in the future.
Aside from that, the game takes place on the fictional planet of Pandora (before that awful “Avatar” movie was a thing). Hardy fortune hunters brave the wastelands and strange snarling creatures in search of alien artifacts, from which, powerful weapons can be made.
I tell you all of that because I am guessing that The Slabs served as an inspiration for that setting. It is quite harsh indeed.
I continued my drive along the dirt road. I passed clusters of derelicts, hand-painted signs and vehicles of all kinds…
It was about what I expected. But, then I saw some mobile homes that had to go for in excess of 100k…
Looking around I saw cars. You know, just regular cars. Something seemed off.
I made my way to East Jesus…
And that is where it all went to hell.
East Jesus is this art-work-in-progress that employs all manner of detritus as its media. Pieces are made from discarded bottles, plastic shopping bags, junk cars, etc.
They set fire to a 1985 Mercedes Benz. The charred remains are entitled “Car-B-Que”.
Heh heh…get it?
Tracy, a good-looking man of about 40 and resident artist who has been on site for three years, gave me a tour. He was neat, clean, fit and well-spoken. A glaring contrast to the bedraggled and dreadlocked squatters I had driven by on my way to East Jesus.
Tracy showed me the Time Machine and Apocalypse Playground (complete with cheese grater sliding board) and several other pieces… (gallery)
His practiced deadpan delivery of the tour was peppered with punchlines and witticisms that would be easy to miss if not paying close attention.
He spoke of upcoming events and plans to buy the land when the state puts it up for auction – a clear attempt to evict the dregs, whom they view as a liability.
Along the tour Tracy pointed out some Japanese tourists. He told me people come from all over the world to see The Last Free Place in America. Hell, Playboy Magazine was out last month and did a feature on the place.
National Geographic landed at their helipad, which is right next to the Naked Gun Range…and, that’s when it became clear. The cars, the pretty people that didn’t fit in. East Jesus is a theme park.
He mentioned that he isn’t concerned about them sectioning off the land and evicting the folks of Slab City – he just wants to preserve East Jesus.
He is a nice guy, but, I started to think he was just another capitalist who saw an opportunity. Good for him! I guess.
He took me back, behind the scenes to the artists living quarters.
Tracy bragged that there are no rules, but they live behind a wall with plenty of KEEP OUT signs.
And, it was pretty nice back there. Sleeping quarters, bathrooms, a full kitchen, living room, music room with functioning grand piano, generators, solar panels even a full bar with a bottle of goddamn Jameson sitting right out in view…mother fucker.
The patio has a fire pit and looks out onto the Chocolate Mountain Gunnery Range, where they sit, drink goddamn Jameson, and watch the tracer fire.
I’m no hobo. Not really. I came here because real-life wayfarer, Chris McCandless, aka Alex Supertramp, spent time here, as was featured in the Jon Krakauer book and Sean Penn movie, “Into the Wild”. And, I, just like the other tourists, flock here to pretend and try to get a sense of his spirit.
So, like any good tourist, I bought a T-shirt from Tracy for $20 and wished him success in his business venture.
I made my way back to The Slabs and found a remote plot of wasteland and set up Camp T-Moose (pic related)
and toasted the end of the Last Free Place in America.
I can’t wait to see Trixie (she got three bottles of Jameson for Xmas)