Travel Photography > Desert Southwest > Slab City

As I'm about to get out of my truck on one of the makeshift avenues, two old men in two old dune buggies glide across the sand. I decide to follow them. Zipping across the sand, I am awed by the size of Slab City, but also its quietness. Besides these two guys in their buggies, nobody else is moving. A few sit under the shade by their trailers. But they aren't reading, they aren't talking, they aren't doing anything.

The dune buggies stop near the perimeter of Slab City, and the guys walk into some old bus. So I look around on foot, and find a book exchange.

It’s called the Slab City library, and it’s more or less open to the weather. It doesn't rain much here. There is a big Louis Lamour section, and a worn National Geographic collection. And a medical reference area, with rabbit and fox skulls. The book exchange resembles the rest of Slab City in that most of the economy here is barter - old fogey Bohemia. And Slab City seems to work well. But what the hell do these people do?

At the library, I run into a few old folks and introduce myself. "My wife died last April," Ronnie says. "And Mary's husband has been dead for a few years, so we decided to team up and live life on the edge." Ronnie and Mary appear to be regular folks. "But watch out for those signs that say 'no trespassing.'" Ronnie says. "Even though this is public land and they have no right to exclude anybody else, if there is camouflage netting, dogs barking, and all that, they're liable to do something to you that you don't want done."

Ronnie and Mary are just staying here for a few days. Ronnie wanted to introduce Mary to this 'destination.' A few years ago, him and his wife had spent months at a time here, but his wife would grow tired of living in a trailer, so they would take time off and rent a hotel room in Calipatria.

"I own hardly nothin’!" Ronnie says. "I just travel."

Ronnie and Mary show me their trailer. It is well furnished and looks expensive. Next door to their trailer is something much smaller and rustier. “He plays the flute,” Ronnie says, looking at his neighbors trailer from out his window. There is no zoning in Slab City.

In fact, there is little of anything of the rest of society at Slab City. No spam e-mails or traffic jams or coffee shops. As long as no one is willing to buy the land from the State of California, the wayward will flock. “What do people do here?” I ask. I point to another man sitting in a lawn chair, not even reading a book. Just sitting there. “Ha!” Ronnie says. “Slab City can be pretty lively. Guitar concerts. Drum circles. Storytelling. There is a lot going on all the time. You just have to keep your ears open.”

The next day, I drive from Niland the short distance to the bridge over the New River, near the city of Brawley.

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