Slab City resists linear narrative. Just from the last time I was there, a little before the old man died, to now — a mere four years — it’s changed in as many different and opposing ways as went into its coming into being in the first place.
Here are some, not nearly enough, of the things that Slab City is and is not right now.
No one disputes that Slab City started mattering to tourists because of Leonard Knight, but he wasn’t the first to set up shop after the Marines pulled out in 1956, marking their fourteen years of occupation with the giant concrete slabs they left behind.
One version of Slab City is still centered on Knight’s exceptional monument, Salvation Mountain. The differences between Knight’s original work and the mainstream Christian branding of the group maintaining the site are striking.
From another angle, Slab City was never really about Knight’s religious vision at all.
Slabbers have been coming here for decades, in search of not so much something as nothing, a space less governed. From hippies to survivalists, snowbirds in 150-thousand-dollar RVS to tweakers in blown-out tents, people have long found in Slab City such haven as anarchy affords.
Like anywhere that people make their home, Slab City holds an accumulation of losses. It is as much the record of these losses as anything that makes this place — without water or sewer or electrical grid or cable lines, and without lords and mayors and policemen — a place at all.
And Slab City’s composition has shifted these past years, perhaps in response to losses. I see more and more roads proclaiming themselves private, and the occasional sign threatening violence to all who trespass its boundaries. Too, there are more permanent fences and sheds.
Several people told me that the Slab City Hostel, a business built in trailers on squatted land, had been sold to an investor; I spoke with a Montanan who rents space in his encampment to tourists on AirBnB; but then, I was welcomed into an internet cafe where the wind blew hard through the walls and the dilapidated couches alike, and people in ragged clothes and rangy bodies offered coffee.
There’s free, and then there’s free.
Slab City was threatened a couple years back with sale of the land on which it rests. Slabbers split along fierce definitional lines. You’re either out, all the way out, or you’re in — in which case, why be there at all? Or, conversely, there’s nowhere outside the world (nearby Niland, after all, serves most food needs of members of the community, many of whom have retired on pensions or receive EBT). The land was not sold and, for now, Slab City remains free.
The trouble with freedom is that it aggregates waste. Each year, Slab City draws up to a couple-odd thousand residents in the winter months, and drops back down to a couple-odd hundred in the piercing summer heat. Structures are abandoned and reoccupied like hermit crab shells, but consumer waste just builds up.
Without East Jesus, there’s no Slab City: just slabs and campers in search of something like freedom.
As a community, Slab City coalesces far more around Builder Bill’s open-air bar the Range, or Radio Mike’s shows and parties (though he was not broadcasting this year or last, as I hear). As a place, without East Jesus it just doesn’t exist.
Like Salvation Mountain, East Jesus is integral to Slab City, but not precisely of it. The one is the beautiful dogmatism of a profoundly sincere monomaniac, the other the ongoing blossoming of artistic heterodoxy, an anti-Burning Man of sorts. What makes Slab City a place is that these poles have and make meanings all their own. What makes it the anarchic space it still is is that neither pole defines it.