Last Saturday afternoon, I was recovering from a beautiful, yet somewhat brutal desert canyon hike in Anza Borrego State Park . My friend Ben and I had just finished a poolside meal at the Palms Hotel and were mulling over what to do with our evening. We grabbed the laptop, hopped on the hotel’s wi-fi, and searched for “ Slab City , CA ”. We found detailed descriptions, well-laid maps, and a page dedicated to how to hitchhike there.
We were tired, sunburned, cut up and unshowered, but Ben had the sense that Slab City was the place we belonged that night. I hesitated, but agreed after I came to the well-thought out conclusion of “Why not?” I left Ben in town and ran “home” – a patch of desert tucked up in the boulders of Glorieta Canyon – to change shoes and grab a bottle of wine. Descending back into the town of Borrego Springs, I spotted a body in downward dog in the middle of the roundabout known as Christmas Circle. It was Ben, building his reputation as the shirtless, hula-hooping yogi-about-town.
We hit the desert highway with little gas in the tank and upon finding that Ocotillo Wells didn’t have a filling station, almost turned back and scrapped our plans. But, by now, my curiosity had reached the point where there was no going back. Even if it ended up being a drive-by, we were at least going to see what Slab City looked like. When we finally arrived at a gas station in Brawley, Ben asked the cashier if she knew how to get to there. She looked at him as if to ask, “And just what are you getting in to this evening?” We later learned that Slab City, an encampment of all kinds of folks that have laid claim to the concrete slabs and bunkers of a former military base, doesn’t have the greatest reputation among the “city” folk of Brawley. Some view it as a place for derelicts, where drugs, violence and sloth are commonplace. Having seen it featured in Into The Wild recently, I had a completely different take. I envisioned it as a warm place, welcoming and open.
We drove up through Niland , CA , which is basically a power plant, Chinese restaurant and laundromat and began working our way east across the pitch black countryside. To our right appeared a defunct military guard post that now proclaimed “ Slab City : You’re Almost There!” See? Most welcoming.
In the darkness, we could make out a building that looked like a fortress with a cross on it to our left, the pinnacle of Salvation Mountain to our right, and trailers scattered in every direction. We had a nagging fear that these were people that rose and slept with the sun and that we had missed the whole Saturday evening shindig. Until we saw the lights, brightly colored and strung across a large stage, with a sign beckoning travelers to stop and play at The Range. We pulled in and were more than surprised to find a fully-functioning catering truck in the parking lot, serving up corn chowder, tacos, burgers, and pizzas.
We parked our little Toyota sedan in the midst of RVs, Chinooks, and Vanagons and slowly made our way to the stage, feeling increasingly giddy. We walked around the fence constructed entirely of old chrome bumpers and hubcaps and stepped up onto a large, raised concrete slab cum seating area. You have your choice of old car seat, old van seat, old theater seat, or picnic bench for watching the show. I was eyeing people to check if they were eyeing me. They were, but without much suspicion, so I grabbed a chair and immediately relaxed.
A family was setting up to play. Mom was drumming and her son, maybe eight years old, was on guitar playing right next to Dad. I took Ben by the hand and we slowed danced through the first half of Freebird. When the tempo kicked up, we let each other go and became two distinct jumping and kicking entities, much to the inconvenience of the child artists with their sidewalk chalk using the dance floor as their canvas.
A man came over to me, saw that there were two beer cans on the bench where he wanted to sit, picked them up and threw them across the floor. I said, “Not worth much empty, huh?” He replied that, actually, the cans were their largest source of income. This man, whose name escapes me, was the organizer and emcee of the evening’s festivities. He took an instant liking to me and allowed me my fair share of touristy inquiries. When I asked him how he managed to end up here, he replied, “At some point, I just started getting more and more disillusioned, which made me less and less employable. Sooner or later, they just run you out of town.” He left the construction business twelve years ago after he realized that he was building homes that he didn’t have a chance of setting foot in once they were finished. He says he remembers the days of being a Slab City newbie like they were yesterday, but that already he’s the old man on the block.
Soon enough, Ben got his hula hoop out of the car. Whereas he had been a spectacle at a busy trailhead in the park earlier that day - a handsome, muscular man swinging a sparkly blue hoop around his waist - here he was welcome to wave his freak flag without so much as one person batting an eye.
Then, I met Alan. Alan has a small, charming face, long puffy black hair and glasses. He had just wrapped his set on stage and was walking back from the catering truck. I asked him, “Whujya get?” He raved about the corn and bacon chowder and asked me if, please, I would try a little. I refused for reasons of my vegetarian-ness. And before you know it, I’d made another friend. Alan is 24 and he came to Slab City after a 4 year stint in the army, which he says he did in order to “impress his father”. He was adopted at age three and spent his teenage years in and out of boys’ homes. In the army, he was deployed to Guantanamo and says he witnessed some “really fucked-up shit” in the prisons there. Now, he crafts pipes out of marble and sells them when he can to make a little money. He also used to collect scrap from the nearby firing range, claiming to bring in $1200 in three to four days work, but “that shit started to get in my lungs”, he says and has stopped, for now. Alan is well-spoken and very clever. He was thrilled, he told me, that he could still make a girl laugh. When I shared with him, in hushed tones, that I worked for Corporate America, his reaction was beautiful. He looked at me sweetly and said, “They don’t deserve you.”
Alan told me he will be waiting for me next week. It’s Slab City ’s Annual Prom. He says he’ll be in a tux and he’ll even put his hair in a ponytail. If I show up, I’m his date. I don’t even have to bring a dress as there is a rack full of them at The Range and you can just pick whichever one you like. Although, in a last minute request, Alan asked that I arrive in something “provocative”, and I walked away in a fit of laughter.
A stranger gifted me a sweet-smelling wildflower called Stok on the way to the parking lot. Before we could leave, I had to pull a puppy out from under our car and return it to its rightful owner. On the drive home, a moon that looked like a tangerine planet rose over a refinery to the west. Ben and I vowed to return.
We were tired, sunburned, cut up and unshowered, but Ben had the sense that Slab City was the place we belonged that night. I hesitated, but agreed after I came to the well-thought out conclusion of “Why not?” I left Ben in town and ran “home” – a patch of desert tucked up in the boulders of Glorieta Canyon – to change shoes and grab a bottle of wine. Descending back into the town of Borrego Springs, I spotted a body in downward dog in the middle of the roundabout known as Christmas Circle. It was Ben, building his reputation as the shirtless, hula-hooping yogi-about-town.
We hit the desert highway with little gas in the tank and upon finding that Ocotillo Wells didn’t have a filling station, almost turned back and scrapped our plans. But, by now, my curiosity had reached the point where there was no going back. Even if it ended up being a drive-by, we were at least going to see what Slab City looked like. When we finally arrived at a gas station in Brawley, Ben asked the cashier if she knew how to get to there. She looked at him as if to ask, “And just what are you getting in to this evening?” We later learned that Slab City, an encampment of all kinds of folks that have laid claim to the concrete slabs and bunkers of a former military base, doesn’t have the greatest reputation among the “city” folk of Brawley. Some view it as a place for derelicts, where drugs, violence and sloth are commonplace. Having seen it featured in Into The Wild recently, I had a completely different take. I envisioned it as a warm place, welcoming and open.
We drove up through Niland , CA , which is basically a power plant, Chinese restaurant and laundromat and began working our way east across the pitch black countryside. To our right appeared a defunct military guard post that now proclaimed “ Slab City : You’re Almost There!” See? Most welcoming.
In the darkness, we could make out a building that looked like a fortress with a cross on it to our left, the pinnacle of Salvation Mountain to our right, and trailers scattered in every direction. We had a nagging fear that these were people that rose and slept with the sun and that we had missed the whole Saturday evening shindig. Until we saw the lights, brightly colored and strung across a large stage, with a sign beckoning travelers to stop and play at The Range. We pulled in and were more than surprised to find a fully-functioning catering truck in the parking lot, serving up corn chowder, tacos, burgers, and pizzas.
We parked our little Toyota sedan in the midst of RVs, Chinooks, and Vanagons and slowly made our way to the stage, feeling increasingly giddy. We walked around the fence constructed entirely of old chrome bumpers and hubcaps and stepped up onto a large, raised concrete slab cum seating area. You have your choice of old car seat, old van seat, old theater seat, or picnic bench for watching the show. I was eyeing people to check if they were eyeing me. They were, but without much suspicion, so I grabbed a chair and immediately relaxed.
A family was setting up to play. Mom was drumming and her son, maybe eight years old, was on guitar playing right next to Dad. I took Ben by the hand and we slowed danced through the first half of Freebird. When the tempo kicked up, we let each other go and became two distinct jumping and kicking entities, much to the inconvenience of the child artists with their sidewalk chalk using the dance floor as their canvas.
A man came over to me, saw that there were two beer cans on the bench where he wanted to sit, picked them up and threw them across the floor. I said, “Not worth much empty, huh?” He replied that, actually, the cans were their largest source of income. This man, whose name escapes me, was the organizer and emcee of the evening’s festivities. He took an instant liking to me and allowed me my fair share of touristy inquiries. When I asked him how he managed to end up here, he replied, “At some point, I just started getting more and more disillusioned, which made me less and less employable. Sooner or later, they just run you out of town.” He left the construction business twelve years ago after he realized that he was building homes that he didn’t have a chance of setting foot in once they were finished. He says he remembers the days of being a Slab City newbie like they were yesterday, but that already he’s the old man on the block.
Soon enough, Ben got his hula hoop out of the car. Whereas he had been a spectacle at a busy trailhead in the park earlier that day - a handsome, muscular man swinging a sparkly blue hoop around his waist - here he was welcome to wave his freak flag without so much as one person batting an eye.
Then, I met Alan. Alan has a small, charming face, long puffy black hair and glasses. He had just wrapped his set on stage and was walking back from the catering truck. I asked him, “Whujya get?” He raved about the corn and bacon chowder and asked me if, please, I would try a little. I refused for reasons of my vegetarian-ness. And before you know it, I’d made another friend. Alan is 24 and he came to Slab City after a 4 year stint in the army, which he says he did in order to “impress his father”. He was adopted at age three and spent his teenage years in and out of boys’ homes. In the army, he was deployed to Guantanamo and says he witnessed some “really fucked-up shit” in the prisons there. Now, he crafts pipes out of marble and sells them when he can to make a little money. He also used to collect scrap from the nearby firing range, claiming to bring in $1200 in three to four days work, but “that shit started to get in my lungs”, he says and has stopped, for now. Alan is well-spoken and very clever. He was thrilled, he told me, that he could still make a girl laugh. When I shared with him, in hushed tones, that I worked for Corporate America, his reaction was beautiful. He looked at me sweetly and said, “They don’t deserve you.”
Alan told me he will be waiting for me next week. It’s Slab City ’s Annual Prom. He says he’ll be in a tux and he’ll even put his hair in a ponytail. If I show up, I’m his date. I don’t even have to bring a dress as there is a rack full of them at The Range and you can just pick whichever one you like. Although, in a last minute request, Alan asked that I arrive in something “provocative”, and I walked away in a fit of laughter.
A stranger gifted me a sweet-smelling wildflower called Stok on the way to the parking lot. Before we could leave, I had to pull a puppy out from under our car and return it to its rightful owner. On the drive home, a moon that looked like a tangerine planet rose over a refinery to the west. Ben and I vowed to return.
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