In A Failed Society, Everybody Is A Philosopher

Seventy-five miles north of the U.S.–Mexico border lies a dry wasteland called Slab City. A place with no running water, no electricity, and no law enforcement.

Those who call it home live among ruins of their own making: yards and motorhomes piled high with litter, scraps, and relics of a life they once tried to outrun. The people there are kind, warm even, but they live in a state that shocks you to your core.

While exploring the city- if you can call it that -Ali and I learned that violence is never far away.

North, one of the locals we interviewed, told us about the time he nearly killed someone. Later, he showed us his camper, its floor covered in broken glass from a recent break-in. Another resident had heard he was hoarding a bag of recycled cans worth forty dollars.