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Picture a thin slab of sandy, inhospitable desert land by the side of Highway 78, just a few miles from the Salton Sea.
A flag and a border gate welcome you to the United Territories of the Sovereign Nation of the Republic of Slowjamastan — Imperial County’s littlest empire — where a border patrol agent in a black beret hands you a passport and stamps you into the tiny micro-nation that has declared itself independent from the United States.
It’s a modest nation, GDP zero, teetering on the brink of economic collapse because it does not raise taxes or have full-time residents, or even have any buildings, a common feature of most nation states, except for one toll booth. It’s also half joke, half ongoing performance art by its founder and supreme leader.
At the center of its capital, dubbed Dublandia, is a square patch of concrete that supports a call box, a flagpole and the desk of the Sultan, a man known outside the borders of Slowjamastan as Randy Williams.
Williams is the radio host of “Sunday Night Slow Jams” as well as a show on Magic 92.5 in San Diego who was born in Chicago and grew up in Los Angeles and Tucson. After visiting every country in the world, finishing with Turkmenistan in 2023, he said he decided to form his own. Here, he is formally referred to as: His Excellency, Randy “R Dub!” Williams, the Sultan of Slowjamastan.
The nation is not recognized by other nations including the United States — which menacingly surrounds it on all sides — and is a relative newcomer in the world of micronations, having been founded just four years ago. The micronation movement came about as a form of anti-establishment expression in the 1960s and ‘70s, and Williams said he was inspired to create his after visiting the Republic of Molossia, in Reno.
In reality, micro-nations are groups that claim independence from the countries they are technically part of despite not being recognized as sovereign. Williams’ nation is a prank, a gag, a bit. A satire poking fun at, well, it’s not totally clear what. And the Sultan seems to be amusing himself with the act much of the time.
But lately, all is not quite well in Slowjamastan. You might think a lack of residents, a remote location and the fact that there’s nothing of apparent value on the land would put the crime rate near zero, but you’d be sorely mistaken.
A little more than a month ago, cameras set up along Slowjamastan’s “border” captured two men and two children breaking into the border office, which is inside a tollbooth, to steal Slowjamastan’s border agent, Ethel, a mannequin. The American intruders scrawled on the concrete, “We declare war on Slowjamastan.”
The burglary was a cinch because none of Slowjamastan’s 22,000 citizens (citizenship may be acquired on the internet and does not require residency or birthright, just a vow against Crocs) were on the land at the time. Not even Chief of the Porder Batrol Mark Corona was there.
Corona, who carries a pistol filled not with bullets but with tequila and drives around in his pickup truck that says “Porder Batrol” on the side, says he was playing pickleball at the time, which allowed the burglar free rein to the territory. It’s hard to say whether Corona was actually playing pickleball or was just nowhere near Slowjamastan at the time of the burglary and thinks it’s funny to say he was playing pickleball.
One thing you pick up quickly when dealing with Slowjamastani officials, which should be obvious enough to any journalist who has covered a country run by a charismatic dictator who has its own state-run media outlet, the Slowjamastan Ministry of Communications and Propaganda, is that you simply cannot take everything they say at face value. Not even claims of playing pickleball.
Fortunately, a code was established to get at the truth. If the Sultan or Corona said “hand to God,” they were actually being honest. If they did not say it, anything went.
Examples? Okay.
The Sultan has a lot of plans.
An airport (hand to God). A functioning airport (no comment). An interactive armadillo farm (hand to God he would like to have this). All you can eat Mongolian barbecue (ditto). A lazy river using water siphoned from the Salton Sea (ditto, and he’d prefer if you call it the Sultan Sea, though the Imperial County Board of Supervisors informed him they have neither the jurisdiction nor the desire to change the name).
The burglary was, hand to God, a real burglary, not a Slowjamastani stunt for attention, the Sultan says. And he’s not laughing about it.
“We are the number one pranksters in the world. We love pranks, but once it starts damaging things and costing people money. It’s not funny. There’s a fine line,” the Sultan said.
“If we do something, it’s going to be funny. That was not. There was nothing funny about that,” he said.
He acknowledged that he understands why some might think the burglary was a stunt.
“Sometimes the line between stunt and real is thin,” he said.
The break-in is what brought the Sultan out to the desert this December afternoon. Due to the criminality, the Sultan felt he had to erect a fence around Slowjamastan. He announced a new Slowjamastani “Department of De-Fence,” run by a guy named Travis. The fence itself is unlikely to keep anyone out, but it will force people to enter the micro-nation through the border gate, which has cameras recording its visitors.
The Sultan this morning/afternoon is in full military regalia, a green jacket with tassels thrown over the shoulder and a military cap, his usual outfit for hosting. He announces the nation has launched a GoFundMe to build the wall, accumulating more than $6,000 as of press time.
The Sultan drives the first stake of the fence into the ground, jumping on the shovel to get the much needed torque. It’s not a lazy river or an interactive armadillo zoo, but it’s a start.
If there’s an investigation into the burglary, it’s unclear. The Sultan said the Imperial County Sheriff’s Office is looking into it, but the department did not respond to a request for comment from The Times.
Then it’s time to leave Slowjamastan. Don’t cross back into the United States before Corona outstamps your new, Slowjamastani passport.
“Welcome,” the passport stamp says when you enter. “Vamoose,” it says when you get stamped out.
In his sunglasses, the Sultan looks tired. The wind is blowing and he’s getting texts from his radio station boss, with whom he has shared his location. He’s also turned his cubicle at work into what he calls a Slojamastani consulate.
The Sultan took a day off from work for the fence ceremony. His boss has a question for him.
“Your mental health day is spending the day out at Slowjamastan?”
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