There was a time when founding a nation required, at the very least, a war, a treaty or a group of men and women with intellectual and political capital. Now it appears to demand little more than a sun-scorched plot of Californian desert, an appreciation for the good life, and a flair for deadpan absurdity. The Republic of Slowjamastan, the world’s newest micronation, runs, one might say, on vibes: When he is not working as a radio programmer and host, its self-proclaimed “sultan” presides over a bohemia, where reply-all emails and Crocs are firmly outlawed; speeding is permitted, but only if one is heading home with tacos in tow.

Slowjamastan belongs to a long, eccentric lineage of make-believe states that wear sovereignty as lightly as a novelty passport stamp. The Principality of Sealand continues life on a rusting sea fort. The Republic of Molossia maintains a navy consisting of inflatable boats, and a long-running “war” with the now nonexistent East Germany. The Constitution of the Republic of Užupis has citizen-forward rules such as “everyone has the right to make mistakes” and “everyone has the right to appreciate their unimportance”. Christiania has spent decades attempting to reconcile utopia with zoning laws. Each, in its own way, treats statehood as improv — to be constantly rewritten, adapted and updated.

If nations can be imagined into being, they can just as easily be reimagined. Given the fragile state of global geopolitics, there’s one other rule Slowjamastan is insistent on — its 25,000 “citizens” are discouraged from discussing politics. In doing so, it sidesteps the anxieties that define modern nationhood: Hardening borders, brittle identities, the constant churn of ideological conflict. Instead, it serves up a reminder — nations are also built through shared fictions people agree to believe in.