We Spent May Day Trying to Party in the World's Newest 'Country'

This article originally appeared on VICE Serbia

The idea behind the Free Republic of Liberland—the world's newest self-proclaimed "country"—is pretty simple: Find an unclaimed piece of land, claim it, and then tell the world you started your own country.

It's a fantasy many have had but few have acted on. The latest person to enter that brief list of micronation founders is Czech politician

Vit Jedlička, who recently tried to start his own little libertarian paradise somewhere between Serbia and Croatia.

Jedlicka proclaimed his new state last month, on April 13. Within a week, Liberland received 220,000 registrations, 1,200,000 website visits, and 100,000 Facebook followers from around the world. The unexpectedly impressive numbers naturally called for a celebration, which is exactly what was supposed to take place in Liberland last Friday, May 1.

VICE being a stalwart supporter of fledging micronations, we decided to make the journey to Liberland for the party. The only way to reach the country by land is through Zmajevac, a Croatian town about two miles from the Croatian-Serbian border. When we arrived around noon, the Croatian border authorities told us that they needed to "warn" us that Liberland "is a country that doesn't exist," and that "it's basically a forest." Not a problem. We had been wise enough to equip ourselves with hiking boots, so we parked our car, asked some locals for directions, and began the long walk.

Not far into our trek we ran into a second group of Croatian policemen who had set up a barricade. Apparently, because of the announced celebration, special border units had been sent to the national reserve surrounding Liberland to intercept the partygoers. They were a little less accommodating than the first lot we'd met.

"By entering this area, you are illegally trespassing and we can arrest you. We don't want that and you don't either, because you're risking a sentence of up to three years or a fine of €1500 [$1700]," said one of them.

They were polite, but they were clearly baffled as to why anyone would want to enter Liberland. They told us about a group of Czech people who had been trying desperately to get into the "country."

"It's ridiculous, there's nothing but insects and forest in there," they said.

We decided to head back to the Serbian village of Bački Monoštor, where we'd heard Liberland supporters would be waiting for a boat that would sail them to the Free Republic. Confused and a bit lost, we sent President Jedlička a text message asking where we were going. He was actually really accommodating and sent us a Google Map of how to get there.

When we arrived in Bački Monoštor, there were no boats to be seen. We did, however, find Jedlička and about 30 other people sitting at a restaurant, finishing their lunch and wondering where their boat was.

"The boat was stopped at the border. We'll wait another hour or so and see what happens," Jedlička told us.

After an hour had passed, Jedlička said the boat had finally been released but the Croatian police were doing everything in their power to prevent it from reaching us.

"If they stop it again, we will just buy a new boat," he said.

To pass the time, we mingled with some future Liberland citizens. We met a bunch of hopefuls from as far away as Iraq, Lebanon, and even Syria. All of them were currently living in Belgrade.

Fahad Kubba—half Iraqi, half Serbian—had started his day off particularly chuffed about the idea of making it to Liberland. Unfortunately, after spending hours waiting around for the boat, his initial excitement had died down quite a bit.

"I don't know what's happening," he said.

One of Fahad's friends named Bilal told us he didn't believe this whole Liberland thing was actually real.

"I thought it was a joke, but then Fahad called me and asked if I wanted to go check it out. Why not?" he explained.

When we told them that Croatian police had stopped us from walking to Liberland, Bilal said:"Let's get arrested together. I put that on my to-do list when I woke up this morning."

Time ticked on and there was still no boat to be seen, so in an attempt to lighten the mood, Jedlička began doling out the first Liberland citizenships.

"Do you agree with the Constitution of Liberland and promise to obey the laws?" Jedlička asked a man as he presented him with some papers. The man agreed over loud applause and cheering.

And just like that, it finally happened: Siniša Matić became the first person to be granted citizenship of Liberland.

"I am very excited that this has happened. We have received around 300,000 applications and it's great to be able to say that we now have more than ten official citizens," Jedlička told us.

While signing the citizenship papers, the president explained that Liberland would not be stealing its citizens' money through taxes. Tax is optional in the micronation.

As more and more people were naturalized into the world's newest country, the enthusiasm we had seen earlier began to return. The overall mood was back on top, but a big part of that probably had something to do with the fact that everyone was pretty drunk.

At least the Serbian sunset served as a beautiful backdrop for the bad news the president had to deliver—the boat was definitely not coming today. There'd be two tomorrow, instead.

But then some guy showed up with a small rubber boat and the plan was changed yet again. Everyone packed into about a dozen cars and headed to the Serbian side of the Danube River.

For some reason the president himself jumped into our car. Obviously a busy man, he did not put his phone down throughout the entire journey.

Once we reached the bank of the Danube we found a group of Serbian border police waiting for us. After half an hour of confusing multilingual back-and-forth between Jedlička, a translator, and the police, the authorities suggested that the "president" come with them for a chat at the police station. He politely declined and instead insisted that the cops explain to him exactly which law was stopping the party from setting sail in the rubber boat.

We decided we'd had enough of Liberland for one day and that it was time to say goodbye to its president, its fans, and its citizens. On our way out, we overheard Jedlička inviting the police back to the restaurant for that talk they'd been so keen on. They agreed, but only if the crowd dispersed.

Nobody got to spend their Labour Day in Liberland this time around. Maybe next year.