‘River-Bottom’ People: Dirt, Debate, Dilemma

They sleep on mattresses and in pup tents erected inside cubbyholes chopped out of dense brush. They bathe in a muddy creek and warm themselves over fires built in a crude camp on the banks of the Santa Ana River a mile from downtown Riverside.

At dawn, they leave to look for work, sell plasma or to eat free meals offered at local churches and social service agencies. At night, they return to sleep, protected by dogs and the camouflage of cottonwood trees and undergrowth.

These 17 homeless men and women include a former engineer, welder, electrician, construction worker and maid who have formed a self-governing tribe. They vote on solving immediate problems and on who may join them as a means of keeping out drug addicts, thieves and even small children--anyone who could bring the authorities down on their heads.

“Without this government we would live in chaos,” said Ron Bell, 31, an unemployed electronics engineer from neighboring Moreno Valley who has lived in the river bottom since June and is a spokesman for the group. “We think of it as ‘common sense for the common good’--and it works.”

They call themselves the “river-bottom people” and their existence was largely unknown until some of their group showed up Sept. 22 at a Riverside County Board of Supervisors meeting to plead for more permanent shelter as the prospect of winter rains loomed over their 4-month-old community.

Now, these people who had deliberately kept their community a secret from local government officials have become the focus of a political debate over what should be done with them.

A county supervisor, concerned by the lack of sanitary living conditions, has suggested that they be moved out of the riverbed. An advocate for the homeless has told them to stay put and fight for another site on which to build a community of geodesic domes in which to plot ways of re-entering mainstream society. The Riverside City Council, under pressure from homeowners, has initiated a study to determine whether the camp can stay.

Meanwhile, the river-bottom people continue their meager existence in the shadow of one of the wealthiest hillside enclaves of old Riverside.

“Every night I think of the inhumanity of it all,” Bell said. “To live like this is a sin.”

Nonetheless, Bell said he and the others have found the river bottom to be a place where they can at least sleep “with both eyes closed,” unmolested by police or robbers. “There is security in numbers down here,” he said, “and it is real hard to find this place.”

Under their form of democracy, which was created by members of the river-bottom community with the help of homeless activists, they vote on whom to accept as new members as well as who will collect wood for fires, perform guard duty, obtain water from distant city park faucets or go to local food banks.

They share food, clothing and other necessities. Human waste and trash are buried. Fires are built in ground pits to prevent sparks from setting the surrounding brush ablaze.

Bell lives under a tattered blue tarp stretched between trees and bushes. “This is my library, bedroom, living room, kitchen and study,” he said, standing beneath the tarp and rummaging through a cardboard box filled with divorce papers and other legal documents--reminders, he said, of being laid off two years ago from his job at Flight Systems Inc. in Newport Beach, the breakup of his marriage and the loss of his Moreno Valley home.

He pulled a flyer out of the box and handed it to a visitor. It was entitled: “Homelessness--A Challenge for Riverside’s Christians.”

Other river-bottom people include Terry McDonald, 25, of Riverside, a welder who said he lost his job three months ago; Dave Islas, 28, of Sunnymead, a former Marine who has had problems landing a job and who used to sleep alone in local schoolyards, and Linda McClurg, 31, of Tucson, who said she quit her job as a maid.

Shirley Moore, 46, who was a homemaker most of her adult life until the breakup of her marriage, lived in the river bottom for seven weeks until a friend recently offered her temporary living quarters in Riverside. But she still visits the group that has become her extended family.

“A woman living in the streets is a sitting duck,” Moore said. “I felt safe down there. . . . Heck, there’s a lot of bugs but they don’t bother you if you wear a long-sleeve shirt and pants.”

Despite complaints from local residents that the river-bottom people have harassed bicyclists, joggers and horseback riders who use trails near the camp located on about 12 acres of public utilities land near Fairmont Park, the Riverside Police Department and Riverside County Sheriff’s Department have so far taken a hands-off approach. The river-bottom people, they say, have not caused any major problems.

Aynn Terrell, director of a transitional living facility for the homeless called Our House, says: “We are all hoping to score a magical touchdown for these people. . . . But we should be embarrassed that we allow such a situation to exist in our county--nobody has made a commitment from the heart to help.”

But even Terrell acknowledged that “there is no place to put them in Riverside today.” She said the social service agencies here are having a hard enough time meeting the needs of the hundreds of other homeless families, mentally ill and children roaming the city.

As it stands, “the river-bottom people see themselves as a separate entity that has mastered the art of survival,” said Terrell, who stays in close contact with the community. “They are keeping order and keeping the man out of their hair.”

Some social service leaders in Riverside believe many of the river-bottom people could do better if they had the desire.

“If someone wants to seek assistance from us we would be glad to work with them,” said the Rev. Sherry Sweetman, director of I Care Shelter Homes of Riverside. “If there is no willingness, I am not in a position with endless dollars to say I can put them up.”

Others are trying to make living conditions at the camp more comfortable until housing can be found. For example, the Good News Missionary Baptist Church offers them free lunches daily. The Magnolia Presbyterian Church has provided the river-bottom people with tents, food and clothing. The Salvation Army also provides food.

One of the riverbed people’s strongest defenders has been the Homeless Coalition of Riverside, a group of concerned citizens, clergy and homeless people. A leader of that group is Arlene Hayes, 45, wife of homeless activist Ted Hayes, who recently led a group in Los Angeles called “Justiceville” on a “trek for justice” through Beverly Hills and the Westside.

The coalition earlier this year helped a smaller and less organized group of river-bottom dwellers find jobs and apartments in town.

Arlene Hayes, who lives in Riverside, took a contingent of the new river-bottom community to a Sept. 22 meeting of the County Board of Supervisors. Now, Hayes is trying to motivate these people into “taking” a plot of land somewhere in downtown Riverside and then demanding that local officials authorize the construction of geodesic domes in which they can live.

Transitional Housing

She said the plan, which some critics refer to as “unrealistic,” is much like one advanced by her husband for the homeless in downtown Los Angeles. Hayes said it would serve as transitional housing for those needing an extended period of time to decide their futures.

Meanwhile, the community’s orderly existence is threatened by their new high profile. Riverside County Supervisor Melba Dunlap has urged that the community be removed.

Dunlap did not respond to requests for comment but her administrative assistant, Michael Lafferty, said:”It is an unhealthy situation no matter who they are. . . . The fact that they have made it a ‘camp city’ has made it a real problem.” Lafferty said Dunlop was concerned that, among other things, the river-bottom people might pollute Santa Ana River water, which is used by cities downstream, and that local residents who visit the area could be scared away by their presence.

Paul Romero, director of the Riverside County Parks and Recreation Department, said the river-bottom people may be breaking the law.

“I have an ordinance to uphold that says there will not be destruction of wildlife, open fires or unrestricted camping in regional parklands,” Romero said.

He also said that while he has not studied the river-bottom people’s community closely, other similar camps discovered in the area over the last year posed serious potential liabilities and hazards. “We have indications that wildlife was possibly being taken for food and tremendous amounts of trash built up,” he said.

Bell said his group has tried hard to avoid such problems.

“We are people just like anyone else with hopes and desires just like they have,” said Bell. “We have dignity. And the right of us to exist as human beings under these conditions is a necessity, not a crime.”