A Way of Life : A Society Set Apart : Many Needy People Call Ventura River Bottom Home, but a Move May Lie Ahead

The shantytown pokes out through the brush and the tall grass of a dusty riverbed, an old squatters’ camp swollen over the years by hard luck and hard times into Ventura County’s oldest and largest homeless community.

It stretches more than two miles up the Ventura River, unfolding in a collection of plywood shacks and nylon tents housing as many as 200 people scratching out their lives in what amounts to an open-air ghetto.

Advocates for the homeless describe this vagabond village as perhaps the last of its kind in Southern California, a stubborn holdout in a day when homeless encampments elsewhere are being banished and bulldozed.

Many of those who work most closely with the homeless have argued for years that Ventura County should do something about this place called the River Bottom. But the money for any kind of alternative has never been forthcoming.

Now, however, the homeless advocates have been joined by a new coalition of environmentalists and political leaders in Ventura who say they plan to push harder than ever for some genuine solution to what they see as a monument to decades of community apathy.

Environmentalists say the homeless are fouling the river’s habitat, blocking efforts to transform the area into an ecological preserve. Business and civic leaders say the homeless are damaging efforts to spruce up downtown Ventura and improve its image.

And Ventura City Councilwoman Rosa Lee Measures is leading the push to pull the homeless out of the riverbed and off the city’s streets into some kind of new campground area--possibly to be funded with state and federal help.

“The absence of direction is allowing this to continue,” Measures said. “It’s a depressing, discouraging, sad omen for our society, and I’m committed to doing what I can to make the changes where all will benefit.”

As envisioned, the campground would serve as a gathering place for social service providers. At the same time, the city would adopt a “zero-tolerance” approach to camping on all other public property, in effect outlawing the river-bottom camps.

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Some homeless advocates worry, however, that the new campground proposal could turn out to be little more than talk. And beyond the question of whether a new campground will ever become reality is the nagging question of how some river-bottom residents feel about the issue.

Many of the homeless want to live in the riverbed, and say that they would rather stay there than be herded elsewhere.

“Most people down here probably won’t go for it,” said Craig, a 32-year-old Burbank native who lives in an elaborate lean-to on the river bottom. “I’ll stay down here as long as they let me.

“If I could live this way the rest of my life, I would.”

From a distance, it could be mistaken for a city dump: thick piles of garbage growing up here and there, rusted shopping carts buried deep in the white sand floor. Packs of river-bottom dogs roam the place, picking through the squalor.

Open campfires cast an eerie orange glow on the encampment at night.

The shantytown starts at the Main Street bridge and stretches well north of Stanley Avenue, parallel with California 33.

About 40 to 50 camps dot the river floor, barely visible from the highway except for an occasional flap of blue tarp poking out from the river-bottom brush. This place has been a friend to the homeless since at least World War II, a hobo jungle created by railroad tramps below the point where the Southern Pacific train trestle straddles the Ventura River.

Today, homeless advocates say the community is as large as it has ever been, making up a significant share of the 2,000 to 3,000 homeless people in the county.

Theirs is a primitive place. There is no electricity, no plumbing, no running water, other than a river polluted by decades of use as a latrine.

It is a mystery to many who these people are, why they live this way and what should be done about them. They are survivors of a societal shipwreck, outcasts who have washed up on this stretch of sand only to re-create something that resembles civilization.

And yet, despite its tired and tattered appearance, there is order in this jungle. Troublemakers are unwelcome and have been run out before. No one person or group rules the river bottom, but folks look out for each other. There is a sense of community and a code of conduct.

An old-timer named Pack-Rat is the self-proclaimed “Chief of the River Bottom,” having made his home in this overgrown nether world for more than half of his 55 years.

“I’ve lived on every inch of this place,” he says, his home now staked out in the yawning gap between two concrete slabs holding up the Main Street bridge.

His real name is Ray Mahala, and he landed on the river bottom when it was still primarily home to railroad tramps. He drifted upstream over the years as the city pushed the settlers out of the river mouth.

He has become an institution around this place, in his knee-high leather boots, leather pants and jacket and his badger-skin cap.

“It’s one of the few places left where a man can just lay down and live,” Mahala said.

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But there is a dark side to the old squatters’ camp that troubles officials. Homeless advocates estimate that 20% to 30% of the residents are mentally ill, and maybe half are alcoholics and drug addicts. The drunkards and dope fiends and the deranged live together on the river floor with those who are simply the down-and-out. And the mix adds an element of constant danger.

Both Ventura police and fire officials say they have become all too familiar with troubles in the riverbed.

Firefighters are called at least once a week to put out runaway campfires, said Ventura Fire Capt. Myles Smith at Station 1, which handles fire calls on the river bottom.

Smith said firefighters no longer respond to reports of open campfires unless a large column of smoke is visible. He said firefighters recently responded to a call only to find themselves surrounded by a pack of unfriendly river-bottom dogs.

“I discourage my guys from going down there unless they absolutely have to,” Smith said.

And police, though saying they keep no statistics on river-bottom crime, say the area has become a haven for drug use and other criminal activity as its population has swelled in recent years.

Despite the despair and misery that are part of the river bottom, newcomers continue to arrive. And one thing is sure, the advocates say: Without some kind of community alternative, the river-bottom village will continue to grow.

Only recently, a father and his two sons, 11 and 9, joined the homeless in the shantytown, moving into space below the Main Street bridge. The father explained that he was out of work and had nowhere else to go.

And farther upstream, an unemployed construction worker also recently landed on the river floor: He now makes his home in a one-man tent on the river’s shore.

“The economy keeps getting worse every year and it keeps pushing people over the edge,” said Bob Costello, a caseworker for Project Understanding in Ventura, the homeless agency most directly involved with helping river-bottom residents.

“More and more people down there are finding themselves in a permanent situation, and they know that things are not going to get better anytime soon.”

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The new push for a homeless campground is actually an old idea getting a second look. The proposal was first advanced in 1991, when then-City Councilman Todd Collart, a member of the city’s housing committee, asked city staff to look into the issue in response to concerns and complaints about the homeless.

After Collart lost a bid for reelection last November, the idea was shelved until new housing committee members were seated.

Earlier this year, newly elected Councilwoman Measures--who was named to the housing committee--picked up on the idea and created a task force of city staff members and homeless advocates to pursue the matter.

After a series of task force meetings this spring, the Ventura City Council’s three-member housing committee endorsed the proposal in June--but noted that “resources are very limited at this time to fund any homeless efforts or programs in the city.”

While the funding question has remained unsolved, the issue has taken on greater urgency because of increased city efforts to improve the downtown business district. There is an ongoing effort to lure more tourists, and Measures, who campaigned on a strong redevelopment platform, says she has received countless complaints from merchants about the homeless.

“This population is growing,” Measures said. “The urgency of addressing the problem is essential.”

The new look at a homeless campground also has been prompted by the city’s growing interest in cleaning up the river bottom for ecological reasons.

This summer, Ventura officials earmarked nearly $200,000 for a wildlife restoration project on the river bottom that seeks to turn the area into a nature preserve, complete with a visitor center and interpretive trails.

“From a biological standpoint, it’s important to not have people living in the riverbed on a permanent or semi-permanent basis,” said Lawrence Hunt, an independent biologist who helped draft a river management plan to guide the restoration project. “The problem is they have no place else to go.”

Hunt said water quality in the area is poor and noted that a 1992 flood killed a river-bottom resident. “It’s not a very safe place to live,” he said.

In a report prepared by the task force created by Measures, officials acknowledged the city’s lack of money and resources for the homeless. Homeless families and single homeless women can find shelter in the city, but single homeless men must sleep outdoors or travel to Oxnard for a shelter program.

The task force called for a campground consisting of fiberglass domes and operated by an on-site manager who would assure compliance with the rules. To participate, residents would have to enroll in the social service assistance programs that would be offered at the site.

The maximum stay in the campground would be six months, the report said, but those making good progress could be extended for up to a year.

Illegal use of alcohol and drugs would be prohibited, according to the report.

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Homeless advocates say a major provision of the proposal is the creation of a “homeless zone” on the outskirts of the campground where the homeless could live even if they wanted no part of the more structured program.

A key to any possible success for the campground proposal would be an accompanying get-tough policy on camping by the homeless anywhere else in the city, including the riverbed, police said.

Cities throughout Southern California have outlawed public camping, starting with Santa Barbara in 1979. That law has withstood legal challenges and has been the model for ordinances adopted in cities from Long Beach to Santa Ana.

Police officers already enforce a zero-tolerance policy on city streets and in city parks. As a result, police say they occasionally direct street people to the river bottom as a place where they can live hassle-free.

Since June, city staff members have been trying to identify potential sites and funding sources for the proposed campground. But so far, no site has been found.

At the city’s request, two county supervisors--John K. Flynn and Susan Lacey--have joined the discussion to determine whether the city can tap into $1.3 million the county is expected to receive under a Clinton Administration plan to reduce homelessness.

City officials and county supervisors are scheduled to meet formally at the end of this month to further discuss the issue--with the city clearly looking for financial help for the project. “Our housing committee does believe, as well as our study group, that this is a regional issue and that we need to look at it regionally,” said Loretta McCarty, a city planner who has worked on the program off and on since it was proposed.

“The campground is not a final solution, but it’s one piece of the solution to providing a healthier living environment for the homeless.”

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Public pressure already has put an end to some of Southern California’s largest homeless encampments. In San Diego, for example, the city is dismantling a migrant encampment that once sheltered 700 people.

The Los Diablos squatters’ camp existed for more than 20 years in the shadow of multimillion dollar homes on that city’s north end.

But under pressure from nearby homeowners, the city condemned the encampment and is tearing it down, said the Rev. Rafael Martinez, who headed an advocacy group that worked with the migrants.

“By the end of October it should be all gone,” Martinez said. “Some of the families have been relocated to housing. But most have simply moved on to other camps or are living on their own.”

In Costa Mesa, police say the homeless have been repeatedly flushed out of a Santa Ana River encampment but always return.

And in Riverside, police wiped out a river-bottom encampment several years ago, said Arlene Hayes, a worker at a Riverside homeless shelter who led an effort to improve conditions for river-bottom dwellers in that city. The homeless simply returned to city streets and parks, she said.

The Ventura River bottom is now thought to hold the largest collection of homeless residents in Southern California outside of the inner city, homeless advocates and other authorities say.

“I can’t think of another camp of that type on that scale,” said Gary Blasi, a homeless activist and UCLA law professor. “These types of encampments are sort of a natural product of people having no place else to go. Whether they exist or not is largely the consequence of what the local attitude is about them.”

But whether Ventura’s river-bottom settlement will also cease to exist is still uncertain. “The river bottom to me has always been a mixed blessing,” said Project Understanding’s Costello.

“It’s kind of out of sight, out of mind, an area where people can live and be left alone,” he said. “But for a lot of these people it’s the start of a downward spiral into a cycle of homelessness that’s very hard to break out of.”

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Nancy Nazario, who was the county’s homeless ombudsman until the job was eliminated in budget cuts over the summer, is among those who hope that something better is provided.

“I am not a strong advocate for people living on the river bottom, getting into fights and drinking themselves to death,” she said. “I’ve been in some of the encampments, and I’ve got a problem with those. I just don’t feel very strongly about the need to have that kind of thing exist.”

Clyde Reynolds, executive director of the Turning Point Foundation, which serves Ventura’s mentally ill, said he and other homeless advocates will keep supporting the campground plan as long as it is part of a larger push to help the river people.

“I think those of us who serve this population are always interested in seeing the development of additional resources,” he said. “Because until we have adequate resources, I think these problems are always going to be with us.”

But Reynolds is not sure the political will really exists to make the campground a reality. “I think it’s gotten derailed a little bit,” he said. “I would like to see the city moving much more quickly than they are moving on it.”

And then there is Pack-Rat. From his place below the bridge, he sees the tide turning against the riverbed village. Against the wishes of the homeless themselves, this river-bottom chieftain predicts, some kind of change is inevitable.

“They just keep pushing us around,” he says. “And now they’ve got us cornered.”