With nothing more than a backpack in hand, I entered Camp Nasty, a collection of tents and fire pits in the woods to the north of my school.  This is Hippie central, where they congregate, profligate, and rejuvenate their hippiness.  Seven nights a week, people come here and start fires, sing songs, and talk about freedom while passing a bong.  And I wanted to see what it was all about.

There had been several recent thefts reported from Camp Nasty --- stolen sleeping-bags and equipment.  I went down there to see what, if anything, of value could have been taken.  And why.  I was also fascinated with this quasi-hippy culture, gentle readers, and wanted to see what it was all about.  Was it really true hippidom, or a continuation of what I have seen, thus far (in part one and two)? 

It looked like a refugee camp.  Randomly placed old tents, worn and dirty, surrounded by sleeping bags, backpacks, piles of old clothes.  And there was a smell of rank urine and ash.  I was greeted by a half-naked man with terrible BO.  He was scratching his big belly and smiling as I placed my bag on the ground and said hello.  He offered me a hand, and asked how long I was planning on visiting.  I told him I didn't know.  He showed me to an unused sleeping bag, and pointed to the northwest.
 
      "That's the bathroom.  And the shower."

I didn't think he used either by the way he smelt.  But I thanked him, and with sleeping bag in hand, found a nice spot near one of the tents and sat down on it.  The half-naked man, seeing me find a spot, disappeared back into his tent.  This was great.  I was in the middle of the woods.  It was cold.  No one else was around.  And I was sitting on a unwashed sleeping-bag probably infested with god-knows what diseases (both contagious and sexual).  I pulled out my copy of Doors of Perception, and read a little more about mescalin-induced reasoning.

     "That's a great book," said a female voice to my right. 

She was sitting up in her sleeping bag, looking at me.  Must have just woken up.  Her hair was a bit disheveled, almost to the point of dreadlocks, but she was definitely attractive.  She rubbed her eyes and smiled, then stretched.  I could tell she wasn't wearing a bra.  I could also tell she was wearing a dirty shirt.

     "This your first time?" she asked.

I nod, and put down my book.  I introduce myself.  She introduces herself as Lisa.  She is a year younger than me, and had been living in Camp Nasty for the last month.  I ask her if she misses living in a dorm, or sleeping in a bed.

     "This is more natural.  We are supposed to sleep out in nature.  So much more refreshing, and it feels so much better than a stuffy room."

Later, after she fully wakes up and gets dressed, she gives me a full tour of the place.  I am surprised, that at five in the evening, people are still sleeping.  She tells me that its because of the late-night to early-morning jam sessions they hold by the fire.  They are all night owls.  I ask her if they ever leave the camp, and she laughs.  Camp Nasty is like a dorm, the people living there still go to class and other campus events.  They just live there.  And since it was a Saturday, no one was in any rush to wake up. 

We go to the tent of the half-naked man, and I find out he is the resident "cook".  That wasn't a good thing, I think.  I really don't want a half-naked dirty man cooking me food.  I told her that maybe I'd cook something for myself. 

      "Tom makes the best wheatmeal porridge that you'd ever eat."

I don't argue with her.  It tasted like wet cardboard and spoiled milk.  I smiled as I ate it anyway.  She smiled back.  Tom smiled.  The other people sitting around and eating smiled.  Everyone looked half-dead.  What the fuck is "wheatmeal?"

Lisa is dressed in an old David Bowie T-Shirt and a pair of loose corduroys.   She is also barefoot, and her feet are brown with dirt.  She introduces me to this guy, Nasty Nick, the founder of Camp Nasty.  His hair hasn't been brushed, washed, or cut in at least three years, and he smells like weed.  I wondered if I could get a high if I smoked some of his nasty hair.   He welcomes me to his camp, and then passes out.

(Next: Drugs, sex, and a fat naked guy named Trip)

-Ace Kendo