taylor camp, kauai

When I lived in Kauai in 1973, there were a lot of other hippies there "living off the land"—i.e. on food stamps, other people's papayas, stolen pineapples from the Dole fields, coconuts from the palms in the graveyard, panhandling. I lived on the beach way at the end of the road on Waimea side. But when the park ranger would run us out of there, our little group (blonde Krishna, ex-prostitute John-John, queen Marty and the two Vassar girls) headed for Taylor Camp, way at the end of the road on Hanalei Side. There a bunch of hippies had fabricated fantasy treehouses of tie-dye and wood and found objects, and we could set up our little tent in peace.
   However, I am the person who, famously, hated the Woodstock festival, and I was not all that fond of the camp reputedly owned by Elizabeth Taylor's nephew either. For one thing the other folks  were not all that welcoming. Then there was the camp facility. I don't recollect the privacy wall presided over by Frank Zappa on the krappa above. All I remember is a toilet mounted on a platform in the middle of an open field. And the hepatitis shots we all had to get at the clinic after drinking from the stream nearby.
   But the worst part was the weather: Hanalei is the rainy side of Kauai, and we were living under an Indian print bedspread. Damp. And chilly since we didn't wear any clothing except maybe a shell lei or, for formal occasions, a loincloth. Bummer! So after a couple days we would pour water into the radiator of the Midnight Rambler (bought for $25), light some incense in the ashtray and head back to Waimea Side, home and dry, where the rangers were waiting.
   You can see possibly more accurate reports—yes, we were all on drugs—in a new book about Taylor Camp. There is also a documentary. John-John, Krishna, Marty—where are you now? The other Vassar girl I can locate.