In Kingston, there is a jungle society of unfortunates living in tents under the cover of trees and bushes. Ironically bordered by numerous social agencies and social housing, tents and structures of all kinds are in these bush areas.

Walking along the street, I decided to explore an area I had never been to. As I walked upon what was apparently a former building foundation, I noticed a makeshift set of steps leading down to a path into the bush. I followed the path and came across a mini-tent city, albeit not a clean one. There were four tent structures set up, with a few demolished structures as well. Garbage bags of clothes and scattered personal belongings were everywhere. No one was home.

Hoping to meet the occupants, I returned two days later and was standing in the middle of the site at 6 a.m. I had brought coffees with me, and the idea I would meet the residents during what I assumed might be their off-peak lifestyle hours.

Not knowing if anyone was in the tents, I sat and waited. After about 20 minutes, I heard thrashing in the woods and, in time, a young man appeared. I raised my hand, palm up, and said hello. He came over, shook my hand, told me his name was Chris, and asked, “What are you doing here?”

I explained that the tents I had stumbled across intrigued me, I was thinking about writing a story, and would he answer some questions? He went over to one of the tents and spoke to someone inside. A middle-aged man came out, accepted a coffee, and asked, “How’d you know we were down here?”

He said his name was Steve (I didn’t ask for last names, nor were they offered) and we chatted about the location. There was a tent missing from my previous visit, and he agreed when I stated it must be a transient place, although he had been there “a few months.” When I asked about one of the other tents, he said, “That guy’s gone to jail. Breach (of probation), I guess. He was here before I got here.”

Steve asked someone in the tent if they want a coffee, and a female voice, Steve’s girlfriend, replied no. I asked Steve what he does in the winter, and he told me he’s stayed at friends’ houses, but he and his girlfriend were “gonna get an apartment.”

He explained he had an apartment with his old girlfriend, “but we broke up, and that’s how I ended up here.”

Chris, who had been fumbling with a camp stove while I was talking to Steve, suddenly said, “Feels weird, really awkward,” and, “Actually, we got things to do, actually, if you don’t mind coming back some other time.”

Chris went on to say that he does drugs, the drugs make his mind race three times faster than normal, and he’s “not comfortable.” We agree to meet the next day at 1 p.m. I was not surprised when they didn’t show.

Over a period of three days, I travelled on foot throughout the wooded areas for more than 10 hours. I came upon other active makeshift camps, many other abandoned camps, countless bed-down campfire areas, and an enormous amount of garbage and refuse that made me wonder, “How did this stuff get here?”

Each location, I would guess, was never more than a five-minute walk from a city street. I met Reed in the maze of trails; he said he would ask people he knew if they would talk to me. I met Renee, who said she’d do the same. I inadvertently met Reed’s girlfriend when I came upon a tent the next day and called out to the occupants inside. “What do you want?” the female voice asked. I explained, and she said no, her boyfriend had told her about me and he wasn’t there and she wasn’t interested.

I met Scott, who was chipping at the ground with a hammer when I came across him. He was also watching the belongings of a girl. “She better come back soon, ’cause I gotta leave,” he said. Scott said he didn’t know her name. The woman eventually appeared; the woman was Renee, whom I had met the day before.

Renee spoke freely about her lifestyle. Her only caveat was that I ask only about her – “If I say anything about anybody else, I could be in trouble.” Renee went on to explain the “code of ethics” in their society. Regarding my questions to others, Renee said, “Keep it to them or they become paranoid, standoffish, and put up a wall.”

“Everybody knows everybody” she said. “They might not act like it, though.”

Renee told me the lows of her life story: Living on the street at a young age, drug addiction, mental health issues, institutions, and prostitution. Renee, who is both homeless and tentless today (a friend stole her tent), explained that she cannot afford to rent a place.

“You have to have another person with you to be able to afford it. You can’t afford it on your own, you have to share it with someone, and then you have to rely on them to be responsible to pay the rent.”

Renee said she believes there’s a dynamic of inherited dependence in Kingston: “Kingston is not like other cities,” she said. “Kingston is a place where it’s all generational. People grow up on assistance, and it’s expected.”

Although that not the case with her upbringing, she said, “it’s almost like they grow up on it and it’s normal, it’s natural, and that’s what they learn and that’s what they do.”

When asked about the nearby social housing complex and the city’s ongoing discussion of building more, Renee had a strong opinion: “That place is such a plague. They need to fix the first place first and come up with solutions instead of making a second place and having the same kind of problems.

“You put all these kinda people together, you’re gonna have problems, lots of problems, if you don’t teach life-skills and even have their own peer support so they can talk to each other and solve problems. They don’t have anything like that. It houses people and that’s about it. It doesn’t do anything else for them.”

On homeless shelters and “meal places,” as she called them, Renee said: “You can feel the tension …. you get that many people, that many problems, in one room and you can feel it. You gotta be on guard; you don’t want to be around places like that. That’s why it’s better to be outside.”

When I remarked that these are tough stories, Renee replied, “People are on the street all over the city. It’s all around; every story is almost similar but different. Different places, different people.”

After I returned home from each trek, I felt a profound appreciation that I have a bed, a roof over my head, food in the refrigerator, and a family. There but for the grace of God go I.

Edward O’Brien is a member of the Whig-Standard’s Community Editorial Board.