Close to home: Toronto's infamous Tent City was the very public face of mass homelessness in Canada. Gordon Laird reports on the final days of the squatters' camp and the housing crisis our institutions have failed to curb.

A RED CAMARO TEARS ALONG THE POTHOLED MAIN street of Tent City, leaving clouds of dirt and screaming residents. It is 10 a.m. and the crack dealers have already done their business. They will return, rolling slow into drop-off spots, as will the Christian evangelists and nervous-looking johns in their nondescript cars. The dust settles and a shirtless resident pushes a load of fresh-cut firewood in an old shopping cart; nearby, three locals quarrel, probably stolen food or beer. A wild-eyed shirtless man starts throwing patio furniture and people scatter.

"Total anarchy," mutters Rainer Driemeyer, a longtime resident and community elder known as Dri. Piles of scrap lumber, broken appliances, discarded condoms and newspapers surround us as we survey the makeshift neighbourhood. There are surprisingly few tents left; most of the 100 semi-permanent residents have built their own shacks, some with multiple rooms, heat and purloined electricity. Dri recalls a time when outsiders didn't dump construction waste, when drug dealers didn't call, when wildflowers sprung up beside the first few homesteads.

"Before, it was magic, we'd pick up our own garbage and you'd see the nature everywhere" he says. "Now, after five years, we still don't have any security and the place is a mess. At least the bulldozers haven't arrived yet."

People have camped among the trees and ruins of Toronto's derelict waterfront for decades, but the sheer scale of Tent City set it apart. During the winter of 2000, this small camp on the contaminated land of an old iron foundry grew rapidly, right in sync with an unprecedented surge in homelessness across Canada.

It drew all kinds of people and all kinds of attention. As college graduates and working mothers found themselves camping on Toronto's waterfront, Tent City became a political football, even sparking the ire of The New York Times. Something so visible, unorthodox and utterly lacking political clout was bound to draw fire.

It probably never had a chance. In its final year, Tent City struggled amid an onslaught of media coverage, an influx of newcomers, the ravages of addiction, and the looming possibility (some said inevitability) of eviction.

All the while, residents lived their lives: some worked, idled, or made art; some sold drugs or sold themselves; several were found dead in their shelters; some found love, got married, and, in at least one instance, had a baby; some disappeared, or left, never to return. Most agreed that, for all its problems, Tent City was still better than overcrowded homeless shelters, welfare bureaucracy, and a reported 12-year wait for social housing. And there were some, whose spirits were bold enough, who simply didn't want to live anywhere else.

In other words, Tent City was a place that was all about freedom, dignity and abundant supplies of $5 crack. And if you spent 72 hours there, as I did a few months before its demise, it could change almost everything you know about poverty and homelessness.

THERE ARE MANY UNWRITTEN RULES THAT GOVERN TENT City. One learns not to walk too close to certain shacks, for example, lest the owner charge after you for trampling over his non-existent front lawn. Always wait for an invitation to enter someone's shelter; lamp oil, batteries and firewood are welcome gifts. And never, absolutely never, take photos without permission.

Privacy is a commodity here; residents will chase you off with a baseball bat, nosy journalists included, if certain manners and mores aren't adhered to. "What you have to understand is that there is no security of tenure," explains…