A shantytown in the desert

In a sprawling shantytown between the Salton Sea and a toxic dump site, children play barefoot on dirt roads, running beside leaking sewer lines and piles of rotting garbage thick with flies.

Beneath their feet is broken glass; nearby, rusting machinery and wire. When the wind kicks up, they breathe dust and ash from an adjacent dump that contains elevated levels of cancer-causing dioxins.

Their families are mostly farm workers who live in hundreds of hot and dilapidated trailers. When the water pressure dropped recently, some residents collected the few drips they could from their faucets. A year ago, their big problem was electrical fires caused by faulty wiring.

They call it "Duroville," a haphazard village of roughly 4,000 people and dozens of unregulated businesses that has sprouted from the Californian desert scrub in just two years. It was named for its founder, Harvey Duro, a husky member of the Torres-Martinez Band of Cahuilla Indians, who said he just may double the size of the place.

Whether anybody can stop him remains to be seen. Duroville sits on sovereign Indian land, beyond the reach of state and local laws. So, although one county official says it is the worst and largest substandard housing development of its kind in the region, there's nothing she can do about it. Federal authorities are trying to close down the makeshift town on grounds that it is a dangerous slum.

The Bureau of Indian Affairs in March ordered Duro to dismantle the entire operation. The U.S. Environmental Protection Agency last month banned the burning of trash at the adjacent dump after discovering high levels of dioxins in the soil. Recently, the agency was investigating reports that a sewage lagoon on the property has sprung a leak near the path children take to their school bus. Although federal officials are trying to crack down, the dispute certainly will be litigated in court. A resolution could take years.

Duro defends his enterprise as "an expression of my sovereign right, and I'm using it to make a better living." The community started to take shape in early 2001 shortly after Riverside County began enforcing health and safety codes at 500 trailer parks scattered across the Coachella Valley.

In a region where regulated low-income housing is hard to find, the crackdown forced some of the state's poorest residents to seek shelter anywhere they could: in shacks, back yards, even chicken coops, county officials said.

Taking advantage of the opportunity, Duro and associates dreamed up the idea of allowing people to haul their substandard trailers onto 40 acres of allotted Indian land off California 195 near the community of Thermal.

Initially, Duro envisioned a few dozen farm workers living in fixer-uppers on rented spaces along tree-lined lanes. Almost overnight, however, hundreds of displaced Hispanic migrant workers leaped at the chance to drag their condemned trailers onto the property, which grew with astonishing speed and creative abandon. "Harvey was shrewd enough to build a park that attracts people who are desperate and think they have no other place to go," said John Mealey, executive director of the Coachella Valley Housing Coalition.

"I've never seen any trailer park so large, or so risky," said Leah Rodriguez of the county economic development agency. "But there's nothing I can do."

Since the landfill is located on Indian territory, it is beyond the jurisdiction of cities, the county, even the state. Because it is virtually free of government regulation, costs are low, particularly helpful for business owners. Duro conceded that the growth of his trailer park has raced ahead of his ability to provide its tenants with reliable basic services.

Business is thriving on the land. Five used-car dealers operate on the property, where they say lot rental rates are one-tenth of what they are in nearby towns.

Residents stream in and out of the dusty enclave, which is surrounded by wooden walls, along roads marked by signposts designed by Duro and named for his family members: Mary Lou Avenue, Lilian Street, David Street and Wiley Street. Duro's own trailer, which is among the few without dented sides, is parked on Harvey Street.

The Torres-Martinez tribal council, of which Duro is a member, is divided on whether the trailer park should stay or go. Among his supporters is his brother-in-law, tribal chairman Raymond Torres.

For tribal administrator Mary Belardo, it is all a dismal reminder of a similar controversy that erupted a decade ago when sludge companies created a smelly nuisance on the reservation by allowing the buildup of 500,000 tons of dried, processed sewage on a 160-acre parcel of land.

Duro is preparing for expansion. Later this year he plans to pave the streets and add light poles. Eventually he hopes to build a sewer system shaded by palm trees that also will serve as "a bird sanctuary."