Today, a relief worker with abundant tattoos has decided to wear a flowery orange dress, the sleeveless cut showing off his meaty arms.
As he walks by, a middle-aged Methodist from Kentucky continues handing out teddy bears to hurricane victims without missing a beat. A retired Episcopal priest looks up from the crates of donated food and grins at the man's frock.
"Oh," the priest says. "That's just wonderful."
At the New Waveland Cafe, a combination soup kitchen, donation depot and medical clinic for survivors of Hurricane Katrina, volunteer groups of God-fearing churchgoers and free-spirit hippies have formed a bond - a result, they say, of working together toward the greater good.
"It's an unlikely alliance," says a 28-year-old volunteer from Santa Cruz, Calif., known simply as "Moonflower."
The relief center, formed shortly after Katrina flattened this small, coastal city, is run by volunteers from several churches and several people associated with the Rainbow Family, a "dis-organization" of self-described hippies who gather annually in a national forest to pray for world peace.
Community members have embraced the eclectic volunteers and come to depend on them not just for food, but much-needed comic relief.
"I had someone ask me, you know, 'Hancock County, Mississippi, it's really conservative ... How did you guys break in?' I said, 'It's conservative? I hadn't noticed,'" says Clovis Siemon, 25, of Viroqua, Wis., one of the first hippies to arrive in Waveland. "Everyone has a common mission and goal, so all the barriers ... go away."
How the operation came to be is a complex tale, says Pete Jones, a church volunteer. Shortly after Katrina demolished Waveland, some evacuees began arriving in Bastrop, Tex. Concerned local church members hopped in their pickup trucks and headed east with food, water and charcoal grills.
They landed in Waveland and set up a tent in a parking lot across the street from the gutted police station.
Locals heard the volunteers and began emerging from the surrounding woods, many naked after the hurricane literally ripped their clothes off.
The food supply quickly dwindled. Volunteers prayed for and received a welcome truckload of hot dogs.
Meanwhile, a few Rainbows had rolled into town, laden with organic goodies. The two groups bumped into each other and a joint operation was formed.
Tents for dining, cooking and daycare went up. A traditional medical tent, which offers standard health exams and vaccinations, sits next to an alternative medicine tent, which provides massages, herbal remedies and a plentiful supply of condoms in a Maxwell House coffee tin.
Each week, the volunteers receive organic vegetables, eggs and dairy products from Siemon's employer, Organic Valley. The rest of the (non-organic) food is donated by churches, individuals and international aid organizations.
At one point, the kitchen was serving 2,500 meals a day, Siemon says. Now, it serves around 1,000.
Entertaining the hurricane victims is as important as feeding them, the volunteers say. Music blares constantly and bands often play during mealtime. And then there's that unique hippie brand of humor.
"It's time to bleach the maggots!" one bearded man in a pink skirt bellows cheerfully as he sprays chemicals into a reeking garbage bin.
The hippies are not actually cross-dressers, but on "Freaky Friday" volunteers adorn themselves with the more bizarre items found amongst the donated clothing.
"We're trying to give these people, after they gut their house for 12 hours, something else to think about," Siemon says. "And no one throws a party like a hippie."
The volunteers have been a lifesaver for 55-year-old Bay St. Louis resident Varnum "Skipper" Sheldon, who barely survived Katrina.
"You can wake up in the morning and have a smile coming over here and it's so wonderful," he says. "How important is it to our survival? I would say it's one of the most important things."
Suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, Sheldon - a President Bush-loving Army veteran wearing a Country Music Television T-shirt and a bandanna around his neck - begins to cry. Levitikus Clark - a peace-loving hippie sporting an earring, tattoos and a goatee - grabs Sheldon in a tight embrace.
"I love you," Clark says.
"I love you, too," Sheldon replies.
Bob Marley is blaring over the dining tent's speakers as Waveland resident Donna Sides eats lunch with her husband and mother.
The hippies' unorthodox outfits don't really do it for her. But the food sure is good.
"Some stuff I don't like - like that man in the red dress," Sides says, chuckling. "(But) if you need stuff, they will help ya. That's what I like."
Both volunteer groups rave about each other. But don't the hippies' quirky behavior engender just the tiniest bit of judgment from the churchgoers?
"Oh, heavens no!" Jones says. "They are compassionate, caring, understanding, accepting people that just choose to live a slightly different lifestyle."
A tiny woman with neatly styled white hair shuffles over to a scruffy-looking volunteer with long dreadlocks. She looks him up and down and frowns behind her thick glasses.
"Do you shower?" she asks him.
He raises his eyebrows. An uncertain moment passes between them.
