In June 2005 I travelled to Sri Lanka to help with Tsunami Orphans. This is my diary from that trip.
Thursday, June 2nd
3:46 am. Somewhere over the South China Sea, at 37,000 feet, I chase the dawn. Far behind me L.A. sits down to lunch, and even further, Toronto prepares for dinner. I nuzzle comfortably into my seat and look out at the night sky. The moon lights up the clouds below, and Sri Lanka is still several hours away, as I let my thoughts drift.
It all started with an email. In February, two months after the Tsunami, a relative had driven through the hardest hit areas of Sri Lanka, and had mentioned to me that, in many places, assistance had not yet been received. I was shocked. Like the rest of the world, I had watched the post Christmas devastation with a macabre fascination, and had donated, and assumed the reconstruction was well on its way.
The Red Cross, Unicef, and World Vision, along with a slew of other NGO’s (Non government organizations) had quickly set up refugee camps, and were providing safe drinking water, food, shelter, and medical attention. But the majority of the funds had not being distributed.
In Sri Lanka, the larger NGO’s that held most of the worldwide donations had set up a plan on how the money should be spent, based on the level of devastation, but had run into Government opposition. A twenty two year religious war that had ravaged the country was in its second year of a shaky ceasefire. And while local and state governments, were eager to get their hands on the money, the powerful Buddhist majority, led by the priests, were as eager to ensure that the Hindu Tamils in the north did not get any or, get only limited assistance.
The well organized Buddhist’s were able to pressure the Government into postponing it’s acceptance of the foreign aid plan, while they structured and submitted one that favored their own interests, at the cost others. But the NGO’s held firm, and finally the Government had stated that it would sign legislation in June 2005 to follow the NGO’s plan, opposing the Buddhists.
But most of the orphanages, especially on the north and east coasts, still had no assistance. To add insult to injury, the larger NGO’s had an unwritten policy of staying away from orphanages in the belief that, if the orphanages were brought up to an international standard, a flood of parents would abandon their children in the hope the children would have a better life.
That’s when I decided I would go. I had no red tape, no administration, and no committees to satisfy. I would raise as much money as I could and go to as many orphanages as I could, and buy what they needed. I contacted a small privately run NGO that liaises with, and promotes orphanages in the Eastern district. They informed me that many small orphanages were already stretched to the limit and unable to cope. Although most orphanages receive rations and assistance from the government, equal to about 10 Rupees per day per child, the actual cost of feeding the children are about 18 Rupees per day per child. They gave me a long list of children’s homes, each with its own list of basic needs, including school books, uniforms, and shoes.
Saturday, June 4th
Colombo. The air is hot and thick with humidity, and the smell of diesel reminds me of my childhood here. I make my way through a city that is very third world. Pockets of lush, thick foliage, and houses with high walls and immaculate gardens mix with broken roads, open sewers, and shanties. Dogs forage through piles of garbage that lie on the street, and overcrowded buses belch thick clouds of black smoke, as beggars, touts, and women dressed in exotic saris crowd the broken sidewalks.
As I head for a store to buy a hat, a woman approaches me. She is carrying a little girl who appears to be about six years old. They are both dirty and malnourished, and even though the little girl’s face is covered in grime, her smile shines through.
The woman begs me for money for food. She tells me they are hungry, and points to man close by waking with another child – a girl of about 8 or 9, also malnourished, and mentally disabled. They all now surround me asking for me for money for food for the children. I point to a nearby café and tell them I will buy them food there. The man and the woman shake their heads and tell me they are not allowed in the café as they are low caste, and chased out when they enter.
I walk in with them and the manager attempts to shoo them off. As I step in front of him my emotions are boiling - these are children and they are hungry. Although I’m about a foot taller than he is, and have a very intimidating look on my face, reason takes hold. I know if I yell at him, he will take it out on them the next time.
I drop my shoulders and smile and ask him to show them some compassion. I assure him I will pay, and order them four meals -- take out as they won’t be allowed to sit the restaurant -- I include two chocolate bars for the kids, and give the mother 50 Rupees and ask her to spend it on the children. Thanking me they quickly disappear into the crowded streets.
At the store, I select a hat and make my way to the cashier, when I notice a whole shelf of dolls. Somewhere in the back of my mind there is a rule that every child should have toy, and I select two and walk out looking for the family, but they are nowhere to be seen. I circle the block in vain, but they are long gone.
Monday, June 6th
We make the arduous from Colombo to Batticaloa on the east coast, a distance of about 360 kms, which takes 11 hours. The roads are crowded and I sit on the edge of my seat, white knuckled, as we go from one close call to another, missing trucks, buses, bicycles, and pedestrians by mere inches.
Traffic thins through the centre of the island, and we drive by miles of thick, green, rice paddies, and lush hills. Near the east coast, the landscape is parched, and covered in tall grasses and low shrubs. The military checkpoints now increase and we are stopped several times.
By Polonnaruwa the heat is oppressive and we stop for a rest and a drink of Thambili --fresh coconut juice from the nut -- and a quick tour of the ruins dating back to 677 ACE.
Near the coast the checkpoints turn into forts. Huge armored bunkers that annex the road are fortified with earthen walls dug out of the landscape, and are protected in all directions by a series of barbed wire fences. In daylight we are allowed to pass through the forts -- on the original road, but after dark we must circumnavigate them on bumpy, temporary roads. We also begin to see many burned out buildings riddled with bullet holes.
We reach Batticaloa by 11:00 pm and I call Dinah Barton from the NGO, she agrees to meet us by the clock tower and guides up back to their Office/living quarters. Dinah is a 30 something Brit, whose gone native, and seems quite at home on her motorcycle as she weaves in and out of the traffic. Their Office/living quarters consist of a small three bedroom house in the impact zone of the Tsunami, just beyond the 200 meter limit from the shore. The bedrooms are bare of any furniture, except for two dubious looking beds, and the floors are covered in straw mats.
I am told most of the volunteers sleep on the floor; in keeping with the Hindu flavour of the organization. As an alternative Dinah suggests the roof, she tells me she sleeps there quite often, as it is cooler. I meet another volunteer -- David Taylor from Belfair, Washington. He has a construction background and is here for a month. We all sit on the floor and have a simple dinner of Roti (yummy, thin, flat bread) and vegetable curry, before I bed down for the night on one of the uncomfortably squeaky beds.
Tuesday June 7th
6:00 am. I am woken by the wailing call to prayer by a nearby Kovil (Hindu Temple). It is like a shrieking alarm clock without a snooze button. A small streak of light breaks the sky as I jog along the beach, which is like a war zone, and in this light -- surreal. The are no dwellings of any sort left within 200 meters of the beach. The only proof that a large community once thrived here remains in the many circular scattered, round concrete shells -- remnants of what was once a well. Neat piles of rubble have been made where once houses stood.
Nearer to the water the beach is strewn with parts of lost lives. An arm off a child’s doll, a prescription bottle, pieces of furniture. The wave was as tall as a three storey building, and hit with an impact velocity of 600 mph. Dave later tells me that the construction here uses far too much gravel in their concrete, making the cement very brittle and unsafe, adding to the devastation.
I come across a man sitting on a log looking out at the water, who acknowledges me with a painful smile. I do not ask.
As I jog, I listen to the ocean. It has no pattern, the swell and ebb is the only constant, some waves come crashing in, while others slip quietly to shore.
For breakfast the “Ammah” (Cook/House mother) serves us a lumpy potato soup, which I reluctantly try, and put aside claiming lack of hunger. We leave for two of the orphanages that Dinah liaises with, that are south of us in Kokkadichcholai. Although they are less than fifty kilometers away, the trip takes us over three hours. We head south through Kattankudi and leave the main highway where the road narrows to less than a single lane, and pass a few checkpoints and two Tsunami camps. They are easy to identify, large white, blue, or khaki tents, laid out in a grid format, with a large black 500 liter tank of drinking water in front, and the name of the NGO that administers the camp. These two are run by South Korean organizations. Dinah tells me the government policy with the Tsunami refugees is that they must live in the camps for two years before houses will be built for them.
By midday we reach the ferry docks, and are questioned again by the army and Special Forces. By now I’ve learned to recognize the difference. The regular army seems to be made up of mostly young men who carry their Chinese made AK 47’s with a little discomfort, while the Special Forces are made of more seasoned men who handle their M16’s with a disconcerting ease.
The ferry -- if I may call it that -- arrives to collect our van along with several cyclists, and a few passengers. It is no larger than a flat bed, powered by two 25hp outboards motors fitted onto a makeshift cabin, built into the side of the vessel.
After a precarious and thankfully short crossing we reach rebel held territory. I am surprised there is no check point here. The road is now narrower and broken, with a few spots barely large enough for our minivan to get by. On either side there is a drop of about six feet, down to a shallow marshy area.
By 1:00 pm we reach the first orphanage in Kokkadichcholai. It is a generous compound surrounded by a large, newly constructed, concrete wall. Inside there are two half constructed buildings, and a large concrete garden ornament off the entry. The Orphanage houses 40 + boys, some from the Tsunami, others from before. It has four toilets, only one of which is functional. The shower stalls are mostly broken, and the kitchen is a small room -- about 8 feet by 12 feet with a five foot ceiling. Their cooking for all 40 boys is done on a stove made up of three carefully placed bricks, and fired by wood.
Most of the boys are in school, but the few who remain behind follow us around, fascinated by our cameras. We look around and notice they all sleep, eat, and live in one large room. And while they have five or six new bikes and sleep on mattresses -- all donated -- they have no toys, or any place to keep their few personal items, which are carelessly lumped around the edges of the room.
The sanitary conditions are beyond deplorable, and the man who runs the place tells us the new half constructed buildings, the new concrete wall, and the garden ornament were built by different local organizations, who determined that these were more important than toilets. He also points out that the land is mostly sandy and unusable for any type of agriculture. He tells me the Government allowance per child per day is not enough, and they depend on donations from the community to survive. Because they are mostly Tamil, they are supported by the TRO (Tamil Rehabilitation Organization), who ensures that a Doctor visits monthly.
The manager guides us to a Kovil for a short visit. We are required to take of our shoes near the gate and must walk to the Kovil on the sand, a distance of about fifty feet. It is blistering hot, and after a few tip toes the heat gets to us and we run in -- to the delight of the children. I am suddenly reminded of another reason why they need school shoes.
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