Mark offered me a slice of chicken pizza. The crusts looked delicious. “I'm veggie” I replied. Jay sitting by his side, pointed “Mark is too”. Ha ha. Mark looks up, mouth wrapped round a chunk of meaty flesh. “I was” he replied. 'Was'. The operative word in Khao Lak. A small coastal resort, north of Phuket, Thailand. The province witnessed the highest number of deaths and destruction during the 2004 Tsunami. Two years on and it remains not only a daily challenge in terms of reconstruction and rehabilitation but remains firmly ingrained in peoples lives, dictating their actions, words and occasionally, eating habits. I arrived in Khoa Lak at the end of October. Before the start of the 2006 'high season'. As the local bus shuttled along the wide concrete road, I looked for signs of the devastation I had only seen on the televisions screens. New houses flashed by. Row upon row of small concrete blocks with white washed walls. A counseling center, half a house. The odd patch of rubble. A police boat. I looked for the ocean. We were still two kilometers away.
My first dusk run was eerily peaceful. A beautiful golden beach. Empty. I ran along. I passed a naked child playing in the sand. I felt a sinking darkness juxtaposed against the rising serenity of the sun. Five weeks later running is easier. It is scattered with tourists who help me forget the secrets of the sand. I watch as the waves gently roll up the beach. I lightly jump over rivulets and occasionally my trainers are splashed with surf. Within seconds the tide retracts taking with it the days foot prints and leaving smooth glistening grains of golden sand. Tiny crabs the size of my big toe nail escort the water back to the sea, before lunging onto the surface, surfing and then sinking down. I ponder if they are unable to resist the pull of its surge of whether they are using the momentum for an easy ride.
In some of the kodak shops in the area photographs of the Tsunami are pasted to the windows. Crinkling in the sun, they draw you in with tunnel vision, as you try not to catch the eye of a passer by, for fear that your focus may unwittingly remind them of what they try to forget. A beach covered in rubbish. A closer look, and dark swollen limbs protrude. Hanging in trees, caught under rubble. Then there are the action shots. The photographs you wonder if the photographer survived. Waves towering above, faces frozen in horror.
Last week I was diving on a liveaboard. The guests wanted to watch some live footage, taken by the companies videographer accompanying a day trip on 26 December 2004. The film began in silence. No funky leg trapping tunes which usually introduce a diving dvd, but broad smiles all the same. Customers ready for a day under the ocean – the beautiful serene and picturesque Similan National Marine Park. Eight islands covered in white coral sand which facilitate the most divine fish filled reefs. But on the morning of the Tsunami, the divers never entered the water. Instead the footage flicks to a shot of the water. The crystal clarity of the Andaman sea has disappeared, replaced by a swilling murkiness. The ocean retracts pulling away from the shore. Divers on other boats report similar experiences. A 'weirdness'. Apprehension as they traveled back. What would they find beyond dark water? Missing friends. Missing girlfriends. Missing homes, shops, cars, bikes, jobs. People wandering around. Searching. Lost. And this is when Ric started eating meat. 'The Tsunami made me' he confides between chews, “people who already had nothing flooded to Khoa Lak to help. And when people who have nothing start cooking you meals with meat in you can't hand it back.” A friend from Phuket was one of these people; ... described how prior to the Tsunami Khao Lak was an inconsequential place. A provincial beach resort. The Tsunami changed that, and put the town firmly on the national map and as the tourists were escorted to Phuket airport, residents from Phukhet were given a police escort to come help. Then they came by themselves. Handing out money, food and clothes, not only to their fellow countrymen, but also to 'farang' such as Mark.
As tourists left aid workers arrived, and when the aid workers left, volunteers continued to flood in. Two years later the Tsunami Volunteer Centre is still in full swing. I wonder if there was the same response in Indonesia. For the volunteers who arrive two years later it really is 'luxury' relief work. A real community of young and old. Social events, fun and games, restaurants and bars. At times it seems almost odd, inappropriate even, that volunteering should be so enjoyable. “Oh its addictive. Especially the young ones, they find it hard to leave” says Sheila, the program manager. Shelia is in her forties, and has been here herself for nearly two years. She's busy arranging the Christmas party at the moment. Asking friends and families to donate festive treats. She is already receiving box upon box of filled with party crackers and streamers. Many of the volunteers were backpackers in their previous lives – not so many weeks ago.
Cape Pakarang Boat Yard features a signpost covered in hand painted town and country names, Belfast, Sydney, Belgium, Scotland, New Zealand. The boat yard is situated on a peninsula, surrounded by the ocean in three directions. It stands in a peaceful serenity, which is so sublime it is addictive. Voluntary positions at the yard are in high demand, and reaffirm that such work is rarely entirely altruistic. The project is an example of pro-active aid; helping survivors help themselves. Prior to the Tsunami, fishing was the main industry of the area. After the tsunami boats, nets and even fish disappeared. Unemployment soared. The boat yard employs boat builders to work along side fishermen and volunteers. I watch as Eraz, a South African, carefully paints a memorandum to an Irish charity. Many boats were funded from international donors and as such have been dedicated to those whose lives were taken by the sea.
But the work is good work. The usual doubts of taking jobs from the jobless is impossible to answer. But who would employ people to make furniture to give to families for free? To paint children's classrooms with waves and fish? Teach the jobless English to facilitate a occupation transfer? To mix cement and lay foundations in order to build a village in one year rather than two? They also act as a reminder that work still needs to be down. Time may have passed but houses still need to be replaced. Jobs still need to be found. The long term consequence of the huge influx of emergency relief need to be minimised and to be done so in a way which is sensitive to the local community, and not demanded by the donors is a typical development challenge. They pride themselves on being 'community led'. They are at least aware if not actively engaged in controlling the impact of the massive numbers of farang volunteers entering local communities; 'hot and sweaty builders' is the print of the 'swamp team' who work on the construction site. Building homes alongside who have fallen through the safety net. The forgotten. Blonde girls in fisherman's trousers covered in dust and oil stand alongside Thai women, covered with shawls and hats, working the 'morning shift' while their husbands are fishing.
A wild peninsula. Surrounded by the sea. An incredulous beauty.
