The buried village

A "Dateline" film crew gets in the way as I make my way to a former surfing hot spot, where families line up for hygiene kits, and a hotel owner, who reminds me of Lenny Bruce, reclaims fishing boats.

By Jeff Greenwald

Jan 12, 2005 | Jan. 11, 2005. Aboard the Black Hawk helicopter, his ears plugged against the roar of the rotors, a U.S. Marine in a flak jacket pencils me a note:

"Destination = 1 Hour"

That's how long it will take us to reach the shores of Arugam Bay. It would be nine tortuous hours by car from Colombo, driving along the twisting southeast road that crosses the mountains and jungles of the island's interior.

Yesterday, along with my work as a communications director for the relief organization Mercy Corps, I imagined I would write about the tsunami supply depot at Sri Lanka's international airport. The process of getting the Black Hawk and the supplies we requested, and getting myself onboard, was a labyrinth that would have maddened Theseus. Two full weeks after the tsunami, the scene at the supply depot is still a scene out of "Catch-22." Trying to get tents, hygiene kits, foam mattresses, plastic sheeting or even bottles of water to the people who need them is something approaching comic opera.

But that's behind us, now. The Black Hawk lifted off at 1 o'clock this afternoon. We were supposed to bring 10 boxes of tarpaulins to Arugam Bay on Sri Lanka's southern coast, but we ended up taking half as many after an NBC "Dateline" crew wrangled its way onboard. Now we sit together in the cramped cargo bay, squeezed between the boxes of supplies.

Sri Lanka is still a beautiful country and the area between the coastlines was untouched by the disaster. We fly over gorgeous green hills, lakes and rivers, as the shadows of clouds move across white Buddhist temples and palm groves. Then the mountains flatten and the hills undulate toward the coastal area -- which appears, from above, like a stagnant and littered swamp.

Prior to the tsunami, Arugam Bay was considered one of the 10 best surf spots in the world; the British held their surfing championships here in 2003. Aside from a thriving tourism industry, the community included thousands of fishermen and their families. But the three waves of December's tsunami struck this region with apocalyptic force, killing an estimated 3,000 people, flattening the fishing villages, and turning the strand of beachside hotels and restaurants into a scene of Hiroshima-like ruin.

Five boxes of plastic sheeting seems a pathetic offering, but a team from Mercy Corps and the Sewalanka Foundation, one of the country's most important community development organizations, is waiting in the rain with flatbeds. Quick as a wink, the Black Hawk touches down and the supplies are unloaded. The "Dateline" crew gets a few manic shots -- barely leaving the chopper -- and the helicopter is off again. We watch it bank east, wondering when, or if, we will see it again.

Jim Jarvie, a high-spirited and compassionate Brit with a shaved head and King Tut goatee, is Mercy Corp's man in this area. His fields are forestry and conservation; he was living in Colombo, writing "The Natural Guide to Sri Lanka," when the tsunami struck. Somehow, he's ended up choreographing the complex dance between Mercy Corps and the regional NGOs, a task he handles with impressive élan.

We ride on the back of the tractor to a cement warehouse, where Jarvie introduces me to Harshanan, the energetic young team leader for Sewalanka. The boxes are unloaded and stacked with other supplies -- mainly "family hygiene kits," which, ironically, were delivered yesterday morning, entirely by accident. (The agency that delivered them had the audacity to call Jim and ask that they be reloaded on a helicopter and sent back; Jarvie recalls the moment with hilarity.)

The kits are fairly basic, containing shampoo, soap, toothbrushes and toothpaste, shaving razors and sanitary napkins. We carry 270 kits in all. For half an hour, the tractor churns along a mud-holed track, passing shallow lakes created by the tsunami. Pied kingfishers perch on tree branches; goats poke through trash; a mongoose skitters into a brush. A lone computer monitor sits on a patch of grass, as if someone has set up an office in the wilderness.

After the supplies are stored, Jarvie takes me on a tour of the beach. The devastation is complete. Everyone we see has lost loved ones and friends, and even now, two weeks later, they stand in the rubble of their homes and businesses as if trying to decide which way to turn.

"Some 1,500 families lived here," Jarvie says. "Everyone was affected. There are about 3,000 dead. Surprisingly few injuries, though. One of my friends here put it this way: 'If you were caught, you drowned.'

"The problem now is psychological," he continues. "Just today, people are starting to talk; and they're starting to cry. Their stoicism is collapsing. A lot of them lost everything. One woman tried to hang herself yesterday; two men have gone mad. We're at the point now where the shock is wearing off. These people are just realizing what hit them."

As we walk, numerous people approach Jarvie. They speak quietly, sometimes showing pictures of lost friends or family, sometimes asking for money. Jarvie treats each of them with extraordinary respect, explaining that while Mercy Corps cannot help individuals, everything is being done to help supply essentials and rebuild the community. "Bear with us," he says. "Arugam will come back." He never fails to ask how the victim's family has fared, listening intently before expressing his sympathy.

"There's nothing I can do for these people on a one-to-one basis," Jarvie explains, "except listen to them. And many of them, I've learned, need very much to be heard."

Next Page: "We received an entire shipment of miniskirts," he moans, "and ties. Ties!"

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