Shortly thereafter, a Sri Lankan holiday shut down the village, so we decided to take the weekend off. Donny and Bruce came over for breakfast and we watched surfers shoot ten-foot curls. We played Frisbee and swam in the ocean. But no matter what, our conversations always turned to solving the village problems.
Our days were long and the responsibility of caring for more than 3,000 people grew heavy on our shoulders. Oscar was becoming more and more agitated by the lack of aid, and he expressed himself through his short temper. We had a visit from a gentle Australian doctor who volunteered to be his therapist. He was a wise and happy man who sat and listened to Oscar’s problems as he lay on the bed. The doctor recommended that Oscar take a day off, and they decided to go snorkeling out to the reef together.
The next day, they set off swimming toward a large cluster of rocks. But the rocks were farther away than they had looked. Three-quarters of the way into the adventure, Oscar and the therapist grew weary and contemplated turning back to shore. Instead, they decided to finish swimming out to the rocks and hitch a ride back to shore on a passing boat. When they finally made it, they slumped onto the rocks and looked around for a ride, but by then the last boat had left and the ocean was very rough. Trapped between the reef and large waves, they were forced to swim the long way back to shore. The doctor struggled and then started to fail, simply too exhausted to swim any farther. Exerting every last bit of energy, Oscar dragged the doctor through the water and safely back to the beach. They sat catching their breath for some time, and then the doctor went back to his guesthouse to sleep.
We didn’t see the doctor again for a few days, but when he did emerge he clearly wasn’t the same man. Gone were his permanent smile and upbeat personality. A darker, depressed fellow sat before us. He told us that the swim had depleted him of critical nutrients and medications that were keeping him stable. He had a medical condition, and the swim had nearly killed him.
Oscar laid the doctor down on his bed, sat next to him with a piece of paper and pen, and began asking the therapist the same questions that he had asked Oscar a few days earlier. I had to run to the bathroom to hide my irreverent laughter. The sight of Oscar being anyone’s therapist was hilarious. The next morning at breakfast Oscar declared that he knew things were bad when he ended up having his therapist as his patient.
So far, our volunteers had been excellent. They had dropped out of the sky from all over the world and we hadn’t had a single problem. That was, until a sevety-five-year-old evangelical Texan man I’ll call Jerry wandered into camp singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers.” Jerry had obsessive-compulsive disorder, which meant that he did quite an excellent job at cleaning the hospital, but when, late one rainy night, he broke into the Peraliya village storage shed and decided to make it his home, I knew we were in trouble. We had a rule that no volunteers stayed in the village at night; we all lived in Hikkaduwa. The next morning we arrived to find Jerry walking around in front of small schoolchildren in nothing but his underwear. His clothes were hanging in the sun to dry. It was clear that we were going to have to ask him to leave the village.
Oscar, Bruce, and Donny were supposed to have the chat with Jerry, but in the end they were all too chicken, so I had to break the news to him myself. I explained that he couldn’t live in the village. He responded that he would sleep across the road at the beach. I made many attempts to persuade him until I finally had to insist that he leave. He did leave, cursing my name under his breath. I had never had to do anything like that before, but I knew it had been the right thing when we heard rumors later on that he had “gotten into some trouble” with kids farther down the coast.
A team of New York Mount Sinai Medical Center students and their teachers suddenly showed up without warning, as most visitors were inclined to do. I was thrilled; I had no doubt that I could turn the hospital over to them and take a break. New Yorkers were among the most competent people I had ever met. Knowing that they’d immediately get to work, Oscar and I decided to go for a motocross bike ride for the day. We raced to the other side of Galle and began riding off the beaten track along all sorts of fun jungle trails. We found hidden Buddhist temples and spectacular views of the coast. We followed a very rough trail all the way down a steep mountain, where we discovered a tiny private beach that looked as though it had been spun from gold. It was an oasis away from the rubble. We took off our clothes and swam naked for hours in the beautiful blue sea. This, we decided, was our special hideaway paradise. Unfortunately, it was so secret that we were never able to find it again!
On my birthday, Oscar arranged for us to go to the Lighthouse Hotel near Galle for a night. The owners had given us a free room in appreciation of our hard work along the coast. Unlike our weekend at the hotel in Colombo, I didn’t feel guilty this time because I desperately needed to recharge. If I didn’t go, I might have had to return home to New York for a week. Also, unlike the Colombo hotel, this one wasn’t far from Peraliya, so I knew that I could rush back to the village in no time if a problem arose.
At dinner, I ordered a delicious steak, but when it arrived my olfactory senses cheated me, making me think of the smell of dead bodies, and I couldn’t eat it. But I had no trouble enjoying the room, which had a large four-poster bed filled with pillows. I swam into it and found Atlantis. I decided that there are times for IDP camps and there are times for an Upper East Side New York girl to enjoy a few five-star pleasures. Up until then in Sri Lanka, I hadn’t allowed myself to enjoy any of the finer things in life. That night, Oscar and I slept for hours and our worry lines melted into the thousand-thread-and-still-counting sheets. My cousin Christine had recently given me a new bottle of Chanel No. 5, which I sprayed on my freshly cleaned body. After that one-night stay in the hotel, I felt as though I had had a two-week vacation. I wouldn’t have to go back to the United States just yet.
CHAPTER 9
By May, life in Peraliya was beginning to feel like something out of Lord of the Flies. We had to watch our backs, as some villagers had nothing to do but cause trouble. Deep trauma set in and emotions ran high. Noisy drunks would tell us they had planted bombs under the hospital. In anger and jealousy, husbands were beating their wives and children. Aid was anorexic and fewer cars were stopping by the village. Many volunteers had left, so the remaining people had more jobs to cover.
Suicides also were on the rise. A sixteen-year-old boy threw himself under a passing train just outside the hospital. Miraculously, he survived with only a small hole in his side, which we treated at the hospital each day. During the tsunami, his heavyset father had been wheelchair-bound and his brothers had fought hard to save him as he bobbed up and down in the gigantic waves. They had been washed a few miles inland hanging on to his chair and had successfully rescued him.
When I went to the house to check in on the suicidal son, I found the boy’s father rotting away in their roofless house. He had horrific infections and abscesses in his groin. With those conditions, it was only a matter of time before he died. But every time we placed him in a Sri Lankan hospital for special care, we would find him at home again a few days later. The hospital would release him because they needed the bed.
Shouren and Carolyn, Scottish MDs who had just started working with our clinic, cared for him, but when they left Sri Lanka, the father was placed in a hospital with strict instructions for the nurses not to release him until one of us returned to resume his care. The hospital released him anyway while we were out of the country, and he died in poverty from the infections a week later. He was the only one who got away from us. I remember his sad brown eyes watching my every move.
With houses well under construction and more help in the hospital from the Scottish doctors, I found time to walk around Peraliya most days visiting families. I had hundreds of new friends, and as I toured around, children and families would invite me into their simple homes to share their laughter and curious customs.
I got to know a little man and his wife who would cook rice a
nd dahl for me while their giggling teenage girls played with my hair. One day, they called me inside to visit their eldest daughter, who had a special gift for me. They waited in excited anticipation as I opened the plain brown bag they had presented to me. Inside was an orange. It then dawned on me that there were no fruits or vegetables for sale anywhere nearby. The only fresh fruit that we had access to were the coconuts, papayas, and occasional mangosteens that we plucked straight from the trees. I hadn’t seen an orange since New York. The mother told me that her daughter had traveled four miles into town by bike to buy it for me at the Sunday market. It was indeed the most precious gift I had ever been given. I peeled the orange and shared it with the family.
Gaggles of children followed me everywhere, all trying to hug me as I walked. In extreme heat, they would walk beside me holding an umbrella over my head to shield me from the burning sun. They would quietly push one another aside and fight over who got to hold the umbrella. My hospital walls were filled with their drawings of the volunteers, which were generally quite accurate. But for some reason whenever they painted me, they drew me with black hair instead of blond. When I asked them why, they answered that it was because I was one of them.
We knew from the start that it was important, as volunteers, to do more than simply rebuild the infrastructure of the village ourselves. We also wanted to create jobs that would help sustain the locals’ lives long after we left.
Bruce managed to secure a grant from Shell Oil, and I collected lots of small donations from my parents and New York friends. This quickly came to an amount sufficient to get several businesses up and running in Sri Lanka. So we set about facilitating the creation of all sorts of small industries: a bakery, a sawmill, a brickmaking factory, a bike repair shop, several sewing shops with weaving spindles and sewing machines, a mask shop, a candy store, a roti shop, a fishing supply store, and a turtle hatchery.
Usually, the head of a family would approach me, saying that he or she needed to start working again to support his or her family. Instead of handing them money, we would sit down with them and discuss a long-term business plan. We would put some numbers on paper and write a little contract of what was expected of them moving forward. We would then call around to volunteers and friends back home, asking if anyone wanted to help. Once the money changed hands, that was that. Sometimes the villagers would surprise me by naming their shops after me. There was an Alison’s Enterprises and an Alison’s Bike Shop, which was sweet but completely embarrassing.
Sunday was my favorite day of the week because it was swimming day. We had started the tradition by taking the children to the beach in Peraliya, but as the months went by, we borrowed minivans to travel farther up the coast where the surf wasn’t as rough. There were around fifty children who attended the lessons regularly, most from the poorest families in the village. We were part of one big family now and some of the children’s parents came along to keep an eye on them … and on us. We foreigners were accepted but always watched over carefully.
At the beach, we would play games and give swimming lessons. Swimming days were like summer camp, with everyone laughing and jumping all over one another. Sri Lankans don’t usually swim, and learning how was a big treat for them. I noticed that some of the children were getting thinner, so after the lessons we would serve a simple lunch of vegetable fried rice. After lunch, we would sing for hours. My Sinhalese was improving, and I was able to communicate with the children. They loved teaching me new words. When my Sinhalese failed me, I would start counting and repeating the alphabet, which would unfailingly make the children burst into laughter. The other volunteers and I also taught the kids new English words and customs.
Oscar found joy in soccer, which was a way for him to release his aggression. In New York, he had led a physically active life, and whenever he would pass a field of people playing soccer he would join them. In Sri Lanka, he did the same thing. On the nights he came back from an intense soccer game, he was in a much better mood.
Over time, Oscar adopted the nearby Galle village soccer team and began coaching them. His team was talented, so he organized friendly matches with other teams, such as the visiting Canadian team and the Sri Lankan military team. Oscar found sponsors to buy his team jerseys and soccer shoes. Most of his teammates had never worn soccer shoes before, though, and halfway through the match they would kick them off and run without them. Through soccer, Oscar made many Sri Lankan friends and found great fulfillment.
On one of my rounds to the village next to ours, I came across a crippled little boy living in a shed who had a blind father and an autistic mother. The temperature inside must have been over 106 degrees. The little boy lay on a filthy makeshift bed. The infected fourth-degree burns covering his legs were wrapped in bloody bandages that stuck to his wounds. The sight of him broke my heart, and I raced back to Peraliya to find some toys and medicine to give him. I offered him a whistle to call his mother, two balloons, and a large green toy frog that spat water out of its mouth when squeezed. He responded as if all his Poya wishes had come true at once, and he gave me the most gleeful smile.
The boy’s injuries were not directly related to the tsunami. He had been playing cricket with his friends some weeks after the disaster. He was a few miles inland at the time, chasing a ball across a huge cricket field, when he fell into a deep, hidden pit of boiling black oil. Roadworkers were using the oil to tar the roads but had left the pot of burning hot oil unattended. The boy’s friends were far away on the other side of the cricket field when he disappeared from sight. He was in shock, but managed to pull himself out of hell and drag himself in the opposite direction to a nearby river to relieve his pain. There, the skin on his legs peeled right off, and he felt the fish eating away at his flesh. Next, he dragged his body over to the highway, where a bus picked him up and took him to a local hospital. He had been through a devastating experience and was now left to rot in his shed.
The mother asked me for money for food, so I handed them the only ten dollars I had left to my name, and apologized that it was such a small amount. When I inspected their food supply, I wondered where all the billions of donated aid dollars had gone. All they had was one plate of old rice with hundreds of flies hovering over it. I bit my lip and told them I would return with some more food. As I started to leave, the blind father got down on his knees and rapidly kissed my feet. I should have been used to this customary gesture of thanks, but it still embarrassed me intensely. I smiled and turned away from them, walking outside to find fresh air.
It had a ring to it: “The Hawaiians have arrived.” I was out body collecting when along the street came a flock of Hawaiians in light blue scrubs and friendly smiles. They were from New Hope church in Honolulu, and their leaders were named Pastor Wayne Cordeiro and Doug Kennedy.
Timing is everything. The Hawaiians had arrived at a time when we had nothing left to give. When a disaster strikes, there are often many first responders, but then everyone slowly goes away to work on the next disaster, so the second group of responders is essential. Pastor Wayne and the others had brought with them a donation from their church that helped save Peraliya.
I was sitting on the beach watching a perfect eight-foot barrel peel to the shore when it occurred to me that it was time to leave. I’m not sure how I knew, but I just did. The hospital was still quite busy but most of the initial tsunami infections had healed. We were mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, and it was time for us to go home to rest. I shared my thoughts with Oscar, Bruce, and Donny, and they agreed with me. We were all squeezed out. Oscar’s and my original return plane tickets both had expired many months before, so our friend Kym Anthony generously booked our flights home. We were set to leave in a few weeks.
Now that we were going, it was time to move the hospital out of the old school library. As it had been one of the only buildings left standing after the tsunami, it had served as the main rebuilding hub of the village. It also had attracted a great deal of aid to
Peraliya. But its time was over. Moving the hospital didn’t mean it had to close—we were still seeing over 150 new patients a day—we just needed a more appropriate building. I searched the village for a new and improved location. Meanwhile, Dr. Stein, a German doctor who had spent a few months working at our clinic and shared my vision for creating a permanent hospital in Peraliya, flew home to raise money. Dr. Stein ended up seeing our dreams through to reality. He found not only German investors but also a great Aussie architect named Justin who agreed to build the hospital.
Moving day was bittersweet and rainy, with lightning exploding outside the hospital windows. Everyone pitched in to help move the medical supplies from the library over to our new temporary medical center. I carefully took down the children’s tsunami drawings and saved them to rehang. They were historical documents just like the ones I had saved from September 11, and they, too, would have their place in history. It took a full day to move, but we felt satisfied when the work was done.
In the afternoon, Oscar and I shared a fun romantic dance in the middle of the freshly cleared old hospital building. Argentine tango had been a passion of mine ever since a beautiful Antonio Banderas look-alike taught me how to dance in an alley in Buenos Aires. At the end of our dance, Oscar plunged me backward until my hair almost touched the floor, and the villagers shrieked as if he were going to drop me. He then whipped me back up with a triple spin and a light kiss. It was a tender moment for us. We hadn’t had time in the past six months for romance, and it had sometimes left me wondering about my feelings for him. The dance reminded me of why I’d fallen in love with Oscar in the first place.
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