The stench was appalling. Damp, filth, death and decay filled the air. People were talking and inspecting what had happened, most of them with bits of cloth over their mouths as if that would fend off infection or the permeating stench. Police officers and soldiers wandered around looking officious but serving no actual purpose. Some women were crying and wailing. Some men were filming. People were searching aimlessly for those that they had lost.
I asked a policeman: ‘Where have the dead been taken? This little boy cannot find his parents.’
‘Many places. Many, many places,’ he replied, wafting his hand at me.
‘Is there anything that you can think of that I can do to help this boy find his parents please?’
‘There is nothing. He must go back home and wait to see if they are there.’
‘What about the injured? Where are they?’ I asked.
‘They, too, have been taken to many different places. You must take him home.’ With that he walked off to reprimand some people who were searching through the debris, ignoring my shout of ‘which hospitals?’
‘Sunil,’ I said, seeing that he was crumpling again, ‘there is nothing more to do here. I’d better get you home.’ I wasn’t going to ditch him among that scene of carnage and, anyhow, I had no plans of my own and nowhere to go.
‘Is there anyone else at home, if I take you there?’
‘My uncle lives in Unawatuna. He and my father have a hotel there.’
By this stage I was completely tired out. I sat, watching the scene, while Sunil hunted around for a taxi and then, once he had found one, we made a crazy journey in land and then down to the coast at Unawatuna. It was late afternoon on 27 December when we got there. That was my introduction to the place that became my home for most of the three years that followed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Like the rest of the coastal villages, Unawatuna had been devastated by the tsunami. From the accounts that I heard later the water came in two surges all along the coast of Sri Lanka, in the way that I had seen at Peraliya. People, like Raja, who saw what happened at Unawatuna say that the first wave caused little damage and was more like a flood; the water rose steadily and slowly, reaching at least as far as the road behind the beach, causing some of the waiting tuk-tuks to start to float. It also alerted them to what was coming next.
Then the water receded, exposing the sand and reefs of the bay to a distance, it was said, of about 1,500 feet to a point where there are rocks at its entrance. Then, when they saw the water approaching for the second time, those who could ran for the hills behind the beach or tried to escape into the bigger hotels. However, many of them got caught up in it, because it was all too quick
Raja had been working in his beach hotel at the time; it had been a collection of beach huts, or cabanas, rather than a single hotel but it had been built up by him and his brother over the previous 18 months and it represented his way of life. It was on the eastern edge of the bay, away from the more popular and commercial end of the town and so he had struggled to survive on the meagre income that the business provided, despite the beauty of the place. Now, even that had been taken away. Because his hotel was right next to the beach, it had no protection when the water hit and so it bore the full brunt of its force.
He described how, when he first saw the water approaching at about 9.15 a.m., he had rushed to warn the guests to move towards the higher land across the road. All of his guests managed to escape, some soaked by the first wave but all of them being able to make it to safety in the lull before the second wave struck. Only when his guests were safe did Raja run to a more substantial building, a modern concrete hotel with two storeys on the other side of the road from the beach. He described how he clambered up the balconies onto the second floor, helped by the Dutch occupants of a room there. That building, unlike all of his so dearly achieved hotel, survived the flow of water, as did Raja. His wife, Saira and seven-year-old daughter, Tamana had not survived. They had not been with him at the time, as he had sent them to buy some fruit. He described his last sight of them as he hurried about his hotel duties in the restaurant - they were walking along the beach towards the market and he yelled after them to be quick, as some guests wanted some fruit for breakfast.
So, by the time we arrived, Raja was in a state of despair having identified his wife’s lifeless body earlier that day. He had found her in a place where the water had receded on the hill at the other side of the road. The body of his daughter, Tamana, was never found. Saira’s body had already been buried by the time that we arrived, along with many others.
When we got there, Sunil’s anguish and bewilderment were written all over his face as well. I only learnt later that, like Raja, this was the second period of utter ruination that he had experienced; the first being when his family was ripped apart, and in relation to some family members, slaughtered in the civil war. It was that terrible period that had brought Raja to the Sinhalese and predominantly Buddhist south of the island. He is a Tamil and Hindu from the north east of the island, near Trincomalee. Saira was Sinhalese and came from a Buddhist family that lived in Colombo. A mixed marriage in a time of civil war. They had escaped from the north east of the island to avoid the wrath of the local community that had arisen from the efforts of Raja’s father, the local police chief, to maintain some form of law and order amidst the chaos and communal divisions of the civil war.
The taxi left us on the outskirts of the village, where the road became barely distinguishable in the mayhem. Mud, silt and debris were everywhere and, as we got closer to the coast, we saw that an increasing number of the buildings had collapsed. The road which runs along the coast was covered in mud and vehicles were trying to force a way along it, in a cacophony of noise and impatience.
Sunil and I walked, or in my instance hobbled, towards the beach in silence. There was simply nothing to say as we took in the dreadful scene around us. When we got to the beach, Sunil ran along the debris littered sand to the place where Raja was sifting through the rubbish that once represented his home and all that he had owned. His entire worldly wealth was now mixed up with similar rubbish from everywhere else as if thrown into a communal dump. I lingered behind, now exhausted and in a lot of pain, and sat on the low concrete wall on the edge of the beach. I just sat and watched.
A highly charged conversation in Tamil took place between Sunil and Raja during which, it was quite apparent, they both became increasingly despondent and distressed. I saw them both covering their faces with their hands and wiping tears from their eyes. Then I saw Sunil rush into his uncle’s arms and I watched as Raja crouched down so that he was the same height as Sunil and wiped Sunil’s face gently with his hand. Then the topic of conversation obviously turned to me as they both looked in my direction and Sunil stretched his arm towards me as he spoke to Raja. Raja stood up and put his arm around Sunil’s shoulder as they both walked over to talk to me.
‘No news’ Sunil said and shrugged his shoulders to signal his sense of hopelessness.
‘We have lost so much.’ That was the first thing that Raja said to me. And he was so right. I remember thinking how a westerner would have said, in more superlative terms, ‘we have lost everything.’ But Raja didn’t talk like that.
‘This is where my parents worked too. It was my home,’ Sunil said, waving his arm towards the scene of chaos around him. ‘It’s all gone.’ He started to cry again and then turned into the warmth of his uncle, resting his head against his uncle’s T-shirt. There was a long period of silence as Raja and I looked around at the destruction.
‘You have been injured,’ Raja then said, looking at my leg. ‘You should get medical attention. There is an Australian doctor here. I am sure he will look at your leg.’
By now blood could be seen oozing through the bandage in my leg with the previous sharp pain being replaced by a constant deep throb. Raja and Sunil took me to a nearby hotel, where some rooms had been made into a makeshift doctor’s surgery presided over by a
n Australian doctor who had been staying there as a guest when the tsunami struck. Tourists and Sri Lankans alike were caring for the wounded and so, once Raja and Sunil saw that I was settled, they excused themselves and went back to the hopeless search for Raja’s daughter and any remnants of their possessions.
There were many people in need of more urgent attention than me. There were loads of broken ribs, broken limbs and cuts - the full range of injuries.
After a long wait, of which I make no complaint, the doctor came to see me. He was incredibly thoughtful and kind. I yelped in agony though when he unwrapped the bandage which had become glued to the wound with congealed blood. ‘That’s getting infected. I’d better clean it up.’
I don’t know what he did but I do know that, once again, the pain was incredible. He had no anaesthetics or anything like that. The next thing that I can remember is that the wound had been bandaged again and I was lying on a bed in another hotel room retching and feeling utterly helpless. A German woman came to see if she could do anything for me; realising that I was seriously dehydrated she went to find a bottle and started giving me water, sip by sip. I told her that she was an angel from heaven, and she smiled and just said ‘quiet, quiet’ with the softness of a mother talking to a baby.
After a few hours Sunil and Raja came back to the hotel and were there when the doctor next came to see me. He took my temperature, looked at the leg and told me that he thought that the wound needed proper treatment. The buzz was that field hospitals were being set up in Galle and the doctor had been referring people there because there were very few medical supplies left in Unawatuna.
When Raja heard him recommend that I should go to Galle he offered to come with me. He knew that I would never find my way on my own and did not want to leave me to the care of a taxi driver. He explained that he and Sunil would then continue up the coast to Peraliya to see if there was any more news about Sunil’s parents.
By then it was dark and there was no way that we could make the journey that night. But next morning Raja, Sunil and I got into an old Humber taxi which was driven by a maniac taxi driver who took us inland and then down to Galle. The journey took nearly an hour, even though it is no more than about four miles, as we had to head east towards Matara and then go inland to avoid the congestion on the A2 road to Galle. By the time we arrived on the outskirts of Galle I was feeling dreadful and my leg was aching badly.
Galle had also been wrecked by the tsunami and finding a proper hospital was out of the question as the roads were all blocked and there were cars, lorries, tuk-tuks, people and animals everywhere. We drove around, horn blaring with the driver getting more and more frustrated and Raja giving him increasingly animated orders. Eventually, the driver was told about an area where a first aid station had been set up in a makeshift camp and we headed off there, the taxi again taking an age to get anywhere as it fought its way through the crowds.
Aid was already pouring in to Galle as it was elsewhere on the island. Amongst those providing aid were some Italian scientologists who had donated a large number of blue tents that were already being used as temporary field hospitals. By the time that we got to one I was feeling really ill, dehydrated and feverish.
Raja and the taxi driver supported me as we got out of the taxi and pushed our way through the crowd. They found a tree stump for me to sit on while Raja and Sunil went off to find help. I sat and shook. After about half an hour we were ushered into one of the tents and then I collapsed again. I have no memory at all of what happened next although I do know that I had to be pumped full of antibiotics to combat the infection that had begun to set in and also had to be rehydrated.
The next thing I really remember is being on a bed in the tent. I was actually lying on a clean sheet with another clean sheet over me. I wore clean clothes, which were certainly not mine. I had a drip that was attached to a cannula in the back of my hand. I was told later that I had undergone another operation during which the wound had to be re-opened, debrided again and then sown up. I was brim-full of antibiotics and felt like shit.
And that is where I met Josh. A day had passed since I had got to Galle. It was 29 December 2004. Wednesday 29 December 2004, a day that was a fulcrum of my life. The time was just after 3 p.m. I had been awake for about an hour since coming round. I must have looked like a cadaver; that is certainly how I felt. I was the patient and Josh was the nurse. I want to write about him now. It has taken me a long time to get to this point of the story.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
So, what is, or rather was, Josh like? By description? How do I paint his picture in words? Just over six feet tall, strongly built but slim – in Sweden he was a swimmer and cyclist. He had short, light brown and straight hair with definite and strong sideboards that were tinged with grey at the edges. The sun and sea here bleached his hair so that it was tinged with gold. His eyes, which were clear and dark brown, bore a sparkle and a flash of humour when he was animated or drunk but otherwise had a soft hint of melancholy about them. He was usually lightly bearded, or maybe heavily unshaved, although when I first met him he was clean shaven and exuded a sense of clean living which he certainly lost with me. He was fair skinned but in the Sri Lankan sun he developed an olive brown complexion.
Josh had an obvious disregard for clothing and adornment, for instance he never wore a watch, rings (save, later, for one) or any sort of glasses. When we first met, his hair was neatly cut but, as time went on, it became increasingly messy probably unassisted by the fact that we both learnt to cut each other’s hair, so I was responsible for the result. He preferred vegetarian food, was rarely without a bottle of water and kept himself fit. He dressed very casually and, as I came to know him, very rarely looked smart.
‘Scrubbed up’ for him, even in those early days, was a lightly checked short sleeved shirt with jeans or what I can only describe as walkers’ trousers with loads of pockets. As I write this now I picture him in that attire standing in front of me with his gentle and open posture, clean, clear and smiling softly as he looks towards me.
Was he particularly good looking? I think that he was. I think he was very good looking, even though I realise that I may not be the most objective judge of that. To me he was complete. I could not and did not want more. It may well be that neither of us would turn heads or win beauty parades, I really don’t know, but I think that we made a reasonable pair when we tidied ourselves up. More than anything else I could watch him for hours and never tire of doing so. I want to try to describe why.
First of all, it was his expression. When I first met him he looked as though he had a reservoir of things to say but was holding back, as proved to be the case. Everything about him had a hesitation to it. There would be that pause before he began to speak when he would look down, as I have already described. Then, when he did speak, he would choose his words deliberately and speak slowly and cautiously as if tinged with embarrassment. As time went on and he opened up, he still retained that hesitation and deliberate manner of speech but showed a softness, a gentleness and a kindness that left me overwhelmed and which came not just from what he said but from the look on his face and his bodily posture. He bore an expression of vulnerability and wanting to understand how I was feeling or what I was wanting to say. Whenever we spoke together he looked at me and his attention did not drift and that is how he behaved with other people. Everything seemed to go on hold. And I tried to be like him. I could never have behaved like that at the bar in England.
Also, he had a voice. A soft and gentle voice that had a lilt to it and only a slight hint of an accent when he spoke English. It was only when he was tired that he would reveal more clearly that English was not his first language as he tended drop his ‘r’s in words like ‘hundred’, lose hard consonants at the end of words (so, for instance, ‘doing’ would become ‘doin’) and elongate vowels (as in the correct pronunciation of his name, which would appear as Yosooa to the English mind). He had a musical voice and he really could sing, beau
tifully, just as Catherine could. When talking, he had a habit of lowering his voice and slowing his speech when dealing with something complex or demanding, not to any sort of whisper or feigned confidence, but to a level of quiet and stillness that made it impossible not to listen and often led to people asking him to repeat himself. He sang as a tenor and with an emotional understanding, maturity and openness that communicated in a way that only art or music can – in the same way that Catherine had when I listened to her singing in concerts. Josh once tried to teach me to sing some of Bizet’s ‘Pearl Fishers’ which left even the local dogs howling in protest and running off in disgust; singing is not my forte.
And he had movement. Josh had thought himself to be gay throughout his adult life and I was hardly the first person with whom he had a relationship. However, he was not in any way camp or obviously gay. There is a particular type of movement amongst people who are ostentatiously camp - I remember hearing a child in a supermarket queue in England asking his mother about a man who was in front of them in the queue: ‘Mummy, why does that man talk and walk funny?’ and knowing immediately what the child meant. Josh’s movement was not like that at all. It was the movement of his hands that was most striking, his beautiful hands.
The Water Is Warm Page 15
