Sri Lanka Journal- Andew and Annette Dey: 3/7/2005

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Links from Andrew and Annette:

Pro Photographer Dixie's web site

Mondo Challenge set up Andrew and Annette's trip.

Unawatuna is the village where they're staying and working

In the north, Andrew and Annette are working with Norwegian People's Aid. NPAID is partnered with the German organization called Arbeiter Samariter Bund.

Bensonwood.com

Andrew

On our walk from the Shangri-la guest house to the South Ceylon Restaurant, Annette and I pass the small storefront that we had stocked with goods two weeks previously. The shelves are empty. No sign of any goods or any sales. I am surprised, but only slightly disappointed; if there is one lesson that I have learned here, it’s that one cannot take small failures to heart.

During breakfast, we hear the latest news from Mr. Jinasena, the owner of the South Ceylon. He and other members of the Unawatuna Tourist Development Society (UTDS) have helped to arrange funding from the Japanese Embassy, through the UNDP, for a cash-for-work program to clean up the tsunami debris in Unawatuna. I am pleased to learn that such a program has finally been established here, and I hope that it does not fade like previous schemes to clean up Unawatuna. Jinasena tells us that the mayor of Champagne, France visited and committed to paying for the reconstruction of hundreds of houses in Unawatuna. We ask about transitional shelters, and are told that some are under construction in the quarry across the main road.

Outside the restaurant, a tractor rumbles by pulling a trailer bearing the slogan “Let’s keep Unawatuna clean.” Jinasena notes it with pleasure. “Contributions to the UTDS funded the tractor and trailer to help with the clean-up, and to be a part of the regular rubbish collection.”

As we are finishing our meal, Jinasena drops a copy of a newspaper article on our table. The page-long commentary on tsunami relief efforts is critical of all sides. The Sri Lankan government should be more decisive about the one hundred meter buffer zone and the locations of permanent housing. It should also end the practice of taxing the humanitarian aid flowing into the country. Sri Lankan entrepreneurs should be condemned for taking advantage of the crisis to import non-relief items tax-free. The international NGOs should not be wasting so much money on overhead, or paying their expatriate employees so much—or for that matter, taking jobs away from the many qualified locals. The Tamil Tigers should be chastised for manipulating the international response to gain political capital, and they should be prevented from acquiring military supplies disguised as aid. Broad targets are one commodity not in short supply here in post-tsunami Sri Lanka.

The article is sobering, and for the most part appears accurately to portray many important issues, although Annette and I do notice several points that are inconsistent with our own experience. The most obvious is the author’s questioning of the need for so much relief money to be allocated for demining, when everyone knows that there were no land mines in the tsunami-affected areas. We are reminded of the importance of maintaining a healthy skepticism about everything that we read and hear.

When Jinasena hears that we have spent the past five weeks working in the Vanni, he tells us that the Tigers have been importing helicopter parts and other military supplies under the guise of tsunami relief. I would have been surprised to learn that they were not trying to do so. Jinasena continues,

“Some people say that Prabhakaran [the leader of the LTTE] was killed in the tsunami. That a very expensive bunker was flooded and he was in it.”

“But he as made public appearances since then,” I counter.

“ That’s what we are told,” rejoins Jinasena, “but Prabhakaran is known to have at least two doubles, just like Saddam Hussein.”

Back at the Shangri-la guest house, Rajika offers us a second breakfast of string hoppers and curry. String hoppers are made from thin spaghetti that has been molded into patties the size of small pancakes. One uses them to sop and scoop up curries that are left over from the previous night’s dinner.

As we eat, Rajika catches us up on the local gossip.

“Monica the seamstress, she now have five sewing machines.” Monica had lost two children and her small house to the tsunami.

“Is she sewing now?” asks Annette, who has in mind the alteration of a skirt.

“No,” replies Rajika, “she not working.”

“Why not?”

“ She no need to work. Woman from Denmark send her money every month!”

Rajika mentions another seamstress whose manual sewing machine survived the tsunami, and who is being sent a new electric one from a woman in France. She suggests that if we could supply this seamstress with fabric, then she could begin making clothes for the tourists who are trickling back to Unawatuna.

Rajika continues with stories of tsunami victims being given multiple televisions by well-meaning foreigners, and families living in tents who have been given refrigerators.

“They no need refrigerator. They have no electricity. They have no house! Maybe they can live in refrigerator!”

We ask her about the empty storefront just down the road. It had been her idea for us to invest in restocking the store.

“They try to open store, but nobody buy anything. Not enough tourists for business. Just selling cigarettes to local people.” I hope that the family enjoyed the biscuits and the orange soda.

Late morning we head for the beach. We are surprised to see that “our” store is now open, with fully-stocked shelves. The eldest of the seven children, a boy of about twelve named Indika, is minding the store. He recognizes us and smiles—in fact, I suspect he saw us as we were walking to or from breakfast, and opened the store in our honor. We purchase postcards and a bottle of water.

The beach is bright and hot. We float lightly in the green water. My eyes sting from the salt. Annette spreads her sarong on the sand, and we lie down to dry. I note a woman in her early fifties swimming with an attractive local man thirty years her junior. The beach boys are apparently back in business.

“What do the beach boys actually do?” I had once innocently asked Veronique.

“Whatever you want them to,” she replied with a smile.

The half-dozen vendors selling their handicrafts on the beach nearly outnumber the tourists. We fend off two ancient women selling sarongs and shirts. A man missing all of his front teeth offers us king coconuts to drink, and Annette expresses interest. The beach is hot. I think we have negotiated a price of sixteen rupees, although he may claim that he said “sixty.” In the end it doesn’t matter because the man takes my hundred rupee note saying that he will get change, and he does not return. Although I have lost less than a dollar, the transaction puts me in a funk. I find myself thinking small-minded thoughts about lazy materialistic southern Sri Lankans, who are endlessly scamming for their personal benefit. Not like the industrious carpenters with whom we were working in the north; not like the noble fisherman.

Annette suggests that a nice lunch in the shade might cheer me up. We have both noticed that I am starting to sunburn. She leads me to the beach-side lounging area of the nearby Italian restaurant. We sit on mats on the packed sand, and lean against large pillows. I wish that we could just sit at a table like normal people. I have trouble eating while lounging. I doubt that Man was meant to eat while lounging. But I am trying to relax into being a tourist, and tourists apparently eat while lounging.

A clutch of gray-haired gay men joins us in the lounging area. One of them is accompanied by a pretty young local man. More small-minded thoughts. Where might I draw the line, I wonder philosophically, in the gray area between treating a new friend well during a weekend fling, and hiring a boy-toy? Annette tells me to chill out. Why don’t I try doing some writing, while she reads? I decline her suggestion, and do not add that I am afraid I have lost the ability to write with a pen, that I am enslaved to the laptop computer.

The food arrives, and it is good, and I do start to feel better. Annette picks up her book and releases me. I head back to the guest house to fire up the laptop, noting on the way that “our” store is once again closed for business.