It was a beautiful morning for a bike ride, perfectly sunny with billowy puffs of clouds in a perfect blue sky, not too warm with a nice breeze. After stopping off at the Hot Wells at Kinniya, we rode up through the brilliant green fields of elephant grass to the road going east into the jungle where Velgram Vihara, a 2500 year old temple ruin, is nestled. About a half a kilometer along the road we began to notice all kinds of vehicles, tractors, buses, 3-wheelers, motorcycles, automobiles, vans and trucks, filled with people, racing opposite us away from the Indian Ocean about 5 kilometers away. Several people frantically yelled at us, waving and pointing behind them, “Water! Water! Water!” I felt like I was in a Monty Python movie, thinking to myself, “Of course, you fools, the Indian Ocean is out there. When we saw the little chief monk of Velgram Vihara riding on the back of a motorcycle, clutching his Gandhi-like spectacles and holding on for dear life, we figured maybe we better turn back and find out what was happening. Since we were far out of cell phone network coverage we rode back to the nearest checkpoint, but the air force soldiers manning it didn’t have any information, nor did they speak much English. The road leading back to Trinco was filled with vehicles fleeing toward higher ground at Anuradhapura.
After several kilometers, I was able to exchange SMS messages with William, the Sri Lankan NP Project Director, who confirmed that a Tsunami had hit several areas of Sri Lanka. We rode our bikes back to the main road, but stopped at a junction leading into Trinco Town near a portion of Trinco Harbor where several bodies, apparently drowning victims were being removed. Grunun decided to move up to higher ground to a temple because there were rumors abounding that more waves would hit the coast. I, however, decided to ride to the French Garden because I was jonesing to get back to get meMacMojo, my G-4 Powerbook, castigating myself that I had left it in Room 4 along with my entire digital life of 2,000 pages of journals, scores of poetry, articles, essays, 1,500 pictures of various travels in Thailand, Vietnam, England, Sri Lanka, 43 of the 50 states, iTunes with over 900 songs, to include about $300 worth of songs downloaded from the online store, three years of email archives, etc. etc. etc. By the time I was riding north on North Coast Road to the French Garden turnoff, I could see the Indian Ocean off to the right through the palm trees. It looked quite normal, white-frothed waves gently coming ashore. There were people on the road, but I was unaware of any thing seeming out of the ordinary. I guess I was in massive denial, as I turned into the road leading to the French Garden, blithely thinking what all the big fuss was about when all of a sudden I was aware that none of the buildings were standing. In “shock and awe” here is what I saw:
This is the front of Room 4. Several hours earlier Grunun and I had breakfast in the right-hand corner of the porch behind the ledge. There was no sign of my computer backpack or any of the other belongings I had in the room. I walked back into the detritus of the destroyed buildings. Here is what it looked like facing the sea.
I spoke with Raj, the manager and son of the owner, finding out that miraculously none of the guests, staff or his family members had been killed, not even seriously injured. They were just swept away several hundred meters inland and dumped unceremoniously on the ground when the water receded. I was greatly relieved, since early that morning I had watched the 8 year old girl and 11 year old boy of a French couple playing out on the beach. Raj told me that he thought he had my computer bag somewhere, and went off to look for it. About that time, however, one of the SLMM trucks with Alf, a Naval Monitor, came into the compound and offered me a ride back to where members of the INGO community were gathering at the Welcombe Hotel. I told Raj I would come back later for the computer bag, and Alf and I left to try to find Grunun where I had left her up at the temple on higher ground. With minimum hassle we were easily able to find her and went to the hotel up on a bluff overlooking Trinco Harbor. Members of UNICEF, UNHCR, ICRC, and other international agencies were there, some traumatized and injured from surviving the killer waves. Lots of rumors and speculations abounded. Both landlines and cell phones were inoperable because of heavy use. Bits and pieces of information came to us about a massive earthquake in Sumatra, about extensive damage all through out Sri Lanka, about high numbers of casualties.
In the middle of the confusion my cell phone rang. It was the U.S. Embassy telling me to seek higher ground and to call my stepdaughter, Jennifer. I didn’t know whether to be grateful they found me, or concerned. I also got the disconcerting news from two UNICEF workers who had been in contact with the ICRC office in Mutur that the Nonviolent Peaceforce house/office had been destroyed. Geesh, all of my belongings were what I had with me, one pair of shorts, a t-shirt, my bag with wallet, money and credit cards, the cell phone and my new iPod I had bought several weeks earlier in Saigon, but no chargers. I had left them in my computer backpack. Nor did I have any of my books. I had left the Nelson Demille novel, Gold Coast, and Thomas Merton’s journal about his affair with a nurse in Louisville in Room 4, as well as my leather-bound journal with my passport and driver’s license in it. It was hard for me to believe that I was left with so little, and I queried the sanity of the Kosmos wherein in one “act of God” not only would I lose my computer, but also 30 kilometers away across Trincomalee Bay its backup. I had to be grateful, however, through act-as-if, gritted teeth that I had escaped with my life and no injury.
Later in the afternoon, I hitched a ride into the center of town with one of the UNICEF vehicles, and took a 3-wheeler out to the French Garden to see if I could retrieve my computer bag. It was about 5:00 pm when I got to the guesthouse. Raj told me it was not my bag that he thought was mine, that it belonged to another guest. Dejected I turned to walk back to the 3-wheeler to return to the Welcombe Hotel. I happened to look down and in a chair, open, waterlogged was my leather-bound journal. In amazement I picked it up and showed it to Raj, telling him it was mine. He told me it had been found in a mud puddle about 500 meters up the rode. In it were my passport and driver’s license. I was incredibly encouraged by this occurrence and very, very grateful. As bad as it was, I had experienced a bit of the truth that it always works out for the best, and I hadn’t experienced anything yet . . .
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