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One year on, Dave Lowe heads to the areas affected by
the Southeast Asia tsunami.
Checking in for my Air Asia flight to Phuket,
I noticed a group of men standing around in shabby grey matching
suits with identical red pins on their lapels. On closer inspection,
I saw that it was a smiling portrait of Kim Il Sung,
and the wearers were none other than the North Korean national
football team, off to play a round of friendlies. As they
stood there, blinking in the bright lights of Bangkok International
Airport, looking at the corn-rowed, tattooed and tanned
tourists with cell phones pressed to their ears, fiddling
with iPodss and fondling their partner's exposed flesh in
a most un-Stalinist way, the North Koreans pretended not to
be impressed, or stunned, by the internet cafes and NIKON
ads and HENNESSY XO commercials blasting out of Duty Free.
They had to: three minders were watching them like hawks.
When the flight was delayed, I took a seat next to two of
the players, who only grunted when I asked them if they were
Korean. A few minutes of silence followed, and then the new
flight time was displayed as an hour after the scheduled departure
time, I mimed the new time by pointing at my watch and dragging
my finger to the six. The three minders went for a cig'HAPPY
NEW YEAR!!', and we chuckled at the passing circus of backpacker
freaks, swishing past in pirate pants and trailing BO.
When the flight was finally called, I found myself sitting
next to the two players again, and safely sitting behind the
minders (who were unable to be reseated to watch the team
from behind) the two players shyly said hello, and announced
their team positions "Goalie," said one; "Striker,"
said the other. I handed them my business card. They studied
the address, grunted, and put them in the pocket behind Kim
Il Sung.
When the cabin crew came through selling drinks, Goalie and
Striker had only a wad of Won, (sadly, no clever fake 100
dollar bills, rumoured to be produced en masse in North Korea)
so I bought them each a Coke and they slurped it down in an
instant. When I pulled my passport out, they snatched it out
of my hands, and curiously looked at all the stamps inside.
Tokyo. Frankfurt . Singapore. When they saw my birthplace
as NYC, they gasped: had an American really just bought them
a Coke?
There was a moment of muttering, but then they shyly handed
me their passports, and I flipped through them; both Striker
and Goalie were 19 years old, and looked like they were almost
35 (their faces were lined with wrinkles) Then, as we settled
in for the flight, I asked Goalie if he had any North Korean
money for me to look at. He pulled out his wallet again, and
handed me a 100 Won bill. When I handed it back, he refused
it, and I refused his gesture, before he grunted and forced
me to take it. I held it in my hand for a minute, but Goalie
got more and more nervous, and eventually took the bill from
my hand and put it in my jacket pocket.
Now it was Striker's turn to be nervous. But not for himself;
he was clearly berating his friend Goalie for his lack of
respect for his country's leader, handing over a bill to an
American. Ten minutes went by, the argument got more heated,
and suddenly Striker leaned over, took the bill out of my
pocket, unfolded it, and pointed to the picture of Kim Il
Sung.
"He is our father. I'm sorry."
Striker then folded the bill up and pushed it back inot Goalie's
pocket. Satisfied, he folded his arms across his chest and
then I was his best friend: he asked me what ranking Man United
had; Real Madrid, and who David Beckham was married to. This
went on and on as our plane touched down at Phuket
and taxied to the terminal.
The three minders had gotten off first, and the three of
us walked to the baggage claim, laughing like old friends,
until we reached the ground floor. Then, the smiles faded,
and the two men fell silent in face of their minders, who
eyed me like a hawk. Ten uncomfortable minutes passed, as
the bags popped out, and as I pushed my cart out of the terminal,
I saw a wicked grin flicker across the faces of Striker and
Goalie, who had their back turned defiantly to their team.
"Happy New Year," they whispered.
An hour later, I stumbled out of my taxi at Poseidon Bungalows,
a Swedish run resort to the south of Khao Lak. As I
tried to fall asleep, it was impossible: it was the first
time in a year I had slept near the sea. (The last time had
been on Boxing Day 2004 on a gasoline and sewage soaked beach
in the Maldives, listening to people lose their minds.)
Eventually I got up and went down to the beach to find an
elderly Swedish couple already there, unable to sleep either.
It wasnt jetlag; the year before they had narrowly survived
the tsunami as their bungalow at that very spot had collapsed
all around them. They had been washed out the window and clung
to trees as the waves swept in, flattening the mangroves,
and had eventually, after four days in hospital, returned
to their little town in central Sweden, where they had to
break a window to get in their house; they had lost everything,
even their housekeys.
"We had to hitchhike home when we got to Stockholm ,
imagine that, at our age," the wife chuckled.
We sat and talked most of the night, happy to see the sun
rise behind us in the steamy jungle.
'We know that jungle well," remarked the man. "we
lived there for two days."
After breakfast, I hopped on a moped and sped off north to
Bang Sak, one of the most affected beach areas in Thailand.
Even a year after the waves, dark green creepers that have
grown over much of the debris can hardly cover up the damage;
a short walk on the beach reveals a swimming pool, full of
large, western sized shoes; a single wall with a dive map
painted on it for islands off the coast; and room markers
pointing in odd directions, to bungalows that no longer exist.
Even the beach still reveals objects: I found a shampoo bottle
from the Chong Fah resort, one of the largest there
before the 26th of December, now only a memory marked on maps;
even the concrete foundations are gone.
Even further down the coast are remains of whole Thai villages,
now just row upon row of white military style houses, with
shiny tin roofs and OXFAM and UNICEF posters hanging from
trees. The beach front at Bag Sak has been rebuilt, and the
local gangs of teenagers race down them on their souped up
Suzukis, although it will take years for the palm trees to
regrow; the waves even ripped them down, leveled the beach
and flattened the reef offshore.
Everyone here has a story to tell the day the sea disappeared.
'I clung to that pole, over there," points a street
vendor selling Coke in plastic bags. "I couldn't find
my daughter, but lucky, she survived."
A hotel clerk at the Le Meridien remembers how the waters
smashed into her hotel, and she was trapped upstairs, as children
she had wished Merry Christmas too had disappeared
Another woman working in a handicraft remembered how she ran
to the hills as the waves demolished her shop. She jumped
into a lake without thinking and survived. Her friends who
hesitated died.
"Lucky," she says as she hears I had survived too,
touching my arm gently. "Lucky."
Another bellman at the Similana Hotel slaps me on the back,
"you got hit by Christmas tree too?" he asks incredulously,
as he recounted the morning when the lobby's fir tree was
lifted up and both of us were hit by it.
Perhaps the saddest stories are the ones no one will ever
know. The remains of the Sofitel Magic Lagoon resort,
once one of the top resorts on the coast, is still there,
even after over 200 guests died in their rooms, and 400 bodies
were pulled off the beach. Just one security guard is on duty
there, watching for journalists eager to jump the fence, take
pictures, or dig for clues to get information about the tragedy
that is now being fought out in the courts. Only the coconut
trees there are the witnesses to the horrors of that day.
Most bear scars from the waves, and others have since died
from salt poisoning.
Further away, I see a wealthy Thai man with binoculars looking
out to sea. He is looking for a person to buy his land; he
doesnt want a joint venture, he just wants out. He points
with a stick to a point 2 meters up the nearest coconut tree,
the height of the water that day. "If you know someone
who buy, I give good commission."
But the longer you stay along the Andaman coast, the
more you start to realize something: almost everyone in tourist
shops and bars have the same tsunami survival story, told
in the same detail, and with the same outcome. You mention
this to your hotel manager and they shake their heads, "Yes,
many people use it to sell handicrafts, motorbike rentals,
drugs...."
Despite this, there are more mental health agencies than
photo agencies, more FOR SALE signs than hotels here, and
more touts than tourists. Khao Lak was dealt a particularly
harsh blow, and it's the locals who were not able to fly home
after the disaster. They were the ones who found bodies in
back gardens, fishing boats rammed through temples, and cars
piled up like firewood. Most hotels have only 30% occupancy,
at a time when it should be 100%.
"Maybe next year people will forget," says a taxi
driver with a sigh. "Or maybe the year after."
The next morning, the mood is somber on the ferry as it pulls
into Phi Phi island harbour. Its Christmas day, and oldtimers
who know the island well, gasp: you can see right through
the island now, all the way to the other side; years of development
had been obliterated in seconds as not one but two waves smashed
together on the narrow isthmus; killing almost 1,000 people.
Even though a year has passed, most of the island is still
in ruins.
The 26th of December dawns clear and beautiful, and an uncharacteristic
quiet spreads across the narrow lanes and alleys where pirated
DVDs and trinkets are usually sold; many shops are closed
to remember.
The memorial ceremony takes place at the foot of a large
Banyan tree, where the 20 foot waves crashed ashore. Three
thousand people gather, all wearing white, clutching flowers
and bouquets of white roses. Suddenly a helicopter appears,
and the Deputy Prime Minister hops out to give a speech, hold
a minute of silence, and pray with a row of saffron robed
monks, before he hops back onto his helicopter and flies back
to Krabi.
The service is over, and afterwards, family and friends slowly
wander down to the beach to wade into the lapping waves, where
they offer private prayers to the sea, before tossing in fragrant
orchids. Most weep openly, and some collapse on the sand,
in tears.
Suddenly, the sea starts to withdraw, rapidly, leaving the
turquoise lagoon almost empty of water. Survivors of that
terrible day turn white, and look at each other in panic.
"Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen," announces
a man through a loudspeaker. "It is the normal low tide,
nothing to be afraid."
An hour later, when the water has returned, three long tail
boats arrive, and offload 500 coconut saplings. A human chain
forms, and then, the new plants are passed, one by one, down
the line where they will be replanted in the most devastated
part of the island.
The afternoon passes slowly; families continue to stand in
the sea, tossing in flowers and prayers, while tourists a
few meters away go about their holidays, sunbathing, chatting
away, and drinking beer.
A restaurant manager recounts how he clung to a palm tree
as his restaurant and staff were drowned. "I still keep
my suitcase packed each day, just in case I have to leave,"
he says.
"I didn't notice anything," sniffs a woman from
Europe when a traveller asks her if she thinks the island
felt sad.
A small group of international volunteers gather at Sunflower
bar, rebuilt on the exact spot where it was before Boxing
Day 2004, using driftwood and smashed boats as construction
materials. Many had been there since December and had helped
the local Thais rebuild their houses. Here, a girl works behind
the bar on the same day her sister died behind it, serving
her customers; another woman waits tables despite the loss
of her granddaughter; and another guy works the DJ booth,
having lost his brother in a bungalow a few dozen meters away.
All around them is the buzz of chainsaws and pounding of hammers,
as workers frantically build back the islands lost accommodation.
When the sun sets, and the here-to-party crowd at Ao Ton
Sai hits the usual nightspots like Apache, pounding
to the rhythm of Twisted Sister and Nirvana,
and the shirtless Thai touts are back to ogling the bikinied
German girls ambling past, and the usual Hollywood movies
are blasting out of restaurants, in English and Thai, there
is one last remembrance ceremony.
Under a moonless sky, on the beach again, 1,000 rice paper
lanterns are lit and released into the night. As relatives
hold the lanterns in the air, waiting for the hot air to kick
in and carry away the lanterns, tears roll down their cheeks:
they are looking up into the sky, at hundreds of golden lanterns,
floating higher and higher, creating a beautiful, three dimensional
constellation, ever shifting as the winds shunt them back
and forth. For over an hour, people wade out into the sea
again, in the cold, dark waters, watching every last one,
until the lanterns float so high that they merge with the
stars and finally disappear.
Then, everyone at the distant bars began to toast each other,
shouting, "HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!" over and over, in
six languages. And as I sat there with other survivors, we
looked at each other and knew we were lucky to just be sitting
there with our new friends, sharing a laugh. And then I remembered
the bright eager faces of those North Korean football players,
swimming in that foreign sea awash in internet cafes, cell
phones, iPods and credit cards, eager to make new friends
and share some laughs, too, despite their country that was
as alien to most of us as the moon. "Happy New Year!"
they had cried out at me in the plane. Happy New Year indeed.
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Travel Writers: Even Marxists fly low cost carrier
By Dave Lowe
