Blue Plastic Sheeting

January 10, 2005

Elephant compounds house the elephants that do a lot of the debris clearing. Tractors and other heavy machinery aren’t seen near the city center, mountains of refuse are, however. The rains ruin whatever possibilities were arranged. Camps are washed away and ground zero begins the starting point again and again.

I sit next to life and watch it unveil its mysteries. Finding the sense in it doesn’t take top priority. There are other more pressing needs to attend to. Making sense out of it may come later on, but not now. No time. And what difference does it make because it has happened and because it is happening...it’s still happening in another form. Let’s begin the day. It started at 0515 and 51 seconds. The house shook, the ground shook, and the bed shook. It was like an amusement park on a ride, not frightening, but fun. Connecting the dots spells earthquake, not amusement park ride. It happened too quickly to feel fear, just enough time to feel the elation of the moment. Nothing was ominous other than the after thought of surviving a relatively sustained earth dance. Would another tsunami taunt us? Moments later, the mosque from across the way blared Muslim cries, prayers, I believe, and not calls for help or an alarm system. The chickens then took flight and started with the morning caulk. The day began then.

Driving down the city’s main road, the devastation looks something out of a lunar walk with unrecognizable terrain. The land resembles something out of this world, as if the earth has blemishes, pimples and warts, crevices and pock marks needing medical care in a big way. Strewn to the right and to the left were pieces of nothing recognizable in mud and filth, wood, metal and scraps of whatever mother earth decided to destroy and then regurgitate. Men wore masks to disguise the stench of rotting rot and perhaps bodies. Oh, yes, the bodies. Three bodies wrapped in blue plastic sheeting, that familiar plastic sheeting the aid agencies give to people for their temporary coverings serving as their temporary abodes. These cadavers lay on the side of the road tightly wrapped and away from everyone’s way as workers continue the clean up process. The bodies have been rotting and decomposing since December 26th at 8 am when the tsunami made its way here. Today is January 10, 2005. I can’t imagine the stench or the 15 day post pillage appearance of these people. I drove by in an air-conditioned vehicle as they toiled on the soil outside. I wonder how they feel. Do I dare stop the car and ask them to share what it’s like? Maybe God intentionally gave us different tongues to spare him my useless questions as a foreigner gawks at the unimaginable on the outside. We drove by, but the image of those three people remains fresher than the flesh of them. The last tally of dead was over 225,000, according to a French report that I saw. Now I know that the more accurate version is 225,003.

Our visit to the “camps” was touching. The joy in the hearts of the people was remarkable. A family invited us inside their “house,” which wasn’t even a tent. Metal rods balanced barely that familiar blue plastic sheeting...the same that wrapped the bodies. This family of 7 fortunately housed mom and dad and their 5 boys. They weren’t complaining and asked for nothing more than what they had. They had each other and nothing else mattered. They lost their house, their business, but they still had their generator and their lives, of course. These were relatively affluent people once with comforts. They were privileged people with clean nails, literate and English speaking, and afforded opportunities given to few people in Indonesia. And now they join ranks with the people of the street, the bag mans of the world in the west and the people dressed in blue plastic sheeting here. They smiled radiantly. Out of curiosity, I checked the children’s teeth and found them with caries and immaculate. “Did you use to brush your teeth when you had a home,” I asked? “Yes,” mom answered. “Do you have toothbrushes and toothpaste now,” I continued to inquire. “No,” she answered. “And what about soap. Do you have soup?” “They gave us a bar for thirty people,” she added without a peep of disappointment or judgment. “What do you need? How can we help you?” She hesitated and spoke half words trying to tell me her wish list, “Female things, things female use,” she mumbled uncomfortably. She wanted a bra, some panties and some hygienic napkins. People in Hong Kong wish so much to help. I think I can send them an order for these things that seem so simple and yet would make such a difference. I left this family shaking hands and smiling. No renovation of the soul was needed. There was such gleam in their smiles and resolve in their souls. They were together. Later, they were joined by their cousins, aunties and friends. They were all in this together. And it made it easier to laugh and smile because what more did they need in life. Nothing is more valuable than an auntie, uncle, mommy, cousin, son and daddy. I will bring them toothbrushes and toothpaste, soap and female things given subtly and respectfully.

The camps are lacking basics while at the same time the basics are covered. There is one latrine for 3500 people. The contents of the latrine are sloshing about in the receptacle you’re supposed to sit above. But the poop and urine flow freely. The smell is too much, I’m told, so they go to the river and do the needful. The problem is that they get their water from the same place. And while there are no landmines here, it is like a landmine to leave human waste unattended. Disease is inevitable and expected and without communication and coordination there is little to do, but wait for the next wave of illness, suffering and death. The rains bring the mosquitoes, the mosquitoes bring malaria. Malaria brings death. The trash brings pestilence. The riverbanks bring cholera and amebiasis and giardia and gastrointestinal nightmares that dehydrate and demystify death itself. It could become a commonality among the people in the fields covered by their blue plastic sheeting. Am I a prophet who knows the future? No, 1 and 1 is 2, n’est-ce pas? Throw a ball up and it will come down. I promise you.

The camp on the west side of the road is running out of medicine while the other camp on the east side of the road is bulging at the seams with medicine. I crossed the street and informed the management of each camp of the situation. To date, there has been no communication between the responsible parties of each camp. How do the have a chance?

Love, Cary