Saturday January 8, 2005
Luke Harding in Calang, western Aceh
There were few signs of life in Calang as we waded on to the beach at dusk. After an eight-hour journey by sea across Indonesia's eerily deserted west coast, it was clear that little had withstood the tsunami. The survivors from Calang - a Dutch colonial seaside town wiped out by the disaster - appeared to have vanished. And then we found them.
Early the next morning I trekked up into the nearby jungle to discover hundreds of refugees sheltering among the teak trees in homemade tents. Of the town, just below a hill of red mud, there was nothing left. An apocalyptic landscape of masonry, uprooted palm trees and debris stretched across the shimmering bay. The road connecting Calang with the outside world no longer existed.
"Of all the towns on the west coast we were the worst affected," Zulfian Ahmad, Calang's bupati or regent, explained from his temporary HQ in the TV station, the town's only remaining building.
"Eleven thousand people used to live here. We have lost 70% of them. People have fled to the mountains. The rest are scattered. The road has been cut. Bridges have been destroyed. We have an acute problem with distributing aid.
"Many of the dead are still stuck in the mud. We don't have the equipment to get them out," he said. What happened to his family? "My wife and four children died," he added.
Little of the biggest aid operation in history has ended up here, only 90km away from Banda Aceh. There are no foreign aid workers. There are only 10 Indonesian doctors to treat those still alive. The town, surrounded by impenetrable mountains, is accessible only by boat or helicopter.
The Indonesian navy arrived in Calang four days after the disaster, setting up a camp on the beach and bringing rice and water. Now, though, the food is running out. "I need 20 tonnes of rice a day. In eight days' time I won't have any. Please send more," Brigadier General Djunaidi Djhari, in charge of the Indonesian marine relief operation, told the Guardian, against a backdrop of thundering tropical rain. "I also need 10,000 tents. We haven't had any yet." Across the western coastal province of Aceh Jaya, 20,000 out of 60,000 people had been killed, he said. "This is a human tragedy. I've never seen anything like this." The legacy of the tsunami was difficult to comprehend, he said.
"At first, people stared at the sea. Now they are smiling a bit. But they are suffering from stomach upsets and colds."
With little support from the rest of the world, Calang's survivors have been forced to improvise - building shelters from corrugated metal scavenged from the ruins, branches and plastic, tied up with bark. Every morning, gangs wander amid the debris scooping up anything that might be useful - planking for firewood, motorbikes, cooking pots, plates and plastic beakers.
Some wash their clothes on what is left of their homes - the concrete floor. Others trek into Calang from outlying villages along the rubble and coconut strewn highway, returning with bags loaded up with noodles. The concept of property has been brutally abolished: with so many dead there is plenty to go round. "It's now just a question of survival," Ijay Syafrizal said, showing off the cosy homemade jungle shelter he shares with his wife Ema and 11 relatives.
He had plugged a gap in the roof with a gold umbrella. "The rain still comes in," he complained. Would he like a real tent? "Yes. And water. The water from the well tastes of salt. I'm also worried about tigers and snakes. My father-in-law saw a tiger in the mountain behind us," he said.
Mr Syafrizal and other survivors tell the same grim story; after the earthquake shook the city, the sea began to recede. Half of the town fled to the jungle, and took shelter under a TV tower.
But many curious locals started collecting fish left stranded on the beach. "I managed to get my family to safety. I then started running up the hill. The wave was 25 metres away. It was enormous. I made it. But the three people behind me didn't,' Ijal said. "They disappeared."
Afterwards, all communications were cut. The survivors waited for rescue. It didn't happen. Groups of young men then began burying the dead in the sand. Others plucked those still alive from the water, while another party set off by speedboat to Banda Aceh to raise the alarm. The 20-metre high tsunami hit the seaside town from three different directions and pulverised everything.
Nearly two weeks later, Indonesia is still coming to terms with what happened here. Some 94,000 people are dead, and half a million are now dependent on aid. More than 1,150 schools, 5,800km of road and 490 bridges have been destroyed while more than one-third of the 4,312 villages have no functioning government whatsoever.
Asked how long it would take Calang to recover, Mr Ahmad, the regent, thought for a moment. "Maybe 10 years," he said. The destruction is worst on Aceh's west coast, from Banda Aceh in the north, down to Mealobah and beyond in the south.
The only way ordinary Indonesians can now reach isolated settlements like Calang is by boat. We travelled with them, boarding a government-chartered fishing vessel at first light, packed with young men heading to Calang in search of lost relatives. Most know the journey was pointless. But they were going anyway.
"My father and mother are missing. So is my sister. Only my brother Fajrin is still alive," one passenger Rasunam said. "I'm going to bring him to my grandmother." The dead are still ubiquitous in Banda Aceh, despite the best efforts of thousands of Indonesian soldiers to clear the streets.
Eerie silence
Leaving the port, we passed corpses rotting on the dock; others floated past in the river. The stench was terrible. Only the dragonflies and herons seem unaffected. Out at sea, where there were once flourishing fishing villages, there is now only an eerie silence.
The coastline and islands along the way had all been violently denuded: the tsunami had ripped away the first 200 metres of trees above the sealine, leaving behind jagged rocks and earth. The town of Lamno had disappeared. Only the white mosque was left.
It was a journey that Joseph Conrad might have appreciated: out at sea several passengers began to pass round a joint; the ship's cook began cooking rice and dried fish in a giant pot. "The marijuana grows in my garden," one explained, showing off a stash of Aceh marijuana wrapped in newspaper. "My mother does not approve. But it's just for my friends."
After lunch, the cook brewed strong Aceh coffee. In the sky above, before it began to rain, American Seahawk helicopters patrolled up and down the coast. Most are from the aircraft carrier USS Abraham Lincoln stationed nearby in the Indian Ocean. But their contribution to the aid effort is restricted by the helicopter's small payloads - and by the presence of dozens of journalists.
Last night, as dusk fell, Mr Syafrizal and his family prepared for another night under a leaky roof. What did the family talk about in the long, dark evenings?
"We talk about what happened and what we should do next," he said. "We are trying to be happy. But we don't know how to find happiness now".