Practical matters

By Tony W. Cartledge

Editor

GALLE, Sri Lanka - In the world of disaster relief, the purpose of a forward logistics team is to explore opportunities, choose ministry sites, and prepare equipment or facilities needed for later, larger teams.

But before that can happen, the team must make arrangements to meet its own needs. When a foursome from North Carolina Baptist Men arrived in Galle in mid-afternoon on a Sunday, their first task was to find lodging and sustenance for themselves.

After meeting local contact Christopher Gammaddehewa, we first go down narrow alleys to a house being used by Hungarian Baptists to store water. There we collect a dozen or more 10-liter bottles of water and load them onto the luggage van.

From there, we go to inspect a house that has been made available for our use. We had been told that the house belongs to a Sri Lankan women currently in the U.S. A family of three was living there, we were told, and they would move into a small guesthouse while we stayed in the larger house.

We found the walled compound on the outskirts of Galle with little trouble, but there appeared to be more than three people in the house. They seemed willing, but not excited, about moving out.

We decided to explore other options and drove to a home owned by Gammedddeweha, which is located adjacent to Calvary Baptist Church. To get there, we drove even further into the countryside, with part of the road being a single lane path through a flat area. The narrow road is built up at least 15 feet above the level ground, where water buffalo are staked out amid rice paddies. In the rainy season, water floods the plain, necessitating the elevated roadway, Gammaddehewa explains. Chinese immigrants built it many years ago, he says.

The home we are going to visit was purchased by Gammaddehewa more than 20 years ago. He established a church and constructed a building next to the house. No more than five feet separates the two buildings. Since moving to Sweden, his wife's homeland, Gammaddehewa has allowed the current pastor's family to live in the house. Gammaddehewa offers to have the family move over and make room for us, but we are more interested in the church sanctuary.

It is an open-air building with solid walls about four feet tall, with an open latticework above. There are two outside doorways, but no doors. A bamboo mat hangs over a doorway in the pulpit area. There is nothing in the larger arched doorway in the back.

Still, we decide that the sanctuary is the best option, since it will eventually need to house ten or more.

The house and church are located on the side of a steep hill. There is an open spring and a single bathroom we can use for bathing. The bathroom has a cold-water showerhead in the corner and a drain in the floor. It won't always be convenient, but is tolerable.

We negotiate with the pastor and his wife as she serves us hot tea with milk and lots of sugar. They agree to prepare breakfast and dinner for us each day. Feeling positive about the location, we unload our considerable luggage, along with the cooking pots and burners we have purchased.

We hold off on a final decision until after we inspect a possible ministry site at the Assemblies of God church in Galle. That site proves to be promising as a kitchen location, but its amenities are limited to a tiny outdoor "squatty potty" and an unlighted, four-foot square shower room with nothing more than a piece of PVC pipe routed to the center of the ceiling.

We decide to stay in the sanctuary at Calvary Baptist Church, but even there we will need bunks. Gammaddehewa makes a phone call, asking a local business to open for us, even though it is late on a Sunday afternoon. After some negotiation, we purchase four bunks and mattresses, with plans to return for six more. The team will sleep better on these than on hard pews, and we can leave them for use by families that lost their homes and furnishings. That makes the $46 price seem eminently reasonable.

Jet-lagged and dragging, we return to our new "home" to set up the bunks, hang our mosquito nets, and sit down to dinner. Our meal consists of a large dish of thin noodles, broken into very short pieces, mixed with enough shredded carrots and green onions to give it some color. There is also stewed chicken. It appears to consist of chicken backs and legs, chopped into unrecognizable pieces, each of which contains at least one fragment of a bone.

Most of the team sleeps well, and we set out on Monday with a full agenda. Our intention is to deliver water to a ruined fishing village, explore two refugee camps as options for the field kitchen, and look for a village that could become the target of longer term ministry. As the day grows, so does the agenda.

First, we must go to the Bank of Ceylon, where Christopher is trying to help an ex-prisoner obtain funds to build a house. Then, we return to the house where the Hungarians have stored water to load up with 10-liter jugs for distribution.

There we meet Masor, a former Muslim who now follows Jesus. Masor did not lose his home to the tsunami, but he lost his job. Thin and neatly dressed, he displays a cherished document affirming his professional status: "I am a licensed tour guide and lecturer," he says. "That is what I do. But now there are no tourists. I have no work." Gammaddehewa says he will set up a website for Masor when he returns to Sweden.

Our driver takes us to the fishing village of Dadanduwa, just south of Hikkadawu. Every house within several hundred yards of the sea was demolished or seriously damaged. About 20 families have been living in the local temple. Others have moved in with relatives. People of all ages run to the van when we drive up, eager to collect water.

We learn that the water system still works in the village, and one can see occasional outdoor taps with a pan of laundry sitting beneath. Some people refuse to drink the water, however, for they fear dead bodies have been in it. Others will drink it, but only after boiling.

We discover a community spring and cistern that was a prime source for bathing and wash water. Now the 10-foot-square cistern is filled with dark water and trash.

We ask the villagers to remove the trash and a large turtle from the cistern, and promise to return the next day with a water pump. We will pump out the cistern, let it refill, shock the water with chlorine, then repeat the process. This should ensure them clean water.

As we leave, team leader Eddie Williams tells Gammaddehewa that have much to do and will need to be in a hurry during the afternoon.

As a rule, Sri Lankans don't like to hurry, except when driving. Vehicles large and small move through Sri Lankan streets like crowded corpuscles pushing their way through a capillary - except that the traffic moves in both direction. It is customary to follow the Bristish practice of driving on the left side of the road, but drivers commonly drive wherever they can find a place. Travel is a constant game of chicken in which the larger vehicle generally wins.

Our driver is typical. We travel north to Hikkaduwa in search of a water pump, but they have none. All the shops were flooded, and the inventory is no good. We are told that pumps are available at a plumbing supply store in Gonapinuwala, a few miles inland.

The road to Gonapinuwala takes us on hilly lanes through groves of cinnamon, rows of manioc, and bright green rice fields.

A large bus is stopped on the right side of the road as we pass by. Suddenly, a boy runs out from behind the bus. The driver slams on the brakes and we lurch forward, holding our breath. The boy goes down. There is a moment of stunned silence, and the boy begins to cry loudly. Though we expect to find him beneath the wheels, he has been knocked forward and to the road. His face has a nasty scrape around the left eye, though there appear to be no other injuries. His name is Surash. He is eight years old.

There is confusion, but soon the boy, his mother, and another child climb into the van with us and we take them to a nearby country hospital. Emerging with a hospital attendant, the driver tells us that he will have to report the incident by going to the police station, which is back in Hakkaduwa.

Unsettled by the accident and frustrated by the delay, we pile out of the van to explain to the police what happened. The station has a building, but three tables and several green-clad officers sit under the shade of trees in the courtyard. The driver speaks briefly with one of the officers and Gammedduweha intercedes for him. The officer leads them into the building while we wait outside.

When the driver comes back, he tells us the police will hold his van until they can visit the site and investigate. The police officer and an official in plain clothes climb into the van so he can take them to the place.

Gammedduweha sends Nimal, a young Sri Lankan who has been riding with us, to find another van and driver. When he arrives, we are delighted to learn that the van is air-conditioned. This driver also drives noticeably more slowly and carefully. "The driver owns the van," Gammedduweha says.

The drive to Gonapinuwala is uneventful this time and we arrive safely in the hilltop village. White prayer flags, the Buddhist way of honoring the dead, hang across the street like Christmas decorations. A funeral is scheduled for later in the day. Posters honoring the deceased man are pasted to store windows. We can hear drums and a flute playing in his honor.

After successfully obtaining and fitting out a water pump, we return to Galle, where Gammedduweha takes us to visit a home for disabled orphans. The rambling facility, located across the street from the ocean, was immersed by the tsunami. Only 14 or 46 residents survived, and that was because they were away for the holidays. Young people with the Sri Lankan Youth Corps are cleaning the floors and repainting the building for the children who remain alive. The tsunami has left many more orphans, and they will soon have a full house again.

We had stopped by a refugee camp earlier, only to learn that most people had left because the government intended to reopen the schools on schedule following the holiday break, and parents took their children to stay with relatives where schools were still operating. There was little need for food there.

We visit another camp on the campus of Sudharmarama Wihare, a Bhuddist temple. Scores of children run to greet us, anxious to have their picture taken and to see it in the magic window on the back of my camera. The children are so joyfully aggressive that they rip a plastic screen shielding the camera display, and it disappears.

We have some candy with us, but not enough to go around. When told that they children need school supplies, we drive to a store and purchase notebooks, pencils, erasers, and pencil sharpeners for 150 children.

We return to the temple as government officials are fogging outside of the buildings with poison, hoping to hold down mosquitoes. Adults are lined up at another van, which is giving away small food items. Fearful of a mob scene, we ask the officials in charge to have the children go into the building and sit in a circle, promising they will all get something if they wait patiently.

Williams and team members J.E. Skinner and Larry Osborne take the items to the middle of the circle. With each distributing a different item, they work their way around the circle, which is three or four rows deep with children, the smaller ones in the front. Everything goes smoothly until they finish and there are notebooks left over. Gammaddehewa suggests that they give those to the older children, who will need them more for school. Seeing the notebooks now being passed out more randomly, the children lean forward, clamoring for another, then get up and crowd around each man until every notebook is gone.

From the temple, Gammaddehewa instructs the driver to take us to Rummassala Hill, a Christian drug-rehabilitation facility on a high promontory. It has a beautiful view of Galle city and the local harbor. We learn that the facility cares for 110 residents there, and another 100 in other locations.

Williams is anxious to visit the Assemblies of God church again to see if tarpaulins promised by U.N. officials have arrived, and to make a final decision about the location of the kitchen. The tarps are nowhere to be found, but we decide the church courtyard is the best option for the kitchen, which will serve as a central point from which food can be distributed.

At 5:45 p.m., we are worn, hungry, and emotionally spent, so we turn toward our Sri Lankan home. Along the way, we find one location that still has a working phone line to offer Internet service on a single computer. Though the connection drops four times, I finally succeed in getting an e-mail out so family members and news organizations can get an update on our progress.

Dinner looks very much like that of the previous evening, except the noodles have been replaced by rice, and the unrecognizable chicken is now unrecognizable turkey, or so we are told. Our hostess has been kind, and kept the spices mild.

We are grateful - for many things.