Tsunami's ark of hope

Aid flooded into Asia to help rebuild areas devastated by the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami. But a sadness still lingers for those left behind, reports Kathy Marks in Banda Aceh

When giant waves roared through their village, several kilometres inland, Mujiburrizal and his family sought refuge on the second floor of the house next door.

In water up to their necks, they embraced and prayed. Then a 30m fishing boat came flying through the air and crashed to a halt on top of the building in which they were sheltering.

Fifty-nine people, including Mujiburrizal, clambered into the wooden boat. They believed its fortuitous arrival saved their lives.

And today, nearly five years after the Indian Ocean tsunami devastated the Indonesian province of Aceh, the boat remains lodged on the roof, a powerful symbol of the ferocity of nature and the randomness of human destiny.

Carried by the raging floodwaters, and now secured with a concrete pillar, the boat - nicknamed "Noah's Ark" by locals - is a bizarre sight.

Equally strange is another vessel transplanted on Boxing Day 2004: a 2640 tonne power-generating ship picked up like a toy and tossed 5km inland, into a residential neighbourhood where it still sits, a rusting monster marooned on dry land.

The capital, Banda Aceh, and surrounding areas are dotted with reminders of that terrible day when nearly 160,000 people died and more than half a million lost their homes, in one of the worst natural disasters of modern times.

Yet, despite the memorials, the peace parks and the mass graves, Aceh, on the northern tip of Sumatra island, is a place where hope and renewal have, to a large extent, replaced tragedy and loss.

The upper deck of the massive power barge, festooned with Indonesian flags and shampoo and cigarette advertisements, affords a sweeping view of the city with its new houses, schools, clinics, mosques, markets and streets.

Aceh has been rebuilt in an extraordinary reconstruction effort involving nearly 500 foreign agencies, as well as local organisations, and US$6.7 ($9.4) billion of international aid.

The bustling capital is almost unrecognisable from five years ago, when it was a grim, silent wasteland, its streets piled with the debris of smashed buildings and washed by fetid floodwaters.

Gone is the dreadful stench of death and the air is no longer pierced by collective grief. Instead there is commerce, laughter, and a sense of normality.

The transformation is a remarkable testimony to the resilience of the Acehnese - and to the generosity of people around the world who donated on an unprecedented scale.

Thirteen countries were hit by the tsunami, which was triggered by an underwater earthquake measuring around 9.15 on the Richter scale, but Aceh - just 150km from the epicentre - was Ground Zero. As well as the capital, an 800km stretch of the densely populated west coast, extending several kilometres inland, was flattened.

While houses and shops have been rebuilt, memories are not erased so easily. Radiah Abdullah was one of hundreds of survivors who boarded the electricity-generating ship on December 26 2004, fearing another onslaught from the ocean. But her husband, who had gone fishing that day in Krueng Raya, 40km east of Banda Aceh, was killed.

His friend, who survived, told her what happened. "He was trying to escape. But when he tried to rev up his motorbike, the engine wouldn't start," says Abdullah, who runs a small grocery store in the village of Punge Blang Cut.

Usually, Radiah accompanied her husband on his fishing trips. But this time she stayed home because she was seven months pregnant. Their 4-year-old son, a shy, dark-haired boy, stays close to his mother's knee as she talks. There are countless stories like hers, and then there are the statistics, which help to illustrate the magnitude of the disaster.

Punge Blang Cut is in the Meuraxa sub-district, which was one of the worst affected areas in the province. Out of a population of 31,000, just 3000 people in Meuraxa survived, 70 per cent of them men.

Newcomers have moved in, swelling the population, but even so Meuraxa lacks the vibrancy it once had. "It's much quieter," says Nurhanifah, a 47-year-old woman with sad eyes, who lives in the village of Gampung Dayah Teungoh. "But we try to forget the tragedy and the trauma by working and keeping active."

All that remained of her village after the tsunami was one tall coconut tree and the tiled floor of the mosque. Just 119 people survived, including half a dozen children. "We used to have an elementary school and a kindergarten," says Nurhanifah. "One of the NGOs offered to rebuild them, but the village leader said 'No, what for? We don't have any children anymore."'

The motto of the rebuilding programme, which also encompassed the offshore island of Nias, ravaged by a second earthquake three months after the tsunami, was to "build back better". For many Acehnese, that has happened.

For many others, it has not. The head of Meuraxa sub-district, Bechtiar, says only half the new houses are of acceptable quality. A survey by AusAID, the Australian Government's overseas aid agency, concluded that 40 per cent are defective.

In Gampung Dayah Teungoh, where an Indonesian agency put up dozens of houses, the timber used had not been dried and later shrank, leaving gaping holes in the walls.

The rain penetrates these dismal dwellings, and termites are eating the timber. There has been talk of giving the residents cash to pay for the necessary repairs, but so far it is just talk.

Craig Thorburn, an Australian academic who has studied the post-tsunami recovery in Aceh, blames a lack of oversight by the Indonesian government agency that co-ordinated the province's reconstruction, as well as the fact that most of the organisations working on the ground had never built houses before.

After major disasters, aid agencies usually lament their lack of funds. In this instance, "far too much" money was donated, believes Thorburn, from Monash University in Melbourne. People dug deep after television footage of the devastation was beamed around the world, and "there was an awful lot of slippage and leakage and wastage", he says.

While misappropriation of aid is believed to have been minimal, despite Indonesia's ranking as one of the world's most corrupt nations, there are question marks over the allocation of contracts.

Many were reportedly awarded to former commanders of the separatist Free Aceh Movement (GAM), Aceh's 29-year civil war having ended in 2005.

Shoddy materials were often used, and some contractors walked off, leaving the job half-finished. Local people, meanwhile, were too afraid to complain.

For the most part, though, the advent of peace - hastened by the disaster, which propelled the warring parties to the negotiating table - has radically transformed people's lives.

Indeed, many say life is better than before the tsunami, because they can go out at night without risking arrest, and can tend their clove farms in the mountains, formerly a rebel stronghold.

Azwar Hasan, who has set up a local NGO to help restore livelihoods, says: "You could say that the tsunami was a blessing for Aceh. It's very sad, but it comes just once, then you have to start your life again, and at least you can make a plan. At least there is certainty.

"During the conflict you can't make plans, and you don't know who is your enemy or your friend. There's no one on the streets after 5 o'clock, and in the night someone comes to your place and kidnaps your brother. You're living in fear and you don't know when it ends. It's no life at all."

Hasan set up his organisation, the Forum Bangun Aceh (Forum for the Development of Aceh), after realising that the priority of most Acehnese, after the initial emergency phase had passed, was to start earning money again. In addition, many women who had been widowed found themselves the sole breadwinner, and badly needed an income.

Apart from those practical considerations, having a livelihood has helped people suffering from colossal grief and bereavement to stay sane.

Aisyah Harun, who sells traditional Acehnese cakes in schools, received a loan of 425,000 rupiah ($63) from Oxfam New Zealand. She used it to buy cooking equipment, utensils and ingredients, so she could restart her business.

After the tsunami, Aisyah, who lost her husband, three daughters and two grandsons, as well as her home and possessions, had only the clothes she was wearing.

"When you have nothing, any assistance means a lot," she says. "I make enough money to send my [surviving] children to school and college. Working also helps me to blot out the bad memories."

The other source of solace for Acehnese is Islam. Devout Muslims, they saw the disaster as a divine test, as well as a warning to those who failed to follow the Koran's teachings. In recent years, though, adherence to strict Muslim precepts has, for some in the province, gone too far.

Sharia law, introduced in 1999 when Aceh was granted special status by Indonesia, has been implemented with increasing vigour since the tsunami. Dozens of public canings have been carried out for such offences as gambling, adultery and drinking alcohol.

In September the outgoing provincial legislature approved a new law allowing for convicted adulterers to be stoned to death.

While the law has yet to be ratified by Governor Irwandi Yusuf, a former GAM commander, it has been widely condemned by human rights groups. Few ordinary Acehnese endorse such draconian measures, although few are prepared to condemn them openly.

Religious holidays such as Eid ul-Fitr, marking the end of the Ramadan fasting month, are painful times for those who lost relatives. "All the family used to come together, but the atmosphere is quite different now," says an elderly man, Razali, living in the depleted village of Gampung Dayah Teungoh.

Razali holds up both hands when asked how many of his relatives perished. He soon runs out of fingers. "My wife, three daughters, three son-in-laws, six grandchildren ... Just one son survived." He finds it hard to speak. "Sometimes the shadow and image of the people that disappeared appear in front of my eyes."

Even now, to an outsider, the scale of loss is inconceivable, and the stories of survival continue to amaze. In the village of Lampulo, where the fishing boat on the roof draws a steady trickle of curious visitors, Mujiburrizal points to a wall clock in his living-room that stopped at 8.45am, about 15 minutes after the first deadly wave raced through.

As his relatives and neighbours sheltered, terrified, in the house next-door, with the waters rising, he recalls, "We were praying and praying, and then among ourselves we tried to forgive and shake hands, we thought it was goodbye." Then, with a sound like a thunderclap, the grey and white painted boat arrived.

"At first when we saw the boat, the nose was heading towards us. It looked like it was going to smash into us," says Mujiburrizal.

"Suddenly it turned around and landed next to us. All the people climbed in. Among them were 3-month-old babies and children, and old people, one woman 85 years old. I was the last to get in. I had to haul myself up with a rope, because there was no one left behind me to push."

From their vantage-point, above the swirling waters, the boat's 59 occupants saw death and destruction all around them. They tried to throw ropes to the people being swept past, but without success.

Then they began to worry about themselves, fearing that the crowded boat might topple off its perch. "We were very scared, so we decided to sit in a certain position to make it more stable," says Mujiburrizal.

"We also tied a lot of empty jerry cans together, so we could use them as a flotation device in case another wave came."

Then there was the problem of sustenance. No one had breakfasted, there was no food or water in the boat, and after seven hours the Lampulo refugees were desperate. "All we could find on board, apart from a jerry can of brackish water, was a knife and a big jug.

Suddenly a bunch of young coconuts went floating past the boat, just within reach.

"We grabbed them, we used the knife to cut them up and we poured the milk into the jug. There were seven or 10 coconuts, enough for everyone to drink and have a meal."

It is astonishing, and inspiring, to see Aceh resurrected, with thriving communities where in 2004 were just mountains of rubble dotted with decomposing bodies.

In Gampung Dayah Teungoh, groups of young men sit on the beach at dusk, gazing out to sea, while children race their bicycles around the newly paved streets. A woman washes her wailing toddler under a tap.

Razali, the elderly man who lost so many family members, says: "After five years, we're finally getting back our community spirit, because people are moving into the village and the village has come back to life.

"We have a mosque to go and pray, we have sanitation to wash our clothes, we have the village atmosphere. But the feeling of sadness never disappears."