The Third Wave_ A Volunteer Story - Alison Thompson [66]
Being a cameraman was an important job; documenting images of our work in Peraliya would help us spread the word and bring further assistance back to the area. But Sunil went beyond the call of duty when he decided to help Nuwan walk again. Sunil’s example proved to me that although we all may define ourselves by our jobs or the subjects we studied at school, we actually have hundreds of skills at our disposal and can do many things to help.
Toward the end of a long healing road, Sunil put Nuwan on a bicycle and pushed it fast along the road. Then Sunil let go. I am certain he will never forget that moment in his life. There could be only two outcomes: Nuwan would either freeze and fall off the bike, further injuring himself, or he would start to use his legs to pedal and stay on the bike. He chose to pedal. The sight of Nuwan the crippled boy using his legs for the first time since his accident, a huge grin covering his face, must have had all the angels in the kingdom smiling.
We had celebrated Poya, the monthly ceremony for the full moon, before. In September, however, Poya was called the Perahera festival. It was a special celebration that drew tens of thousands of people to the coastline. Holidays up to that point had been quiet and low-key, but this was a different story. The festival organizers approached CTEC to set up a computer at the temple to keep worried villagers abreast of any possible tsunamis. It would only take one person yelling “Tsunami!” to cause a stampede that could lead to many deaths. Only the week before, in Iran, someone at a mosque had yelled “Suicide bomber!” and more than 500 people had been injured and several killed during the stampede.
CTEC set up a booth with computers in the heart of the festival and decorated it in CTEC banners. The officers wore their new uniforms and handed out flyers advertising the center. It was a brilliant day with the coast exploding into color and dance. Stunning oranges and reds flashed past a turquoise sea as babies and grandparents celebrated life and death. Change was in the air. The devastated region was transformed by dancing elephants, acrobats, maidens, and conquering pirates. Hot sweet curries and spicy roti sizzled by the road. Everyone appreciated CTEC being there to protect them, and policemen kept coming over to hug me.
A few hours before the festival, a reported 5.8-magnitude earthquake struck in nearby Myanmar, which set off a tsunami scare and sent villagers heading inland. CTEC sprang into action, quickly restoring order using their speaker systems and motorbikes. The festivities continued on through the night, with firewalking on the beach. I hung out with many of the villagers, holding hands, laughing, and dancing.
By the end of October, with Oscar at our home in the jungle recovering, I was the only volunteer left in the village and I had begun to stand out. I would walk faster on my daily home visits, knowing that dangerous gang members were watching my every move. A gang from a neighboring village had killed a mentally unstable villager whom we had grown to love. They had chopped out his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, cutting his body into hundreds of pieces. It wasn’t safe for a white woman to be in the village after dark. I wasn’t scared, because I had nothing left to give them but love, but I wasn’t going to be stupid, either.
After I sat on the chief’s roof one night gazing at another liquid sunset, he rode with me on my scooter out to the main road to make sure that I was safe.