After the wave

		ANU graduate Kipley Nink provides a first-hand account of life in Banda Aceh for some tsunami orphans.

I applied for a volunteer position at a child care centre in Banda Aceh run by Youth Off the Streets and Muhammadiyah in April 2005, inspired to help after the Boxing Day tsunami laid waste to the region. I didn’t think it through too much, just typed up a letter summarising six years study: “ … majored in Indonesian at The Australian National University … completed the study-in-country program 2001–2002 … strong Indonesian language skills … English teacher for a year in Macassar …” Combined, these aspects sounded interesting, but really I was just a student, working as a waitress to get myself through a five-year Arts and Asian Studies degree. As it turns out, I did get to Aceh. Over the course of a long month in June 2005, I was to gain some lasting impressions of the place, and get to know children coping after the tsunami.

First impressions

My excitement at leaving for Aceh suddenly gained momentum as the familiar pre-departure safety excerpt was shown on our flight. It instructed passengers to tolong rokok dimatikan (please put out your cigarettes). This was accompanied by the image of a young, Indonesian man stubbing out his cigarette. No joke. The other volunteers looked around in amusement, while Indonesians and regular commuters looked blankly on. I felt a sense of returning to a place whose quirks delight me.

Every time I get on a flight to Bali, I am struck by the clear distinction between people ending their flight in Denpasar, and those continuing on to other regions in Indonesia.

The two types look, talk and consume in an entirely different fashion. As the plane carried us across the central Australian desert, I wondered, would there be standing room in the tent? A month is a decent stint. Would I need a dictionary? Would I be able to buy one in Aceh? The region had, after all, been cut-off from journalists, tourists and, in many ways, Indonesia, for 30 or so years. This history, and the tsunami, meant that even though shopping malls grow like mushrooms in the rest of Indonesia, Aceh was going to be different.

While making one of several transits on the way to Aceh, I remember recognising the scent of kretek (clove) cigarettes that wafted around Medan airport. Feeling slightly self-conscious about speaking Indonesian, I struck out at Medan and tried my Indonesian by buying some tissues. The shop vendor caught my eyes briefly, a small smile wavering on her lips. I breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, I do still sound like a bulé (foreigner), but I also still know some Indonesian. Maybe this month would be okay after all.

At Banda Aceh airport, the air seemed to have become heavier. I shifted from foot to foot, unable to smother the creeping feeling that really, we didn’t need to be here.

At last, the previous volunteers arrived, sweaty and bearded – is this what a month here does to you? Five minutes later we arrived at the camp. ‘Well, we’re close to the airport’, I thought sardonically. ‘At least leaving won’t be an issue’. I kept thinking, ‘All I want is a nap’. The flight over involved three transits, a night in Jakarta, and a 5am flight to Medan. ‘Don’t be so selfish’, I countered, ‘these kids are survivors of an unprecedented natural disaster and all I can think about is some time on my own’. It was a struggle that was to return often during my stay.

Hot days

At the centre – the term ‘orphanage’ does not encompass the diverse backgrounds of the children, many of them still have a surviving mother, grandparent, aunt, uncle, or sibling – the children didn’t mean much to me to at first.

I remember the children and the previous volunteers talking familiarly with each other, and thinking, ‘Wow, they really know each other well’. As it turns out, we were the sixth team to turn up at Camp Blang Bintang and the children weren’t too fussy. They just wanted to have some fun, someone to look up to, and someone to talk to. They knew that we wouldn’t be there forever, and the limited time frame informed our relationship. We didn’t have much time, and there was a lot of gossiping, volleyball, board games, bead making, eating, swimming, joking, singing and sleeping to be done.

The girls in particular were strong volleyball players. It was great to have this to counter the boys’ passion for football, which is often held in high esteem elsewhere in Indonesia. I had preconceived notions of women being less encouraged than the male population to play sport in this proudly Islamic region of Indonesia. I was very wrong about that.

The children

Zainal liked to tell us his name, and at indiscriminate moments, would often let his name roll off his tongue. The only thing I can compare this to is the exaggerated pitch of an MC introducing the champion at a boxing match victory speech – Zainal would scream ‘Zaiiiinnnallll Aaabiiiddiiiinnn…’. This demonstration often occurred when we lined up to get our delicious meals with the other 40–50 inhabitants of the camp, or when well-intentioned NGOs would drop off school bags.

There were many other children. Take Nyong, whose father was running a quite successful business in Banda Aceh when the tsunami hit. He used to hold the money-purse and count the change closely every morning when the shopping was done at the local market (after guiding me back to safety on the many occasions when I was left behind due to my incompetency at weaving through the stalls).

There was Rahma, who had been in a wheelchair after an illness as a young child, but miraculously stood up and ran when the mighty waves hit the coast of Aceh. Rahma has one sister left, after losing four siblings, both parents and her grandparents to the water. She was engaged to be married, but when her fiancé turned up at the centre sometime after the tsunami, she decided that she wanted to go back to school to make up for all those years in a wheelchair. She is no longer engaged.

There was Ishak, who climbed a coconut tree to avoid the tsunami, and whose body is now covered in scars from the debris lashing his body after being caught up in the mighty water. In spite of this courageous act, Ishak refused to have his blood tested for malaria at the hospital, as he is scared of needles.

There are many more children, 42 at the time I was there to be precise, and they all became individuals to me within a very short time.

In some ways, Ishak’s story provides insight into that question on many people’s minds – how do you survive something like the tsunami? I wonder if you just don’t have time to think. You scramble and you do whatever you can. Afterwards, you just go on. What else is there to do? I think the children at this particular centre were a microcosm of this determination. 

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