Tsunami put up for sale

As soon as all the dead were buried in the tsunami-devastated areas of Sri Lanka and the sound of memorial drums fell silent in the temples, the islanders immediately stopped grieving and briskly set about restoring life to its former course. Perhaps this is because they are Buddhists and know that everything has a beginning and an end, and suffering is no exception. Or maybe it is an island survival instinct not entirely understandable to us, inhabitants of the mainland.

Be that as it may, on the island they no longer weep for their loved ones and children, whom the ocean treated so unjustly. Here, fishing villages are springing up like mushrooms after rain. Projects for new cities are ready. Within just three months, local authorities promise to restore all the destroyed hotels. The great and mighty tourism business has not died; on the contrary, it has grown stronger and acquired new nuances.

The first to realize that, no matter how you look at it, the tsunami is now a brand were the most cheerful and resourceful inhabitants of the island: drivers, vendors, and professional beggars.

"Hello! Tsunami, yes!" the rickshaw drivers now shout in unison. "Madam wants to hire a tuk-tuk and see what the wave wreaked? If you don't go today, tomorrow they'll have cleared the rubble! Throw in another dollar, and on the way I'll tell you a tsunami joke!"

"Oh, Russian! Beer, vodka, Yuri Gagarin!" the vendors at the pineapple stalls shout out and drag you into a relative's shop—brother, in-law, nephew—to sell you some local hand-made trinkets. Now in these colorful souvenir shops, smelling of tangy, bright tropical exoticism, alongside the traditional painted elephants of all stripes and configurations, jewelry, and luxurious saris, there are T-shirts with the spirit-affirming slogan "I survived the tsunami!"

On the streets, even in cities that were completely untouched by the disaster, there are more professional beggars. They spot foreigners from afar, then begin telling heart-wrenching stories in sign language about how the ocean destroyed their homes. One particular trait of the newly minted disaster victims: they don't play on pity; they rely on the power of their vocal cords.

"Give money!" The beggars follow you all the way to the hotel and screech loudly in your ear: "Tsunami! Tsunami!" But you shouldn't give them money. Locals say that if you do, it's all over: to the gates of the hotel where you're staying, this "businessman in rags" will bring his whole family, who will all chorus in unison: "Tsunami! Tsunami!"

Such grief as the one that struck Southeast Asia in December would break anyone. It melts the weak into wax and molds them into moral monsters. It turns the strong into cynics. And only those who refuse to be broken does it condescendingly count among the lucky ones. Life plays with both like toys. That's how it goes. The Sri Lankans are just such lucky ones. Moderately cynical and moderately sentimental, they have accepted the tragedy that befell them as a given. As a fact they will have to live with, and live happily at that.

Surviving hotels offer a tour of Yala National Park, the most beautiful nature reserve on the island's southeastern coast. Before the tsunami, visiting Sri Lanka without seeing Yala was at least indecent. Just like going to Paris without climbing the Eiffel Tower, or going to Moscow without seeing Red Square. Buffaloes, elephants, leopards, monkeys, crocodiles, mongooses—hundreds of tourists came to Yala every day to gawk at these wild animals.

Here, on 40,000 hectares of tropical forest, jeep safaris were organized, and the boldest thrill-seekers could rent a bungalow for the night right in the jungle. For everyone else, a luxurious hotel was built at the park entrance. Now Yala Park is known for having the highest number of tourist deaths. The wave swept everything away in a matter of seconds—both the expensive hotel with 275 guests and all the bungalows.

Despite this, tours to the park have not stopped. Moreover, admission prices have doubled since the tragedy. There are more than enough people wanting to see with their own eyes what the wave did. Tourists from Europe and America, journalists, and Sri Lankans themselves. When we arrived at Yala, there was a long line at the ticket office.

For a full hour we drive around the park looking for remnants of former splendor—or at least some animals. Against the backdrop of the "sick" landscape hang ominous signs warning that leaving the jeep is life-threatening. True, they are now completely meaningless. Half an hour before the wave arrived, all the animals fled deep into the reserve. And they still haven't returned.

The landscape outside the jeep window leaves much to be desired: the salt water that hit the reserve's mangrove thickets has killed thousands of trees. They have withered, become covered with frost from ocean salt, and are now dying. But it has been decided not to remove them: Yala National Park will remain the island's only open-air monument to the tsunami. A decision that seems strange at first glance seems quite logical to the Sri Lankans.

"Why interfere where nature has already done its work?" marvels park ranger Puyante. "The park will recover naturally, and then the animals will return to their habitats. We have already tried more than once to change the laws of the universe, so the ocean punished us. This time we will be wiser, because it is impossible to outsmart nature."

In mid-January, the World Health Organization and the UN declared Sri Lanka an epidemiologically dangerous zone for three diseases at once: malaria, cholera, and hepatitis. The other day this blockade was lifted—according to international experts, everything has been done on the island to prevent the spread of infection. It has been officially stated that there is nothing to fear—there will be no epidemics. And tourists are pouring into Sri Lanka again.

Some want to understand the Sri Lankans and perhaps catch the nature of their optimism. There are many such Europeans, Americans, Japanese who visit temples, spend hours talking with Buddhist monks, trying to unravel the mystery of the Sri Lankan soul. They go to the ancient capital of Ceylon, the city of Kandy, where the main shrine of the entire Buddhist community is located – the Temple of the Tooth of Buddha.

A month after the tragedy, the number of pilgrims to Mount Sri Pada, which followers of all world religions consider sacred, has increased. There, at the summit, is a footprint, and Buddhists believe it is the footstep of Buddha. Hindus disagree, believing that Shiva visited the mountain. Muslims insist the footprint belongs to Adam. And Christians are convinced that Saint Thomas, who preached Christianity in South India, left his mark here.

Other guests of the island choose humanitarian tourism. They take vacations from work and come here to help. For housing, these people choose half-destroyed private hotels and guesthouses on the coast. They help the owners clear the area of debris brought by the ocean and repair the settled walls. On the road leading from Colombo to the east, all the way to Trincomalee, where the territory of the "Tamil Tigers," or armed separatists, begins, there are a great many such buildings.

In the city of Galle, the third largest in Sri Lanka, and now completely washed away by the wave, farmers from New Zealand have settled. They will build a hundred houses here and help three Sri Lankan families restore a hotel. In the town of Tangalla there are many Americans. They came to provide targeted assistance. To find those who truly need help. And so – they found them.

From the small guesthouse of the Avante Lakshmi family on the ocean shore, only a small kitchen remains. The twenty small buildings where tourists stayed overnight evaporated as if they had never existed. Now the owner, along with his wife and son, lives in a tent. The Walker family from Chicago transferred five thousand dollars to the victims' account. By local standards, this is an enormous sum. With this money, the Lakshmi family will build cottages even better than before.

Another married couple from New York came to adopt a child. But they left empty-handed. The Sri Lankans made a decision: not to give children left without parents to foreigners. They feel strong enough, they know they can raise and bring up their own children themselves.

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