The Earth is Quaking

I was walking to the refrigerator to grab a drink as the world beneath me began to argue. They called it a 5.6 on the Richter Scale, but that means a lot less then the waves beneath my feet. I have been through a 5.6 before, but nothing like this one, a never ending motion where the ground moved from waves to quivers. My roommate and I both grabbed our drinks and sat outside, we decided the best evacuation plan was to sit and watch, and with cheers, we clinked our glasses and giggled our way through a long and creepy dance with mother earth.

Enjoy good pictures and a sad story....

This boat weighs over 1,000 metric tons and traveled 5 kilometers over land before resting on top of 13 homes. More than 23 bodies are permanently buried underneath. It is too big to move and has been converted into a power station and memorial for the surrounding village. Many say it is the most solid structure in all of Banda Aceh.

 

This is one of my favorite photos ever. This guy just stared off into space. The car was partially crushed by the boat in the background.

 

A temporary community in Mata Le ( Pronounced Mata E)

 

A women watches her granddaughter while she tells us how her family survived the tsunami. She invited us into her home to hear her story.

 

Community members helping erect the frame of a temporary shelter.

 

A temporary school that was abandoned, or in development speak "donated to the community," by another NGO. The kids have turned it into a swing set.

 

8-Ball, Standing Behind

Death is all around me these days. From the poor Indonesian man that met his end on the bumper of a car (brain-dead and dying for his wife and mother to see); to my grandmother slowly, sadly, fading away; to my friend Heather.

I used to have a huge crush on Heather. I watched her with awe for many years. She was this silly, cute, crazy, girl that always changed a room the moment she graced the doorway. The life of the party, she always made you dance harder and laugh more. I remember many a long night with the girl we affectionately called 8-Ball (she was a ballerina, with a wicked grin, on the pool table).

I remember the evenings she was kind enough to drive me home or cover me with a blanket as I dozed off on her couch. I remember finding reasons to stay longer or party harder so I could talk more, make it last longer. When I got back from Peace Corps, Heather was one of the few people that took the time to re-learn who I was. She never made me feel as far away as I should have felt. Her only concern was that I have fun while I was with her—I always did.

My friend is dead.

She had left us all a long time ago. I remember calling her, reaching-out, only to get an empty sound on the other end of the line. I left messages and I tried, but I didn’t do everything I could. Even now, as I dedicate myself to helping others, I realize I couldn’t even help one I loved. Twenty-nine years old, my friend is dead. I, we, she, failed.

Whoever was with Heather as she was overdosing drove her to 35th and Dodge and dumped her on the sidewalk, calling 911 as they drove away. I wonder if they feel shamed, if they are haunted by her death, as haunted as I am (as shamed as I am).