Murali hits the road again

Within hours of his arrival back from Melbourne after the Tsunami fundraiser, Muttiah Muralitharan, was back in action once again, hurrying up lethargic customs officials and cutting through red tape so that three containers of emergency aid could be cleared in time for a two-day mission to the south coast. By 5.30am on Saturday, having rounded up support from several other cricketers, including Kumar Sangakkara, Mahela Jayawardene, Nuwan Zoysa, Avishka Gunawardene and their partners, plus physiotherapist CJ Clarke and an Irishman called Steve, who was built like a mountain and could heave rice sacks all day, the convoy was ready to roll.

This relief mission, the third Murali has led since the devastating tsunami, had a dual purpose: to deliver five large trucks of much-needed food, medical supplies, clothing, cooking utensils and toys donated from a variety of sources, including the players themselves, Clarion Singapore Logistics and Katugosta Rotary Club; and also to travel south as ambassadors of the cricket board's Cricket-Aid programme, which has opened an emergency relief camp in Matara, a bustling southern town famous for its fisherman and Sanath Jayasuriya.

Fortunately, this time, I was able to sneak a place in Jayawardene's jeep and therefore saved from another nerve-jangling experience of Murali's appalling driving skills along the famously dangerous Galle Road, a road that once led to paradise beaches but now leads to a natural war zone. Soon we were zipping through Kalutara, the west coast town in which Murali made one of the few u-turns of his career on Boxing Day morning, abandoning a children's charity trip and narrowly escaping the giant tsunami waves that were eating their way up the coastline.

The first port of call was the village of Seenigama, the home of Murali's manager, Kushil Gunasekera, who has been running a relief camp at the local temple with assistance from USAID. It used to be a popular spot for the cricketers, who could sneak away from Colombo and relax for a night or two in Gunasekera's villa. But his property, over 400m away from the sea, is barely recognisable now: the tennis court has disappeared, the pool is full of foul smelling sludge and the interior has been washed away. A few days before the local authorities had dug a hole outside his front door and buried eight nameless decomposing bodies.

Gunasekera, waiting patiently for Murali with 30 giggling children on that Boxing Day morning, had sprinted away from the waves and sought refuge in the village Buddhist temple. Most of the 30 children survived, but the 50 others travelling by coach were swept away. The temple is now home to 100 families and approximately 80 kids. They seemed cheerful, especially after the appearance of the cricketers, but their crayon drawings told a much sadder tale: some drew violent seas and crushed buildings; others preferred to forget and just copied the pretty bird on the front cover of their notebook.

The players' last convoy to camps around Trincomalee and Batticaloa had revealed that basic food and medical aid were reaching most people, although in small quantities in some cases, but there was an urgent need to start addressing the deep trauma that had built up inside previously innocent souls. The cricketers brought crayons and notepads, plastics toys and brightly coloured tennis balls, all of which they hoped would help the children to turn off the horror show in their heads. When it was time to leave, the kids sang in Sinhalese, a beautiful but heartbreaking song that told the players about the great wave, how it rose from nowhere, destroyed their homes and killed without mercy.

We moved on with lumps in our throat, passing the derailed Colombo Express on the way, a death chamber for over 1000 travellers that is now a sick tourist attraction. At Galle we'd come to meet Jayanda Warnaweera, the Galle stadium's curator, who having watched ten years of his life wash into the sea was then hit with a bout of chicken pox. But, although his limestone coloured face was alarming at first, Warnaweera was in relatively good spirits. Ludicrous plans to move the entire stadium away from the sea had happily been shelved and his team of helpers were raking stones off the outfield by hand. The fact that the saltwater damage meant that over six inches would need to be scraped off the entire playing area made their efforts seem a little futile, but like many they wanted to start rebuilding sooner rather than later.

The fate of the ground is not yet known. It is clear that many people will come to help at some stage - the MCC have already donated substantial funds and the entire Melbourne Cricket Ground groundstaff have offered to descend en masse to lend their expertise - but no firm decisions have been made. Warnaweera estimates that the rebuilding cost could be around the $4 million mark, but with this he'll be able to make a fine ground, with an improved pavilion stand, lush grassy banks all round and fine uninterrupted views of the sea in the distance. He needs a year but needs a decision first.

From Galle we travelled further south, past Miltons, a beachfront guesthouse on the once picturesque Unawatuna bay, a place where the cricketers used to flock during matches for their dinner but now stands derelict and locked up. The time had arrived for the real hard work to begin and at Ruhuna College, an emergency camp that has become a food aid distribution centre with people returning home to try and mend some of their houses, the trucks were once again unloaded. Gunawardene - nicknamed The Bull - proved a valuable member of the squad, capable of ferrying the super-heavy loads, but even Zoysa belied his early-career reputation for being work-shy with some heavy lifting. Fortunately, for Sri Lanka and Lancashire, CJ, the physio was in charge of unpacking the truck and was able to prevent Steve from loading a 50kg sack of rice onto Murali's still sore shoulder.

An Air Force Relief camp was next and passed without incident, except that for the first time in the trip the girls were receiving more attention than the cricketers - but was partly explained by the opening appearance of the tennis balls. They were grabbed by all ages, including the little girls that were flirting with Murali and one beautiful old lady, who, despite apparently being well over 80 years old, claimed defiantly to be "still able to hit as good as the rest".

The board's Cricket-Aid camp proved almost Sheraton-like in comparison to some of the other refugee centres. The board's efforts have been uncomfortably obsessed with PR in the early stages, but the speed with which they have acted is praiseworthy and the well-organised Matara cannot be faulted. Families are being properly cared for and the mood was upbeat. Indeed, as was the case in the other nine camps visited, it was truly astonishing to see such spirit in the face of such terrible suffering, a testament to the amazing inner strength of the people.

With the afternoon heat abating and the day drawing to the close, the kids in the Cricket-Aid couldn't resist an impromptu game of softball cricket. First Zoysa, his injured finger still sore and bandaged, was persuaded into bowling lollipops from a short run by a six-year-old. Murali joined in the fun with his first uncharitable act since Boxing Day, biffing his first three deliveries into the neighbouring temple. Finally, he popped up a simple return catch into the relieved hands of a young bowler.

After an all-too-short sleep in a ship-shaped Tangalle hotel that had been clearly designed by an architect with an addiction to acid, we hit the road again. The planned itinerary was for one visit to a camp in Tangalle followed by another in Hambantota, a fishing town to the east that had been severely affected, but the schedule was redrawn by a local politician who sensed an opportunity to boost his popularity ratings in their district. The first taste of politics started to irritate Murali, who abhors the politicisation of the aid effort in some quarters.

But, although our supplies were fast running out, there was no denying that the three unscheduled stops were needy ones. The first two were camps run by a remarkable young-looking monk called Mahwella Jayasiri. He'd been meditating when the first wave arrived, almost washing into the temple, and now he was coordinating the distribution of aid to approximately 2000 people. A stone's throw from his temple I heard the story of an astonishing escape: a six month year old baby had slept through and survived the tsunami when the foam mattress on which she lay rose up to the ceiling and then safely back down to the floor when the water receded.

Eventually, hours after our planned arrival, we drove into Hambantota. It proved a shocking end to the trip. The main beachfront centre of the town, the densely populated home of thousands of fishing families and the location for the Sunday pola (market), had been completely decimated. The waves had been 40 feet high and devastation was appalling: only five of the town's 400 fishing trawlers were seaworthy and thousands had been killed - locals claimed that with the full market the final death toll might reach 15,000.

Amongst the rumble we met Shihan Singwansa, the curly-haired captain of Hambantota Cricket Club, a Division Two side that had been pushing for promotion. His tale was awful: he'd lost his mother, brother and no less that seven of his team-mates. He spoke without tears to fellow cricketers in deep shock. Another man, called Zahir, returned from his workplace in Dubai to find out that his mother, one brother and three sisters had died. Only one brother and a brother-in-law remained, but he pledged to stay and help rebuild the town. But these were people with nothing. Not only had they lost loved ones, they'd lost their livelihoods. The ocean was their provider and there are no nets or boats now left to catch the fish. The UN and the government have pledged to help but it will take decades for some people to once again be self-sufficient. To make matters worse the local authorities were trying to force them to relocate to a camp 10km inland. The locals complained bitterly, arguing that, as fisherman, an elephant-infested jungle hideout so far from the coast was ridiculously inappropriate.

Our trucks were now empty and it was time to leave for Colombo. As we drove out of the town, we wished we had been able to bring so much more. The aid was a drop in a deep ocean of need. The generosity of so many as been amazing, but much more is needed, especially long-term assistance to help rebuild fractured livelihoods. We travelled back with heavy hearts, hoping, like the fishing folk of Hambantota, that as the tsunami becomes old news, people around the world will not forget.

Those wishing to make a donation to Murali's charity (the Muralidharan-Gunasekera Foundation) can click here: www.unconditionalcompassion.com. If you would like to make a donation to Sri Lanka Cricket's Cricket-Aid program then visit: www.srilankacricket.lk