Tsunami Anniversary: The Koh Jum Post

"Situated halfway between Krabi and Ko Lanta Yai, Ko Jum  (also known as Ko Pu) is the sort of laid-back and simple spot that people come for a couple of days, then can't bring themselves to leave." - The Rough Guide to Thailand's Beaches & Islands, November 2004 printing

"Koh Jum's tempo ranges from slow to inert." - The Krabi Flyer, October 2005

I walk towards Ko Jum village (pronounced like plum) from my bungalow on the the red cake dirt avoiding puddles as I pass rubber tree farms, banana trees, papaya trees, and coconut palms. Fifteen minutes into my stroll, a woman walks by carrying eight coconuts strung together like a handbag from her clenched fist.

I am on my way to Wildside Tours to visit the Thai-German couple that created the www.SosKohJum.tk website and raised $20,000 US for the island community's tsunami relief.

I stayed on Koh Jum last year for six days and five nights. At dusk last night as the sun was setting behind clouds I pass by the tree were I swayed on the swing on Christmas morning. That was my last morning on Koh Jum. The swing is not there. I pass not a single person on the beach.

As I arrive at Wildside's office, I find the rectangular woven straw hut locked by bungee cords. I walk around the compound searching for life and spot a half-dozen faded yellow kayaks covered in more woven straw mat.

I hear singing and laughing filling the air ahead like a big New Year's bash on the mainland. But it's only 9 a.m.

I walk to the schoolyard across the narrow path to where a bold white banner hangs at the entrance. The only words I recognize: "Tsunami Relief" are sandwiched in between undecipherable curleycues and then "Operation Blessing."

I spot another business kitty corner, a restaurant, and walk in for help. "Do you speak English?"

"Little," answers the dark island woman in a bright blue sarong.

"Wildside? Is anyone there?" Just that moment a long-haired blond farung comes in the dining area from the back. "You speak English." It's partially a question. Partially begging.

Unbeknownst to me, I have just wandered in to post-tsunami relief central. When 40 to 50% of the resorts and bungalows (and all the kitchens) were damaged by the tsunami, inland Rim Tang Restaurant was the sole restaurant serving food when everyone came down off the 'mountain.' The restaurant became the congregation point for foreigners now stranded on the island.

Mama Holland, as Aaf is affectionately known on the island, tells me she has never washed so much laundry in her life as after the tsunami when villagers handed her their saltwater-encrusted clothing. The saltwater seeps in and can quickly disintegrate anything just like the salt air and the sun inevitably disintegrates plastic and styrofoam in the satin smooth tropical air here.

Mama and Papa Holland, who remind me of Santa and Mrs. Claus, settled into Koh Jum during the Holland winters fourteen years ago when back surgery forced Aaf to forgo Turkish transport, cramped Guatemalan schoolbuses and other backpacker travails. Add it up and they've spent the better part of six years on Koh Jum. 

When they first arrived on Koh Jum, one of 132 islands in Krabi province, only Joy Bungalows and New Bungalows were open. During Christmas peak season, tents would dot the beach awaiting for bamboo and wooden bungalows to free up. Mama and Papa now rent a small home nestled between the restaurant and the community's batik house.

"There's the Bangkok Post," says Auf, "And then there is my husband, William: The Koh Jum Post."

I see I've stumbled onto the right place. The five months they do spend in Holland, Mama devours television nearly 24/7. But she likes shifting gears on Koh Jum. "When I'm here, I've only got the fish tank."

There is no community paper, but gossip doesn't take long to spread among the 1500 inhabitants in the three villages. The new emergency alert system seems to take this into account. When an earthquake hit Indonesia this past March, a well-placed 2 a.m. wakeup call had everyone scrambling up the mountain in ten minutes. Enough folks here have radios. And if you stand on the pier or on the point your cell phone might just work. Mobile carriers now broadcast SMS emergency alerts.

The restaurant owner relays the latest news while I'm in the restaurant. One hundred people in India awaiting flood relief were trampled to death jostling for position when a food truck arrrived. This is a far cry from the Thais whom are more likely to wait very patiently and orderly in line and when you aren't looking later then snatch a parcel of rice.

I spent the better part of yesterday - I believe that's Monday - chatting with Mama and Papa and getting the lowdown on the island and its people. "Even the older folks here call me Papa," says William. "I don't mind."

This couple would be the epitome of a publisher in this hyperlocal, citizens media world. Except Mama loathes computers. "I hate computers," she extends the word hate into a polysyllabic drawl. She recounts her horror customer experience with the local computer shop. Her new Packard Bell went kaput after two weeks of use. It's still unresolved as they left Holland for their winter abode here. And Mama can't be bothered to walk across the street to the school's newly donated Satellite-powered computers for intermittent Internet access.

Walking about town and innate curiousity serve Papa well. He knows everyone and everyone knows him. End to end the island is about eight kilometers. Which doesn't sound far until you are walking in this heat for yourself or scurrying by rubber trees on motorbike. I see one teal pickup truck the entire day. Heck, it's the only truck I've ever seen here in my collective seven or eight days.

Yet nothing seems faster than word of mouth here.

I listen to the tropic sounds of frogs burping and cicadas chirping this Tuesday morning and wonder how in the world to tell you. When you are an outsider it is easier to spill the secrets. Yet there are no secrets here. That is when you are here.

But you sit there reading this from London or Singapore or San Diego or Miami.

Disaster relief has its good, its bad, its ugly I'm finding out.

p.s. Internet access is really tough here. Much more to come.

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