black and white movies where Nazis, or those whom they ordered to do so, loaded bodies into pits.
Ben looked horrified – and he had already seen a week of this. I told him all I knew. The only way to rid yourself of the smell was to take it in. It was easy to trot out stuff like ‘apocalypse of biblical proportions’, but this really was monumental. From locals burning fires in their doorways to keep warm, to nearby bridges with dozens of boats rammed up against them, and bodies just floating in the water: this was new territory for even the most battle-hardened.
I had to crack on though, as sterile as that sounds – Paul Greeves and I had attempted to send that convoy off from Medan as a tester to see if it would get through the sodden landscape in what we knew was bandit country, even at a time like this. We’d packed twenty cases of water and food because we had to be self-sufficient and healthy amid the carnage – if one vehicle made it through that would be a success. We had told Peter Leng to meet us at the big mosque in Banda Aceh. Neither of us knew this place but we figured it was the only prominent landmark that anyone would still recognise. It could, however, represent a danger, given that people flock to religion in moments like this.
As night fell around 17.00, we set off on the main route into town. It was cold and eerie, with just the little fires offering light and warmth. Darkness brings suspicion on both sides; we had to get in and out as quickly as possible. Having already attracted the unwelcome attention of two guys on motorbikes carrying AK-47s, who knew what was round the next corner?
Thankfully, the convoy had made it.
At 03.30, we hit the sack. The time difference for the Ten meant this was going to be the norm. We were up at the crack of dawn to hire a boat to take us to the open sea. It was horrific. Every time we approached a bridge, there were bodies on the bank. I had to take pictures as part of the job. Dead bodies don’t bother me: they can’t hurt me once they’re gone. I just got on with it.
It was body after body after body, each with breasts swollen to breaking point, eyeballs popping and tongues hanging out, and in the rubble of the destroyed buildings, more of the same – often semi-clothed, always swarming with flies. The heat of the mid-morning sun made things worse – more flies and more stench. As I proceeded like an emotionless machine, people were trying to clean up the houses and shops that remained. Haunted spirits got on with the soulless task of attempting everyday life, even though there was little to live for. These people would never forget: they would see reminders forever on every corner until their number was up, too. It was different for me coming in with a job to do – I would soon be out of here on the way back to Baghdad and new adventures. As we shot footage of Indonesian sailors cleaning one of the islands, you knew that they would play that film in their head from now until the end of time.
I was called back to the house – Peter Leng had summoned me and sent a bike to pick me up. After it dropped me on the bank, I walked back to the first bridge we had passed. Crossing it on foot for the first time at the mouth of the river, I had needed a mask. The sheer volume and horrific condition of the corpses, plus the fact that they were still there after well over a week, would have troubled even the most resilient. When I picture it now, I can still smell it.
Peter was panicking because a satellite dish was coming in and someone needed to fetch it safely. I also had to organise more food for more conveys to come in. We needed to get the house into shape. We couldn’t make the schoolboy error of falling ill because of our hygiene.
I set up a chalkboard with everybody’s locations and numbers. I stuck a massive sign saying ‘Take One, Replace One’ over the bottled water in the fridge, and bollocked the guys constantly about the overflowing bog
Ben looked horrified – and he had already seen a week of this. I told him all I knew. The only way to rid yourself of the smell was to take it in. It was easy to trot out stuff like ‘apocalypse of biblical proportions’, but this really was monumental. From locals burning fires in their doorways to keep warm, to nearby bridges with dozens of boats rammed up against them, and bodies just floating in the water: this was new territory for even the most battle-hardened.
I had to crack on though, as sterile as that sounds – Paul Greeves and I had attempted to send that convoy off from Medan as a tester to see if it would get through the sodden landscape in what we knew was bandit country, even at a time like this. We’d packed twenty cases of water and food because we had to be self-sufficient and healthy amid the carnage – if one vehicle made it through that would be a success. We had told Peter Leng to meet us at the big mosque in Banda Aceh. Neither of us knew this place but we figured it was the only prominent landmark that anyone would still recognise. It could, however, represent a danger, given that people flock to religion in moments like this.
As night fell around 17.00, we set off on the main route into town. It was cold and eerie, with just the little fires offering light and warmth. Darkness brings suspicion on both sides; we had to get in and out as quickly as possible. Having already attracted the unwelcome attention of two guys on motorbikes carrying AK-47s, who knew what was round the next corner?
Thankfully, the convoy had made it.
At 03.30, we hit the sack. The time difference for the Ten meant this was going to be the norm. We were up at the crack of dawn to hire a boat to take us to the open sea. It was horrific. Every time we approached a bridge, there were bodies on the bank. I had to take pictures as part of the job. Dead bodies don’t bother me: they can’t hurt me once they’re gone. I just got on with it.
It was body after body after body, each with breasts swollen to breaking point, eyeballs popping and tongues hanging out, and in the rubble of the destroyed buildings, more of the same – often semi-clothed, always swarming with flies. The heat of the mid-morning sun made things worse – more flies and more stench. As I proceeded like an emotionless machine, people were trying to clean up the houses and shops that remained. Haunted spirits got on with the soulless task of attempting everyday life, even though there was little to live for. These people would never forget: they would see reminders forever on every corner until their number was up, too. It was different for me coming in with a job to do – I would soon be out of here on the way back to Baghdad and new adventures. As we shot footage of Indonesian sailors cleaning one of the islands, you knew that they would play that film in their head from now until the end of time.
I was called back to the house – Peter Leng had summoned me and sent a bike to pick me up. After it dropped me on the bank, I walked back to the first bridge we had passed. Crossing it on foot for the first time at the mouth of the river, I had needed a mask. The sheer volume and horrific condition of the corpses, plus the fact that they were still there after well over a week, would have troubled even the most resilient. When I picture it now, I can still smell it.
Peter was panicking because a satellite dish was coming in and someone needed to fetch it safely. I also had to organise more food for more conveys to come in. We needed to get the house into shape. We couldn’t make the schoolboy error of falling ill because of our hygiene.
I set up a chalkboard with everybody’s locations and numbers. I stuck a massive sign saying ‘Take One, Replace One’ over the bottled water in the fridge, and bollocked the guys constantly about the overflowing bog
Similar Books
