PERSONAL: Memories of the Tsunamin

On Christmas Day 2004, our reporter and underwater film-maker Tobias Dahlin was with his family in Khao Lak, Thailand. This is his personal account of what happened then.

Khao Lak, Christmas Day 2004

The sea is mirror-like and I roll backwards from the longtail boat just moored at Boonsung wreck. The near-thirty degree water penetrates under my thin wetsuit like a pleasant caress. We slowly fall into the blue until we reach the wreck. The abundance of fish is enormous and the colours are stunning. Is this paradise?

Khao Lak, Boxing Day 2004

We have just boarded a bus. Today we are going on a jungle trip. We are going to pick up some other tourists at the hotels. On the hill just south of the village I look out over the sea. But it is not there. It has disappeared, sucked out towards the horizon. And there, far away, we see it, the wall of water rolling in towards the coast. Minutes later, I look straight into the horror. The cars and mopeds sound their alarms. Hundreds of people rushing. Screaming. Banging hysterically on the bus. Only an inch of glass separates me from a pair of pleading eyes. They soon fill with the fear of death. They belong to a young woman. The children under her arms are dropped. They are picked up again. But it does not matter. The wave will catch up with them. Our driver speeds up, paying no attention to the panicked crowds of people trying to squeeze into the bus. He swerves. And turns onto a road that slopes towards the mountains. It saves our lives. From the window I look down at the lower terrain. The water masses are advancing like a steamroller. I see goats, cars and sheds travelling through the huge inferno of water. Seconds later, beyond the crest, I see no more of it. I hug my one-year-old son as I shiver. All the while the bus winds its way up the winding roads towards the mountains. 

Phuket 27 december 2004

We have been evacuated. At a hotel in Karon beach Fritidsresor gathers their travellers. Here the wave was much milder. The atmosphere is surreal. Here are the hotel’s regular guests who continue the holiday lunch with sun, swimming and umbrella drinks. As if nothing had happened. At the same time, the hotel fills up with more and more broken people. Desperate and inconsolable. I recognise some of them from the hotel and the beach in Khao Lak. I see that the woman who turned 80 on Christmas Eve is missing among her family. And I talk to the newlywed man we met earlier. His voice breaks when he tells me that his four-year-old daughter has slipped out of his hands. His son and wife are also missing. A woman in her 65s, who has also lived in Khao Lak, has severe scratches on her face. She asks me to help her to her room. Her vision is so bad without glasses. 

Khao Lak 28 December 2004

Back in Khao Lak. Two brothers with their respective and me. We are going to look for the brothers’ father. They lived in the same hotel. His name is Jan Antonsson, 60. We walk around the ruins of what just a few days ago was a place of joy, laughter and celebration. Christmas garlands still dangle from the palm trees. We can’t find him, of course. But suddenly, his watch. In the middle of all the rubble. How can it be possible?

We continue to various hospitals. Outside, makeshift signs have been put up with lists of everyone being treated inside. Several names are hard to decipher. We get no response.

At the Buddhist temple just outside the community, bodies have been collected. They lie in rows on the large grass field behind the temple. The smell of the rotting bodies in the blazing sun is unbearable. Trucks are shuttling in with coffins and ice. But they can’t keep up. And we don’t find him there in the field.

We visit another hospital. The same kind of handwritten lists. And suddenly a light of hope. Jan with a surname of A is among the names. The surname is difficult to decipher. Does it say Andersson or possibly, with a little good will, Antonsson? Year of birth 1934 and not 44. But they may have written it wrong. After a long wait, we talk to a doctor. He apologises. Jan died as a result of his injuries just a few hours ago. That little hope turns to despair.  

Phuket 29 December 2004

Doctors from Sweden have arrived at the hotel. And priests. I follow the woman with the lost glasses to an optician. There we let her try out a new pair. We have a chat. She comes from Halmstad, not far from my own home town, Falkenberg. She was on her dream holiday with her husband. This was his 70th birthday present. He was just going down to his room to get some sun cream. Then the wave came.

– We celebrated Jan’s 70th birthday earlier in December.

– Jan?

– Yes, that’s his name. My husband. Jan Andersson.

Cold shivers spread through my body. But I don’t tell her then and there that I know her husband is dead. She is in no condition to be told that.

Phuket – Malmö 30 December 2004  

Flight home to Sweden. We, my then wife and our son, offer to stay behind to help. But Fritidsresor prioritises flights home and families with children should leave first.

The welcome on Swedish soil is overwhelming. Doctors, psychologists, counsellors, police officers, priests and various aid organisations are meeting up. Like some kind of collective group hug. uppkram. 

Epilogue

It is said that mankind became kinder in the wake of the tsunami. That for a while, the world became a little more humble. More empathetic.

Maybe it’s that in times of crisis we are more inclined to look out for each other? That humanity is proportionate to our challenges? If so, then perhaps we can expect a more humane approach to all the trials that lie ahead. And a hope that the warmth and affection we like to spread around Christmas can linger.

It is needed in these times.  

——-

Jan Andersson/Jan Antonsson, both later confirmed dead, were actually called something else.