Journey as a volunteer in Sri Lanka – the interesting and valuable lessons learned.

We tumbled through a shaky four-hour car journey from Columbo, our driver swerving around the road, dependant on the preference of the traffic fast coming towards us.

When we arrived at Unawatuna, a south-west coastal village deeply affected by the Boxing Day Tsunami, the pitch black darkness and remnants of buildings that had been savagely torn down by nature concealed from us the true beauty of the sea and sand that would be our new neighbourhood. The next day we’d see that while restaurants and bars could be devastated, like the sun that continued to shine, the spirit could stay strong.

Our room was relative luxury with a (cold) freshwater shower and one large bed for three, the mosquito net that embraced it giving it a princess effect. The comforting waves lulled us to a deep sleep.

The following day we were at a school in nearby Dadalla. One day donations would hopefully rebuild their ruined playing fields and classrooms but for now we had brought dozens of pairs of second-hand football boots. As we gave these to gleeful and grateful children I thought of my younger family members at Christmas tearing paper from their heap of expensive presents, giving each one no more than a cursory glance before moving on to the next. My attention was taken back to reality by a small boy shyly tugging at my arm. “Thank you very very much,” he said with a smile.

Later the teacher invited us to a ‘coming of age party’ in the village for an 11-year-old girl who had crossed the barrier from child to a woman. ‘Aunties’ accompanied us to the markets to help us buy swathes of brightly coloured fabric. They dressed us in their clever swift way, pinning and pleating until we were dressed in stunning saris. We tried not to take offence when they offered to ‘make us pretty with make up’.

We arrived at the party expecting a solemn family affair with sweet tea and cake but were greeted by hip hop and house and a pumping makeshift dancefloor. Delighted we threw ourselves into the pit of dancers to let off some steam. But after a minute or two we realised people were staring at us, not unkindly, but with amusement. It was then we realised that it was only men on the dancefloor. The women sat around the sides and the men danced together – rather like a 1980’s disco with the traditional gender roles reversed. We quickly took our places as onlookers. Saris are less comfortable than they look anyway and rather restrictive for dancing.

Another lesson from volunteering brought home the importance of loved ones. People were living in refugee camps, and we were finding and restoring photographs of their family and putting them into frames to give them, rather than spending our time and resources getting material goods for them to make them more comfortable.

With nothing else in the world, a photo of a loved one is priceless.