Observing the Poll in Sri Lanka's Paddy-lands

The mosquito nets - plastic-wrapped hoops of candy-pink - hanging outside the general stores on the journey into Eastern Province - were the first sign we had entered the paddy-lands of Ampara. Vast, watery stretches of territory inhabited by mud-coated farmers, tractors and water buffalo, and by night, a cast of singing, dancing and dazzling insects.

For the next five days, as international observers for Sri Lanka's recent Presidential Election, my team mate and I would not only familiarise ourselves with government ministers, police chiefs, political party bosses and polling officials, but with the intricacies of irrigation - the watery veins that intertwine with almost every aspect of life in the poorest and the worst tsunami-effected province of Sri Lanka.

"That bridge," said Subair, one of our interpreters, pointing to a twenty-foot long construction with gated lock system across a muddy canal (think Suez in miniature), "was built by the Americans". "Very strong bridge, very famous," he added.

Famous! I come from a city where our bridge is an icon. How could a not-so-attractive amalgam of cogs, wheels and rusted plates compare to Sydney's huge, glorious, New Year's Eve a-sparkle span of steel.

But in our mission to locate the more remote polling stations in Ampara District, we were to meet with that not-quite-so-famous bridge a number of times. And where a monsoon downpour can sever coastal communities from the rest of the island, or force detours of 100 kilometres or more, one little bridge can suddenly be worth more than its weight in the best New Year fireworks Asia has to offer.

We weren't just in a land of political rallies by torchlight, heavily armed checkpoints, pre-election muggings or homemade-grenade attacks, but a world where water permeates everything - creating life, and then, catastrophically destroying it, as it did on December 26th 2004.

We were fortunate. Although officially monsoon season, one five-hour dumping our first afternoon meant there was little need for our observer-issued, bright yellow umbrellas.

So, for the following days in the lead-up to the election, and despite a district map and compass, we lost ourselves on potholed roads beside shady channels, and discovered instead an ancient and not so ancient world of irrigation - a language of bunds, sluices, spills and enormous reservoirs called tanks (from the Portuguese 'tanques'). We crossed causeways and culverts, passed dams and abandoned pumping stations, and in every direction, palm-fringed paddy fields and bird-filled skies.

On Election Day, after the opening of the poll in Sammanturai, we traveled east, to the home of our interpreters, Kalmunai. With a death toll of over 9,000, the area became one of the tsunami's deadliest landfalls. Settled by Arab traders and fisherman, this tightly packed grid of brick houses, narrow roads and sandy lanes, isn't more than a kilometre wide from the lap of the ocean, back to the paddy fields. And all along the town's beachfront and up to 300m inland the tsunami's legacy - rubble and ruin, tents and temporary dwellings, and a putrid stench from the lagoon not hard to forget.

But this was Election Day.

The streets were full, the skies warm and blue. Colourful clouds of kurtas and saris - mothers, grandmothers, sisters and daughters - dressed to vote. Teams of cricket-crazy Moslem boys batted and bowled in clearings where shops and houses stood just a year ago. And a band of tots ran the decks of 24ft fishing boat - lifted by the gigantic waves and hurled 300m inland to crash-land near a school - now oddly and miraculously a piece of play equipment.

We saw joy in unlikely places and our observers' presence seemed warmly welcomed. This was 'democracy day', and the people of this bruised and battered town were exercising their right to a little happiness.

With our interpreters' votes cast, we return westward along a causeway road - already six inches under water - to the polling stations in the paddy-lands.

But the day grows hotter, the air heavier. By lunch, the electoral climate has completely changed. Violence has erupted in the neighbouring district of Batticaloa. There's a report of a murder in Kalmunai, and a further two to the south in Akkaraipattu.

Entering into the larger villages there's an underlying tension and the vote is slow. In some polling stations the only movements are the rainbow streaks of sunlit dragonflies, or a soldier silently shifting his rifle from one shoulder to the other. Later, we hear a boycott of the poll in the Tamil north has put the vote there at less than one percent.

Back in Sammanturai for the close of the poll, the ballot box is signed, sealed and ready for delivery. Relieved, we follow the heavily armed road to the District Counting Centre and file our reports.

Later, at our guesthouse by the moonlit paddy fields, the night-air is filled with cricket-song, fireworks and odd, angry, distant gunshot. The mozzies too, are on the march.

From under my mosquito net I feel safe but exhausted. I dream of exploding insects, and paddy-field scarecrows floating in a spread of sky reflected in a watery patchwork below.

At 7.00am, we wake to the news that a bomb has been hurled into a mosque in Akkaraipattu. Four are dead and scores injured. By breakfast, Sri Lanka's new president has already been announced.

Our mission over and our gear packed, we pose for photographs - interpreters, drivers, and observers from everywhere - wrestling with the imperfect emotions only departures create. The long drive back to Colombo is lush and spectacular, but silent. Sadness ebbs and flows, and I am loath to leave.

By the baggage carousel at Sydney Airport two days later, a twinge of happiness - a glimpse of Ampara. My beautiful, new, plastic-wrapped hoop of candy-pink net has safely arrived.

And I hear it's going to be a wet summer.

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Published on 12/11/05