We leave early for Batticaloa, the coastal town where the Home for Human Rights is working with Tsunami survivors.

We pass wild elephants, monkeys, and peacocks but none of them are as wild as the vehicles, which hurtle down the narrow road in a blur of horns and motion. One recent study found that fatalities on Sri Lankan buses have increased alarmingly over the past year, and watching them accelerate around corners I can understand it. So much is slow-moving in this country that it makes little sense until I notice that all the trucks – no matter how dilapidated – carry the words “fully insured” at the back. That must explain why they have no fear of crashing.

Morning on the Batticaloa lake.

At Habarana junction, the road takes a turn to east and begins to dip towards the coast and a more arid climate. Traffic thins out with the vegetation, and military patrols start to appear. A strip of forest has been cleared on either side of the road, and every few kilometers we pass an encampment of the Special Task Force, a military police force that was set up after 1983 to deal with the Tamil insurgency and trained by the Israelis.

The province of Batticaloa, on the east of the island, epitomizes Sri Lanka’s complex and long-running crisis. Three separate entities are vying for control of the largely Tamil population – the Government, which controls the coastal strip, the Liberation Tamil Tigers of Eelam (LTTE), and a breakaway LTTE group, known as karuna. All three “administrations” impose taxes. Border villages are particularly vulnerable.

Batticaloa’s enchanting topography made it terribly vulnerable to the Tsunami. Mangrove trees were cut down long ago to deny Tamil guerrillas a place to hide, and the sand dunes have been reduced by mining. There was nothing to slow the wave as it swept in across the narrow spit of land.

Even cemeteries were not spared.

Although the ceasefire still holds, Batticaloa is clearly not at peace. Every day sees an act of violence – a grenade here, a shooting there – and the government imposed a state of emergency after the recent assassination of the foreign minister Lakshman Kadirgamar. To my untrained eye, these policemen are finger-on-the-trigger nervous, particularly after dusk. Aid vehicles are equally distinctive, as they cruise above the clutter of street life, with their banners proudly proclaiming their affiliation.

WIn normal times, Batticaloa must be a delightful place. The town is dominated by a large Dutch fort and lies between the ocean and a large lagoon which is said to be home to the world’s only singing fish. In some places, the two bodies of water are separated by a picture-postcard fringe of sand and palm trees.

But Batticaloa’s enchanting topography made it terribly vulnerable to the Tsunami. Mangrove trees were cut down long ago to deny Tamil guerrillas a place to hide, and the sand dunes have been reduced by mining. There was nothing to slow the wave as it swept in across the narrow spit of land. Many other towns along the coast suffered the same fate. Even cemeteries were torn up

Looking out over the placid water of Batticaloa, it is impossible to imagine the destructive power of that wave.