Mahdi Efendi's ears prick up when he hears the noise. First, it is only a very quiet hum above the hills that rise up behind his village. But then the thwack-thwack of the helicopter rotors become louder and louder. Only when it is quite close does Efendi run out of his office to a nearby field to wave his arms at the chopper. He jumps into the air as though trying to pull the chopper out of the sky. Other villagers do the same.

It's a false alarm. The camouflage-green cargo copter, part of the Singapore army's fleet, maintains altitude and flies directly over Efendi's village and down the coast. The thwack-thwack fades away once again, disappearing at the other end of the chain of thickly forested hills. Efendi -- the mayor of a small village in the district of Lhoong on the west coast of Sumatra -- returns, defeated, to his office. Maybe, hopes the 33-year-old, the next one will land in the village field.

During the past two weeks, the strange ritual has played itself out dozens of times in Lhoong -- located smack in the middle of one of the regions most devastated by the Dec. 26 tsunami. The mayor and the remaining population of his village -- one of only four settlements to survive out of the 26 that used to dot the region -- wait every day, hour by hour, for the helicopter to bring relief. Normally, a delivery from the Americans, the Australians or from the Indonesian army reaches them once daily. But it isn't dependable -- and radio contact with the city of Banda Aceh to the north still hasn't been re-established.

Completely cut off

Traveling to the regional capital is likewise out of the question. Food and medicine can only be delivered to Lhoong by air; the tsunami managed to completely cut off Efendi's region, and hundreds of other districts on Sumatra's west coast, from the outside world. The street heading north to Banda Aceh on the northern tip of the island is completely destroyed. Driving southwest to the destroyed town of Meulaboh is also out of the question. The harbor towns in the area have mostly disappeared and only smaller boats can anchor in the shallow coastal waters.

The lanky Efendi still has a crystal clear image of the wave in his head as he saw it approaching through the window of his office, which is located on a slight rise. The two villages below, Saney and Utamong, were destroyed by the brown wall of water within minutes and reduced to piles of rubble. Efendi has since come up with an exact calculation of the human costs of the disaster: 5,755 of the area's 11,812 residents didn't survive. Dozens -- many seriously wounded -- lie in the small local clinic.

Since the disaster, the district has been completely dependent on the irregular chopper deliveries. The first helicopter arrived on Dec. 30 -- until then the village had to rely on its meager stores of rice. But on that day, the Indonesian army chopper only brought supplies for their uniformed colleagues in a nearby barracks. One day later, the first helicopter from the United States Navy landed, and since then conditions have improved.

"At least now there is enough for everybody to have a daily bowl of rice and clean water," says the mayor as he apologizes for the barebones meal he offers his visitor.

Yet even as Efendi smiles politely, he has grave fears for the future of his village. Just days after the tsunami, he sent out scouts to examine the condition of the area's roads. The result was shocking: None of the dozens of bridges on the way to Banda Aceh survived the wave. "In many places, the men from my village couldn't even find the street anymore under the debris," Efendi says. He estimates that it will take at least a year to rebuild the most important roads. As it now stands, it takes four days to get to Banda Aceh on foot.

Chaotic relief efforts

It is probably good that Efendi hasn't been in Banda Aceh himself since the tsunami. For the last two weeks, more and more boxes full of food, medicines and equipment have been piling up. But Efendi, from his isolated village, has understanding for the sluggish relief efforts: getting to his region, he says, is not easy.

What he doesn't know is that both the Indonesian government and the many international aid agencies now operating on the island of Sumatra are battling severe disorganization, inefficient bureaucracy and sheer chaos. And the situation does not seem to be getting better. Indeed, far away from Lhoong, criticism against the management of the relief effort is growing louder and louder. Each side is accusing the other of blocking or delaying aid and groups like the German Technical Aid Agency, which has massive experience in bridge building and water purification, are complaining of complicated red tape. The German army -- here with an advanced force for well over a week -- has also come to the unwelcome realization that working with regional Indonesian officials can tax patience to the extreme.

"It seems like we have to keep starting from scratch," says one German soldier, visibly irritated. "Every day we have to start over with a new contact partner."

Coordination is needed the most. The United Nations has still not been able to synchronize the numerous armies and international aid groups, and the Indonesian army has been doing what it can to prevent foreign troops from operating outside the provincial capital of Banda Aceh. Meanwhile both the Indonesian army and the radical Islamic rebel groups of Aceh continue to accuse each other of post-tsunami barbarities and atrocities -- none of which have so far been proven.

A generator and some building materials

For areas like Lhoong, this mixture of reluctance, incompetence, and lack of coordination could mean a long delay in receiving needed help. And villages like Efendi's don't need much.

"We could really use a new power generator and some building materials," Efendi says, confidently. "The rest we can take care of on our own."

As Efendi talks in his office about the uncertain future of his village, the noise of helicopter rotors once again breaks the silence. And this time, it lands. At lightening speed, the Indonesian soldiers unload around 20 packages of rice and noodles from the cargo hold while a human chain transports the supplies directly into a storehouse from where the goods will be divvied up. It is only minutes before the helicopter thunders into the sky and flies away.