So when an opportunity arose to visit a Veddah village, where the original inhabitants of Sri Lanka reside, Malcolm flatly refused. “Aborigines just don’t interest me,” he said. Molly and Fraser eagerly jumped on his bandwagon and refused to go.
Not the least bit unhappy to have a whole day to myself, I set off at 7 a.m. with our driver, Nihal, on a journey that took three and a half hours to go 45 miles. This was due to harrowing hairpin turns that appeared every half-mile or so. Once in the town of Mahiyangana, we picked up a local villager to show us to the Veddah’s village. Like many aboriginal cultures in modern times, the Veddahs got a raw deal. A large-scale irrigation project flooded their ancestral lands and forced around 2,000 of them into a national park, where the Sri Lankan government forbids them to practice their traditional ways of hunting and gathering.
The guide suggested that I buy a present for the Veddah’s leader and recommended beetle nuts and leaves and a wad of loose tobacco. With my gift in hand I entered a thatched hut without walls with a dirt floor and met a man wearing a sarong, a somber face and nothing else. He had a shock of long, gray, frizzy hair and a wiry beard. He formally greeted me with both hands clasped around mine. His name was Wannilla Atho Dambana, and ascended to the rank of chief at 52 when his father died two years ago, at the age of 110. As we talked through interpreters, he periodically reached into the gift bag, pulled out a beetle nut and crushed it with his teeth, releasing a red juice that dribbled down his chin.
Expecting to hear stories about Veddah life in the jungle, I was surprised when the chief started by telling me proudly that he had traveled to Switzerland five years ago to attend a UN conference on Asian Indigenous Peoples. He added that he had flown business class. He seemed very pleased when I told him that I had never traveled business class.
He briefly disappeared and came back a moment later brandishing a rusted ax that he said he had brought with him to Switzerland. He then produced a stack of photos of his Swiss adventure, passing them to me very slowly, photo by photo. I would still be there, I suppose, if I had not asked him if I could take his picture. He hung his ax proudly from his shoulder blade and posed at a variety of flattering angles.
The chief then opened his hut for “office hours.” Apparently he is also the resident doctor. As each person came forward to describe his ailment, the chief would select one of the mismatched bottles on the shelf and pour some greenish oil into abandoned miniature liquor bottles (maybe left over from his business class excursion) and then sent them on their way. Everyone got the same prescription.
Next, several scantily clad tribesmen (I never saw a single woman) showed up to give me a “tour” of the neighboring jungle where they showed off their skills in fire making, archery and dancing. During the dance, their shoulder-length black hair whipped through the air as they alternately arched their backs and then tapped their hands on the ground spinning around in a circle. Then, inexplicably, they showed me their scars in a round of “who can top whom.” I saw bear scars, boar scars and elephant scars. The clear winner, however, had been attacked by a tiger several years ago and sported scars on his legs, arms, face and chest. His left eye was permanently closed.
I left the village feeling that I had truly been transported to a different world. OK, maybe aborigines aren’t for everyone, but I know Fraser would have loved their bow and arrows, and Molly would have marveled at their hair, if nothing else. Malcolm I’m not sure about.
The next morning, trying to think of an activity that would interest the whole family, we piled into the van for a sweltering drive to the Pinewella Elephant Orphanage. These elephants are former work elephants whose owners have mechanized their operations so they are no longer needed. Roughly 65 elephants roam freely through the orphanage and we casually mingled amongst them. The highlight for everyone, however, wasn’t the elephants. Compared to Africa, these elephants were more like large cattle grazing in a field. In our travels we have seen pet snakes, elephants, bears, mongooses, monkeys, lions, even wild boars. But this was our first viewing of a pet porcupine. We gingerly petted the animal, at his owner’s insistence. Satisfied with a new first to add to our list, we searched for shade.
At dinner that night I felt compelled to review the pledges we all signed (in our own blood) the night before we left home on our world adventure. I highlighted the section that Malcolm had written “I promise to see the bright side when the going gets tough, and always promise to try new and different things.” The children and Malcolm countered with “put a sock in it,” “Oh, please,” and “Shut. Up.” And we have four more months to go.
