Some friends recently completed a day trip to Madhu, a 250km
roundtrip from Negombo, leaving at dawn and returning by late evening. They
were boastful of this “achievement”, made possible by a fast, auto drive, air conditioned,
power-steering car, on well paved roads, helped by “hotels” on the way where
they could pause for tea. But, they have no idea of what they were missing on such
a quick trip.
My father, the youngest of nine children, wrote about his
trips to Madhu as a child. This was in the 1930s, and his English father had
bought a Galloway saloon car for the family. He even remembered the registration number: S-264. His Sinhalese
mother (my grandmother) was a devout Catholic. The pilgrimage to Madhu, an arduous
journey through dangerous jungle, to a shrine reputed to have miraculous
powers, was expected to bring many blessings. Their annual trips to Madhu were
made in the Galloway. It bore a load of 10 passengers (not all the children may
have traveled every year), grandmother seated in front alongside the driver,
and everyone else in the backseats. Pots and pans, mats, pillows and provisions
to last a week, were all tied to the luggage carrier at the rear and stacked
high over the hood of the car.
I had never seen a Galloway, so
had to Google for an image. Father did not mention the hardships of the trips,
only that they prayed and sang hymns on the way. Horseplay and any type of
misbehavior was frowned upon – this was a pilgrimage, after all - but, being boisterous
children, I am sure they were up to all types of mischief.
In the early-1960s, we did a
few trips to Madhu, first in a 2-door Ford Anglia, later in a 4-door Ford
Prefect, both clunky, compact cars. (Come
to think of it - from a Galloway to a Ford Prefect - shows how much my family’s
fortunes had declined in 30 years!) Father drove, with mother in front, and
three children and a domestic helper in the back. We were jam-packed and loaded
down with clothes, pots, pans, pillows, mats, provisions for a few days, and
other essentials. No auto drive, power steering, or even a car radio, and
heading into the hot and arid Wanni without air conditioning. Compared to now,
the roads, though tarred, were narrow, uneven, and cluttered with potholes.
In the 1960’s, import controls
were strict. So, we only had rebuilt or retreaded tires and locally turned out
spare parts. Without coolants, the water in the radiator would boil over on
longer trips, damaging the hose pipes. Bullock carts were common on roads those
days, and a constant nuisance were iron nails that fell off from the “ladan” on
the bulls’ hooves. Flat tires were frequent, and when the tubes were pulled off
from the tires for repair, I recall seeing numerous roughly vulcanized patches,
like spots on a leopard.
We traveled in October, when
fewer people visited Madhu. In preparation for the trip, mother made sweetmeats
like “aluwa” and “kaludodol”, and father had the car serviced along with an oil
change. He also managed to borrow a tarpaulin for the tent under which we would
camp.
Our route was through Chilaw,
Puttalam, Anuradhapura, and then to Madhu on the Mannar Road. The road up to
Puttalam was through populated areas – villages, small towns, paddy fields,
coconut plantations – and paralleled the railway track at times. Passing
Chilaw, we stopped at the Deduru Oya, to sit on the sandy banks and enjoy the
lunch parcels, wrapped in banana leaves, that mother had prepared. The road was
fairly straight, often shaded by spreading “mara’ trees, and, after Mundel,
went through low lying, brackish areas, scrub, and the lagoons. The salterns
were nearby.
Passing Puttalam, the landscape
suddenly changed: we entered the jungle, the large palu, weera, tamarind, and
other trees stretching their branches across the road, forming a shady canopy. A mongoose would suddenly dart across, or a
snake slither along, but we rarely saw larger animals. But, we knew they were
there; the Wilpattu national park was to our west, and it was home to elephant,
leopard, bear and wild boar. Except for the occasional vehicle going in the
opposite direction, and bullock carts which we passed, we hardly saw any sign
of humans.
The double-bullock carts, each
pulled by two strong bulls, were carrying huge loads of woven coconut fronds
for sale in the Wanni, to be used for roofing. Most carts had a spare bull that
was tied to the end of the cart, and another carter, who would walk behind the cart
or could be seen lying on a rough hammock (“goni padanguwa”) slung under the
cart. These carts traveled in groups, for safety, both from wild animals and
thieves. As we passed them, we could clearly hear the tinkling sounds made by
the necklace of bells (“gejji”) around the bulls’ necks, and the clop clop of
their iron shod hooves on the hard road.
My parents were familiar with
the jungle. They had both worked at Galgamuwa, a small settlement with a
railway station, a rest house, and government offices in the midst of thick
jungle. In fact, they were married there, and I was taken as an infant to their
modest, thatched house. Father had been a keen hunter. Their familiarity also
meant that they knew the hidden dangers of the jungle.
To let some fresh air in, we rolled
down the windows, although the air that blew in was oven hot during early
afternoons. To pass the time, we recited the rosary, prayed, and sang hymns and
popular songs of the day. C.T. Fernando
and Chitra+Somapala were our favorites, and C.T.’s “Barabage”, about bullock
carts, was sung with gusto. I think these trips were the most joyous times we
shared as a family.
The endless jungle would be
broken when a crude wattle and daub hut, with a thatched roof, appeared
suddenly alongside the road. A slash and burn “chena” plot would be at the
back, and a small “messa” with a few vegetables and cobs of corn offered for
sale, in front. Even at my young age, I realized that the lives of these
inhabitants were cruelly hard, and passing vehicles their only distraction.
Their nights would be fearful, sometimes terrifying, being surrounded by the
dark jungle and wild animals.
Driving after dusk was
dangerous, because the wild animals wandered onto the road. We usually stopped
at Kalaoya or at Anuradhapura. At Kalaoya, a lovely little church sat by the
river, more of a stream, not far from the road. We unloaded the mats and bedding
from the car, and mother set about preparing the night meal. We had a single-burner
kerosene stove, but gathered a few sticks of firewood for a second hearth, so
that a couple of curries (“parippu” and “karaththa hodda”/carter’s curry) could
be cooked quickly. The latter, the staple curry traveling carters, consisted of
dried sprats, potatoes, onions, and a touch of chillies in a light gravy. It
became my favorite, and till she passed away years later, my mother prepared it
for me every time I visited Sri Lanka.
After the meal, we would go
down to the stream to wash the pots and plates, and perhaps for a quick dip in
the stream. Mats would be laid on the side verandah of the church, and a little
light came from the sooty hurricane lanterns we carried. We may have been
bitten raw by mosquitoes, but I don’t remember it.
The following morning, after a
quick breakfast of bread and pol sambol, we started early on the final leg of
the journey. We passed through Nochchiyagama, which, if I recall correctly, had
a petrol station, where we fueled up and also refilled the spare cans of
petrol. Then, to Anuradhapura, from where we turned west onto the Mannar road.
Except for Medawachchiya, a railway town, I can’t recall a large settlement
till we reached Madhu church. What I do recall is that we would see more Tamil
people and little settlements with Tamil names.
The thick jungle crowded from
both sides, and traffic was even less. We once had a dreaded flat tire. Because
the car was too heavy to be jacked up, it had to unloaded. While we worked
feverishly, a passing lorry stopped, and the driver and his assistant
(“cleaner’) came to help, saying “methene ali maruwena thenak” (elephants cross
here).
We turned right at Madhu Road
junction, which had a railway station, and travelled up to the church area. Our
first task was to drive around till we found a suitable spot to camp, where the
ground was flat, trees to tie the tarpaulin were available, and the jungle
would be nearby, because we would not use the filthy public toilets. As soon as
we began to unload the car, people who had already camped nearby would come to
help, and we soon had our tent up. This would be our temporary home for 3 or 4
days.
Even at Madhu, the people from Negombo, Moratuwa, and Chilaw camped
together, forming small communities and apparently finding safety and happiness
with familiar faces.
Not all the pilgrims came by
road. Special trains to Madhu would set off from Catholic areas like Negombo
and Moratuwa, packed to capacity. From what I heard, most families had a great
time, with their relatives and neighbors traveling along with them.
We children wandered all over
the church surroundings, curious about other pilgrims and how they managed
under the harsh conditions. I don’t recall any grocery stores, so all supplies
had been brought from home. Sleeping, cooking, and washing facilities were
rudimentary, and people improvised in every way they could. For bathing, we
went to common wells, and poured water over our bodies using small buckets.
The happiest instances were
when we met schoolmates from back home, and walked round in small groups. We
visited each other’s camps, to be lavishly served with various delicacies
brought from home. We dropped in at the church, where people were continuously
reciting the rosary and prayers. We also visited the stalls that sold all sorts
of trinkets and sweetmeats, more to see than to buy, because we barely had any
pocket money.
Those times at Madhu were our opportunity
to mingle with the Tamil community that had come from the North, East, and the
Mannar area. The cooking aromas from their camps were different, and so were
their clothes and the language.
More than 50 years later, some
months ago, I returned to Madhu, traveling comfortably in an air conditioned
car on well paved roads. We did not have to travel via Anuradhapura, because
the driver took a short-cut after Nochchiyagama which brought us directly to
the Mannar road.
But, it was heartbreak most of
the way. The verdant jungle I knew was gone, except in forest reservations and
teak plantations, the latter absolutely of no use to animals. The settlements
that had taken their place appeared to be struggling. The human-elephant
conflict was apparent from the elephant wires in some areas, and also from
makeshift huts and houses that had been destroyed by elephants. The decay was
worse along the Mannar road, which had also suffered the ravages of the war
with the LTTE. A section of jungle would be cleared, the lumber sold, a hut
built to claim ownership, and a few pitiful vegetables planted. Many of these
huts were then abandoned, the settlers perhaps moving to another section of
jungle to destroy that, too.
But Madhu church, which had
been damaged during the war, had been beautifully restored by the army. I
walked around, recalling the times I had visited with my family. My younger
brother was long gone, and so were my parents, but the memories remained.
I could have returned the same
day, but did not, for old times’ sake. Instead, we spent the night at a nearby
hotel.
