There are many family excursions that are fondly remembered. There are some that are remembered because everything went according to plan. And then there are the rare ones that are remembered because absolutely nothing went according to plan.
This is the confession of the
organiser of one such trip, undertaken around 1981 or 1982.
The idea originated within my
wife's extended family. Someone suggested that we should all contribute and go
on a three-day excursion with two overnight stays. Before long, the entire
responsibility for planning, organising and managing the trip landed squarely
on my shoulders.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder
what possessed me to accept.
This was long before mobile phones. Even fixed telephone connections were scarce. Communication was by letter, postcard and word of mouth. Roads were rough, travel was slow and breakdown services were virtually unheard of. Most vehicles on the road were reconditioned imports that had only recently begun appearing after the open economy reforms.
Undeterred, I prepared an
ambitious itinerary covering Buduruwagala, Polonnaruwa and Anuradhapura while
taking a scenic route through the south-eastern and eastern parts of the
country.
What I did not know was that a
17-seater van carrying twenty-two people would have very different ideas.
Yes, twenty-two.
The more people we added, the
lower the individual contribution became. Most of us were government servants
with modest salaries, so economy was everything.
By departure day we were packed
into the van like sardines.
Our transport was a reconditioned
Toyota van bearing the name "Prabath" painted proudly across its
body.
The women organised the food. We
carried cooked rice for lunch, ingredients for dinner and, because there was no
cooking gas, a supply of firewood as well. Accommodation in Anuradhapura was
easy enough. Polonnaruwa was another matter altogether, but that story comes
later.
The day finally arrived.
We departed from Galle already
behind schedule after spending too much time collecting passengers. Breakfast
was planned at Ambalantota, courtesy of relatives. Unfortunately, what was
intended to be breakfast became a family reunion. My repeated reminders about
distances and schedules had little effect.
We eventually left almost two
hours later than planned. The dry zone heat intensified. The van had no air
conditioning. Three babies began crying in chorus. Two young children added
their own contributions. The mothers eventually restored peace. At least for a
while.
Now, every long journey requires
entertainment.
Our entertainment consisted of a
single cassette tape. Just one.
The cassette contained songs by
the legendary duo Latha and Dharmadasa Walpola. That cassette remained in the
player from the moment we left until almost the end of the journey. There was
no radio reception worth mentioning, no alternative tapes and certainly no
Spotify playlists. As the hours passed, the songs became familiar.
Then memorable. Then repetitive. Then
unforgettable.
By the second day many of us knew
the entire cassette by heart.
To this day, if one of those
songs starts playing unexpectedly, I am instantly transported back into that
overcrowded van somewhere between Maha Oya and Polonnaruwa.
Among the passengers was a family
member blessed with considerable veto power.
During one particularly cheerful
stretch of the journey, his wife enthusiastically joined one of the famous
Walpola duets. It was the song in which the heroine declares to her beloved
that he is the hero of her life and that she would do anything for him. As she
sang along with great feeling, some of us could not help noticing the irony. For
in our family hierarchy, her husband genuinely appeared to possess that sort of
authority.
This became evident later.
After missed roads, washed-out
routes, a puncture, endless delays and a police roadblock caused by a curfew in
the eastern province, we found ourselves stranded at Maha Oya. Our attempt to
obtain shelter at the local temple was politely rejected when the priest
decided we were not true pilgrims.
We therefore occupied an
abandoned school building under candlelight.
Babies cried. Dinner was cooked. Lunch
for the next day was prepared. Some of us even visited the hot springs for a
much-needed wash.
That night made what I considered
a sensible proposal.
"Let us skip Polonnaruwa and
proceed directly to Anuradhapura. There is simply not enough time for
both." The proposal survived for approximately thirty seconds.
The gentleman with veto powers
immediately declared that he had joined the excursion solely to visit
Polonnaruwa. Polonnaruwa, therefore, would remain.
Discussion closed.
Even the drivers eventually
agreed to extend the journey by an extra day. Thus, was democracy suspended for
the duration of the excursion.
The following morning, before
sunrise, we departed along the jungle track through Pimburetthewa. Soon
afterwards another tyre punctured.
Not near a village. Not near a
shop. Not near civilisation. But deep inside elephant country. With a damaged
spare tyre. We waited for hours while tractors carried our tyres away for
repair.
During this enforced break we
admired the scenery while simultaneously keeping an eye open for elephants. Fortunately,
only the tyres returned. The elephants did not.
Eventually we reached Polonnaruwa
and then, the following day, Anuradhapura
.
Here occurred the most
astonishing event of the entire excursion.
Weeks earlier I had sent a
postcard seeking accommodation at a place near the Government Agent's bungalow.
The address I wrote was simply "Near GA's House." The postman
interpreted this rather differently.
Instead of delivering it near the
GA's house, he delivered it to the Government Agent himself. The Government
Agent, displaying far greater confidence in my planning abilities than I
deserved, read the letter and forwarded it to the rest house.
When we failed to arrive on the
appointed date, the caretaker nevertheless kept accommodation available in case
we appeared late.
Which, of course, we did. Very
late. The room was waiting.
At that moment I felt that
Providence itself had intervened on behalf of a struggling tour organiser. The
remainder of the trip passed with comparatively little drama. Nevertheless, I
remained the principal target whenever discomfort, delays, crying babies, dust,
heat or unexpected sleeping arrangements were discussed.
The ladies of the group, however,
were kinder. "Don't worry, brother," they would say. "No one
else could have organised a trip like this."
At the time I suspected that
statement carried multiple meanings. Today, more than four decades later, I
understand it as a compliment.
When we finally returned to
Galle, a day late, exhausted and aching from head to toe, I swore never again
to undertake such responsibility.
Yet the truth is that no
carefully planned luxury tour could ever have produced so many stories.
The babies have grown up.
The roads have changed.
The cassette players have
disappeared.
The veto powers have faded.
But whenever I hear a Latha and
Dharmadasa Walpola song, I am once again sitting in that overcrowded van named
"Prabath," watching another carefully prepared plan disappear over
the horizon. And I remember, with equal measures of pride and embarrassment, my
greatest achievement as a tour organiser.