On vacation with my family
By Aditha Dissanayake
"We shall fight (them) on the beaches, we shall fight (them) on the landing grounds. We shall fight (them) in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight (them) in the hills..." said Winston Churchill. He might well have been referring to my family on vacation.

My father sets the deadline for departure. We shall leave home at least by four-thirty in the morning. At six in the evening, everyone is brimming with enthusiasm. "I love getting up in the morning." "It's thrilling to travel when it's still dark everywhere," we gush eagerly. But when he knocks on our doors at four in the morning, he is met with groans of dissent. Five minutes more of sleep! One minute more and before you know it, it's 4.20! Ten minutes left before the scheduled time for departure!

And today of all days Rad and Nish, who try to avoid shaving during weekdays if they could help it, decide they should have cheeks as smooth as those of babies. Who are they planning to entice with their looks at Arankelle? Do they think they will meet a Julia Roberts look-alike at some wayside boutique? When will they get out of the bathroom?

The clock ticks past four-thirty. My father begins to wring his hands and pace the sitting room floor. "We are going to get late. Why can't you learn to do anything on time?" he yells up the stairs. Rad begins to search for the tripod of his camera. I can't find my diary. "We had planned this trip for months now. You had plenty of time to pack your things. Why do you always leave everything till the last minute?" shouts my father again. By five however, everybody is ready and we begin our annual family vacation - without much enthusiasm. The shroud of darkness outside seems to cloud our moods too. No one makes an effort to talk. When the silence becomes ominous my mother suggests we listen to some music.

"That Hindi cassette in the cubby is nice," I tell my father. "I want hard rock," says Rad. "Karunaratne Divulgane," says Madsy. My father gives preference to my choice. "If we have to listen to that crap, I'm going to get off and go by bus," thunders Rad. "Why do we always have to listen to only what you like?" I ask him in rage. "It's the other way round. We always listen only to what you like! When did we last listen to one of my songs?" asks Rad inserting his cassette in the cassette player. "Pink Floyd begins to sing about a "brick in the wall". I rack my brain to find another angry comment to make. But Nish leans over my mother and begins to tickle me. I try to hold his hands off and to hold on to my ire as well. But it's hard to giggle and be angry at the same time. The three of us together with the music make such a noise, my mother covers her ears with her hands. Finally, my father slams off the cassette player and threatens it would be he who will be going by bus if we don't stop the commotion.

We quarrel again over where we should stop for breakfast. I suggest we have buns and plain-tea from a wayside boutique. Only my father likes the idea.

Whenever a boutique comes into view, the others find fault with it. Even when everything is right, the mudalali is wrong, 'cos he looks grumpy and does not smile.

Finally, my mother persuades us to eat the bread toasts she had made in the morning and to gulp it down with water. I'm angry with Nish, Rad and Madsy for not liking any of the nice they kades, but forestalling an angry outburst from me, my mother draws my attention to the paddy fields we are passing by and prevents another argument.

It is ten-thirty when we arrive at Nabiththaweva. "Arachchi is not at home," says a parrot perched inside a cage near the front door. But Arachchi comes running from inside the house and says "Don't listen to him mahaththaya, he is a born liar". When Arachchi smiles, his lips stretch from ear to ear. He looks as if he has swallowed a saucer. I try to imitate him but the glare in my mother's eye makes me keep a serious countenance.

Arankelle, as the name suggests, is a forest. On the way there, Arachchi points to a huge rock on top of which there is another smaller rock and says "After a bath, Kuveni had got on to the small rock and spread her hair on the large rock and waited for it to dry". "But I thought she lived in Anuradhapura. Did she come all the way here to dry her hair?" Nish asks him.

I'm worried he would have hurt Arachchi's feelings. But Arachchi merely grins, scratches the back of his head and says "That is what everybody says," and shuns claiming responsibility for his statement. As expected, there are trees and trees at Arankelle. "Ah! Pure oxygen," we tell each other and take deep breaths. Then Rad warns us not to breathe too hard. We are not used to pure oxygen. An overdose might prove to be fatal.

We stop at one of my father's acquaintances on the way to Anuradhapura. His wife serves us plain-tea with ginger. We had had manioc for lunch at Arachchi's. "When manioc and ginger come together, they react and make cyanide," Rad whispers in my ear. I look at the half-drunk cup of tea in my hand. How long will it take for my stomach to be filled with cyanide? How long will it take all five of us to die? I wonder why none of the others are bothered. Don't they realise the gravity of the situation? But half an hour later, when we bid farewell and get back into the car, we are still among the living. I accuse Rad of lying to me. But my father says he is right, ginger and manioc can kill. But we had not eaten the two together. "It is more than six hours since we ate the manioc," he reminds us.

It is nine in the night when we reach Anuradhapuura. There is a full moon in the sky, yellow and glistening like the brass plates for sale on the pavement at Bambalapitiya. Rad, Nish, Madsy and I stare at it and agree it's beautiful. My father clicks the camera. This is the first time the four of us have agreed on something today, he says with a twinkle in his eyes. This is the first time you have not lost your temper with us too, we remind him.

Thus ends the first day of our family vacation. By tomorrow perhaps Winston Churchill's words could be forgotten.

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