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Vanished Trails – Part III, discover the Maduru Oya region
with its wild animals, dense forests and engineering marvels of
ancient times
Many years ago, about sixteen miles south of Manampitiya, we laboured along a narrow jungle road, passing beautiful park country, and finally reached a tiny jungle outpost called Pimburattewa. My objective was to comb the vast jungles of this area on foot to collect wild varieties of vegetables such as cucumbers, pumpkins, tomatoes and any such precursors of modern table varieties, which could be used in a breeding programme to incorporate the tough genetic traits, such as disease resistance, into their modern counterparts found on supermarket shelves. The whole area was thick jungle then, interspersed with isolated chenas. We walked miles and for days, making our collections as we went, and spent the nights in the chena huts or high on messas built on tall trees. There were elephants trumpeting at night, and the harsh bark of bears could be heard in the evenings. Today, Pimburattewa is a modern Mahaweli complex alongside its new township of Aralaganwila. The Pimburattewa tank which was then a small, shallow lake, is now an expanded reservoir, augmented with Mahaweli water. In more recent times, I used to take a boat ride along with one of the tank fishermen in an outrigger canoe to photograph the thousands of Cormorants and Pelicans that inhabited the dead trees in the middle. This tank has turned out to be a bird paradise – maybe one of the good things that emerged from the Mahaweli scheme. Dimbulagala rock, which I referred to above, rises high above the Mahaweli flood plain. It was referred to as ‘Gunner's Quoin’ by the British, a sheer wedge (or quoin) of rock from atop of which a hunter could spot his quarry. The former chief monk, Ven. Seelalankara who was brutally killed by LTTE terrorists a few years ago, was then a young and energetic monk, who did much for the poor of the area. He took in all the Veddah children from the neighbouring Veddah colonies and educated them at the temple. He provided land around the temple for hundreds of families that had eked out a precarious existence as chena cultivators and nomadic hunters. Once Ven. Seelalankara took me up the rock to see its caves and ancient ruins. Scrambling up through thick forest and matted roots on huge boulders, he kept up a constant monologue on the bears and leopards that infested the area, who he frequently encountered. Finally we reached the top. It was a stupendous view, an awesome panorama sweeping from the distant, misty Uva hills in the south, to the vast Indian Ocean in the distant eastern horizon. I sat there enthralled, my thoughts reverting back over two thousand years, when those ancient Arahats would have sat at this very spot in sublime meditation. A little known road to the east of this wilderness (one hardly ever used) wound its way past Toppigala rock (a stronghold of the LTTE today), and exited at the hot-wells at Maha Oya. This track is presently closed due to terrorist activity, but the Maha Oya hot wells are built up and in excellent shape. The water is scalding hot, and one has to mix it with cold water before taking a bath. Once the Mahaweli project commenced, the area was investigated for siting the Maduru Oya dam. Once they located the best spot, the foreign and local engineers found the ruins of an ancient dam exactly where they, with their modern state of the art technology, had decided on. Our engineers of yore, with their old instruments, had been as accurate as their modern international counterparts. Today, the new dam has been constructed about a hundred yards upstream, leaving the ancient dam and its unique spill, well preserved as an archaeological marvel. When the giant bulldozers and earthmovers were working day and night, I stood there in awe, while the giant wheels of those huge machines went past dwarfing me and my vehicle. The landscape changed by the hour and hundreds of acres of primeval forest fell before the relentless onslaught of those mechanical monsters. When it was finally over, peace reigned once more in the Maduru Oya valley, and instead of impenetrable forest, a huge reservoir lay beneath our feet, its mirror like blue water stretching into the far distance. Pelicans in their thousands floated on the water and some took to the air, their huge wings flapping laboriously, while their webbed feet parted a dark trail on the calm waters in the wake of a cumbersome lift-off. Once I took a boat ride along with the officers in charge of the dam site. Leaving the fishing colony near the sluice, we chugged across the calm water, disturbing tens of thousands of Cormorants perched on dead trees. Shoals of fish (mainly introduced Tilapia) could be seen in the shallows. As we neared the far side, all were asked to duck behind the wheelhouse of the motor launch, since we were warned that LTTE snipers lay in the teak forest beyond which the massive Toppigala rock outcrop was now clearly visible. A huge elephant of the swamp species that was feeding on the lush grass by the water trumpeted and ran off in alarm at our approach. The huts of illicit teak fellers could be seen along with piles of teak logs ready for transport. There was nothing we could do due to the LTTE presence. My friend, the forester, who had planted this teak forest many decades ago was with us and he looked crestfallen. He had no way of reaping what he had himself sowed with care as a young man. The waters of the Ulhitiya-Ratkinda reservoir were diverted to the Maduru Oya reservoir through a long tunnel, which lies within the national park. Before the park was declared open, we had free access and while working in the area, I would regularly go to the main channel at night to see the elephant control work that was going on. Herds of elephants would hang around the main channel in the evenings and cross over into the paddy fields at night. Groups of farmers were camped all night along the channel bund with little fires to keep the elephants as well as the hordes of mosquitoes away. In spite of all these efforts, a few animals always managed to slip across. The farmers never seemed to know how to co-ordinate their efforts in driving the beasts away. One afternoon, while returning to my station in Mahaweli system-C, I noticed a crowd gathered on the bund of a small tank. Reaching the spot, a herd of about fifty elephants could be seen in a patch of jungle below the bund. A large number of new settlers had arrived in the area and were setting up their temporary huts, and clearing their plots of land adjoining the tank, and the herd which had moved from the Dimbulagala forest to the Maduru Oya park found their way blocked by the new settlers. The situation was dangerous. Wildlife officers were sent for, and with thunder flashes and yells, they got the herd on the run at full speed. We followed in our vehicle along the adjacent tracks and after moving them from forest patch to forest patch, the herd was finally sent across into an extensive tract of jungle, where they could stay overnight before being moved into the park. It was a thrilling experience to see the adults escorting the babies and moving fast, but amazingly silently. They never blundered into open area, but always chose bits of forest cover and wind belts, which had not been cleared. One weekend, it was midnight when we started back from the reservoir tunnel inlet watch hut, where we had had a picnic dinner. We had enjoyed the sight of a large herd of elephants that were feeding on the lush grass just across the reservoir. Driving back slowly, we espied a lone hare on the track and then, in a flash, a python lying in wait in the grass was upon the hapless animal right before our very eyes. It was quite a large python (about 10 feet) and within seconds, the massive coils enveloped its struggling victim. We had stopped the vehicle by now and keeping the headlights on, got down and watched the grisly drama close up. Although at the outset we had altruistic thoughts of saving the poor hare, there was no way it could be done. The
victim was beyond help in seconds, with all its bones crushed, and
so we had to let nature take its gruesome course. It was amazing
how much the jaws of the python expanded as it took hold of the
victim's head, and there was a copious flow of saliva to aid the
swallowing process. The hideous event was over in about half-an-hour,
and the python, after taking a good look at us intruders squatting
around him, slowly glided off into the tall grass. The grass is over eight feet in height and is crisscrossed with elephant trails leading to the pools of water collected within. The place is home to many elephants that constantly feed there and lie in the pools during the heat of the day. From the dam above, we saw a small herd move through the grass into a pool and decided to go down, since a friend who was with me wanted to film them. Accordingly, we drove down from the dam, parked the vehicle on the road and walked into the grass. Once in the tall grass, I realised the grave danger we were in. Elephant tracks crisscrossed the place, and not being able to see where we were going was absolutely scary. The pungent smell of elephants was everywhere. Finally we came up to the stream bank, and there were the elephants in a pool of water just below. While filming, I heard an elephant approaching from behind, and we ran blindly through the grass, expecting to be knocked down any moment. Thankfully we emerged onto the road some distance from the vehicle. I realised it was the most foolish thing we had ever done. As we quickly got into the vehicle, a huge bull came through the grass just behind us. We had just escaped death within seconds. How quickly the landscape changed. When I started work there some years ago, I would yet come across a stray elephant or a shy deer or a sounder of wild boar crossing the road in the evenings. But finally, the farmlands and townships took over this once pristine forest land and today, the younger generations in these settlements have never seen a wild animal, although they stand upon the very ground and game trails where we and hundred of forest denizens once roamed. |
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