Part VII of our series on the environment with Studio Times

Signs in the sand

By Charith Pelpola

Following the southern trails of dry zone forest and salt water lagoons, from the backwood scrub of Bundala to the wild east of Kumana, there lies a dry sea, washed high upon the land.

A shifting, rolling tide of coral memories and forgotten reef stone barricades. The dunes; the silent sanctuary of the wild winds. The Sun's own kingdom.

A place where a man may lose himself in solitude. Alone in the country of his long, snaking shadow, that mocks the ripples of the shifting sands.

Could any country bestow such isolation? A land without hope, without salvation, without life.

But closer; between the dry tides, there are signs of the living, where the sand betrays the nightplay of the wild.

The delicate, dancing tread of the peacock and his consort. The cautious rhythms of a sambhur herd chasing the sun. The heavy, irrepressible descent of the water buffalo. The tracks of the quiet ones, who merge with the brush and the dry forests, as the rising sun burns the dunes.

In the sand, the light and the dark will etch their names, and where the elephant has left his mark, dune water will seep and collect.

The giant steps are an indication of the size and the great weight of these loners, who wander like nomads along the edges of the shore.

And for the tracker who ventures into the dunes, who guides his company through its featureless contours, the signs in the sand are all he needs. By their message, he may discover water; he may read the thoughts of those who passed before him. Understand something of their lives and their instincts.

And when all is quiet and all have gone, the night breeze returns and isolation comes with its call.

Keeping signs in the sand; and fleeing. Fleeing. Before the sun returns it to the sea.

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