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A young boy stood by the road, brandishing and waving a flag, beckoning us to pull up to the driveway. “They’re giving away free food and water,” explained Dulshan my tour guide. “What’s the catch?” were the first instinctive words that escaped from my mouth, this city boy’s cynicism manifesting. “No catch at all,” replied Dulshan, who then unbuckled his seat belt, disembarked his vehicle and very quickly disappeared from view. Apparently, Sri Lankans, no matter their statuses, practise dansel, the act of giving, during celebratory occasions or on days when the full moon is out. Entire stretches of road would be dotted with families doling out food and beverages.

Dulshan returned with a huge kanda leaf that sprawled his forearm and palm, on which there were hunks of cassava or manioc, a type of tapioca; and onions stir-fried with spices. At another pit stop, women were busy pouring belimal tea from kettles into colourful cups carefully arrayed. A young chap in a grey shirt emblazoned with a batman motif was tasked with serving the drinks to guests. The invigorating floral drink is said to have medicinal properties. At this stop, I was also handed jaggery, a cube of sweetener made from the treacle of the kithul tree.

“You have to thank them for the treats,” nudged Dulshan after I was done with my photography. See, the locals practise dansel in hopes of receiving good karma. I felt consternation wash over me, a sole foreigner in a sea of locals, yet thanks to this show of hospitality I was a part of a Sri Lankan family. I waited for the matronly lady who smiled at me earlier to lock gaze with me, but she was busy with refilling the cups. “Stūtiyi,” Sinhala for “thanks”, I hollered when she finally looked up at me. She reciprocated with yet another smile, and I felt warmth in my heart.

“We’re not heading to Minneriya National Park anymore,” said Dulshan my tour guide. “The elephants have migrated to Kaudulla National Park.” This was a fact that astounded me: that elephants, being the gargantuan creatures that they are, could make such a journey across the city of Habarana, unhindered.

I stood up in the open-roof jeep, my hands clenching the support as the very bumpy ride threw me off balance numerous times. Wind in hair, sun on skin, sand in eye, it was a liberating feeling. Unlike the hours-long game drive at Yala National Park, it took no longer than ten minutes before we sighted our first wildlife: Herds of elephant, big and small, scattered across vast expanses of grassland that receded into the horizon. While this was not my first game drive, it was the first where I had the opportunity to get really up close with the wildlife (I could see the wrinkle lines that ran across their entire bodies and their sparse, fine hair), and hence felt the tremendous peril that I was in. I was not being paranoid.

Just as I was relishing the serenity, there came a loud trumpeting cry that stunned my very ears. A male elephant came charging towards the jeep at the forefront. At that, all the jeeps retreated, and went hither and thither like a disturbed colony of ants. Kanehila, whom the locals nicknamed after the hole that he bears in the ear, had his gaze fixed on one jeep. A passenger on that jeep tried to stay his charge by beating at him with a branch, but it was like bringing a knife to a gun fight. Kanehila pursued it, pushing the entire fleet of jeeps to retreat beyond an invisible boundary line that he dictated. Such fear he inspired, knowing very well he could outmatch the might of even a dozen of jeeps fully gathered.

When he was satisfied that we the humans were no longer encroaching on his territory, Kanehila strayed from the path and proceeded to graze in peace.

The remainder of the game drive was, perhaps unfortunately, without incident.  The other elephants seemed to not mind the invasion of privacy, their mind intent on ingesting a tenth of their weight of vegetation. There were of course a few interesting sightings. A small pack of elephants traversed the plains to meet its companions on the other side, the adults forming a security perimeter around their baby. It baffled me as to why they saw the need to do that, for no equals they had except for men with deadly rifles. Survival instincts, Dulshan opined. Skywards, there was an eagle, circling high above the lake, its menacing talons outstretched, often swooping close to the water surface to catch its fish.

After winding stretches of road flanked by bushes, shrubs and trees on both sides, the path bent eastwards and opened to a vast clearing. Even before the driver made a complete turn, an elephant lumbered towards us, its elongated tusks aimed sharply at us. The waterhole was his, and trumpeting he let us know it. The driver immediately killed the engine. Seeing this gesture as a white flag, the elephant stayed his advance, though he was ever on guard, gaze fixed on us, ready to charge should we decide to trespass any further. We would be foolish to. Size advantage the behemoth had. Speed belied that sheer size too: If he gained momentum he would certainly outpace us, us mere humans in our undoing hubris would panic and make fatal errors. The jeep’s windscreen would have little protective effect against his tusks coveted and long hunted for.

Perhaps realising that we were no more than a fly he could effortlessly swat, the guardian relented his vigilance, now perambulating along the perimeter of its prized waterhole. “There is a white blotch on his neck,” said the wildlife ranger, as the elephant turned his back towards us. Whether it was remains left by the elephant’s winged counterparts, or that of blood from a gunshot wound he could only venture a guess. It seemed that our territorial friend had a penchant for exploration. Often he would leave the safety of the park to forage for food, playing now the part of persona non grata, pillaging nearby farms for rice, plants and fruits.

Now the elephant was enjoying his spoils, stopping to throw sand – his form of sunscreen – over his massive back. When he finally had his fill of water, he ambled along before dwindling into the shroud of green, giving us leave to enter his realm. As my journey continued, the sights vacillated between the bizarre and heart-warming.

A crocodile, lying in plain sight and just a few paces from a small herd of water buffaloes. “Do the water buffaloes know their peril?” I thought. It seemed to me that in this moment alone, they were just existing harmoniously. The water buffalo nearest to the crocodile approached it, and using its hoof playfully nudged it. At that, the crocodile started and recoiled, then quickly crawled back to the safety of the water, and receded.

A troop of tufted grey langurs, standing in single file formation like field soldiers. They, like the elephant, were on guard for incoming threats. And then, later again, poised on a branch, a young monkey embracing its parent.

But elephants and crocodiles and monkeys were not the reason why I was come to Bundala National Park. Boasting a diverse ecosystem, the park is also home to over one hundred and ninety-five migratory birds. There are over one thousand greater flamingos to be seen, though I spotted none. The wetlands were teeming with painted storks, characterised by their heavy yellow beak, white plumage and black as well as pink tertial feathers. Parrots and pelicans there were also.

On this sweltering Wednesday afternoon, there was no other jeep in sight save ours (most people perhaps flock to Yala National Park in search of the elusive leopard), so I enjoyed the exclusivity and quietude. Just as we were about to leave the park, both the wildlife ranger and my driver shouted out: “Eagle!”. As a diehard Tolkien fan, the mention of the word “eagles” of course evokes sentimentality and a rush of excitement. There it stood, high and mighty amongst the trees, the white-bellied sea eagle, its body of white contrasting with its slate-grey wings. Far into the vast horizon it looked, buoyed by the vantage point, perhaps searching with its eyes its next meal.

Nine in the morning, the weather in Sri Lanka was blistering, unforgiving even. Here I was, two hours into a game drive, traversing Yala National Park’s terrain winding and rough: Many times while navigating tight roads, my driver would drive the entire jeep lopsided, so that I had to grip on to the railing with all my might lest I should fall out of the doorless carriage. My forearm burnt with a sun-kissed pink, and I was already weary from the bumpy ride (going over the slightest hump at a normal speed would jerk us out of our seats), my mind blunted by inaction. Much of the land was parched, desolation of the sun, though the thicket was equal parts thriving and withered: tussocks grew next to brown and lush shrubbery that hugged tall trees. This meant that there was little incentive for the wildlife to go all the way out for sustenance.

Even by the fifth hour when the sun bent all its thought hither, my safari experience was completely uneventful. The slate-coloured water buffalos were a dime a dozen, and they were gifted with curved horns beautiful but menacing. But they are after all not the most photogenic species nature has to offer. For most part of the day, all they do is sit their stocky frames in water or graze or stand in formation staring at something yonder (guarding against predators), so interesting they are not. Every now and then, a wild boar or a rabbit would scurry in and out of view. Sambars and spotted deer there were also, venturing out for a sip, galloping away at the slightest whir of the engine; in the wild, life or death hinges on a moment of vigilance or mistake.

That was the fate of one deer, how it came to its end will forever remain a mystery. Submerged in one of the murky pools was its carcass, its head already removed. It was a complete clean cut, its executioner leaving no bloody trail. A few paces from it was a crocodile, presumably the owner of the carcass, lording over his spoils. Beside him was a fallen bole with an arm jutting skyward, the shape eerily similar to his when his mouth is agape. Perhaps it is his decoy that lures unsuspecting prey, such as the deer, into a false sense of security.

“The stench of the carcass may arouse the leopard, leading him here,” said Dulshan my tour guide, his optimistic piece of news kindling hope in me. And that was the animal I, like most people, came to Yala National Park to see up close: the panthera pardus kotiya, endemic to Sri Lanka. Leopards number thirty, sixty or a hundred in Yala National Park, depending on whose account you believe. They are solitary creatures, mating only for perfunctory reasons not pleasure, so without the sheer presence of a pride, finding them in the over nine hundred square metres of expanse is like finding a needle in a haystack. So we tarried, watching the surroundings for any trace of a leopard. I imagined what an epic showdown it would be, reptile versus cat, both matched in cunning, ferocity and strength. Such luck we had not, and so we finally moved on.

Just then, my driver’s phone rang, and uttering something he turned the vehicle around, changed gear, and broke away with breakneck speed. Many vehicles before us did the same, whipping up a cloud of sand that blotted from sight the end of the road. When we arrived at the destination, there already was a fleet of jeeps. All the commotion was for a trio of elephants, including an adorable baby one, enjoying respite from the heat with some splash of water. Amidst a sea of upraised hands and vehicles that blocked the view, it was hard to soak in the scene.