The little hamlet of Panama, lying 11 km south along the B 374 road from Pottuvil, brings new meaning to the phrase “the edge of civilization.” The road ends here. Literally. Graduating into a dirt track that runs onto the beach through a cemetery, with the tombstones of numerous soldiers who lost their lives in the civil conflict. Beyond this lies the azure ocean, stretching for miles upon golden miles of beach in either direction. Truly unpoilt, virgin beauty as far as the eye can see.
Panama gets its name from the its reservoir, the lifeblood of its agricultural community. Referred to in the ancient texts and stone tablets as “Pashana-vapi,” it still feeds the acres upon acres of paddy fields spread across the plains. However, the inhabitants of Panama have a more recent connection to the Kandyan Kingdom, as it is one of the many hideaways of the Kandyans who were running from British colonial wrath during the Uva Wellassa Uprising of 1818.
The road beyond Panama turns inland, and leaves its pavement behind, as it winds its way deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Kumana Game Reserve. It skirts the Panama tank, with its placid waters lapping gently along the bund, peppered with flocks of Lesser Adjutant storks having their fill of fish. A few hundred meters beyond the edge of the tank is a road leading into thick forest; the road to Panama Raja Maha Vihara.
The locals scarcely refer to it by its original name, and were quite at sea when we asked around for directions. They refer to the temple instead as “wehera-godella.” The underbrush thickens and the canopy slowly strangles the last rays of sunlight let through as we proceed deeper and deeper in. Soon the sound of humanity with its farmers and tractors is lost, to be replaced by a crescendo of jungle noises. The odd elephant-dropping serves as a reminder to who indeed is the ruler of these parts. I note them for their freshness: one has traversed this path very recently.
Further in, in a clearing lies the temple, arrayed in two terraces, separated by a stone buttress over two feet in height and thickness. My first guess is that this serves as a deterrent to the occasional inquisitive elephant. The Awasa Geya, built into a huge overhanging rock, is home to a lone bikkhu, who in his autumn years has taken refuge in this Vihara. Bent with age as he may be, his wit is sharp, and his eyes and ears are well attuned to his surroundings. He catches us by surprise with his youthful banter and disarming ways. We are warmly welcomed, and he obliges us with a guided tour, exploring the Aawasa Geya with its pre-historic imagery, the meditation courtyard carved atop the overhanging boulder, accessible only by his rickety ladder. The monk is as nimble on his feet as he is with his words, despite being over 80 years old.
He speaks of the wild animals with such heartfelt fondness, as if they were his closest friends, nay, his own children. He tells us lovingly about the crocodile who took shelter under the rock in a storm and laid six eggs in a crevasse, and of the baby crocodiles who hatched a few weeks later and scampered off on their way to the tank. Of the bear who used to frequent his abode in the evenings and lie curled up to shelter from the downpours.
Then, suddenly, disarmingly, he stops. Raising a finger to his lips, his eyes light up as he looks at us. I sense what he is about to reveal even before he says it. In fact I smell it. A vague aroma of stale dung and musk wafts in with the wind through the thicket a few feet away. The silence is deafening. I feel the blood pounding in my ears. Yet I see nothing through the gloom beyond the trees. Nary a movement nor even a flicker of brush. But I sense him. As does the monk, who whispers:
“Loku putha avilla,” (my eldest son is here) “can you smell him? That’s the kuile, an elephant’s smell. Can you hear him?”
He sensed the fear in the city boys, and broke into his usual tone again. “Don’t worry about him. He’s harmless. I know him well. He helps me clean the temple yard, you know? I clean this area” – he gestures to the courtyard facing the rock – “and he, well, he keeps the rear end tidy! He’s a shy boy, that one. Will hardly show his face when strangers are around. You have nothing to fear. He’s probably more afraid of you than you are of him.”
Our weak smiles do little to show our Dutch courage. The monk leads us away. He tells us of more ruins lying just beyond the buttress, yet to be explored and restored. He speaks of the rich history of Panama Raja Maha Vihara, and we are all ears, enthralled.
Dating back a few centuries before Christ, the earliest evidence of its existence is proven in the inscription carved just below the gutter on the cave roof, which is in Brahmin dialect belonging to the 2nd Century BC. It states
“Parumaka thisha putha parumaka adi liya lene shagasha,”
Having been frequented by Arhat bhikkus ever since, it has been reconstructed and renovated many times in history. More recent stone inscriptions belonging to the 5 – 7 centuries AD have unfortunately not been preserved as well as the earliest one found to date.
Its location and relative anonymity has helped this site remain untouched for as long as it has. Subtle signs of a sprawling temple complex that once existed here are seen in the ruins which hide behind the surrounding forest. Once a regular haunt of the LTTE, the old monk thankfully says he no longer fears for his life. its not his life itself he holds sacred, it’s the fact that without him, this sacred site would have been reclaimed by the jungle and lost forever from memory.
