It might have been the sound of wheels spinning in mud, or perhaps the chattering whine of a tortured transmission. Or it might have been the increasingly loud imprecations I was directing at my driver. Whatever the cause, we had suddenly become the focus of several hundred wild elephants. Those nearest began to stomp toward us, thumping their trunks on the ground.
Minneriya must be one of Sri Lanka's best-kept secrets. In three magical hours, we'd seen just two other cars prowling around. And as the sun began to dip, accompanied by the snapping and cracking of branches, elephants—singly at first, then in tens, then in hundreds—came to the shores of the Minneriya Tank (one of Sri Lanka's major reservoirs) to drink, bathe and play.
There are plenty of tame and tethered elephants in Sri Lanka—just the previous night in Kandy, we had seen 80 of them paraded at the Kandy Perahera, the country's biggest religious festival.
But nothing beats the sight of the behemoths in their natural state. The beasts at Minneriya knew neither the mahouts' steely prods nor the tourists' prickly flashbulbs.
Instead, we were the guests—and not particularly welcome ones. As we headed out of the park at dusk, the track meandered within meters of a knot of females guarding their young. Two of the great animals then wheeled about and gave chase in a surprising burst of speed. The bigger of the two got within trunk-swiping distance of our jeep as we cowered and shouted. Fortunately, the track flattened out and we were able to floor it, to a chorus of furious trumpeting.
Later I asked Premaratna if we had been in any real danger. "I know of men who have been closer to an angry wild elephant. But none of them are alive," he said, quite deadpan.