On the way, we picked up Shantha Wijekumara, a young man of Veddah origin, to act as translator. He claims to be "pirisidu vedi" (of pure Veddah blood), but has lived in Colombo and is a villager now like any other.

The current chieftain, Vanniyage Eththo, was not available on that day, but we were able to meet a younger brother, Thisahami's third son.

Before stepping into his home, we stopped at what amounted to a souvenir shop, where a bearded, smiling veddah sat surrounded by framed photographs, bottles of medicine and bee's honey, all for sale.

Even as we sat talking, a pair of tourists showed up. A busload turned up a few minutes later. Almost all of them would be photographing the Veddahs. Few make any money out of these photographs, as many people fondly believe. To make saleable pictures of aborigines nowadays, you'd have to venture deep into the Amazon, braving poison arrows.

In any case, I was glad that the film advance lever had fallen off my old camera in Dambulla town. I'd have hated taking pictures of this modern Veddah habitat, so boring in its near-total conformity (though I later regretted not being able to take pictures of the Veddah children and their paintings in their tiny school).

As the research team talked about computers, I looked at the handicrafts hung on the wall for sale. There were coconut shell spoons with carved handles, ebony knives and bows and arrows. All these items carried high prices. The spoons were going for Rs. 300 each. A bow and arrow cost Rs. 1500 (not an authentic, used one, but one made for sale).

However, this shouldn't lead to any complacent belief that these people are impressed with money the way most of us are. That'd be a terrible mistake to make. Certainly, they need money now because they are cut off from their traditional lifestyle. As one Aadivaasi put it: "I'd be happier living in the jungle. But there's no jungle left now for me to go back to."

But they - the older generation, certainly - are totally unimpressed by money and all the trappings they can buy, plus all the symbols of modern industrial wealth - skyscrapers, sleek cars, jet travel, laptop computers, among other things. In fact, I'm clueless as to what impresses them. A big, brooding jungle, perhaps, rekindling the fears of their ancestors.

So, the third son of Thisahami was unimpressed by the laptop, but he's sane enough to acknowledge that his children will need to learn about these things if they are to survive - indeed, if they are to do better than survive, and provide menial labour in our cities or entertainment to the descending hordes of tourists. Surviving from day to day in the jungle, as his ancestors had done for generations, makes people remarkably clear-sighted as to what the essentials of life are. Those days, it was an arrow which flew true and straight; today, it's a computer.

Afterwards, we visited the Gurukumbura Primary School, where 27 Veddah children study up to Year 5. They are taught several subjects (except English) by two teachers. We met one; Dambane Gunawardhane - who is famous as the first aadivaasi to graduate from a university.

The children were thrilled by the demonstration of the laptop computer and digital video clips. Mr. Gunawardhane, too, thinks that it will be good for the children of Dambane to learn computers.

I was really impressed by the pastel paintings done by these children. These had been done by pastels given by a visitor. They have no drawing materials now, and have had no training in art, but the forms and colour harmonies they have produced in a totally intuitive way are visually stunning.

Saman Kumara, a 10-year-old student, has drawn an aircraft, and a helicopter. Both look abstract. He has seen low-flying helicopters but aircraft only from a great height. That this aircraft comes entirely from his imagination is proved by the fact that it has a rotor-type propeller on top.

It is triangular in shape (like a Stealth Bomber). Saman Kumara couldn't have seen the picture of one, as they get no newspapers and magazines and see little or no television.

All these children, in fact, draw in an abstract manner. Almost everything they draw - a flower, a house, a river, an animal - takes an abstract shape. This puzzled me at first but I think it's only natural - after all, their ancestors drew very abstract shapes on the walls of their caves thousands of years ago. There are no recent examples of Veddah art, as far as I know, but it is very natural that the artistic instincts of their ancestors should survive in these children to some extent.

Swarnalatha Sridevi, an Year 5 student, has drawn a five-pointed star with stunning colour harmonies in green, orange, blue and yellow. Chandani, an Year 3 student, has drawn a village scene. Animals mingle with people as a river flows by. The river is drawn in a highly abstract manner. At a corner is a tree with a watch-hut on it, with a child sitting inside. I asked her if girls too, keep watch in chenas. She nodded. So, the little figure in the painting could be Chandani herself.

The parents have no idea of the quality of their children's art (they are good enough to win prizes in competitions, though no one has thought about that yet). The trouble is that they can't afford art materials. Mr. Wanninayake helped immediately by buying them pastels from Mahiyangana town. But a long-term supply of drawing materials and paper is needed.

Donors could direct them to Mr. Gunawardhane of Gurukumbura Primary; if that is not possible, then contact Mr. Wanninayake at the Horizon School.

(http://www.horizonlanka.org/ or wanni@horizonlanka.org). Tel. 94-77-7702678.