Up in the hills of Kothmale, about 25 km southwest of Kandy in the central highlands of Sri Lanka, a strange hybrid vehicle can be seen sputtering along the dirt tracks of Kothmale’s villages. At first glance, it appears to be an autorickshaw or ‘tuktuk’, a familiar sight on the roads of South Asia and as common on the streets of Sri Lanka as sarongs.

But this is no ordinary three-wheeler. This is the e-tuktuk, the world’s first radio station and multimedia centre on three wheels.

In 1982, when the Mahaweli Irrigation Project displaced thousands of villagers in central Sri Lanka, the government eased their resettlement by setting up several community radio projects in and around the resettlement villages.

Kothmale Community Radio (KCR) came up in 1989, and while the other community radio stations soon ran into rough weather, KCR 98.4 FM went on to become something of a legend.

On the walls of the somewhat run-down building that houses the Kothmale Community Radio and Multimedia Centre, there are old, faded photographs of a slim, curly-haired young man in a sarong, deep in conversation with local villagers. Sunil Wijesinghe, now station controller of KCR, is still the most unassuming of men, as likely to grab a pickaxe as he is to grab a microphone and turn his hand to whatever odd job that needs to be done around the station.

The radio station, which is part of the cash-strapped Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation, runs on a shoestring budget. Sunil and his team keep things going with a blend of ingenuity and good humour. The studio is a marvel of improvisation. The mixer is of venerable antiquity, as are the spool recorders. The acoustic treatment on the walls seems to consist -- I was afraid to ask -- of old foam-covered coir mattresses!

The only pieces of modern broadcast equipment I could see were a CD player and a PC, donated by UNESCO. There is just one multi-purpose studio, and programmes have to be recorded when the station shuts down between transmissions. A second booth -- presently a storage room -- is awaiting conversion into a production studio. “When?” I ask. “As soon as funds are available,” says Sunil, echoing a common refrain at Kothmale.

Next only to Sunil, Benjamin (‘Mr Ben’) Grubb is one of Kothmale’s minor marvels. Ben is a slim, bespectacled Australian in his late-20s, whose air of detached abstraction hides a sharp intellect and a passion for all things technical.

Ben Grubb came to Sri Lanka as a tourist and somehow ended up at Kothmale, where he is now the project advisor and guiding spirit behind the e-tuktuk project. He handpicked the heavy-duty battery, inverter, mixer, amplifier, cables and all the other odds and ends that fit snugly into the not-too-spacious interior of the tuktuk.

When the project runs out of funds -- an all-too-common occurrence -- Ben reportedly dips into his own resources to keep things ticking. “My girlfriend supports me,” he deadpans.

The e-tuktuk was unveiled at the World Press Freedom Day conference (May 1-3) in Colombo this year. The bright blue three-wheeler with its Heath Robinson interior was an instant hit. Later that week, in Colombo, the AMARC (World Association of Community Radio Broadcasters) roundtable discussion on community radio and its social impact was covered live by the e-tuktuk.

“With this e-tuktuk, it seems to me you’ve got a great vehicle both in the physical and the symbolic sense, to go out to communities and neighbourhoods and to let people speak through their community radio station,” says Steve Buckley, president of the AMARC. “I think that this is a trend that is going to catch on.”

The “great” vehicle is an Indian-built Bajaj RE (rear engine) four-stroke autorickshaw, powerful enough to climb the steep hills of Kothmale whilst carrying what is, in effect, a complete radio station and multimedia centre, and a couple of operators as well.

Ben explains how the three-wheeler was stripped down and rebuilt to his specifications by local mechanics, with special racks to take the heavy-duty battery, inverter, amplifier and mixer. The roof rack -- sturdy enough to support Ben’s weight -- holds two speakers.

There is a shelf for the laptop, and space to mount a CDMA phone, scanner, camera and battery-operated printer. Even in the remotest villages of Kothmale, the e-tuktuk can get you on the Internet, scan and upload documents, download files, print them out, and take digital photographs.

Arthur C Clarke -- a Sri Lankan resident himself -- would be proud. Baffled perhaps, but proud. A portable 1,000 Watt generator produces enough electricity to recharge the main battery and keep the equipment running for hours.

When I reached Kothmale on May 10, the e-tuktuk was already in its lair -- a converted kitchen in the KCR building -- having been driven the 150-odd km from Colombo to Kothmale by a visibly tired Ben and his crew. But there was work to be done -- a field broadcast was scheduled for that evening, the e-tuktuk’s first community OB (Outside Broadcast) event in Kothmale, at the village of Weliganga.

Weliganga (‘river-flats’) clings to a hillside a few kilometres downhill from KCR. As the tuktuk rolls into a small clearing with a dilapidated shed at its far end, a light monsoon rain begins to fall. Within minutes, the crew has fired up the transmitter and laptop, and cables snake across the wet grass.

The tuktuk’s transmitter is a vintage 50 Watt FM exciter, a clunky beast that goes back to the early days of KCR and is too big to fit anywhere except on the rooftop rack. (This is an obvious worry for the Kothmale station -- you don’t carry sensitive broadcast equipment on an exposed rack in the monsoon -- and they are raising the funds to buy a sleeker model that will fit inside the tuktuk.) I watch bemused as an 18-foot antenna mast is swiftly put together from three lengths of galvanised iron pipe clamped end-to-end.

Sunil Shanta, KCR’s relief announcer, launches into a practised spiel that’s fed into the twin speakers mounted on the roof of the tuktuk. Soon, the clearing and the shed fill with an expectant crowd -- mostly women and children -- some carrying plastic chairs and mats.

Weliganga is a dalit village, a hamlet of drum-makers and subsistence farmers, generally shunned by their better-off neighbours. Sunil Wijesinghe, KCR’s station manager, confides to me that only a few days earlier, a local monk had stormed into his office, outraged by the contents of a recent programme. Apparently, the radio station had aired the comments of Weliganga’s villagers, who said that they were not allowed entry into the local temple. Their children too, said the villagers, had to travel long distances to study elsewhere as they were discriminated against at the local school.

This could well be true, as I soon learn. Bright-eyed Achala, a ninth standard student, tells me that she goes to school in Ulapane, some miles away, as do her friends Nirosha, Niluka and Nilukshika who cluster around her and nod vigorously.

With monsoon clouds rolling overhead and the shed’s roof leaking like a sieve, the show gets underway.

Achala launches into a Sinhala prayer song. Livelier numbers follow, and soon the shed is filled with singing, clapping and dancing youngsters, with three drummers maintaining a steady beat.

Ben Grubb dashes into the e-tuktuk to check on the equipment, and swears under his breath when he finds an audio cable plugged into the wrong socket. Buddhika Sampath, KCR’s content-creation specialist, shoos Ben away and takes over the audio recording. Inside the shed, Sunil Shanta, the programme presenter, works the crowd and keeps up a steady banter.

The rain dies down to a sporadic drizzle. It is half past six and too dark to see, but the unlit shed is still alive with song, drumbeats and girlish laughter. Reluctantly, Sunil winds up the proceedings. The hill roads are muddy and punctuated by puddles, and the e-tuktuk splashes its way back to the station, driven by Nishanta, the strapping volunteer-driver.

We are persuaded to stay behind and visit a local ‘kovil’. The shrine, little more than an outhouse, is bedecked with a startling array of Hindu and Buddhist deities and presided over by a generously proportioned shaman. Smiling broadly, she assures us that she has the power to locate lost objects (“Ask her what happened to my MiniDisk recorder,” mutters Ben) and perform nameless acts of sorcery.

That night, over salted peanuts and duty-free Scotch at Sunil Wijesinghe’s house, it is time for a reality check. Earlier that week, in Colombo, I had heard frequent criticism that the Kothmale community radio experiment had outlived its usefulness. “Ask Sunil when he is going to replicate Kothmale,” said the cynical international relations advisor of one of Sri Lanka’s best-known NGOs.

There were constant jibes -- not least from former Kothmale staff -- that the “community radio” station had very little community involvement, since it was effectively owned and run by the Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation.

It is true that Kothmale’s success is offset by the comparative failure of other community radio stations that were set up in the region at the same time. But, as Sunil points out, it is precisely the support of the community that sets Kothmale apart and accounts for its success. “This evening at Weliganga,” he asks earnestly, “did you feel that the community was not involved?”.

But Kothmale is an exception. Sri Lanka is not the only country in South Asia without a proper community radio policy. In Colombo, I bump into A H M Bazlur Rahman of the BNNRC (Bangladesh NGOs Network for Radio and Communication) at an international ICT conference. Bazlurbhai and I perform what’s by now a familiar ritual. “What’s the latest on your CR policy,” I ask. Bazlur Rahman shrugs eloquently: “Many promises, no policy.” “Same in India,” I say, as we ponder the mysteries of broadcast regulation in the subcontinent.

India’s community radio policy has been in the pipeline for so long that it seems to have congealed. A draft policy was sent for Cabinet approval on October 6, 2005, and then referred to a Group of Ministers (GoM). Seven months on, the GoM has yet to meet and take a decision on the new policy, which promises to open up the airwaves to community groups. No one is holding his breath.

In Kothmale, Sunil is a worried man. Ben’s finances are somewhat precarious and he needs to return to Australia to replenish his bank balance. “Please tell him to stay,” urges Sunil, agitatedly splashing Sprite into his Johnny Walker.

They are very fond of Ben at Kothmale. But Ben is gazing moodily into his half-empty glass, as if seeking his missing MD recorder in its amber depths. He doesn’t want to leave Kothmale either, but he has little choice.

Buddhika, Sunil Shanta and Nishanta are in animated conversation, and occasionally seek my opinion on broadcasting by tuktuk. Mellowed by the Scotch and cool mountain air I try to find parallels between the massive OB vans of All India Radio -- lumbering juggernauts of broadcast technology -- and the nimble little tuktuk. I soon give up.

Clearly, the e-tuktuk is one of a kind. One can only hope -- as Steve Buckley prophesises -- that the trend will catch on and that swarms of e-tuktuks will boldly go where no broadcast van has gone before.

(Sajan Venniyoor, formerly with All India Radio and currently with Doordarshan, has been working for years with community radio groups)

InfoChange News & Features, July 2006