The tuk-tuk kamikazes

Hello there. Am I ever glad to see you lovely people. Let me elucidate. Newly-wed, the lovely Mrs Emissions and I kissed our corpulent cat goodbye, bid the Bavarian princess auf wiedersehen and trekked off to Sri Lanka a month ago for what was intended to be the trip of a lifetime.

Four days in, the poor lady got sick. Very sick. Perhaps it was the awful realisation that she was my wife, who knows? Whatever, she fell ill enough to force us to head for home.

Decision made, we found ourselves in the quandary of how to get from the elephant-inhabited jungles in the north to the capital Colombo, 150-odd miles hence. Time was of the essence - we had to be in the offices of our airline in around five hours, or face a four-day wait for the next flight out.

Simple enough you say. Fermanagh to Limerick in five hours? Easy. Problem was, we weren't in Ireland. We were in Sri Lanka. It's not just that the roads are like Irish roads in the '50s - there's the Sri Lankans to contend with too.

A friendlier, kinder bunch of people you will never meet. We loved them. But put them behind the wheel of a motorised vehicle - be it truck, tractor or tuk-tuk - and they undergo a transformation that would put Dr Jekyll to shame. From so-laid-back-they're-almost-horizontal to feckless speed demons at the turn of a key.

Before we left, herself told me of an uncle who visited Colombo years before. He asked the chap in the rental car office which side of the road to drive on. "The shady side," came the straight-faced response. I didn't believe her. That'll learn me.

Sri Lankans drive where they like. While technically driving on the same side as us, the reality is they'll try to fit their vehicles anywhere there is space. There's only one rule - if my vehicle is bigger, you get out of the way or suffer the consequences.

The urge to overtake seems ingrained in the Sri Lankan psyche. No space is too small, no bend too dangerous. Inside, outside, any side they can, they'll go for it. Cars, lorries, tuk-tuks, all overtake in waves, often four or five abreast. The fact that the traffic coming the opposite direction is doing exactly the same on a road 15 feet wide is no barrier. It is, frankly, heart-stopping.

They use the horn like we use gears. The honking is constant, done as a matter of course rather than aggressively. And indicators have a plethora of often contradictory meanings: I'm turning right; you're turning right; it's safe to pass; it's not safe to pass; I'm having rice for tea; I've got two petrified Irish newlyweds in the back of my van.

Our tour guide eventually found us a driver - a gentle soul outside of his battered Hiace who turned into Colin McRae on crack once behind the wheel. Never, ever, not even when I've been driving myself, have I been so certain I would end up being scavenged off a road by a ravenous mongrel.

But what chance did we have? It was place all our trust in this maniac or take our chances in some ramshackle village hospital, where herself would have lasted around 10 minutes. We took our chances in the van. While wifey had the good sense to get some shut-eye, I was foolish enough to watch my life flash before my eyes as Fangio tore towards Colombo as if he was being chased by the whole Tamil Tiger army. It wasn't a pretty sight.

But we made it. We're home. And I'll never abuse Irish drivers again. Well, not until next week, at least.