It’s the night of the last full moon in May and I’m caught in the middle of a street procession in Sri Lanka where Buddhist worshippers are celebrating Vesak, the most hallowed of all festivals celebrating the birth, enlightenment and death of Buddha. Colourful lanterns made from tissue paper and fabric are strung up in trees, fairy lights adorn shop fronts and the faithful are making their way to the Wewurukannala Vihara temple, carrying garlands of flowers and incense. Among the procession in the streets of Dikwella, bulbous-bodied elephants bring the traffic to a stand-still, while groups of giggling school children – many with their faces painted or wearing papier mâché masks – sing bhakti gee (devotional songs). Their faces, illuminated by the glow of candles, are smiling.
It’s a wonderful glimpse into the joyful side of Sri Lanka, a remarkable contrast to the tragic news stories that have emerged from the country over the past few decades. The heartache and bloodshed of the 26-year civil war between the Buddhist Sinhalese and Hindu Tamil separatists cost the lives of an estimated 80,000 to 100,000 citizens, displacing many more hundreds of thousands. Then came the Boxing Day tsunami in 2004. Swamping the south coast and killing about 35,000 people, the world could only look on in horror, shedding tears for the teardrop-shaped island and its people.
Both events were a devastating blow to Sri Lanka’s fledgling tourism industry, though since the conflict ended in May 2009, the number of visitors has swelled. Last year, Sri Lanka received almost 1.8 million tourists and there’s plenty to be optimistic about, particularly since the democratic election of president Maithripala Sirisena, a son of a paddy farmer who is committed to reconciliation. These days, Sri Lanka seems to be on every travel hot-list – and the quality of lodgings is a far cry from the country’s backpacker days.
Among the newest upscale properties to open is the luxury resort Anantara Peace Haven Tangalle Resort, tucked in a former coconut plantation along a crescent-shaped beach in the far south. I’m travelling there during the monsoon, just as recent rains have wreaked havoc in the country’s interior. The front-page news laments mudslides that mercilessly ploughed through rural communities, decimating entire villages; the exact number of casualties is still unknown. When I see the damage as we drive from Colombo, my driver pointing to submerged houses and rice paddies that resemble lakes, it strikes me as desperately unfair for Mother Nature to unleash such fury on a country only just finding its feet. Yet as I stare from the window, it’s clear that Mother Nature gives as much as she takes away, blessing Sri Lanka with an utterly beautiful landscape, from the terraced tea plantations and estates in the highlands to the unspoilt stretches of tropical beaches and dense jungles where leopards and wild elephants roam.
We are driving towards the far southern swathes of the country, Tangalle, and when the traffic-snarled highway reaches the coastline I catch my breath; despite the ominous purple thunderclouds dormant in the sky, it’s wildly beautiful. As we pull into Anantara, I spot monkeys and squirrels scampering between the trees and from the first glance, it’s clear the resort, all natural plantation teak and low-rise accommodation, has strived to be sympathetic to its natural environment. Paying homage to the culture and heritage of Sri Lanka with traditional Dutch colonial furnishings, hand-loomed cotton textiles and hand-carved wood wall art created by local artisans, my room has a balcony that overlooks the palm groves, the beach and the two-tiered infinity pool; there’s even a view from the freestanding bathtub, which is separated from the bedroom by a panel of glass. Nested among the breezy, beautiful garden and beach, there are also standalone luxury villas – pavilion-inspired abodes with open wood ceilings and private infinity pools, with drawings by local resident Barbara Sansoni from the 1960s and ‘70s adorning the walls.
Eager to banish my memory of the red-eye flight, I’m ushered to the spa, a cloistered haven of cool corridors and trickling water features, where I’m met by Sampath Perawattha. The resort’s on-site Ayurvedic doctor imparts the 5,000-year-old system of natural healing that has its origins in the Vedic culture of India in a consultation that is part-sermon, part-therapy session. With a beatific expression and a genuine concern for my well-being, he takes my pulse and asks me some questions before recommending a therapy to suit my Dosha type and address my current imbalances, which, he explains, can manifest in all sorts of symptoms, from anxiety and digestive issues to difficulty focusing. “All of the above,” I say, but he simply smiles. “You need to understand what is your natural being,” he replies. “Practice your mind. Find the natural way in your body. This is the true Ayurvedic lifestyle. You can change little by little.”
When he decides on my treatment, he introduces me to my therapist who instead of leading the way to the treatment room, walks beside me; gently holding my elbow, her other hand rests on the small of my back. Maybe it’s the tranquil surrounds or the low burble of birdlife in the nearby trees, but I feel instantly nurtured. Post massage, I nibble on dried figs and feel a deep sense of calm. Despite rising early the following morning, I find I’m energised, and set off to explore Anantara’s beach, watching the monsoonal swell pound the shore and sitting for a while in a beach cabana tucked among the coconut palms and pandanus.
By 7.30am, I’m at the yoga pavilion, set on a platform beneath the resort’s Il Mare restaurant where I see a lone crossed-legged figure meditating. It’s the resort’s yoga guru, Hashila Rangana and it seems I will be the sole student at his morning hatha yoga class. There’s no hiding in the back during a one-on-one yoga session, though Rangana’s serene aura puts me at ease. He incorporates pranayama (breathing) into the session and by the time my practice is complete, I feel more in tune with the pace of life in Tangalle, and in love with the nature; the sighing of the wind, the hoots of birds, and the squirrels that romp around the resort’s lawns.
After reading by the pool, a lunch spent gazing out at the waves over a prawn and arugula salad, and afternoon hours spent sipping on king coconuts, their tops lopped off by machete, a slice of orange speared on the straw, I practically float over to Il Mare for dinner, which clings to the clifftop overlooking the coastline and endless palms. Sudden and fierce downpours arrive and vanish within minutes at this time of year, but the evening is mercifully clear and birds provide a chorus for sunset drinks and dining al fresco. The Sri Lankan cuisine at the resort is exceptional – the chef makes an incredible kaju Maluwa (cashew nut curry) and the spicy fish in banana leaf was a favourite – but at Il Mare, it’s classic Italian, from caprese salads, squid-ink linguine and glorious seafood hauled in daily by local fishermen, coupled with coconut and passionfruit panna cotta and an excellent wine list.
Daily yoga, Ayurveda and just a little gluttony in the evening – I could easily fall into a rhythm, though there’s another reason I’ve been so eager to visit Sri Lanka’s first Anantara: the surfing. The Anantara Surf Centre is run by Tropicsurf, and fuelled by “hoppers” – a traditional Sri Lankan breakfast item best described as a bowl-shaped, egg-filled crêpe – I bundle into one of the hotel cars with my instructors, Martin and Harrison. A mere 10-minute drive and we arrive to Kudawella beach, and it’s absolutely deserted, save for a stray dog or two and some errant horse droppings, but the sand is clean, the sky is blue and the water is invigorating. I’m soon up and away on the rolling beginner’s waves, marvelling that I don’t have to share the water with anyone. On my way back to the airport, the driver takes the scenic route to Colombo via Galle along the coastal highway that winds along the famous surf beaches. Hikkaduwa, north of Galle, might be the best-known among the surfing community, but when I glimpse the coastal hotspots like Weligama, Midigama and Mirissa, where surfers share the shallows with stilt fisherman, I understand immediately why it’s so alluring.
After several days in the quiet south, even Galle seems busy – though it doesn’t take long to acclimatise to the Dutch colonial architecture, jewellery shops and charming boutiques like Barefoot (41 Pedlar St., Galle Fort; +94 91 2226299), which has hand-crafted clothing and home décor, and it’s worth a stop for Stick No Bills (35 Church St., Galle; +94 91 2 242504), a gallery with often amusing vintage-poster prints depicting Sri Lanka from the late 1800s through to the early 1980s. I don’t buy any posters, but before the airport I make a final stop at a pharmacy for an important purchase: cinnamon-scented Siddhalepa balm. Sri Lanka’s leading Ayurvedic brand proves a tonic for my aching surfing muscles and even now, at home, the scent of cinnamon has me dreaming; a fragrant reminder of Sri Lanka, a gentle country that has left a lasting impression.