Resorts Magazine

I make a brief stop at the I ndependence Memorial Hall, inaugurated in 1953—five years af ter independence from Britain. I t resembles a Greek temple, but its lighting is garish. I dine at the hotel: most dishes are spic y or mushroom or fruit-based, none of which I like, so they prepare chicken broth and fish with a French sauce, which I pair with a glass of R iesling. Wine in Sri Lanka is usually impor ted from Chile or Australia. December 30 . Before leaving the hotel, I order a Caesar salad and pair it with a Leon, a fantastic local beer. Scorching heat. I visit the National Museum—an elegant colonial-white building set in greener y. I nside, a few fans but no air conditioning. I admire ancient sculptures and collec tions of arms, coins, glass, ceramics, jewelr y… and an impressive parade of demonic masks. Monstrous imager y inevitably sur faces in the ar t of all civilizations—reflec ting the evil that dwells in human souls. We depar t Colombo, heading nor theast into forests. “Su” says we must arrive before 6 pm, or we might encounter elephants—if one targets a car and decides to charge, it will over turn it. I admit I’d be curious to experience that. The driver ’s seat is on the right—British st yle. Roads are of ten narrow, single -lane, and drivers are reck less. “Su,” with feline swif tness, narrowly avoids a bus that veered into our lane at full speed. Whether reck less or oblivious to the danger, we don’t know. We leave the chaotic traffic of Colombo (commonly called “Calambo”). Occasional showers alternate with sunshine, then a torrential downpour floods ever ything. Five hours by car from Colombo takes us to Uga Ulagalla, a jungle resor t, in the evening. December 31 . We head to Anuradhapura, a complex of ancient Buddhist temples. On the grounds, flower vendors offer blooms. Some pilgrims bring bunches from home—arms over flowing with scent and color—to offer to Buddha in exchange for wishes. I follow suit. We must proceed barefoot, and in this torrential rain, that means walk ing stones, pebbles, mud, puddles. Confessions, rosaries, offerings, penance, kneelers, cilices, pilgrimages, steep temple steps, Ramadan. Ever y faith carries a vein of sadism; the faithful always seem a bit masochistic. “Su” leaves his shoes at the entrance, but when we return, they ’ve been stolen. I give him a new pair, which he seems to appreciate. Groups of men and women swirl in procession; older women pray together in chorus; an air of deep mysticism reigns, a far cr y from Western infernal noise. I’m captivated by the Ruwanwelisaya Dagoba, a colossal stupa built in the 2nd centur y BCE—a mysterious brick uterus, a giant breast, a cosmic womb encompassing ever ything. On New Year’s Eve: folk dances and fire-eaters, followed by exuberant disco music. At my venerable age, I think it would be ridiculous—pathetic even—to dance alone, but then I realize: “Who cares? No one here knows me!” So I hit the dance floor in a bubbly mood. Between courses—sophisticated, original dishes by Chef Sugath—I spin like a dervish. My enthusiasm spreads; soon everyone joins. Joy fills the air. We toast Orion, laid across the nighttime sky. Fireworks trace galaxy-like patterns overhead. Nex t stop: Sigiriya, an ancient 5th- centur y BCE capital of Sri Lanka, a UNESCO site. I n the 12th–13th centuries, the Sigiriya for tress was transformed into a Buddhist monaster y, later abandoned. 19th- centur y excavations uncovered Roman, I ndo -Roman, and Sassanian coins. 107 R ESORTS M AGAZINE