Sri Lanka: The island that heals
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Sri Lanka offers sunshine and smiles - and an ancient system of healthcare that has exotic treatments for stress and illness. Christina Patterson goes on an Ayurvedic adventure
For people who have, in recent years, seen more than their fair share of tragedy, Sri Lankans smile an awful lot. "Our smile can mean anything," says the Sri Lankan poet Sandra Fernando in her poem "Advice", and that may be true, but it's one of the many things that make a trip to this country - described by Marco Polo as "the finest small island in the world" - an unmitigated delight.
The smile is often preceded by the national greeting, ayubowan, delivered with hands joined, as in prayer, which means "may you live a long life" . That might sound a bit hollow to the relatives of the 32,000 killed in the tsunami two years ago, or of the many thousands killed in the continuing conflict between the national government and the Tamil Tigers. But life expectancy in Sri Lanka remains a healthy 72. The happiness experts who pop up almost daily might argue that this is linked to that ubiquitous smile. But it might also owe something to the benefits of a philosophical and healthcare system that goes back thousands of years.
Ayurveda is a Sanskrit word meaning "the science of life". Based on Hindu philosophy, it was first conceived in India more than 5,000 years ago and arrived in Sri Lanka 2,500 years later, at about the same time as Buddhism. While we were grappling with fire and gazing proudly at our rough flint tools, the Sri Lankan king Buddhasa, himself an eminent physician, was building hospitals.
A friend had raved about the benefits of this gentle healing system whose chief treatments were, she said, soothing massages with aromatic oils. Another had extolled the beauty of the place. Inspired by both, I decided to set out on an Ayurvedic journey through this island shaped like a teardrop, an island that the Portuguese, Dutch and British each decided, in turn, to steal.
My own feeling of wellbeing started on the plane with the pilot's Buddhist greeting, delivered in the melodious Sri Lankan lilt, wishing us the " blessings of the triple gem". It continued on meeting Luxman Perera, my friendly and extremely knowledgeable driver and guide, and it rose to meteoric levels when I hit my first stop, Ayurveda Pavilions. This collection of 12 beautiful villas in Negombo, on the west coast just outside Colombo, has twice been voted the world's best spa, and it's not hard to see why.
The huge villas, inspired by the traditional midah, or ancestral house, have their own verandas and private courtyards. Set around grounds filled with tropical foliage and medicinal plants, they are exquisite. Mine boasted not just a medley of comforts - giant bed, basket of tropical fruit, gorgeous outside bath - but a little library of improving tomes. Don't Worry, Be Healthy: A Buddhist Guide to Health and Healing and How to Live as a Good Buddhist nestled alongside the New Testament in German, French and English. It was the first of many reminders that this is a country whose religiously diverse population (70 per cent Buddhist, 15 per cent Hindu, 7.5 per cent Christian and 7.5per cent Muslim) live extremely harmoniously.
As soon as I'd unpacked, Dr Sujeewa was dispatched to my garden to set me on the path to health and healing. Ayurveda was, she said, a system based as much on prevention as cure, one whose main aim was to balance the three central energies, or doshas: vata, pitta and kapha. Vatta, apparently, is like air, and imbalances can cause pain, migraine and paralysis. Pitta is like fire, and imbalances can cause digestive, hormonal and skin disorders. Kapha is like water, and imbalances can cause high cholesterol, respiratory problems and colds.
We all have, she said, a basic body constitution, but the balance of the different doshas varies according to weather, state of mind and diet. Then she whipped out her stethoscope, took my pulse and ran through a questionnaire. Did I have a small or large forehead? Thin or thick hair? White or yellow teeth? When she'd finished, she totted up the figures and told me the results. I was predominantly pitta, which made me "very intelligent" but "very vengeful". The treatment, which would involve lots of cooling foods and oil massages, would start immediately.
It started, in fact, on my veranda, with the birds singing overhead. A tiny, pretty woman washed my feet with sandalwood powder and then poured warm oil onto my neck and scalp. With delicate, circular movements, and little flutterings of her fingers, she slowly massaged it in. Once she'd finished, she was joined by another tiny, skinny colleague and together they tackled my body. It's really quite something to have two people massaging you at once: two hands clasping your own while two other hands gently knead your stomach - and, indeed, quite vigorously, your breasts. I was relieved that these superb masseurs, unlike the one who had me slithering, stark naked, in a pool of oil on a floor in Goa, were female.
After a soothing herbal tea ("slim apple" for "pacifying pitta "), a delicious dinner, an excellent night's sleep and a healing breakfast of red rice, curry, rotis and the traditional green rice soup known as "herbal porridge", it was time to get going. Next stop was history and nature, in the area known as the Cultural Triangle, via the elephant orphanage in Pinnawela. I'm not sure that it necessarily had anything to do with Ayurveda, but the 150-odd elephants were, when I arrived, all coated in mud. In an amusing parody of my lovely treatment, they tried to scrape it off themselves, and each other, before lumbering to the river for a proper* * bath. They certainly looked pretty healthy and, with their little spiky haircuts and wise eyes, very sweet.
There are sometimes wild elephants around our next destination, Vil Uyana, a new eco resort near the extraordinary rock fortress at Sigiriya. There are also wild peacocks, spotted doves, egrets, pond herons, rusty spotted cats and even the odd crocodile. I could see them from the terrace of my palatial villa, complete with private pool, set against the newly forested and flooded fields of this area in Sri Lanka's dry zone. Inspired by local and rural traditions, and the sophisticated fifth-century irrigation system of the palace at Sigiriya, this private nature reserve has been designed to provide a haven for wildlife and humans. Constructed largely from natural materials - wood and straw, combined with the once-again funky concrete - it's the acme of contemporary chic.
Dr Shiromi Wijesinghe, the hotel's Ayurvedic physician, told me more about Ayurveda - excellent for paralysis, fistulae and haemorrhoids, apparently - and liaised with the chef to provide exquisite, healing meals. She also arranged for a suitable treatment to follow the next day's punishing schedule of sightseeing, at Sigiriya and Polonnaruwa. The one I needed, actually, was for awe. It's not hard to see why the breathtaking feat of construction at Sigiriya is often described as the eighth wonder of the world, and you can only gasp at the magnificent - and magnificently preserved - ruins of the 12th-century kingdom of Polonnaruwa. I could only gasp at the "treatment", too: another sublime massage and facial, with aromatic oils and herbal masks, followed by a soak in a candle-lit, flower-filled herbal bath.
The next day, however, my Ayurvedic principles were severely tested. A trip to the still-functioning painted cave temples at Dambulla - astonishing examples of spiritual art, some dating back to the first century BC - should, perhaps, have inspired me to some self-control. But when we stopped off at Luxman's house to pick up a computer part, en route to Colombo, I was confronted by another work of art: a giant chocolate cake. His wife, Leela, had got up at five to bake it, especially for me. It would, I thought, have been rude not to try it. And a second slice.
It wouldn't have been rude not to sip a gin and tonic on the veranda of the Galle Face Hotel, in Colombo, or try the fine wines and non-Ayurvedic cuisine at its ultra-chic new restaurant, 1864, but I'm afraid that didn't stop me. It was raining so hard that I couldn't venture out to see much of Colombo, so I was reduced to sampling the gastronomic delights of this colonial seafront hotel, whose past guests have included Noël Coward, Cole Porter, Gregory Peck and George Bernard Shaw.
En route to Galle next morning, we stopped at Siddhalepa hospital, a private Ayurvedic hospital run by the Hettigoda family, one of the biggest manufacturers of Ayurvedic products worldwide. Mrs Rajapaksa, the president's wife, is, apparently, a regular visitor to its extremely beautiful spa. The hospital, according to one consultant, Dr Tudor Senadheera, treats 25 to 30 outpatients a day, and has room for about 20 patients in private rooms. Does he, I wondered, use astrology in his diagnostic work? "Oh yes," he replied, with a firm nod. "It is essential to see the situation in the stars." In this, he is hardly alone. Most Sri Lankans wouldn't dream of taking a major decision without consulting an astrologer - including, unfortunately, its politicians.
My Ayurvedic regime evaporated entirely during my two-day trip to Galle for its fabulous new literary festival [a full account of which will appear in next Friday's books pages]. It was impossible not to sip white wine on the terrace of the Lighthouse, the elegant beachside hotel designed by Asia's leading architect, Geoffrey Bawa, and it was compulsory, as always, to imbibe large quantities of alcohol with the writers. By the time I left the city, and the beautiful old Dutch town at the fort, I could feel the effects. Dark red patches had appeared on my tongue - always a danger sign, according to my (non-Ayurvedic) British acupuncturist - and I could feel that my whole system was inflamed.
At the Barberyn Beach resort, at Weligama, where I was to spend the next six days, Dr Pushpa took me firmly in hand. My pulse was weak, she told me. My blood was thin. My blood pressure was low. And my tongue indicated an excess of toxins or ama. She would prescribe plenty of herbal medicines, all made on the premises, a strict diet and a daily regime of oils, relaxation and herbal baths.
I thought the beauty of the place alone would heal me. The sister resort of Barberyn Reef, the first Ayurvedic resort in Sri Lanka, Barberyn Beach is set on a hillside overlooking a palm-fringed beach. The 15 acres of grounds have been beautifully landscaped, and the views in every direction are stunning. Sitting on the hillside by the pool, you can gaze out at the sea and at the stilt fishermen, perched on their spindly-looking sticks. From the moment I arrived, I was in heaven.
Built in 2003 and, unlike Barberyn Reef, which had to be entirely rebuilt, unaffected by the tsunami, Barberyn Beach is comfortable, plain and unpretentious. The health centre feels like a health centre, not a spa. The treatments are administered largely by young women in stripy pinafores, like school uniforms, in simple cubicles with functional lighting and plain white tiles. And they are amazing.
First, I was ensconced, wearing only my knickers, in a chair in front of a mirror, and left to contemplate my spare tyres, while a young woman massaged my head and back. Then I was moved to the couch where a second woman joined her in pummelling me all over with pungent oils and patting me with hot herbal "puddings". Feeling, and smelling, like a nice, fatty joint of meat, I was led downstairs to lie in a kind of casket, with my face over a pot of steaming herbs. After 20 minutes of snoring over the scent of sandalwood, it was out to the herbal garden, where I was covered in heated, oil-infused cotton-wool packs and a honey herbal face pack, and left to listen to the birds singing and the monks in the temple chanting. When the packs were removed, I was taken to a shower, where a smiley older woman anointed me with a herbal milk before leaving me to have a shower (on my own!) and then leading me to my herbal bath. With a metal jug, she splashed hot herbal water on my back, stomach, knees and feet.
This extraordinary ritual took place every day, except one, after a delicious lunch and before an equally delicious four-course dinner. The strict "control diet" that Dr Pushpa had put me on, to lose my Christmas pounds, was, in fact, a delight. You could stuff your face with fruit, vegetables, rice, rotis, curries and soups, and drink unlimited quantities of coconut water and fresh fruit juice. I couldn't imagine how I could lose weight on it - and, indeed, I didn't. When Dr Pushpa next weighed me, I had put on half a kilo.
It was time, she told me, for virechana karma, or "body cleanse", the only part of my Barberyn trip that I can't say I enjoyed. This involved rising at six for a stomach massage and a disgusting herbal "decoction" and then spending most of the day stuck in my room in order to make frequent, urgent trips to the loo. Still, it could have been worse. Some people are prescribed vamana karma, a vomiting treatment, some raktha mookshana karma, or bloodletting with leeches, and others vasthi karma, enemas with herbal potions, oils or cow's urine.
After a day monitoring the size and shape of my stools, as instructed, and eating only rice gruel, I did lose the half kilo I had gained - but then I bloody should have. Ayurveda is, clearly, not a quick fix. Over a couple of weeks, most people do lose a few kilos. I didn't have a couple of weeks, though I wanted to stay forever. I left, armed with herbal pills, face packs and pastes, stories of dramatic health improvements - including that of a British journalist I met, whose fused discs had kept her in hospital for six months, but which had been cured at Barberyn in three days - and a fierce determination to come back. En route to the airport, I spent a night at the Siddhalepa health resort in Wadduwa, where I had a lovely herbal facial and did meditation with a Buddhist monk - but it just wasn't the same.
Does Ayurveda work? I don't know. Much of it sounds to me like nonsense, but the results, both anecdotal and in studies, particularly relating to Alzheimer's, paralysis and skin disorders, can be impressive. I do know that the treatments, "body cleansing" aside, are fantastically enjoyable, and so is the food. I also know that this is a country that is truly special. It is a country recovering from a devastating tragedy - the evidence is everywhere - and one that has not been helped by the ineptitude of a corrupt government. It is a country struggling with a serious ethnic and cultural conflict, but one which almost never affects tourists. And it is a country that desperately, desperately needs them. Just go.
Link- http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/features/travel/article2199082.ece |
