100 April 2013

ood & travel

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Above: The sun beats down on Beruwala beach. Below: A small domed chalet like the one Charlotte stayed in

a beaming driver holding a placard with my name, and almost weep with gratitude when he hands me a bottle of water and a pillow so I can nap in the car on the three-hour journey. It’s the fi rst of many kind and thoughtful touches I’m to experience at Barberyn Reef.

Health prescriptionThe resort, which is one of Sri Lanka’s oldest ayurvedic hotels, is nestled right by the beach, its low-roofed buildings arranged around a courtyard with a saltwater pool. Palm trees sway lazily over the water, incense lies thick and sweet in the air and guests loll in the shade wrapped in the hotel’s trademark kaftans, bodies sleek with oil, faces wearing blissed-out

Sri Lankan sanctuary Healthy’s insomniac deputy editor Charlotte Haigh MacNeil escapes to Sri Lanka for some ayurvedic healing – and much-needed sleep…

he ladies are giggling as I blearily open my eyes.

‘Good morning, madam,’ they chorus. I have just had

my fi rst shirodhara treatment – in which warm oil is streamed onto

the middle of the forehead – and I spent 38 of the 40 minutes snoozing on the table, having beautiful, bizarre dreams about fl ying. I stumble back to my room in the midday heat and promptly fall asleep for a further three hours.

Sleep, even during the day, is good. It’s one of the reasons I’m here at Barberyn Reef Ayurvedic Health Resort, on the west coast of Sri Lanka. I’ve been plagued by insomnia on and off recently. My mind seems to crackle with energy and just won’t switch off. When I arrive at Colombo airport, two months of solid insomnia is layered with jetlag, so I’m thrilled to see

T

102 April 2013

ood & travel

April 2013 103

ood & travel

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I feel completely calm and comfortable being here on my own

smiles. I hope to attain that level of relaxation, but I spend my fi rst night rigidly awake beneath the mosquito net, listening to the ocean just beyond the doorstep of my domed chalet.

The next morning, after breakfast, it’s time for my consultation with the ayurvedic doctor in the resort’s health centre. She asks about my anxiety (chronic) and digestion (could be better), whether I have headaches (actually, yes), my sleep (terrible, of course) and whether I have any aches and pains in my joints (no problems there). She feels my knees and looks sceptical. ‘I’m surprised you don’t have pain in the right one,’ she says. Then I remember that I sometimes do – in my desire not to sound like a hypochondriac, I had forgotten the Bikram yoga mishap that left me with occasional, alarming twinges. I’m impressed she was able to tell, from touch alone, something I’d been ignoring myself.

The doctor then takes my pulse, feels my back (which she pronounces ‘tense’) and asks about any other problems. She prescribes a controlled diet – smaller portions and no fat – plus a medicine and treatment regimen to rebalance my system. Ayurvedic doctors believe each of us is made up of a unique blend of elements, or doshas (vata, pitta, kapha), which create our mind and body type. We are all born with one dominant dosha. But they become imbalanced when we have a diet or lifestyle that’s not suited to us, and this can cause physical and mental health problems. The doctor thinks I am naturally vata (or air)-dominant – but at the moment I have excess vata on top of that, plus too

much pitta (fi re). I resist telling her that my husband would agree with her hot air diagnosis!

Then I’m bustled straight off for my fi rst treatment, an incredible four-handed full-

body massage by two smiling women, who will be my therapists for my whole stay.

I like that continuity – having to strip off and reveal yourself anew to a pair

of strangers every day could add an unnecessary dose of stress. But this place is all about making everything as comfortable as possible. After the massage, my therapists stamp hot herb bundles over my body, and then one leads me by the hand to the herb garden. I lie down on

one of the treatment beds, where herbal packs are applied to my back

and knees, and a mask to my face, before I’m wrapped up and left to lie

for half an hour as the herbs do their job. Then I’m taken upstairs for a bath to rinse away the oils and packs. There’s something cosy and childlike about having warm water poured over me, and I start giggling. The therapist smiles patiently.

Off the menuWhen I wander into the dining room for lunch, I get a shock. The previous day, before my regimen started, I’d been free to indulge in whatever I fancied from the buffet – all the food here is nutritious, but there are curries swimming in coconut milk, and pudding options. Now, though, a card has appeared on my table – each one is numbered according to your hotel room – in Sri Lankan language, Sinhalese, which apparently tells the waiters about a special tea and broth I am supposed to have before the main course, and also

a book. At 4pm, I amble to the seafront cafe for a herbal tea (caffeine is off the menu) and get chatting to some other guests. I learn many come here with serious health problems, from arthritis to recovery from cancer – although weight loss seems to be the number one reason for visits. It works, apparently – most guests I meet are on their third or fourth visit. ‘Our fi rst stay changed the way we eat for good,’ one woman tells me. The majority of the guests are middle-aged

Clockwise from top left: The stunning coastline; Sri Lankan hills; a temple; a Buddha statue; fresh local seafood; one of the chalets; more of the delicious local food; the doctor talks to Charlotte; fi sh prep; fl owers. Inset, opposite page: one of the waiters with just some of the fantastic spread

informs them I shouldn’t be eating any of the foods marked ‘not on a controlled diet’. There are still plenty of delicious fi sh and vegetarian options, but it’s tough having to forego a tempting rice pudding that I would defi nitely have chosen, left to my own devices. I could cheat, but the waiters would know. Sheepishly, I help myself to a plate of fruit instead. I can’t really complain about having to miss out on dessert when there’s juicy, fresh mango to dig in to. On the way back from lunch, I collect my fi rst batch of medicines from a pigeonhole marked with my room number in the health centre. There’s a thick, sweet brown liquid (I suspect it’s a natural laxative of some sort) to be taken after dinner, and bundles of bitter powdered herbs to have in water four times a day.

The rest of the day’s my own to spend as I choose, which is sitting by the pool, reading

couples from Germany, Austria and Switzerland, although there’s also a few solo Japanese women in their thirties. I only meet one other Brit during the week – perhaps visiting health resorts just isn’t in our culture, which seems a shame. I feel completely comfortable being here on my own – calm, meditative behaviour is encouraged, so it’s probably not a holiday for a big group of pals. That said, the other guests are very friendly and I get chatting to a lovely German

ood & travel

writer and his wife, who invite me to eat with them several times.

Each day here is reassuringly similar. I wake, take my morning medicine, then go for breakfast – a murky green broth that screams health, followed by fresh mango juice, banana bread and perhaps a little curry. Then it’s time for acupuncture and my massage and herb bath before lunch, a lazy afternoon (although I do yoga one day) and dinner. There are no televisions in the rooms, but the hotel often screens evening movies. I watch Lost In Translation with my German writer friend one night.

Oil therapyMy routine is due to change on day four, when I am scheduled for shirodhara – the treatment that involves oil being drizzled onto my forehead. Shirodhara is taken very seriously here, which I only discover when I saunter up to reception to enquire about timings, because I want to go on an organised trip to a Buddhist temple after my treatment. The health centre manager looks askance at me. ‘But how can you go during shirodhara?’ he asks. I now read the information leafl et properly. Shirodhara is believed to leave the mind somewhat vulnerable, therefore stimulating activities – such as tourist trips – should be avoided during the two days of treatment. Also to be avoided: the sun, swimming, reading, writing, hair washing, yoga and a whole new raft of foods. But I don’t have to miss out on the temple visit – the manager simply pushes my treatment

back a day. That’s typical of this place: everyone wants to please and goes out of their way to avoid disappointing. The trip is well worth it – we drive through the lushly green Sri Lankan countryside to a spectacular hillside temple, all brilliant, gaudy colours, smiling monks and incense.

Before shirodhara the next day, I feel a bit apprehensive – but it’s a blissful, dream-like experience. Afterwards, my therapists wrap my head in a white scarf, which I have to keep on for the next two days. This is because the head should be covered fully during the treatment course, although I have a sneaking suspicion it’s also to mark you out as someone who shouldn’t be sunbathing, swimming, reading or eating banned foods. It may all sound a bit extreme, but I respect how seriously the doctors take the treatment. And shirodhara’s a doddle compared to some of the other therapies here, which include enema-type treatments and infusions of oil straight into the eye – none of which I have, as I’m not here long enough. Post-shirodhara, I feel so dozy for the fi rst few hours, I think doing nothing is going to be easy. But by late afternoon I’ve rebelled and put my lower legs in the sun. I’ve also read a couple of chapters of my book. I consider this a compromise – I really want to embrace the experience fully and do what I’m told, but it’s just too hard. It’s good to notice what happens to me when I try to slow down, though – I wonder what I’m trying to avoid? Anyway, however fi dgety my brain is during the day, shirodhara breaks my insomnia and I sleep deeply and joyfully that night, and for the rest of my stay.

My week of treatment wraps up with a fi nal consultation with the doctor. She carries out a thorough questionnaire, including queries on whether I feel the cold, whether I was skinny or plump as a child, plus her own observations of my build and features. All

this confi rms her feeling I am vata-dominant, with some pitta there, too.

The vata dosha’s associated with having a slim build, a creative but

anxious personality, fast speech and movements, and a tendency to feel cold. The full description is so ‘me’ I burst out laughing. I’m sent away with more medicine to keep me going and a plan of the diet and lifestyle I should follow. Oddly – or perhaps not – the advice feels instinctively right to me. I should

avoid crowds, noisy environments, intense exercise and cold foods

(which I hate); and concentrate

instead on gentle activities like yoga, and eating warm, sweet, dense foods such as bananas, rice, heavy meats and sweet potato. I must admit I was sceptical about ayurveda before my trip, but I feel transformed: rested and calm, yet energised. I understand more about how to look after myself. With any luck, I’ll be one of those guests returning to Barberyn Reef for a wellbeing top-up.

DESTINATION DETAILS

To fi nd out more and to make a reservation at the Barberyn Reef Ayurveda Resort in Sri Lanka, visit www.barberynresorts.com/english/reef/index.htm.

www.healthy-magazine.co.uk104 April 2013

Above, from top: A nurse preparing treatments; A Sri Lankan elephant; The pool. Inset, below: A beautiful sunset