Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in Volume 7 of B.H. Magazine, order your copy now.
In the final five minutes of a long, dusty sunset safari in Yala National Park, when the light turns syrupy and the jungle seems to exhale for the day, our jeep comes to an abrupt halt.
We are already heading back toward the park gates, racing the closing time, when our driver slams the brakes. No warning – just a sharp stop and an excited gasp from our guide.
Just three metres from our jeep stands an elephant and her timid calf, partially framed by a tangle of low branches.
She is enormous, and not at all difficult to photograph, as Brooklyn Beckham once claimed. The calf hovers close to her front legs, nudging at her side. The mother shifts slightly, placing herself squarely between us and the baby, her body a quiet, immovable shield. As we watch in disbelief, she tears at branches with deliberate ease, leaves crunching loudly in total stillness.
It’s as majestic as everyone says it is, but here it feels far more intimate. There’s a weight to it; an awareness that you are very much in their world.
After a few long, suspended moments, she turns. The calf follows. And together, without urgency, they disappear down a narrow forest corridor into the greenery. Only then does anyone breathe.
Back at Uga Chena Huts, the transition from raw wilderness to curated calm is deliberately soft.
Beyond the main dining area, the property spills straight onto the beach, where lanterns flicker across the sand and in the trees, guiding us towards a bar perched above the rugged shoreline.
Sundowners here feel almost surreal, like a scene from Cast Away, if it were reimagined with spritzers and picture-perfect canapés. A fire crackles in a sandy pit, while the Indian Ocean crashes onto the rocks metres away.
Everyone perches with a drink in hand, trading safari sightings like currency. No leopard for us this time – Yala National Park’s most sought-after resident – but the stories flow regardless, fuelled by anticipation for tomorrow’s expedition. Walking back to dinner, staff monitor the beach for elephants, who regularly join guests for an evening beverage.
Included in the stay is one safari per day, morning or evening, with a 6 am departure for the early slot. Each group is accompanied by a driver and private guide, who is equipped with refreshments and an instinctive knowledge of the park.
There’s a particular tranquility to the morning expedition. The air is cool, tinged with salt and dust, and the light arrives slowly through the trees. We sit wide-eyed in the jeep, scanning, waiting. Every rustle, every chirp feels like it might be something.
The park comes alive in layers. Much to our surprise, birdlife is the headline act. We’re completely enamoured by flashes of electric blue and green – bee-eaters darting mid-air before perching like statues. Malabar pied hornbills, with their prehistoric beaks, move in pairs.
Peacocks – which our guide tells us are protected yet oddly disruptive to the ecosystem – parade as if they own the place. And then there’s the Asian paradise flycatcher, with its long ribbon-like tail feathers glowing a striking red. It might be the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.
More vehicles enter the park in these early hours, fanning out in all different directions, each chasing its own version of luck. Our driver veers off towards a deserted watering hole, far from the clusters of idling jeeps. There’s a reason: the forest has been talking.
Monkeys high in the canopy have been calling in sharp, urgent bursts. On the ground, deer echo the warning. It’s a chain reaction, a shared language of survival. It means that a predator is moving somewhere nearby.
Our driver cuts the engine, and we wait, keeping a steady eye on the forest edge. Time stretches in these moments, as water buffalo chew the cud and kites circle above, scanning for their next meal. A family of white-spotted deer graze nervously on a grassy patch, while crocodiles wait in the shallows half-submerged.
The anticipation builds slowly. No one speaks. Even our kids, who are three and four years old, sit unusually still. Snacks help: cookies, banana bread, curry puffs, fresh fruit, and juice are passed around quietly. The absurdity of it – picnicking in the presence of potential danger – is not lost on anyone.
Despite our best efforts, the leopard eludes us for another day. The afternoon safari, which departs at 3 pm, carries an entirely different energy. Heat lingers in the air, the light sharper, the shadows longer. Fewer vehicles enter the park at this hour, too, meaning the overall vibe is more serene.
Our guide tells us we’re sure to see an elephant or two. And he’s not wrong. After trundling down a long dirt track, past multiple mongooses and hefty monitor lizards, the park opens into a cleared field. To our right, a young “tusker” – a male elephant with tusks – materialises. We sit, in awe, watching it playfully scuff the ground with its feet.
Later in the drive, we spot a star tortoise – one of the rarest reptiles in the wild, and among the most trafficked in the world. It moves slowly through short grass, entirely indifferent to the quiet commotion it causes among us.
We return to the resort by sundown, and with the excitement of the afternoon sightings still brimming, meander to the central pool. Canopied by greenery, it offers a peaceful place to cool off, soundtracked almost entirely by birdsong.
The bungalows themselves are tucked into the landscape, each with a private plunge pool and a deck where wildlife wanders past as if you’re not there. From ours, we see rabbits, tufted gray langurs (monkeys), and flashes of kingfishers cutting through the trees. The path to the main hut, where all meals are served, winds along raised boardwalks dappled in evening light.
Local dishes are certainly the highlight when it comes to food. Sri Lankan curries arrive rich and deeply spiced, served alongside hoppers – a fermented, bowl-shaped pancake – made fresh at a live station on the deck. Watching them being poured, swirled, and crisped is a ritual in itself.
Paired with black pork curry and various sambals, it becomes something close to an obsession during our stay. There’s also grilled seafood and meat platters, all cooked with confidence on an outdoor barbecue. And a technically faultless pumpkin ravioli, which is made in-house and comes swimming in a burnt butter and curry-leaf sauce.
Breakfast spans both Western and Sri Lankan options, and does so well. Lunch offers a welcome pivot if needed: a decent Caesar salad one day, or a fragrant tagine with couscous and sweet currants the next.
Meals and drinks are included in the stay, and while the offering is generous, the wine list is limited in both range and ambition. By day three, the two-day rotating menu begins to feel a little too familiar, and cocktail quality varies depending on who’s behind the bar.
Travelling here with young kids adds another layer of complexity. Our journey from the tea plantation to the coast is a nine-hour day – undeniably beautiful, but taxing on everyone. Even from Colombo Airport, it’s a 4.5-hour drive sans stops. And once you arrive, the logistics don’t always flex. There’s no room service (understandably, to avoid attracting wildlife), and meal times are fixed, with kitchens opening relatively late for both breakfast and dinner.
While the staff is very warm and accommodating, this is not a resort designed around (or for) children. It’s remote, immersive, and – at times – uncompromising. Which is precisely its appeal for others.
What Uga Chena Huts offers is something rarer: proximity without interference. A front-row seat to a world that doesn’t bend to your schedule. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, that world pauses just long enough for you to truly see it.
Breakout: Other Uga Stays
Uga Riva
Set within a restored 180-year-old colonial manor tucked into the leafy suburbs of Negombo, Uga Riva is the natural bookend to a Chena Huts itinerary.
Roughly 40 minutes from Colombo's Bandaranaike International Airport, it functions less as a transit hotel and more as a decompression chamber, with just seven rooms and suites set within a lush five-acre coconut estate. Mahatma Gandhi once stayed here, and the house has lost none of its instinct for hospitality since.
Uga Halloowella
Perched high above Sri Lanka’s tea country – a full day’s journey from Uga Riva – Uga Halloowella is all about elevation, both literal and experiential. Mornings unfold slowly, with fog rolling over endless plantations before giving way to golden light. Sipping tea while overlooking the fields it was grown in is a magical way to begin your day, while Old Fashioned cocktails infused with aromatic spices, enjoyed by the fireplace, are the perfect nightcap.
Originally a planter’s residence, the property still carries a strong sense of history. Nearby estates offer guests a glimpse into one of Sri Lanka’s defining – and gradually fading – industries, where tea is still picked, processed, and dried by hand.
While the staff goes above and beyond, the setting is less suited to families. The steep drops, winding access roads, and remote perch make it better aligned with couples or honeymooners seeking stillness and a deeper connection to place.
