The Sri Lanka I knew

IN NORMAL times, the Indian Ocean surf off the coast of Sri Lanka is hypnotic, like a lullaby. Along Colombo's Galle Face Green, young lovers huddle under black umbrellas, shielding themselves from the sun and wind and strangers' stares. The sounds of schmaltzy orchestral strings spill out from the food stalls.

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Five degrees above the equator, the warm water offers little relief from the blazing sun. But at night, farther down the coast, the ocean becomes more frankly seductive. Creamy surf rolls in every five seconds, hauling banks of warm mist and a delicious sense of timelessness and invisibility. Beyond the horizon, the world may as well drop off.

When I first read about Sunday's tsunami, which struck nine nations and killed at least 12,000 in this beautiful teardrop-shaped island 30 miles off the southern coast of India, a raft of images filled my mind. I'd traveled through Sri Lanka last year, and scenes from its western coastal towns were some of the most vivid in my memory.

Do these places exist any longer? Is the scrawny spicemaker in Hikkadua, whom I photographed casually stirring saffron in a beaten-up cylindrical dryer, still alive? Was the batik artist who lived and worked in a low two-room beach shack swept away? What about the fishermen who caught the tiny orange prawns lined up so fetchingly on toast and purveyed from silver pushcarts? What about the tea-maker who prepared chai in a cramped galley lit by a single bulb, pictures of Shiva taped above the sink?

Galle Road, which hugs the coast as one proceeds south, is flanked by shanties. On the left, endless miles of rickety wooden shops stand cheek by jowl. On the right, even more dilapidated fishermen's shacks huddle on the beach, some displaying incongruously resplendent catches. The government built sturdy apartments inland for the seamen, but the fishermen refused to move in, preferring to camp next to their livelihood. That decision may have cost them their lives.

Throughout its history, the island once known by Arab traders as Serendib -- from which we get the word "serendipity" -- has been overrun by tidal waves. But most of these have been human rather than aquatic. Invasions by the Portuguese, Dutch, and British deformed this gem for colonial profit. Deadly internal strife between Tamils and Sinhalese continues to this day, which is why the sign on the Ceylon Chamber of Commerce reads: "The Need of the Hour: Discipline, Law, and Order Amongst the Leaders and the People."

Yet traveling through Sri Lanka, what I experienced overwhelmingly were kindness and generosity. Hosts seemed ready to go to any ends to make a stranger comfortable. I also noticed a justifiable sense of pride: The literacy rate here is 98 percent, and public health services far outclass those in its giant northern neighbor, India. And while pockets of deep poverty remain, in rural areas -- which is to say, most of the country -- the most conspicuous and startling impression is that almost everyone appears happy. The roads are thronged with smilers and laughers.

I asked an acquaintance, "Am I crazy, or are people here as happy as they look?" He told me, without a trace of saccharine, "Sri Lankans, they have troubles. But they're always smiling."

Perhaps not now that their lullaby of an ocean has become a dirge.

Madeline Drexler is a Boston-based journalist and author. She writes about medicine and public health.