The first thing we came across, when we had barely crossed the gate of Wilpattu was a handsome peacock, dancing in all its magnificence, as our jeep stopped silly in its tracks. Deeper than the shades of the Mediterranean, he continued his liquid, flowing dance. We kept looking, enthralled, till he got tired, gathered his feathers and walked away haughtily. We, the lesser mortals (and certainly not as good looking!) released our breaths and entered one of the oldest national parks of Sri Lanka. Wilpattu, spanning from the coast to deep inland in the Northern Province (spread over 1085 square kilometres) is a stunner. It literally means the ‘land of lakes;’ Willu means lakes. Although it is situated in the dry zone, due to its monsoon pattern, it houses no less than 60 willus in its green fortress! These are shallow rain-fed lakes and many of them have sandy banks giving you little beaches right inside the jungle. Declared a wildlife sanctuary in 1905, it houses various kinds of vegetation from salt grasslands near the beach to dense forests inland. The cheek by jowl foliage, which constitutes 75 per cent of the park, makes only 25 per cent accessible to tourists.

The shrub forests and open areas in between are reminiscent of Wilpattu’s glamorous cousin Yala. Unlike Yala, frequented by most safari-goers, Wilpattu doesn’t sport luxury resorts with Thai spas. Not yet. This park was under the influence of LTTE during the civil war and was closed for public for nearly 16 years. This spared her the giddy touristy crowds. The wildlife here is comparatively shy of our presence, although the monkeys might bare their teeth if you refuse sharing your chips with them.

I remember passing Wilpattu on the way to Anuradhapura, the ancient capital of Sri Lanka, a decade back with Aditya. The road was secluded and for kilometres there was no human presence. It was the time of war. Now things have changed. We left Colombo at 3AM to reach in time for the morning safari. There was enough traffic on the road in the dead of the night and even occasional policemen hiding behind trees to catch that happy night driver jump the line. Nothing like some extra pocket money from night duty.

While waiting at the entrance, we saw a plethora of birds including paradise flycatchers and Malabar pied hornbills. As we’d booked a forest bungalow deep inside the national park for stay, there was precious time wasted in clearing the payments and gaining entry. Most animals, both nocturnal and diurnal, one retreating after an active night, and the other starting their day, had passed by the time we started. We did come across a few that were lingering on like eagles and buzzards resting on low branches, Sri Lankan red junglefowls sporting their flaming tails, baby crocs hiding in shaded rivulets, solitary barking deer munching on a morning snack, wild boars grunting in disapproval of our nefarious jeep and herds of foraging cheetal mildly tolerant of our intrusion.

Due to unexpected rain, the forest was brimming with water. The usual paths had converted into little lakes. At places our open jeep was half submerged in water while driving on the jungle paths. After the three-and-a-halfhour safari, we reached the cottage deep inside the forest by a lovely little lake (aka willu). Still jittery from the fabulous off-roading trip, we grinned happily at the pretty sea-blue mosquito nets hanging over the beds lined in the porch. The willu, which had a sandy shore, was full of aquatic birds and little purple lotuses near the bank. There were yogic frogs meditating on the bathroom walls and jumbo sized geckos outside who looked like they’d mated with the crocs in the willu. What a treat of a place.

Not that I have something against it, I am not exactly a safari person. Instead of going on another long evening safari, I decided to stay back in the forest bungalow and tune in to the music of nature and mosquitoes. Other than the myriad of birds including winter migrants, a herd of cheetal came to the lake for an evening drink and so did a barking deer, stepping timorously. At night, a couple of male wild boars roamed a few feet away from the bungalow and one decided to join us for a drink. He kept slurping from the water accumulated from the bungalow’s kitchen. I went and sat with him, not even five feet away, to share a drink (needless to say I was having it from a glass) and he stubbornly ignored me for one straight hour, like the flies on his back. Not quite flattering, if you ask.

The substitute cooks at the bungalow, who were actually trekkers, gave a happy yelp when we decided to leave before lunch on the last day. On our two-and-a-half-hour drive back to the main gate we came across only a couple of jeeps. Wilpattu is for serious wildlifers and birders. And lepidopterists. From blue mormons to crimson roses to glad-eye bushbrowns, this jungle abounds in butterflies. A few jackals stopped in their tracks to give us a curious look. Curiosity is one of the masks of love I was told, but I have serious doubts about it.

The best was yet to come. As we were enjoying the cool, fresh air of the forest, a leopard walked past in his entire glory, bang at noon! To say that he left us cross-eyed would be an understatement.

Now since the war has ended and there is an increasing influx of tourists, the tourism and number of safari jeeps should be strictly regulated by the authorities to maintain the character of this well-preserved forest. It is their chance to uphold the privacy of its inhabitants and retain it as a model national park for others to emulate.

Nihal de Silva, the award winning author of the novel The Road from Elephant Pass, died of a landmine in Wilpattu in 2006. Ironically, he wrote about war and survival. To those who say, “Don’t go to a jungle...Animals will kill you!” I have just this to say: We do quite a nice job of killing our own kind without anyone’s help, thank you very much.