From Big Cats to Small Wonders—Why This Park Is Sri Lanka's Safari Star

Taking cocktails by the beach has never been so exciting. I’m trying to admire the bruised sunset, the frothing of the waves near my feet, the lychee-topped creation in my hand — but there’s a noise coming from the undergrowth that tells me my attention should be elsewhere. The word ‘elephant’ ripples across the beach, bouncing from table to table, as a massive rump comes into view. It’s close enough to ogle, but far enough away for us to not need an emergency evacuation. The hotel manager stands on top of a sand dune, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other, as the creature ambles on its way, totally absorbed in finding its own dinner as we wait for ours.

In Sri Lanka’s south east, unexpected visitors don’t wait for a convenient moment to make their entrance. Especially when you’re staying at a hotel in Yala National Park’s buffer zone — the transitional area between the country’s most popular park and urban development on the southern coast. Amid the semi-arid plains, coastal wetlands and forests of Yala, my base for three days of safari is Uga Chena Huts — a huddle of thatched beachside rooms, home to almost as many wildlife guides and rangers as guests. White-bearded grey langur monkeys drink from the swimming pool when nobody’s looking; fork-tongued monitor lizards block wooden boardwalks through the jungle; and, occasionally, an elephant or two strays from the beach to drink from the pond at reception.

“We’re the last hotel in the buffer zone before the park. There are no fences,” says my guide, Sandun Jayasuriya, the next afternoon as we set off along the beach for a bush walk. We’ve barely made it past the cocktail shack when he turns to offer some advice, rubbing his bushy beard as he says: “In case of any animal moments, we have to freeze and stay quiet. Don’t try to run.”

The animal moment most safari-goers in Yala hope for is a glimpse of a leopard. Sri Lanka’s apex predator is more densely concentrated in this park than anywhere else in the country, with one leopard for every 0.7sq mile in Block 1, the section of the park I’m in. It’s a fact that inspired more than 770,000 travellers to visit in 2025. But it’s the small things that Sandun is interested in showing me on the beach. He points out peacock footprints like pointed stars skittering across the sand; cochineal bugs that release a bright maroon pigment as he scrapes them off prickly pear trees; and half-buried cuttlebone, which local people grind into a powder to cure bone fractures. All the while, we’re dodging elephant dung that tumbles right down to the shoreline.

“The elephants are like the engineers of the ecosystems, because their dung has seeds in it that get redistributed,” explains Sandun, as we climb up onto a plateau stained red with iron ore. To demonstrate, he crouches to pick up a straw-like clump of dung, then pulls it apart to reveal the barely digested roughage within. “We’ll walk back via the beach,” he says, scanning the plateau. “There may already be elephants up on the dunes.”

Dawn chorus

If elephants could fly, they’d look not dissimilar to the giant, rotund peacock. This is my conclusion the next morning as I watch the birds blunder in and out of trees, their bodies ill-suited for flight, their brilliant tail plumage draping the branches in teals and sapphire blues. It’s dawn, and our 4WD has just rolled to a standstill inside the park to watch them.

I’d expected the park to be tranquil at 6am, but it’s quite the opposite. Tiny chestnut-headed bee-eaters dart between golden cassia bushes, their bright-orange heads giving the impression of flying flames, while stout wild boar ferret in shallow waterholes looking for lotus roots. A ruddy mongoose runs alongside the vehicle, alerting us to its presence with a high-pitched squeak as it scuttles over puddles created from a deluge of rain the night before.

“It’s very fresh after the rain — no dust,” says Sandun with a jolly head wobble as we pick up speed, passing a tree clearing that reveals glimpses of the sea. Rain means sloth bears in Yala, he explains, and he’s just caught wind of a sighting. “The rain makes the termite mounds soft, and they really like to feed on the termites.” Sure enough, we’re soon in a queue of 4WDs to see a sloth bear and its baby high in an ironwood tree. Beneath its long shaggy hair, it’s just possible to discern the long claws the animal uses to dig out the termites. “Sometimes we don’t see one for months,” Sandun whispers. “There are fewer than 500 sloth bears in Sri Lanka now.”

The sighting demonstrates why Yala has become the country’s number-one safari spot. There are five core zones in the 378sq mile park, and Block 1, which Uga Chena borders, has the highest density of animals. This has also made it the busiest, often receiving 500 to 600 vehicles per day in peak season, from December to February. Yala has been criticised for its traffic and tailback queues to get in each morning at peak times, but it’s a tough balancing act; travellers keep coming because the viewing opportunities are unrivalled.

On our afternoon drive, we take our chances on quieter routes. It isn’t hard to avoid other vehicles; the rutted dirt tracks in Block 1’s 54sq miles squirm into the bushland like doodles in a toddler’s colouring book. Soon, we’re parked up in a clearing, totally alone, hanging out of the side of the 4WD to look at two sets of perfect paw prints. “We can tell this one is a leopard because cats can retract their claws,” says Sandun, pointing to the rounded ends of one set of toes; the other ones — a jackal’s — have sharp points. “It’s a male, about two years old. He’s been spotted regularly in this area.”

Deeper we go, down earthen tracks churned the colour and consistency of chocolate milkshake by yesterday’s rains. A thinner artery reveals fresh leopard prints in the wet sand. “Very clear!” says Sandun, animatedly. But taking our guide’s lead from the walk yesterday, we focus on what’s occurring further down the food chain. We spot a painted stork with one leg raised in a yoga pose, high above a lake carpeted in flowering lotus pads; a freshwater crocodile, its mouth cocked open “to circulate air and balance its temperature”, Sandun explains; a water buffalo, just its snout and horns visible within a lake. “They’re very territorial — they scratch the ground with their hoof and mark it with dung and urine. So now this is his private lake.”

Leopards are highly territorial, too — which is how a group of guides eventually spot one nearby. Enthroned in its favoured tamarind tree, the big cat is splayed out across a forked branch as if it hasn’t a care in the world, paws and tail hanging down. Though barely a year old, it’s already got the air of nonchalance you’d expect from an apex. “We can see them in the day because they have no predators; they like it here because of the abundance of spotted deer,” says Sandun, handing me his binoculars so I can marvel at the fur rosettes blending with tree bark. “The patterns on their face are like a fingerprint.” Cubs in Yala are catalogued at around 12 months old, and at the latest count there were more than 70 leopards identified in this block alone.

As we drive back towards the park gate at dusk, spotted deer are moving out into open areas around watering holes. “It’s so they can see the leopards at night,” says Sandun. We’re heading to our own watering hole, just beyond the park boundaries, for one final hurrah — a sundowner set out on the sands. But the temperatures are dropping and the elephants are roaming. We pause at one lake to watch a small herd of females and a baby wading across the shore. Half-drowned carcasses of long-dead trees rise like outstretched fingers from the glassy waters, the elephants silhouetted against a backdrop of knuckle-shaped mountains.

When we finally pitch up at our sundowners lake, it’s impossible not to imagine elephants in the round rumps of every grey boulder half submerged along the lake’s far shore. Chairs are set out facing the water, Lion lagers chilling in ice-filled coolers. The sky is bruised again; a gossamer-fine curtain of rain smudges the horizon. There isn’t a soul around and Sandun and I sit, mesmerised by the approaching storm, revelling in the small things.