Because the idea — small, sunburnt, and slightly delusional — refused to go away. It grew legs. Then a funny walk. Then eventually a fuzzy personality. It was too cute, too closely connected to family, passions, and a country in need of a third chance to deny its right to be.
So, in true Lars and Nikki style, before we knew it, we were knee-deep in aqua-green-but-also-somewhat-teal-and-petroleum-colored terrazzo samples, coconut-tree shadow studies, woven-teak ceiling fantasies, and dreams of a restaurant with room for the whole village. All while being surrounded by a handful of doubtful contractors confidently assuring us that “yes, yes, madam, that can be done” while holding hammers and clipboards in ways that strongly suggested the opposite.
And so, we started kissing frogs. Many. Different kinds. The kind with ties to corrupt presidents. The kind with good intentions but catastrophically wrong skills. We signed more papers and stamped more official documents than the smiling immigration agents at Colombo Airport. At one point they literally knew us by name — that’s how often we were there.
But eventually, we met people who were quietly brilliant. The sort who turn up with solutions, not just cement. And somewhere between 22 stolen toilets and sinks, a 24-hour Devol Maduwa ritual to drive away spirits and protect the land, tuk-tuks screaming past like caffeinated hornets, and cheeky monkeys stealing roof tiles (methodically, like a union job), the place began to have a soul.
Neither COVID nor a looming national bankruptcy could hold it back.
Teak, limewash, banana leaves, and a wabi-sabi blend of Scandi calm and Sri Lankan bustle started to reveal the building’s true intention. Quiet little pilas (terraces) offered everyone a break from the intense, beautiful chaos outside. And our confidence — and belly feeling — finally grew warm and fuzzy (granted, that could have been the endless stream of curries).
Teak, limewash, banana leaves, and a wabi-sabi blend of Scandi calm and Sri Lankan bustle started to reveal the building’s true intention. Quiet little pilas (terraces) offered everyone a break from the intense, beautiful chaos outside. And our confidence — and belly feeling — finally grew warm and fuzzy (granted, that could have been the endless stream of curries).
And now, as I’m writing this, we’re on our final chapter with our brilliant partners Anishka and Samath, who have taken on our rooftop and turned the whole place into something unmistakably theirs. Sri Lankan to the bone, but curious enough to borrow from everywhere. Ingredient-first, heartfelt, and quietly extraordinary. They became the gravitational centre of the whole thing.
Unu is a Sri Lankan project through and through — made by Sri Lankan hands, shaped by Sri Lankan weather, and occasionally critiqued by Sri Lankan monkeys.
And standing on the roof at sundown, watching the Indian Ocean melt into gold while a bus honks like it’s announcing the end of the world, I can’t help but think: maybe the world needs more people that don’t try to shut life out, but let it in.
If you’re ever in Ahangama, come by.
We saved you a seat on the pila — next to the gecko who has adopted Room 4 and now demands rent.
🔗 @unu.ahangama
🔗 @rooftop.unu
🔗 unuboutiquehotel.com
We saved you a seat on the pila — next to the gecko who has adopted Room 4 and now demands rent.
🔗 @unu.ahangama
🔗 @rooftop.unu
🔗 unuboutiquehotel.com
My Role: Concept, Investor, Designer, Architect(ish)
Co-invester and Concpet: Nimalka Senaratne
Architecture & Project Manager: Shakticola
Photo: Jacob Auofi
Co-invester and Concpet: Nimalka Senaratne
Architecture & Project Manager: Shakticola
Photo: Jacob Auofi
