'Terribly wrong': How Colombo became unrecognisable on my honeymoon

We spent an entire day wandering the streets of Sri Lanka's buzzing capital city. Over eight hours, we learned to dodge and weave our way through neighbourhoods heaving with beeping tuk-tuks and sunny smiles.

It was the sensory feast of Pettah that captured us most, a bustling maze of a market in the centre of the city. It was only an average Tuesday afternoon, but the area was so busy, it was near impossible for my husband and I to walk side by side.

Instead we wandered in single file, inhaling the scent of spices emanating from smoky food stalls and gazing at the rich spectrum of colours - the bright shop signs, the cartloads of bananas and mangosteens, the saris swaying from women's shoulders.

Now imagine all that life, all that colour, all that energy - gone.

Because fast-forward 21/2 weeks, and the Colombo we returned to at the end of our trip was virtually unrecognisable.

Metal roller doors barricaded the formerly vibrant shopfronts.

The normally traffic-clogged roads were wide open. Footpaths were no longer spilling over, and tourists were nowhere to be seen.

Instead, black and white flags hung from buildings and poles, quivering across doorways and highways.

An overwhelming reminder that this is a city in mourning.

Only three days earlier, the nation we'd been so enjoying exploring was suddenly front-page news. Explosions at Easter Sunday church services and five-star hotels left hundreds dead and many more injured.

My husband and I were safe, located at least two hours away from any of the bombings, but a cloud of grief blanketed the country. A nationwide curfew was imposed and a social media blackout was implemented. Suddenly it felt terribly wrong to even think about the honeymoon we'd been celebrating. How could we be holidaying at a time like this?

We eventually returned to Colombo as planned, and after the ominous drive through town, a throng of security staff and armed soldiers greeted us at our hotel. Cars were barred from approaching the building. Bags and suitcases were meticulously checked.

Once inside, men wielding automatic rifles stood at every entrance, at each stairwell, by the pool, and on the ocean-front. Somehow, staff continued to smile through the immense loss that surrounded them.

It was a level of resilience that was greatly appreciated by the few remaining travellers. But ask them how they felt, and they would tell you: they were heartbroken, afraid and angry.

It was the young driver who took us back to the airport who marked us most. A 20-something with a kind laugh. He told us how his home was close to the terrorist safe house in Dematagoda that was raided by police, resulting in the blast that killed three officers.

He told us how his broken street still showed signs of the death that occurred. His voice shook as he spoke of his confusion and devastation knowing his own countrymen had committed such senseless violence, less than a month before the nation was to celebrate 10 years of peace post-civil war. His family, too, was scared.

During the 45-minute drive, he received phone calls from his fiancee and his father, asking him to come home. The airport might not be safe. But he had to accept jobs wherever he could, he explained. Since tourists fled the country, his work had dried up. He was scared - would they ever come back?

'They've killed so many people. And they've also hurt an entire industry - our country's second-biggest. It's so wrong."

I told him the tourists would return - that they would not turn their backs on Sri Lanka. And we won't, right?