Island Dreaming
In many ways, Langkawi is what Phuket could have been, an untouched beauty of an island full of wild animals, mile-long empty beaches, and a rustic, laidback way of life
“If you think about it, mangroves are like one big family.” We are sat in a small dinghy, several miles inland from the remote coast of north Langkawi, and have just entered a tiny creek – barely big enough for a boat – lined with mangrove forest on one side, and a looming rock face on the other. Besides my small family, there are two other people on board. There is the boat driver, a silent man called Jamil who has an alarmingly large scar running diagonally across his face, and Aidi Abdullah, naturalist and guide. He’s explaining how mangrove forests share resources by fusing their roots together, forming one giant eco-mass that is arguably the largest living being on our planet.
Aidi has the title of Chief Naturalist at the Four Seasons Langkawi, and is one of the island’s foremost environmental advocates. Every day (when the hotel is open) he takes tourists on boat rides through the remarkable mangrove ecosystem that lies along the Kilim River, just around a headland from the hotel, on the far northeast corner of the island. As the boat carefully backs out of the creek and we head up the river, I explain to Aidi that we had lived in Phuket, and that while the two might be geographically close (just 250km as the sea eagle flies, Langkawi lies only a few kilometres south of the maritime border between Malaysia and Thailand, with the trees of Koh Tarutao tantalizingly close) the resort islands couldn't be more different. Interestingly though, as a chef explained to us one night after dinner, most of the villagers in the north of the island speak Thai as well as Malay, and many of them even have dual nationality.
Pre-COVID, when tourists were heading to Phuket in their millions, that island’s airport departures hall was crammed with tourists waiting for flights home to cities across Asia, Europe, Australia and the Middle East. At Langkawi, however, there's no such confusion – your destination is pretty much just Kuala Lumpur. When we’d first arrived, it’d only taken a few minutes to walk across the tarmac, pick up our suitcases, and exit the terminal. On the half hour drive from the airport to the hotel, we’d gone along entire stretches of road without seeing another vehicle, rice paddy fields lined the road, and locals living in the same kampungs (the Malay word for village) they had done for generations. Our driver, a friendly ex Malaysian Army warrant officer had been born on the island before living in Kuala Lumpur for decades. Having returned to Langkawi, he bemoaned how it had changed since his childhood – there were now two lane ‘highways’, shopping malls, and too many people, he said, to our bemusement.
According to locals, former Prime Minister Mahathir Mohamad (he actually held the top position twice), who was born in Kedah, the mainland Malaysian state of which Langkawi is part, was the main driver behind Langkawi’s development as a tourist destination. Supposedly he once landed on the summit of Mount Machinchang by helicopter, and decided that everyone should be able to share the amazing view.
Fast forward a few decades, and we’re swinging precariously as our cable car up the mountain is buffeted by unseasonably strong winds. Far down below we can see some of Langkawi’s 104 islands, while the island’s main town, Kuah, lies in the distance. The views from here are breathtaking, but we’re more concerned with reaching the 2079-metre high summit safely, with the cable car rising at an incredibly steep 42 degree incline. “Don’t worry”, a fellow passenger, who can see our obvious alarm, reassures us, “it only becomes really unsafe when the incline is 45 degrees.” It is with some relief we finally disembark at the top, and as we gingerly tread around the viewing platforms, in what feels like a small gale, we are the beneficiaries of Mahathir’s vision. Though there are pockets of occasional development seen, the island remains wonderfully empty.
That Langkawi has been able to retain its charm and natural environment is due to the strong hand of the government through its Langkawi Development Authority, and its designation as a UNESCO Geopark in 2007. “The park has the best-exposed and most complete Palaeozoic sedimentary sequence in Malaysia, from the Cambrian to the Permian period,” explains the scientific blurb. “Later, during the Mesozoic, the islands underwent a major tectonic event that resulted in the emplacement of its numerous granitic rocks.” Having already arranged our trip with Aidi, I wasn't looking forward to spending a day studying the minutiae of igneous and sedimentary formations, or whatever it was I could still remember from my long-ago high school geography class.
Back on our mangrove tour, I braced myself for the scientific lesson, and asked Aidi what being a geo park means in real terms. “Being a geo park means preserving not only the rocks, but also the wildlife, environment, and traditional culture of Langkawi. It means giving the locals a reason to look after their island, it means not ending up over-developed and unsustainable.” As I let these words sink in, and made quick mental comparisons with Phuket, we turned a corner in the mangroves and quickly grabbed our cameras. Swooping and soaring in front of us were a dozen or so birds of prey, “Brahminy kites and white-bellied sea eagles!” shouted Aidi. Despite having seen these same magnificent birds every single day for the last decade, his enthusiasm was infectious, as we tracked their flight and watched them expertly drop and pick up fish.
As it turned out Aidi had a flying background of his own. In a former life, among a series of varied careers, he had been a flying instructor, first in Kuala Lumpur and then Langkawi. During regular flights over the island he fell in love with its natural beauty, often later heading out into the jungle on foot with camera in hand. However, it was when he mentioned that he had done his training in Alberta, Canada that my wife's ears perked up. “Where?” she asked. Aidi replied, “An outfit called Aero Aviation in Edmonton, I was there around the mid 1980s.” There was a short pause, before my wife replied, beaming, “That was where my dad worked!” Sometimes it’s a small world.
The mangroves of Langkawi are an incredible ecosystem that covers more than 10% of the island. It offers not only some of the most beautiful vistas but a whole host of fascinating creatures to watch as well. “A tour of the mangroves by boat, like we do, showcases the diversity of the methods of survival for the plants as well as animals,” explains Aidi. He explains that the trees absorb carbon dioxide and then release most of the oxygen back into the atmosphere, while the root systems take up most of the nutrients in the water and therefore prevent the formation of harmful red tide in the sea. The remarkable forest also prevents coastal erosion, and forms a barrier that helps protect the island’s coast from tsunamis. Almost two thirds of the fish caught in the waters around Langkawi breed in the mangroves, making them also a source of food.
The next day, we’re driven to Langkawi’s main port of Kuah for a four-hour tour of Langkawi’s southern islands. Kuah is a quiet little town in the far southeast of the island, and best known as the place where ferries from the mainland dock, as well as being home to a giant 12-metre high statue of a red eagle (quick etymology lesson: the island’s name combines ‘lang’ from the Malay word helang meaning eagle, and ‘kawi’ from Sanskrit for marble). As we pull up to the pier, a weathered-looking boatman comes to collect our bags, and leads us out to a small white launch. Soon enough, we’re speeding through the calm, azure waters, headed out to a clutch of uninhabited islands offshore. We pass between large sailing yachts, with their sails blowing in the wind.
Leaving the marina far behind, we eventually pull into a small inlet, which our guide tells us is called ‘Eagle Bay’. As the engine is cut, he points out birds of prey in the trees. They’re mostly kites, with their distinctive brown wings and white head, but also a few sea eagles. As more boats arrived, it was time for us to move on to our next stop, the intriguingly-named Isle of the Pregnant Maiden. The reason for the name soon became clear – as you approach the island, the outline of the curvy mountain in the middle resembles a pregnant lady lying on her back. Pulling up to a small pier, we clambered ashore, and then headed inland on a ten minute trek through green jungle.
Apart from its namesake, the isle (known as Dayang Bunting in Malay), is famous for one thing: a large, hidden freshwater lake located in the centre. The lake came to be after a huge limestone cave collapsed, exposing its interior to the elements. As we walked, our guide told us of the myth that surrounds the island. According to legend, a local man named Mat Teja once met a beautiful princess called Mambang Sari by the lake, and promptly fell head over heels in love with her. Living happily together, they had a son, though sadly the child soon died. Mambang Sari decided to lay her child to rest in peace in the island’s lake, blessing it with magical properties that meant that all infertile women would be able to bear children after bathing in the serene waters.
After a easy hike along a well-marked path, your first glimpse of the lake comes between tree branches, before a swift descent down steep steps brings you to its shores. While early explorers would have had the views to themselves, these days a floating pontoon juts out into the waters, with paddle boats available if you want to explore its furthest reaches. Given that the sun was burning down, we contented ourselves with a quick dip in its surprisingly chilly waters, before making our way back to the boat. By now rather hungry, our guide had one last surprise for us – a picnic on a deserted beach. Our splendid lunch for the day had a Mediterranean theme, with yoghurt-marinated chicken kebab, olives and feta cheese with pita bread, and lemon tart for dessert. After a sumptuous meal, we cooled off in the wonderfully clear ocean, collected seashells, and appreciated the majesty of the clean environment around us.
Earlier, I had asked transplanted mainlander Norhayanti Jamil about how she had seen the island change over the last 13 years since she had moved there from the Kedah state capital Alor Setar. “When I first arrived it was magical – this is a small island that has everything, a wonderland home to mystical mangroves and ancient forests, and legendary landscapes straight from a fairytale.” That said, she admitted there had been much development on the island too, much of it due to the substantial increase in the number of tourist arrivals. “Still, I really hope that some areas of the island can remain untouched for future generations, so that they may also enjoy the beauty of Langkawi.”
I have heard of the beauty of Langkawi from a few friends who have been there. I enjoyed reading of your experiences and getting insight into why so many people love it.