A slow one-hour ferry ride brought us across the straits of Malacca, leaving behind Thailand’s Satun province and delivering us to the shores of Langkawi Island. I wish I could brag about being a sea faring explorer who takes to the wild seas like the controversial voyagers and invaders of history – Vasco da Gama, Ferdinand Magellan, James Cook. I wish I could report that I am a wild-eyed explorer driven by the stars and scent of salt air and will surely one day be recognized for my voyages of discovery, contributions to cartography, and knowledge of the world.
But the truth is less romantic: give me a turbulent patch of open water and I become horribly seasick. I arrived in Langkawi a nauseous, sweaty, pale, mildly regretful land mammal, half-glad to be back on solid ground.
Langkawi’s welcome party? A 12-meter-tall, towering statue of an eagle poised to take flight which greets every passenger arriving by boat. It’s quite possibly the islands most recognizable monuments and locals are oddly proud (obsessed?) with it. They pull out their phones like proud parents showing off baby photos: the eagle at sunrise, the eagle at sunset, the eagle from left, the right.
In fact, according to some, the name “Langkawi” means “reddish brown eagle” in Malay. According to other translations it means “the land of all one’s wishes” or “the place of immense beauty”. Any of these translations might be true, and honestly, they all fit.
The island isn’t just one island, it is made up of 99 islands (at low tide 104 islands), although not all are inhabited. The place is a naturalist’s playground, where 550-million-year-old rock formations rise like ancient monuments. Jungle, sea, rice fields, and silence, until the rain hits. We arrived during beginning of monsoon season. My own wide-eyed travel lust kicked in hard here. Everything feels interesting and significant. I’m a child again, irrationally enamored and I become briefly obsessed with the people: 99 islands? Who lives here? What do they do?
Many of Langkawi’s residents are of Malay, Thai, Chinese, or Indian descent. Fishermen and farmers. Families. Everyday people. Malaysia’s coastal regions are where we’re going to encounter the Bajau—a tribe of ocean dwellers sometimes called “sea nomads.” These free divers have adapted over generations to life in the water. Some spend up to 60% of their lives submerged. Research has even shown they’ve evolved larger spleens to store oxygenated blood longer. I find this deeply fascinating because, as I’ve written about previously, my wife and I are investigating the art of free diving on this trip, and we’ll be training later in subsequent islands.
We ditched the tourist vans and public transportation in exchange for a rented motorbike, because, like with most destinations, the real treasures lie off the beaten path. We set out in search of hiking trails, waterfalls and quiet temples.
Riding a motorbike through the jungle is a very physical experience. The humidity slaps you in the face as you breath the jungle air and feel the heat. The speed in which you travel transmutes your senses. You smell of wet earth, road dust, grilled meats, gasoline, roadside spices and fruit stands slinging pungent durian.
There is something intimate about it. There is no barrier between you and the elements – no windshield, no air conditioning. You pass through walls of scent, pockets of heat and chill, and clouds of smoke and incense. It’s a mode of travel you feel in your teeth and rain isn’t a nuisance, it’s a punctuation.
Okay the Geo Park is touristy, yes. Perhaps it’s a tourist trap wrapped up in eco wrapping, however; worth it. A glass bottom cable car brings you to a sky bridge 2,165 feet above sea level. It is reportedly one of the highest bridges in the world and it snakes through the clouds like something out of a Bond movie. The views are mind-melting. You can see the sea stretching endlessly in every direction.
We wandered, we hiked, we found waterfalls which had dried to a modest trickle and half-forgotten temples with no tourists. We sipped kopi (the Malay word for coffee, usually quite strong and served with sweetened condensed milk) at roadside shacks serving fish head curry from battered pots.
Along the way we encountered Langkawi’s most notorious residents. They behave like an organized crime syndicate; bold, territorial and always looking for a score. They lurk near hiking trails, temples and picnic areas, eyeing your snacks like seasoned pickpockets. They wait for you to look away and then snatch your food like it was never yours to begin with. I’m referring to a conniving, dexterous, mischievous, shameless, impish order of primates. The fearless hairy banditos with opposable thumbs which populate the island – Long-tailed macaques and, if you’re lucky, the more elusive spectacled langurs.
We stopped briefly in Pantai Cenang, the island’s glittery beachfront strip. It’s marketed as Langkawi’s version of the Las Vegas strip, with fire shows, beach bars, and resort towers. For us, it was fun for a few hours, but it was all flash and no soul. We’re not beach bums. We don’t seek out sun loungers or cocktails with little straw hats. We prefer hikes, waterfalls, local markets – places where we can engage with our environment, not just observe it.
We were there during Ramadan and eating became a secret activity.
Food by day becomes a covert operation and if you want a bite, you’ve got to know where to look. It felt deliciously illicit, like we’d joined some underground black-market supper club. Shady back rooms. Open-but-not-open shops. Quiet diners who pretend not to notice each other. A quiet nod. Diverted your eyes. Whispers,
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
The night markets—Pasar Malams—roar to life after sundown and are a sensory feast. The food is beautiful mess. Sweet, sour, spicy and, earthy. Coconut, chili, lemongrass, tamarind, turmeric, fish heads, unidentifiable organ meats. Curries and stir-fries ladled onto rice and handed to you by smiling cooks who don’t care if you know how to pronounce what you’re eating.
When you travel to countries which people are unfamiliar with they often ask, “Is it safe?”
The truth is that most countries are safe if you keep your wits about you. Travel smart, don’t be reckless and always heed the advice of locals. Langkawi’s official tourism website reports that their biggest safety risks are Jellyfish, dengue-carrying mosquitoes and monkeys.
In my opinion, the island’s biggest danger is getting trapped into spending all your time at a beach resort, only to realize that you wasted your entire trip asleep under a beach umbrella.
So here is my advice: If you go, rent a bike. Get lost and get rained on. Talk to people, sneak a meal during Ramadan, eat something too spicy for your taste buds, sit in quiet contemplation in a hidden temple.
And always guard your snacks. The monkeys have a lot of personality, and they are currently planning a picnic heist with a level of coordination that should worry the pentagon. The they don’t play fair, but then again neither does adventure.