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A Return to Paradise… We expect paradise to change. We hope it survives, forever vivid like our recollections – cerulean seas, marmalade sunsets, a forest filled with whistling white-rumped shama thrushes. But all too often, wild treasures don’t endure. People find out. Places evolve. My husband and I are huddled beneath ponchos on a fishing boat, crossing 13 miles of leaping ocean between the east coast of Peninsular Malaysia and the Perhentian Islands, just south of Thailand. My stomach turns, nervous, about an electrified storm, approaching fast. We visited Perhentian Kecil, the smaller of the two main islands, five years ago. Our planned two-day stay stretched to nearly a week, so enthralled were we with this place of no roads and few people, where monitor lizards pad across hot sand, rare Nicobar pigeons lurk in the forest, and double-headed parrotfish with giant teeth chip at coral. Kecil and her big sister, Perhentian Besar, belong to a network of marine parks established by the Malaysian Department of Fisheries. The aim is to conserve biological diversity and protect coral reefs for sustainable fishing, tourism, and scientific research. Until recently, few studies had been undertaken in the Perhentians. But now, London-based Coral Cay Conservation Ltd., which promotes ecotourism, is working with local residents and the Malaysian government to survey Perhentian reefs and rain forests. Numerous notable findings include several varieties of bats, at least 53 butterfly species, the dusky langur, Wagler’s pit viper, the Malayan banded wolf snake, the whale shark, the bamboo shark, and the harlequin ghost pipefish. The islands are “an ideal tropical microcosm” for experiencing both reef and rain forest, according to Craig Turner, Coral Cay director of terrestrial science. “They are certainly a haven for wildlife,” he says, but “this also makes them vulnerable to further development and pressures from tourists.” It’s a conundrum of ecotourism: Nature draws people, but too many people spoil the nature. When the boat left us on Kecil in 1999, we rejoiced in the postcard panorama: jungled hillsides smack against sheltered beaches, living coral just a few swim strokes away. But being so close to Thailand – where the beaches are awash in posh resorts and bamboo shacks, and backpackers dance and drink all night – what could five years have done to the Malaysian quiet? Not much, we initially note with relief. A few more lights on Besar across the bay and little else, it seems. But appearances have a way of evading truth. We stay, again, at the D’Lagoon, a cluster of wooden huts and a longhouse secluded on the island’s northeast end. From here, a 15-minute stroll along two trails leads you through lush forest to beaches on the opposite side of the island, where the afternoon is likely yours alone. This has not changed. Neither has the underwater world. Divers here admit: There’s no need to die. Snorkellers can behold the spectacle just as well, so near to shore are the riches. Parrotfish, snappers and wrasses. Hundreds of sergeant majors flitting freely, nipping at legs. Long toms lurking just below the surface, their sleek, needle-nose bodies blending into water of the same soft blue. On days of glassy seas, the spirited life is visible even from a kayak. A hundred yards offshore, we can see straight down to a dazzling maze of coral polyps. A green turtle swims high in the water. Majestic white-bellied sea eagles scope the sky, and Pacific reef egrets rest on boulders near land. We are the only people in sight. Yet it is indulgent to imagine this island barely touched. Every year, more people visit the Perhentians for the same reasons that we have returned. Tucked away at D’Lagoon, we can’t perceive the rise in tourism. But other beaches swell with development – another chalet this year, another dive shop the next. Fishing long sustained a small village on Kecil, but only 12 full-time fishermen remain. “Tourism has changed the whole economy of the islands, making people wealthier and also making life easier,” writes Alexia Tamblyn in a 2003 report on Malaysia’s marine parks. Tamblyn, Coral Cay’s terrestrial projects coordinator, conducted research in the Perhentians as part of her graduate studies at London’s Imperial College. Dozens of interviews with tourists, officials, and island workers reveal an environment in peril. Sewage is dumped, coral is damaged. We are delighted to find less refuse on shore than in 1999, but Tamblyn notes rubbish piles are growing behind chalets, as owners evade garbage collection fees (about $100 a month for a 40-room chalet). Years ago, Malaysia’s Terengganu state, which governs the Perhentians, sheltered multitudes of green, hawksbill and leatherback turtles. But development, fishing, pollution, and speedboats have tested the animals’ pluck. It’s still possible to glimpse green and hawksbill turtles, but fewer come back each year to lay their eggs. What’s more, there are no regulations for diving or snorkeling, no restrictions on how many people use the waters at one time, no limits to the number of shops renting gear. Fishing is prohibited within two nautical miles of shore, but people disobey. “It also seems that rules are ignored for certain groups of people,” Tamblyn reports. Government workers “have the freedom to do what they want – water skiing or fishing – without consequence.” New legislation is in the works, and there is talk of mandating snorkeling guides and stopping island development altogether. But without such regulations in place, the laws and law enforcement remain somewhat murky. It’s hard to monitor island activities when at least 13 governmental bodies are all involved, often with conflicting agendas. And it’s difficult to promote conservation when Perhentian native peoples, according to Tamblyn, don’t know “the concept of threats to the natural resources” or “the concept of conservation.” But the people know their islands are beautiful, and they know why tourists come. Coral cay intends to work within that frame of reference to show them how much is at stake. Local residents, fishermen, and businesses must be involved to successfully protect the environment. As a 2002 Malaysian Fisheries Department report notes, previous conservation efforts neglected those local “stakeholders.” That approach was not successful. Craig Turner hopes one day the Perhentian Islands will be sustainably managed through the people’s will – not the arm of law. Late one night, we hike through pitch-black forest. It is the season when green turtles lay their eggs, as they have for millennia. In 1999, we witnessed the ritual, sitting in darkness as a large female dug a sandy pit beside us. This time, we head to another secluded beach slightly north. We step from muggy jungle to an ocean breeze and a tide gone out. There, in the sand, is a tractor-like trail. Near the treeline, we make out a shadow in a slight depression. The turtle works hours on that hole, flinging sand on her shell, snorting through the grunt work. Then she sits motionless for an hour or more, obscured in the scant glow of a clouded moon. When she is rested, she flings more sand, covering the hole, inching forward toward trees and tangled roots. Finally, she heaves her plump body up and around, to face the water. The tide is even farther out, making her journey back to sea twice as long. It’s a tortuous crawl over rocks, broken coral, and sea cucumbers waiting for the water to return. The moon peeks through patchy clouds, catching this reptiles’s heroic effort in its muted rays. The next morning, we drink coffee at the D’Lagoon, beside an architect who is poring over blueprints for a multi-level resort. I ask where he plans to build and he says several locations on far-away islands – but maybe right around the corner as well. It’s the island tip, where waters break on jagged rocks, where the eye can see to a naked horizon. It’s a view from paradise. It is now, anyway, as it was five years ago. But I wonder: Will it be so in five more years? |