My wooden villa stands on stilts, surrounded by towering trees that obscure the view of the ocean 200 meters away. At night, giant squirrels fall noisily onto the tiled roof.
During the day, the long-tailed macaques perch on their heads, throwing jungle debris at each other. They always hope that I can leave my balcony door open.
“Macaques appreciate creature comforts,” my host warns, “and wouldn’t hesitate to raid your minibar and throw a party at your villa.”
I’m on the Malaysian island of Langkawi staying at The Datai, which just celebrated its 30th anniversary and set the bar for luxury when it opened.
The 65-acre site lies deep in a rainforest and mangrove swamp that crawls to a crescent of caramel sand on the Andaman Sea, home to more than 250 species of birds and 500 species of butterflies.
Teresa Levonian Cole checks in at The Datai on the Malaysian island of Langkawi. Upstairs is the resort’s two-bedroom Beach Villa.
Like most guests, I barely venture beyond the hotel grounds, a pristine microcosm of an island that became a UNESCO World Geopark in 2007.
The fact that Langkawi has not been overdeveloped is partly due to the legend of the Mahsuri curse.
“In the late 19th century, a beautiful bride was wrongly accused of adultery by jealous villagers and executed,” explains Irshad Mobarak, Datai’s chief naturalist, during a walk to a rock pool for an early morning dip.
“With his last breath he cursed the island for seven generations.”
Langkawi Island (pictured) became a UNESCO World Geopark in 2007, reveals Teresa
Fearing the curse, people stayed away until it “expired” in the mid-1980s, and then tourism took off.
Conservation of this environment is central to The Datai’s philosophy, with initiatives spanning land, sea and the local community.
So one day I meet Dr. Ravinder Kaur from Gaia, a social enterprise that has partnered with The Datai for the protection of hornbills on the island.
These birds, known as nature’s gardeners for their habit of regurgitating seeds, are threatened by poachers and deforestation.
Prime spot: The Datai is tucked away in a crescent of sand in the Andaman Sea.
We see a male and wait for him to visit his nesting mate and bring her the choicest fruit he can find. He has locked himself in the hollow of a tree, but the cautious bird, upon detecting our presence, does not want to reveal its location.
When I see one it is by chance, during breakfast.
An eastern hornbill is making a flurry of trips towards a keruing tree next to the main pool.
This causes a rush of cameras among the guests and opens up opportunities for thieving macaques.
Teresa tries the freshest catch (grouper, snapper, pomfret) for lunch at the Beach Club, pictured above.
A walk through the ten-million-year-old rainforest with nature center director Dev Dass reveals more wonders.
Trying not to trip over roots on the shady forest floor, I see small orchids and hardwoods rising more than 100 feet.
Trapped in the crevice of a tree, a rare colugo (the only “flying” primate) sleeps, its fur mixing with the bark.
“Poachers hunt critically endangered animals and cut down precious agar trees as the wood sells for £2,500 a kilo,” says Dev. “We employ 35 security guards to protect our rainforest.”
Cheeky: Teresa discovers that the macaques (pictured) are wandering around the resort, waiting to enter the rooms and raid the minibar.
Teresa spots an eastern hornbill, like the one shown here, making a series of trips to a keruing tree next to the main pool.
It’s already noon and I have an appointment to go kayaking in the mangroves.
Through a narrow channel I will row into another world: sun-drenched and still except for the insistent buzzing of cicadas and the squawking and chirping of birds. I slide and duck under the branches.
A collared kingfisher takes flight while a spectacled langur leaps through the canopy. Less cuddly are the reticulated pythons, which also roam the mangroves.
The next day I feel the call of the ocean. I take the freshest catch (grouper, snapper, pomfret) for lunch at the Beach Club.
As the tide goes out, I watch tiny sand crabs get to work, creating their granular works of art, like a lace blanket.
“Heaven is both under our feet and above our heads,” proclaimed American naturalist Henry David Thoreau. I agree with that.