Thailand—Biological Wonderland

October-November 2003

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
To download a pdf copy of the magazine click here: > DOWNLOAD

by John Gray

Hong Yai tranquility.

There’s magic energy where land and water marry. Most terrestrial animals are drawn to this energy, whether a freshwater stream or the salty sea. We see more wildlife on the shoreline than we ever see in the woods.

Sandy, umbrella-lined beaches are comfortable, popular and boring (unless there’s good surf). Marine wetlands, on the other hand, may seem inhospitable at first sight, but these fascinating tidal environments are the cradle of life—and great fun in a kayak.

Equatorial and exotic, South-East Asia is a biological wonderland. Formed by the world’s largest coral reef, Asia’s limestone coastlines are so exotic they seem unearthly. This is the Sunda Shelf—bent, folded, drowned and dried so many times the geological complexity defies imagination, and the biology is legend. The Malay Peninsula (Thai’s call it the Isthmus of Kra) is a legendary land bridge populated with diverse and prolific equatorial wildlife, making the region’s warm and sunny wetlands among the planet’s most fascinating.

Where limestone cliffs do not fall straight into the sea, mangroves abound. Seriously threatened by shrimp farming, mangrove ‘swamps’ are the nursery of the sea, richer in life than any land forest. When the tide drops and mud flats break water, small airbreathing, amphibious mudskippers remind us that our ancestors traversed these tidal flats to reach then predator-free land. Otters, macaques, fish owls, sea eagles, hornbills, mouse deer, wild pig, monitor lizards, reticulating python (world’s longest snake) and the spectacular silver langur can be seen in mangroves—when you paddle a silent sea kayak.

Banded Monitor lizard.

Mangroves are common in the tropics, but the Sunda Shelf region is special. During the last Ice Age, only 18,000 years ago, the oceans were 120 meters below today’s sea level. One land mass ran all the way to Bali, and the Straits of Malacca was a river valley.

Then the polar caps melted and the sea rose, drowning coastal plains, lakes and rivers, turning mountains into islands and stranding wildlife, which evolved separately. Today, botanists say the Sunda Shelf region alone hosts perhaps 6,000 sub-species of ficus (tropical figs).

When mountains become islands, strange things happen. Limestone and sea water are both alkaline, so corrosion isn’t an issue, but the tides are relentless. They eat away a notch in the tidal rocks called the ‘nape’ (like the back of your neck). As the nape grows, the overhang sheers off and falls into the sea, creating spectacular rock gardens. (Experience these playgrounds soon—they will dissolve in a few thousand years!)

Sheer vertical cliffs eventually form, exposing gigantic stalactites, seabed strata lines and millions of fault lines created by the enormous pressures of continental drift. These surrealistic cliffs host exotic cycads (dinosaur food); Diamond Club, a flowering cactus introduced from Central America; several varieties of rattan and bamboo; various Asian fruits and the widespread pandanus. Ficus and teak carpet the inaccessible caps of the islands.

Tarutao Hon.

Wildlife disappears at the sound of noisy longtail boats, but quiet kayakers often see macaques and monitors climbing about the cliffs. Birds range from kingfishers to sea eagles, and at dusk you will likely see fruit bats flying raids to mainland fruit orchards.

Day’s end at low tide is a great time for monkey observations. Once you spot a family, sit motionless and let the wind blow you onto the beach. Of course the monkeys will disappear, so rest your bow on the beach and project gentle vibes. In ten minutes a panorama of monkey society will appear, then surround you. Stay motionless and the family will casually go about their human-like existence—you can even talk with them. But one move to exit your boat and everybody disappears.

It’s tricky, but you can paddle through rarely-visited tidal caves to access open-air cliff-lined lagoon environments where even monkeys have no human contact. Sea kayakers are privileged to experience this ‘no humans’ feeling. Large monitor lizards sit within arm’s reach as you glide by, shy langurs never move from their treetop perch, and kingfishers jump from branch to branch—close enough to hear wings flutter.

Kiss the oysters.

These havens demand respect— talk in whispers, move slowly, think delicately—and enjoy our planet without the presence of humans. Predation is the law of any jungle and in the Andaman Sea the White Belly Sea Eagle is top predator. Fifteen years ago, this majestic eagle almost disappeared in Thailand, but enforcement and awareness campaigns had their effect. Nests are still raided, captive eagles still common, but sea eagle families have returned to the Andaman Sea. Shy babies with two meter wingspans soar high while bold parents dive-bomb boats looking for chum. A few well-placed chicken skin scraps leads to quite a show—the white belly dive from 100 meters.

Feeding wildlife is a strict no-no. Thailand’s only exception is marine raptors. These guys live off fishing boat scraps, raid bird nests, devour sea snakes, and create mayhem for anything that moves. Chicken skin is within the eagles’ natural diet.

Our company crusades against feeding Krabi’s macaques, but the government saysit’s good for business. Fortunately, except for monkeys, most Thai wildlife is so cautious of humans that feeding opportunities are rare.

Away from the shrimp farms, resorts, wildlife poaching and corruption, South Thailand kayaking still defies the imagination. Wintertime waters are warm and rarely challenging, and the complicated limestone topography rivals an ancient oriental tapestry. Rare secrets lie behind those cracks, caves and sheer vertical cliffs that have insulated this bountiful region from the ravages of humankind. The animals seem to somehow understand kayaks, and frequently offer remarkable displays of what the Sunda Shelf must have been like 10,000 years ago—an era of more land and many fewer people. See it while you can.