From charcoal industry impacts to tourism feeding, Langkawi’s iconic raptors face potential challenges in their mangrove habitat. 

It’s ten o’clock in the morning when Danial*, our tour guide, welcomes us aboard a small speedboat. We are setting out to explore Kilim Geoforest Park, one of three UNESCO-protected reserves in Langkawi, Malaysia.

Covering 40 square kilometres, the park is an impressive mosaic of mangrove forests and karst formations, and an oasis rich with flora and fauna. Among its most notable residents are the White-bellied sea eagle (Haliaeetus leucogaster) and the Brahminy kite (Haliastur indus). The latter is widely believed to have given Langkawi its name, derived from the Malay word “helang”, meaning eagle, and kawi, a red stone found on the island.  

Why are mangrove roots important? 

As the speedboat glides along the coast, Danial begins to explain the importance of red and black mangrove trees. Mangroves are a complex, interdependent web of aerial roots, sediments, and micro-organisms that stabilise coastlines and sustain marine biodiversity.

These habitats support a rich mix of terrestrial and aquatic wildlife, including more than 41 species unique to the mangroves at Kilim. They function as vital nurseries for young fish and crustaceans and provide refuge for distinctive creatures such as mudskippers, crabs, and kingfishers. Around 34 species, largely crustaceans and molluscs, also underpin a thriving, seafood-based livelihood for the local community.

Furthermore, mangrove forests act as powerful carbon sinks, absorbing up to five times more carbon than tropical rainforests. They act as the first line of defence against floods and extreme weather. Their dense, tangled roots dissipate the energy of powerful Ocean waves, including those from the 2004 Andaman tsunami, which left Langkawi with only one known casualty. By contrast, neighbouring coastal areas of Thailand without such natural defences suffered devastating losses. 

Soon, we enter a river delta. Towering shrubs rise on both sides, and the speedboat slows as we drift past the banks. Spiny, intertwined roots pierce the brackish water. This intricate network functions as a natural ultrafiltration system, excluding salt from the water that nourishes the trees. Any excess salt that slips through is stored in the leaves, later shed by wind, rain, or decay. 

The ghost of charcoal past 

“In the past, mangrove wood was used for the charcoal industry,” Danial explains. “We would slowly burn the wood in kilns over several weeks. The charcoal produced was of very high quality. Less smoke. More aroma when grilling food.” 

We approach what looks like the remnants of a beehive-shaped chamber: a crumbling stack of centuries-old bricks, once part of a charcoal kiln that powered the archipelago. In the 18th century, Langkawi relied heavily on charcoal for fuel and transport. The craft of charcoal making was intricate and labour-intensive, passed down through generations. Trees were typically harvested on a rotational cycle, allowing them to reach their 30-year maturity.  

But because charcoal was cheap, many producers ignored these limits, cutting beyond what was sustainable. Overharvesting degraded the land and destroyed fish nurseries**, dealing a blow to the fishing industry. With the rise of coal and natural gas, charcoal use dwindled in the late 1980s, and by the early 2000s, production was banned entirely to preserve Langkawi’s mangroves. 

We pass the kiln, leaving its ghost in the past. 

Eagles return 

“Because the fish no longer had habitats or breeding grounds, they began to move away,” Danial says. “And do you know who was affected next? The Brahminy kites.” 

On cue, a rusty-orange bird with an ivory belly and sharply bent wing tips swoops overhead. It heads toward a wide bend in the river, where several boats are anchored, a cloud of similar birds spiralling above. 

“I have a friend who was a pilot at Langkawi airport,” Danial continues gravely. “He told me the eagles began moving toward the runways in search of food. There were near-misses with planes because the eagles flew too close to them. It was too dangerous. We had to find a way to lure the eagles back to the mangroves^***.”  

Feeding controversy 

We join three or four other tour boats, each carrying around ten passengers, all huddled together for Langkawi’s main tourist attraction: eagle feeding. From a boat opposite ours, I watch a guide hurl a bucket of creamy scraps into the water. Instantly, the air erupts with movement. One after another, the eagles dive towards the surface with astonishing precision to snatch the floating morsels, like arrows released from a bow.  

The spectacle is divisive. Some naturalists argue that feeding eagles chicken skin, high in fat, growth hormones, and sourced from commercially farmed birds, may compromise their health compared to a natural diet of fish, insects, and small birds. The food may introduce unfamiliar bacteria and disease, a risk that is further heightened by the large concentration of eagles in one area.

Regular feeding can also disrupt hunting behaviour, with potential knock-on effects on breeding, social patterns, and survival skills****. And then there is the conservation purist perspective, strongly upheld by WWF which neither condones nor promotes any form of feeding involving wild animals and instead advocates for a strict observe from a distance approach to wildlife tourism. Many of these concerns draw on findings from other contexts rather than direct evidence here, and due to limited funding, there remains an urgent need for further research into the long term ecological and behavioural effects of these feeding practices.  

The debate is not new. I write this in the spring of 2026, but a quick search online shows the problem has persisted far too long. A South China Morning Post article from ten years ago describes the very same issue. Complaints on Tripadvisor date back nearly two decades.

Since my trip, I have been in conversation with numerous local academics, tour guides, and naturalists, to better understand the situation. One of them was present during the original decision to introduce eagle feeding, coincidentally the same pilot mentioned in Danial’s story. He explained that when the practice began in the late 1990s, it was intended as a temporary measure lasting only a single generation of birds, roughly thirty years. If that timeline holds, the practice should be phased out by the end of this decade.  

In reality, the situation is far more complex. Over time, eagle feeding has become embedded in the fabric of Langkawi’s tourism economy. Nearly three million visitors arrive each year, and as Langkawi Business Association adviser Datuk Alexander Isaac notes, “about 90 percent of Langkawi’s economy depends on the businesses generated in the tourism sector.” For many boat operators and guides, this attraction is a steady and reliable source of income. 

But economic value cannot be the final measure. If rigorous studies eventually show that the practice starves the very species it celebrates, then it must either be stopped or reshaped into a safer alternative. Without adequate research, the island risks sustaining a tradition that could undermine its own emblem. 

Perhaps the way forward lies not in feeding, but in reimagining our relationship with these birds and, more broadly, with wildlife. Solutions should draw on models that decouple income from feeding spectacle. Studies in Thailand and the Philippines have shown that when communities phase out direct feeding and instead promote guided observation, mangrove tours, and citizen science, both wildlife and livelihoods can thrive.  

As I watched the raptors recede into the lush green backdrop, I wondered if true ecotourism could mean learning to admire without interfering, to give back more than we take. 

I hope that in the decade to come, my experience here will feel like the kiln we saw on the riverbank: a relic of the past and a reminder of what was, rather than what continues to be. 

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Notes

* The name has been changed to protect the person’s identity. 

^** I consulted an academic specialising in the charcoal industry in Malaysia, who rejected claims that the industry in Langkawi at the time had any direct detrimental impact on the mangroves, let alone on fish populations. 

^*** Several tour-guides I spoke with maintain that eagle feeding was introduced to encourage Brahminy kites to return to the mangroves after ecological decline. However, another academic offered a different explanation: that following Langkawi’s designation as a duty-free island in 1987, feeding eagles became a way to attract and entertain a growing influx of tourists. Whether the practice began primarily as a conservation measure or as a tourism strategy remains unclear. 

^**** Interestingly, a local bird ecologist I consulted observed no noticeable changes in eagle behaviour from the feeding activities. 

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Thank you for raising your voice for the Ocean, Erika!

Connect with Erika on Instagram. Learn about how to submit your own Wavemaker Story here.

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