Nature @ Tanjong Rhu Resort

The Third Day, Seen from the Inside

By the third day at Tanjung Rhu Resort, the place no longer tries to impress. It assumes we have slowed down enough to meet it halfway.

The morning began in motion. What started as a walk became a jog along the beach, my wife beside me, our pace guided by the long, pale ribbon of sand stretching into the distance. Above us, the DJI Neo followed quietly, less a drone than a machine and more a companion—an unobtrusive witness, keeping rhythm rather than imposing it. Sea, breath, footsteps, laughter: the simplest choreography, repeated until the body remembered what it already knew.

Breakfast followed. No rush. No need to plan.

Only then did we return to the room to change tools—this time not for movement, but for attention. I picked up the Olympus with the 100–400 mm; my wife slung her Canon bridge camera over her shoulder. The shift in equipment marked a shift in intention. We stepped back into the hotel grounds together, and almost immediately the birds arrived, as if the lenses themselves had signalled a shared readiness to listen.

A pair of white-collared kingfishers appeared first—upright, watchful, impossibly blue. Nearby, a Pacific swallow perched on the netting of a beach-ball setup, resting briefly between bursts of flight. Toward the front of the hotel, the familiar ensemble revealed itself without fanfare: sunbirds flickering through foliage, a drongo holding its angular silhouette against the sky, common shrikes alert and precise, yellow-vented bulbuls filling the air with the sound of continuity, and crows, ever present, neither welcome nor unwelcome—simply aware. Even a vividly coloured lizard paused long enough to be seen, then disappeared, satisfied with having been acknowledged.

It was in this unguarded state that we met Faiza.

He runs the small souvenir outlet in the hotel, though what he really offers is a portal into the quieter systems that hold a place together. The first items he showed were modest in scale but immediate in impact: pencil cases, bags, scarves—beautifully made from recycled denim and bed sheets. He spoke of the women behind them: single mothers from Langkawi, part of what Malaysia calls the B40—the bottom 40 percent of household income earners. The term is administrative, but the lives are not. Many of these women, Faiza said, were shy at first. They spent six weeks learning to sew. Those who completed the programme were given sewing machines—not as charity, but as trust. The social enterprises that support them are funded through sponsorships from banks and organisations, and two designers shaped the products into objects that feel contemporary, confident, and complete.

What struck me most was the absence of compromise. These were not “good for a cause” designs. They were simply good. Purpose had sharpened form.

As we spoke, Faiza began to recount the history of the hotel itself, and suddenly the ease of the place made sense. Tanjung Rhu was not born accidentally. It was conceived in the early 1990s by Tan Sri Tajudin Ramli, under his company Reka Intisari Sdn Bhd, at a time when Langkawi was just beginning to imagine itself as more than an island of fishermen and quiet coves. Tajudin, then at the height of his influence as chairman of Malaysia Airlines and Celcom, envisioned the northern tip of the island as a sanctuary of privacy and scale—a place where luxury did not shout. For many years, Tanjung Rhu was considered the pinnacle of Malaysian hospitality, known for its seclusion, its vast private beach, and even its once-strict no-children policy.

The architecture, too, was deliberate. The resort was designed by Lek Bunnag, a master of Tropical Modernism. His language here is unmistakable: soaring ceilings, heavy timber, deep shadows, and expansive spaces that suggest an aristocratic Malay sensibility without imitation. It is a style that breathes. This project would later inform his work next door at the Four Seasons Resort Langkawi, which carries the same confidence in restraint, proportion, and cultural memory.

Construction began around 1991–1992, on what was then a pristine and largely untouched cove. The resort officially opened in 1997, just before the Asian Financial Crisis reshaped the region’s economic landscape. Like its founder’s business empire, the hotel went through periods of transition and restructuring. Ownership shifted, management changed, and yet the core remained. Renovations in the early 2010s refreshed the physical fabric, but the spirit stayed intact. Today, Tanjung Rhu stands as a rare thing: an independent luxury resort that has survived cycles of ambition and correction without losing its centre.

By the time the conversation ended, the morning had quietly given way to afternoon. We had spent hours within the hotel grounds without ever feeling confined. Movement had given way to observation; observation to conversation; conversation to reflection.

Now, as I sit facing the sea, waiting for a pizza to arrive, the day feels unexpectedly complete. Not because we did much, but because everything we did belonged. Birds, craftsmanship, architecture, social enterprise, and personal rhythm all converged without friction.

Some places impress us.
Others receive us.

Today, Tanjung Rhu did the latter—and in doing so, revealed that inspiration does not always arrive as revelation. Sometimes it arrives as permission: to slow down, to see clearly, and to recognise how quietly good systems—human and natural—hold us when we finally stop rushing through them.

 

White-collared kingfishers

Every morning, before the day settles into itself, they announce their presence.

The White-collared Kingfishers arrive in pairs, faithful to the pools that flank the resort—one on the right, one on the left—as if the place itself has been quietly divided between them. We hear them before we see them: sharp, ringing calls cutting cleanly through the softer sounds of water and wind. Their voices are unmistakable, confident, territorial, alive.

They are hunters, but not in a hurry.

From low branches and poolside ledges, they watch with extraordinary patience. Insects skim the surface. Small crustaceans stir near the edges. Then—sudden movement. A clean drop. A precise strike. They return to their perch with the same composure they left it, prey secured, balance restored. Nothing wasted. Nothing theatrical.

And always, there is the dance between the pair.

 

They chase each other across short distances, looping around trees, crossing paths mid-air, returning to familiar branches as though drawn back by an invisible thread. Sometimes the pursuit feels playful, sometimes insistent. Watching them day after day, it becomes clear that this is not random motion, but relationship—communication carried out through speed, sound, and shared territory.

In this moment, one of them pauses on a branch and calls out, beak lifted, throat open to the light. The call hangs briefly in the air, bright and declarative. It feels like a summons. Or a reassurance. Or simply a way of saying I am here.

Perhaps it is for the partner.
Perhaps it is for the morning itself.

The kingfisher’s colours—deep blue, clean white, warm buff—catch the light differently each time, depending on angle and shadow. Yet it is not the colour that holds attention for long. It is the clarity of purpose. The way the bird belongs completely to this rhythm of water, prey, perch, and call.

Seeing them every day changes the place.

 

The pools are no longer just water features. They become hunting grounds. The morning air becomes a corridor of sound. The resort reveals itself as shared space—designed for people, yes, but fully inhabited by lives that operate on older, sharper instincts.

These kingfishers do not perform for us. They live alongside us.

And in doing so, they remind us that constancy is its own kind of beauty—that to be greeted each day by the same pair of birds, calling, hunting, chasing, returning, is to witness a form of quiet continuity that needs no embellishment.

The day truly begins when we hear them.

 

Oriental Pied Hornbills

They are rarely alone.

Even when you see only one perched quietly among the casuarina branches, the other is never far—just beyond the frame, just out of sight, announced moments later by a loud, unmistakable call that rolls across the resort grounds. These are Oriental Pied Hornbills, and their presence is as bold as their silhouettes.

At Tanjung Rhu, they are not visitors. They are residents.

You notice them first by sound. Their calls are loud, hollow, almost laughter-like—carrying easily through trees and across open spaces. It is a call that makes you look up instinctively, long before you identify the source. And once seen, they are impossible to mistake: the oversized pale bill, the strong black-and-white contrast, the long tail extending like a counterbalance to that heavy beak.

They move as couples.

One leads, the other follows. When one hops to a higher branch, the partner soon joins. When one takes flight, the other lifts moments later, wings beating with deliberate force. Their spacing is never accidental—close enough to remain connected, far enough to allow movement. A practiced distance.

They feed together too, favouring berries and fruit tucked among branches. One bird reaches, plucks, swallows; the other watches, then shifts position and does the same. Occasionally, one will pause mid-feeding and call out—loud, declarative—as if checking that the bond still holds. The reply comes quickly. Assurance restored.

What is striking is their attentiveness to each other.

If one bird is startled, the other reacts instantly. If one pauses, the other waits. There is no frantic motion, no urgency, only a steady awareness that feels deeply established. This is not courtship. This is continuity. Hornbill pairs are known to bond for life, and watching them here, that longevity feels visible in every measured movement.

There are several such pairs around the resort, each occupying familiar trees, familiar routes, familiar feeding spots. Their routines overlap but do not clash. Each pair holds its own quiet understanding of territory, negotiated through calls rather than confrontation.

And when they take flight together, the moment is unmistakable—broad wings opening, bodies lifting heavily, the sound of air displaced by something substantial. They do not vanish quickly. They move with presence, leaving the impression that something important has just passed through the space.

In a place defined by calm, they add a different kind of rhythm—not softness, but assurance. A reminder that partnership in the natural world is not always subtle or delicate. Sometimes it is loud, visible, and confidently shared.

To see them day after day is to witness a form of loyalty that does not need explanation.
They stay close.
They feed together.
They call to each other openly.

And in doing so, they turn the resort into something more than a landscape—
they make it a lived-in territory, shaped as much by enduring bonds as by sand, sea, and trees.

 

Yellow-vented Bulbul

In the resort garden, life unfolds through continuity rather than spectacle. Presence is revealed in repetition, in small movements and familiar sounds that quietly define the space. Among these, the Yellow-vented Bulbul stands out as one of the most constant inhabitants.

Often detected before it is seen, the bulbul announces itself with brief, energetic bursts of song. The calls are simple and unadorned — lacking the dramatic flair of the Asian Koel or the melodic richness of the Black-naped Oriole — yet they fill the garden evenly, creating a steady acoustic backdrop that accompanies the day.

This species is a resident bird of Malaysia, present throughout the year rather than arriving with the seasons. Its permanence explains its ease within human-shaped landscapes. The landscaped garden provides an ideal habitat: flowering shrubs, manicured hedges, open lawns, and shaded corners form a layered environment shaped by intention but open to life. The bulbul thrives in this middle ground, moving comfortably between low branches and open spaces, neither strictly arboreal nor ground-bound.

Typically encountered in pairs or small family groups, these birds are alert and active. Short pauses to sing or forage are followed by quick movements through the foliage. Their behaviour reflects familiarity rather than assertion — a quiet confidence born of long residence.

While the song itself may not be distinctive, its persistence gives it meaning. Heard throughout the morning and into the softer light of late afternoon, it becomes part of the garden’s rhythm, marking time and continuity.

The Yellow-vented Bulbul serves as an ecological indicator of balance: insects are present, flowering cycles continue, and shelter is sufficient. Its unobtrusive presence confirms that the garden functions as more than ornament — it is a living system.

Here, nature does not insist on attention. It settles, remains, and reveals itself gradually. The bulbul embodies this subtlety, reminding observers that vitality often expresses itself through constancy rather than display.

  

Brown Shrike

It arrived quietly, without announcement, slipping into the casuarina trees as though it had every right to be there. Yet this was already claimed ground — the domain of the Ashy Drongo, vigilant and intolerant of intrusion. The air felt briefly unsettled, as if the garden itself had sensed a shift in balance.

The visitor was the Brown Shrike.

Compact, upright, and immaculately composed, it carried the air of a seasoned traveller. This is a long-distance migrant, breeding across northeast Asia — from eastern Siberia, northern China, Korea, and Japan — before moving south with the onset of autumn. Each year, individuals undertake journeys of roughly 4,000 to 6,000 kilometres, following ancient flyways into Southeast Asia, reaching destinations such as Thailand, Peninsular Malaysia, Borneo, Indonesia, and occasionally the Philippines. Langkawi lies well within this wintering arc.

By the time the Brown Shrike arrives here, usually between September and March, the journey is already etched into its posture. Yet nothing in its stance suggests exhaustion. Even at rest, it looks formidable.

Its preferred habitat explains its ease in the resort gardens. Brown Shrikes favour open landscapes with scattered trees — coastal scrub, farmland edges, rice fields, parks, and beachside vegetation. Casuarina groves are ideal: elevated perches for surveillance, open ground below for hunting. These are birds that thrive at boundaries — where forest gives way to field, where wild meets human care.

Perched firmly, the shrike surveys its surroundings with precision. The dark mask across its eyes gives it a hardened, almost mercenary expression — a look earned rather than worn. This is no passive insect-eater. While insects form the bulk of its diet, it also takes lizards, frogs, small birds, and rodents when the opportunity arises.

Among birds, shrikes possess a reputation far exceeding their size. They are famously aggressive defenders and hunters, known to attack prey larger than themselves. Across their range, Brown Shrikes have been recorded mobbing raptors — including kestrels and small hawks — striking repeatedly at the head and back until the intruder retreats. Precision, persistence, and audacity define their strategy.

Here among the casuarina trees, even the Ashy Drongo seemed momentarily measured, watching rather than reacting. The shrike’s presence alone altered the balance. It did not need to attack; its reputation travelled with it, carried across continents.

Eventually, it moved on — perhaps continuing its seasonal circuit, perhaps simply testing boundaries before yielding ground. But its brief occupation lingered. In a landscape shaped for leisure, the Brown Shrike reintroduced a sharper note — a reminder that these gardens are also part of a vast migratory network stretching thousands of kilometres north.

Small, masked, and unapologetically fierce, the Brown Shrike is a traveller shaped by distance and discipline. It arrives from far away, claims a perch without apology, and leaves behind a quiet lesson: in nature, power is not measured by size or voice, but by resolve earned over long journeys.

 

 

Oriental Dollarbird

(Eurystomus orientalis)

High on an exposed perch, motionless against the sky, the bird appears almost crow-like from a distance. Its posture is upright, its presence quiet but assured. Only when it turns its head does the illusion dissolve — a vivid red bill catches the light, and the identity becomes clear. This is the Oriental Dollarbird, a watcher of open spaces and a traveller of great distances.

In Malaysia and Singapore — including Langkawi — the Oriental Dollarbird occupies a rare dual role. It is both a resident and a migratory visitor, depending on the individual bird. Some belong to small, established populations that live and breed locally year-round, nesting high in tree cavities, often in old woodpecker holes or decaying trunks. Others arrive seasonally, swelling the numbers as long-distance migrants escape the northern winter.

From roughly September to April, birds from China, Japan, and parts of East Asia move south along the East Asian–Australasian Flyway. Many pause across the Malay Peninsula, using it as a migratory corridor — feeding briefly before continuing further south toward Indonesia or even northern Australia. During this period, Langkawi becomes a meeting ground: locals and travellers sharing the same perches.

This explains the sense of quiet abundance during the winter months. A dollarbird seen at Laman Padi or along the coast may be a long-term resident — a familiar “landlord” of the territory — or a seasoned voyager resting mid-journey, having already travelled several thousand kilometres.

Their behaviour remains remarkably consistent regardless of origin. Dollarbirds favour open habitats — paddy fields, coastal groves, resort gardens, plantations, and isolated trees. Height is essential. They choose prominent perches and remain still for long stretches, scanning the air with deliberate patience.

The hunt is sudden and precise. Feeding almost exclusively on large flying insects — beetles, cicadas, dragonflies, grasshoppers — the bird launches in a swift, direct flight, snatches its prey mid-air, and returns to the same lookout. No wasted movement, no unnecessary calls. Economy defines its style.

Most encounters are solitary or in pairs. The dollarbird is not gregarious. It does not announce itself like the koel or dazzle vocally like the oriole. Instead, it governs through presence. During breeding season, it can be surprisingly assertive, defending nest cavities and chasing away much larger birds. Outside of that, it prefers distance, lifting calmly away if approached too closely.

The name “dollarbird” comes from the pale, coin-like patches on its wings — visible only in flight, flashing briefly before vanishing again. It is a fitting symbol. Much of this bird’s beauty is revealed only in transition: between stillness and motion, residence and migration, local ground and distant horizon.

Seen in January, the Oriental Dollarbird becomes part of Langkawi’s seasonal transformation — alongside wintering egrets and other migrants — lending the landscape an unmistakably international rhythm. Some will stay. Others will move on. All leave behind the quiet impression of a world connected by wings, patience, and sky.

 

Pacific Swallow

I began noticing them not as subjects, but as movement.

Along the edge of the beach, where sand meets air and heat lifts invisible currents, pairs of swallows stitched the sky together. They flew low and fast, skimming just above the ground, drawing lines that felt almost calligraphic — swift, confident, never hesitant. At first glance, they seemed playful. But the longer I watched, the more I realised there was nothing casual about their flight.

They were always in pairs.

One would arrive at the beach-ball net, and moments later the other would follow, settling beside it as if the space had been reserved. When they left, they left together. When they circled, they circled as one — separating briefly, then rejoining with effortless precision. It felt less like companionship and more like attunement.

 

They allowed us to come close, but not too close. There was an unspoken distance — perhaps three metres — a line drawn not in fear, but in clarity. Cross it, and they lifted off instantly, cleanly, without alarm. No drama. No protest. Just movement, as natural as breath.

When perched, they appeared modest, almost unremarkable. But in flight, everything changed. The rufous throat caught the sun. The dark wings flashed with a blue sheen. Their pale bellies reflected the sky itself, as if they were momentarily carrying sea and air within them. In those moments, they felt less like birds and more like punctuation marks in the landscape — commas of rest, strokes of motion.

They fed as they flew, harvesting insects from the air with quiet efficiency. Work and play were indistinguishable. Survival did not look anxious. It looked graceful.

What moved me most was how naturally they belonged here. This beach — shaped by tourism, laughter, games, and footsteps — was still part of a larger, older system. The swallows did not resist it. They simply used what was available. Nets became branches. Open sand became hunting ground. The sky remained a corridor, unchanged.

Watching them, I felt something settle in me.

There was a Daoist ease in their way of being — no clinging to perches, no insistence on permanence. Rest, flight, return. And beneath that, a quiet Buddhist truth: nothing is held, everything passes, and yet everything is complete.

For a while, we shared the same space — separated by a few careful metres, connected by attention, held together by moving air. And in that shared moment, the beach felt larger, older, and infinitely more alive.

 

Brown-throated Sunbirds 

(Anthreptes malacensis)

Yes, they are a couple.

Not inseparable, not constantly side by side, but always aware of each other’s position. Their coordination is not visual alone—it is acoustic. Short calls, exchanged rhythmically, just enough to confirm proximity. Still here. Still working. Still together.

In the heat of the day, their colours become almost unreal.

The male shimmers with metallic blues, greens, and bronzes that seem to slide across his body rather than sit upon it. In strong sun, the iridescence is not decorative—it is structural, like oil on water, shifting with every angle. The female, more muted in olive and yellow, holds a quieter beauty, matte rather than mirror, but no less elegant.

They collect nectar with urgency.

Their movements are jerky, quick, repetitive—darting from flower to flower, probing deeply, withdrawing, re-positioning, repeating the same sequence with unwavering focus. There is a sense of necessity in their speed, as though time itself were a resource. The flowers tremble slightly under their weight, petals bending, stamens brushing against feathers dusted with pollen.

They do not pause often.

When they do, it is brief—just long enough to reorient, to call, to listen for the reply. The calls are not alarms. They are confirmations. A living feedback loop between two bodies working the same space.

After a while, the pattern shifts.

The male lifts away from the flowers and rises toward a taller tree nearby, choosing a higher, clearer perch. From there, he watches. Not idly. Attentively. His body stills, but his awareness sharpens. He surveys the surrounding canopy, the movement of other birds, the approach of anything that might disrupt the feeding ground below.

The female continues.

She works the flowers uninterrupted, efficient and absorbed, her movements steady and purposeful. The division of roles is not rigid, but intuitive—fluid cooperation rather than hierarchy.

What makes this pair so compelling is not only their colour, but their tempo. The frantic work, the constant calling, the brief ascent to vantage, the return. It is a cycle refined by countless repetitions, enacted without hesitation, without instruction.

Watching them long enough, the frenzy resolves into structure.
What first feels chaotic becomes choreography.

They are not performing for the eye.
They are sustaining themselves—and each other.

And when they finally move on, leaving the flowers emptied and swaying, the space feels momentarily quieter, flatter, as though some small but essential current has passed through and withdrawn.

Some beauty dazzles because it wants to be seen.
This beauty dazzles because it is busy living—
metallic, urgent, coordinated, and briefly incandescent in the sun before vanishing into the trees, still calling to one another beyond sight.

 

Olive-winged Bulbul 

(Pycnonotus plumosus)

I met them on the last morning, as though the island had decided to offer a quiet farewell rather than a spectacle.

They were hidden low in the trees near Tanjung Rhu Resort, where the foliage thickens and light breaks into fragments rather than beams. The shade there is different—cooler, protective, almost intentional. That is where they chose to remain. A pair, close but not touching, moving with the kind of restraint that suggests long familiarity. Very shy. Always half-withdrawing, never fully gone.

They did not announce themselves. I noticed them only because the leaves seemed to pause.

The bird’s body carried the colours of restraint: olive-brown above, soft yellow below, feathers layered like quiet breath. What held me, though, were the eyes—deep, reddish, alert but not alarmed. Eyes that do not invite pursuit. Eyes that ask you to slow down, or leave.

They stayed mostly still, tucked into shadow, occasionally shifting along a branch just enough to remind me they were real and not imagined. No dramatic calls. No display. Just presence. The kind that feels accidental, yet deliberate in retrospect. A reminder that some beings choose concealment not out of fear, but out of wisdom.

I realised then that this pair had not appeared during the previous days—not during the jogs along the beach, not during the more obvious birding moments, not even when the light was generous. They waited for the final morning, when attention loosens, when expectation fades, when one is no longer hunting for anything.

Perhaps that is their nature.

They belong to the low canopy, to understory shadows, to places where human movement slows instinctively. They are not birds of edges or open skies, but of interiors—of the in-between spaces where light is filtered and sound is softened. Watching them felt less like observing wildlife and more like being granted a brief entry into a parallel rhythm of living.

There were two of them, always aware of each other, never straying far. When one shifted, the other adjusted. Not synchronised, but attuned. A quiet agreement rather than a display of bond. In that moment, they felt less like subjects of photography and more like punctuation—ending the sentence of the journey with a gentle, almost invisible mark.

I did not move closer. I did not try to improve the angle. I let the lens remain where it was, knowing that any insistence would break the spell. They remained just long enough to be seen, then dissolved back into leaves and shadow, leaving behind only the certainty that they had been there.

It felt right that this encounter came at the end.

Some birds greet you when you arrive.
Others wait until you are ready to leave—
to remind you that the most meaningful sightings are not always the loudest, the rarest, or the most dramatic, but the ones that require you to be quiet enough to notice them at all.

 

 

Ashy Drongo

(Dicrurus leucophaeus)

This bird is an Ashy Drongo (Dicrurus leucophaeus).

More restrained in colour, quieter in presence, but no less intelligent.

He does not announce himself the way the Greater Racket-tailed Drongo does.

Instead, he chooses a clean, elevated perch—often an exposed branch or broken stump like this one—and stays there with composed stillness. The body is slimmer, the plumage a cool charcoal grey rather than metallic black, and the tail long but without the dramatic streamers. Subtle elegance rather than ornament.

Yet the eye gives him away.

That red iris burns quietly against the muted tones, alert and precise. He is watching—not casually, but with intent. Ashy Drongos are aerial tacticians. Their feeding behaviour mirrors the others you have seen, but with a lighter touch.

They hunt by sallying.

 

From a perch, they launch out into open air, snatching flying insects mid-flight, then return to the same or a nearby perch. The pattern repeats again and again: stillness, burst, return. Efficient. Controlled. Almost metronomic.

Like the other drongos, they often work in loose pairs or small family units. You may not always see the partner immediately, but a sharp call from nearby reveals the connection. Their coordination is understated—less theatrical chasing, more quiet alignment. Two birds holding overlapping airspace, aware of each other’s vectors.

What unites all the drongos you have observed—the Greater Racket-tailed, the other metallic forms, and now this Ashy Drongo—is strategy.

They share the same feeding logic:
– watch from a perch
– exploit disturbance
– strike decisively
– return to observation

 

But each species expresses it differently.

The Greater Racket-tailed Drongo dominates attention.
The metallic drongos dazzle and patrol.
The Ashy Drongo refines.

Watching him perched on that raw, broken trunk, framed by green bokeh and filtered light, you sense a bird that is content to let others make noise. He will take what he needs quietly, precisely, and move on.

Together, these drongos form a layered intelligence within the resort ecosystem—different styles, same role. Controllers of insects. Readers of movement. Interpreters of disturbance.

They remind us that nature does not rely on one solution.
It experiments, iterates, diversifies.

And if you stay long enough, watching the perches rather than the paths, you begin to recognise them not as “another drongo,” but as another way of thinking, briefly resting on a branch before returning to the air.

 

 

Greater Racket-tailed Drongo 

(Dicrurus paradiseus)

They appear suddenly, as if summoned by attention itself.

Along the peripheral edges of the resort—where manicured space gives way to looser ground, fallen leaves, and the quiet traffic of insects—these drongos make themselves known. Not shy. Not hurried. Just unmistakable.

This is the Greater Racket-tailed Drongo (Dicrurus paradiseus), one of the most charismatic birds of the tropics, and among the most intelligent. You recognise them instantly once you have seen them properly: the metallic blue-black sheen that seems to drink in light, the slight crest of feathers rising at the base of the beak like an unruly thought, and—most striking of all—the two long, dangling tail streamers of the male, ending in flattened “rackets” that sway gently with every movement.

They move as a couple.

Not tightly pressed together, but never unaware of each other. One advances, the other follows. One pauses, the other adjusts. Their coordination is subtle, almost conversational. Short calls pass between them—sharp, intelligent, purposeful—enough to maintain connection without fuss.

They are ground-wise hunters.

Unlike birds that rely on height or concealment, these drongos come down willingly, scanning the ground for insects and arthropods disturbed by movement. They watch the earth with the same alertness others reserve for the sky. A sudden drop. A precise strike. Then back up to a low perch, tail streamers swinging like punctuation marks.

What makes them so compelling is their alertness.

They do not simply forage; they monitor. Heads turning, eyes bright, bodies angled slightly forward, as if the world were a problem worth solving. Drongos are famous mimics, capable of imitating other birds—and even mammals—not out of playfulness, but strategy. Watching them, you sense that every sound, every movement, is data.

The male’s long tail ribbons trail behind him like afterthoughts, elegant yet impractical, a reminder that beauty in nature often survives precisely because it does not interfere with function. When he takes flight, the streamers follow a fraction of a second later, adding a rhythm to his movement, as though time itself were briefly stretched.

The female, slightly more compact, matches him in awareness if not ornamentation. Together, they form a unit that feels less like partnership and more like co-presence—two minds operating in parallel, tuned to the same frequency.

There is something quietly inspiring about them.

They do not dominate through size or noise, yet the space around them feels sharpened when they arrive. Other birds adjust. Insects scatter. The ground itself seems to listen. They remind you that intelligence in nature is not always gentle or hidden; sometimes it is sleek, confident, and unmistakably aware.

To watch these drongos is to witness a particular kind of elegance:
not decorative,
not sentimental,
but attentive.

They move through the resort not as ornaments of the landscape, but as its thinkers—
reading, responding, adapting—
their metallic bodies flashing briefly in the light before settling back into watchfulness, tails swaying, minds alert, fully alive to the complexity of the world beneath their feet.

 

Large-billed Crow

(Corvus macrorhynchos)

He chose height, not concealment.

Perched high in the casuarina tree, well above the paths and the quieter birds below, he remained there for a long while—still, deliberate, unhurried. The Large-billed Crow does not linger accidentally. When he settles, it is because the vantage point offers information.

His bill was unmistakable: heavy, arched, powerful. Not the slimmer profile of the House Crow, but something more ancient in expression, more forest-born than urban. The light caught the curve of it as he turned his head slowly, scanning. Not nervously. Not casually. This was assessment.

Large-billed Crows are often solitary or loosely affiliated, especially outside of feeding or roosting times. This one embodied that independence. While others moved through the resort grounds—drongos hopping branch to branch, bulbuls flitting, monkeys passing in restless groups—he remained above it all, occupying a higher logic of space.

From time to time he opened his bill and called out. The sound was deep, resonant, carrying weight rather than urgency. It felt less like communication and more like announcement—a statement of presence that required no reply. The needles of the casuarina framed him delicately, an almost ironic softness around such a formidable intelligence.

He did not shift often. When he did, it was minimal: a turn of the body, a subtle repositioning of his feet, a slight lift of the head. Every movement felt considered, as though excess motion would betray concentration. Large-billed Crows are known for their problem-solving ability, their memory, their capacity to read patterns. Watching him, it was easy to believe he was not waiting for something to happen—but deciding when it should.

Unlike the more opportunistic crows that haunt human leftovers, this one felt closer to the forest edge—an intermediary between wild canopy and cultivated land. A bird that understands people but does not rely on them. A presence that tolerates proximity without surrendering autonomy.

He stayed long enough for the moment to settle into itself. Long enough for the initial impulse to photograph to give way to simply watching. Long enough to remind me that some animals do not offer themselves as encounters; they offer themselves as conditions—part of the atmosphere, the intelligence of the place.

When he finally moved, it was not hurried. A decisive launch, wings opening fully, body lifting cleanly away from the branch, disappearing beyond the frame of the tree. No drama. No hesitation.

Just a choice made, and executed.

Some birds mark a place through colour.
Others through song.

The Large-billed Crow marks it through awareness—
by standing apart, seeing widely, and reminding the landscape that attention itself is a form of power.

 

Dusky Leaf Monkey

(Trachypithecus obscurus)

We noticed him not because he was loud, but because he was still.

While others moved quickly through the trees—climbing onto the roof, leaping across beams, vanishing as easily as they appeared—this one remained behind. Slower in movement, cautious, almost hesitant. He sat nestled among the foliage at the edge of the resort grounds, framed by glossy green leaves, holding a small cluster of flowers as though it were something precious rather than merely food.

He is a Dusky Leaf Monkey, also known as the Spectacled Langur (Trachypithecus obscurus). The pale rings around his eyes give him that unmistakable expression—wide, reflective, almost questioning—an appearance that feels perpetually gentle, even when he is simply eating.

The flowers in his hands are Ixora, often called jungle geranium or flame of the woods. They grow in dense clusters, bright orange-yellow here, and are commonly planted in tropical gardens and resort landscapes. For leaf monkeys, ixora flowers are a familiar food source—soft, fibrous, and easier to digest than many leaves. He ate slowly, methodically, stripping the blossoms one by one, chewing with care, pausing between bites as if listening to the world around him.

What struck me was his composure.

He did not rush to follow the others when they disappeared onto the roof. He did not show alarm at being alone. Hunger, it seemed, had anchored him more firmly than instinct to stay with the group. There was a quiet determination in the way he continued eating, focused and unhurried, trusting the moment rather than reacting to it.

We stood at a respectful distance and watched. He glanced up occasionally, those round eyes meeting ours briefly, not fearful, not confrontational—just aware. Then he returned to his flowers. There was no performance, no drama. Only the simple act of nourishment.

Leaf monkeys are known for their gentler temperaments compared to macaques. They are browsers rather than scavengers, less inclined toward confrontation, more attuned to foliage than to human presence. Watching him there, absorbed in his meal, that difference felt tangible. He belonged to the green interior of the island, even as the resort grew around it.

Time stretched quietly. The light filtered through leaves. The ixora blossoms diminished in his hands.

Eventually, he would move on—perhaps when he was full, perhaps when the world felt right again. But in that moment, he remained exactly where he needed to be: not keeping up, not falling behind, simply staying.

Some encounters ask nothing of you except patience.
This one offered a reminder:
that slowness is not weakness,
that solitude is not always loss,
and that sometimes, being left behind is simply another way of being fully present.

Grey-bellied Squirrel

Callosciurus caniceps

I began to notice them not by sight, but by motion.

A flicker across a roof beam.
A low rush along a tree trunk.
A sudden scattering of smaller birds that moments ago felt settled.

Here at Laman Padi, amid timber walkways, old rice sheds, and trees that remember older seasons, the Grey-bellied Squirrel is always present — rarely still, never accidental.

This squirrel does not announce itself like its more flamboyant cousins. Its coat is subdued, almost architectural in colour: olive-brown washed with grey, a belly that fades into ash rather than shine. Against wood, bark, and weathered planks, it nearly disappears. Camouflage here is not about hiding — it is about belonging.

They move with intention. I see them sprinting along rooftops, hugging beams, slipping into trees with a confidence that suggests long familiarity with both forest and human structure. Birds that wander too close are swiftly chased away — not violently, but decisively, as if boundaries must be reminded from time to time.

Yet there is hierarchy.

When a hornbill appears — heavy, ancient, deliberate — the squirrel yields without hesitation. It retreats, not in panic, but in recognition. Some presences do not need to assert dominance; they carry it.

What fascinates me most is how well this animal reads the space. It knows where humans walk, where they pause, where they do not look up. It knows escape routes, angles, distances. It lives in the overlap — between cultivated land and forest memory, between human rhythm and animal law.

At Laman Padi, the rice fields teach us about cycles: planting, flooding, harvesting, rest. The Grey-bellied Squirrel seems to understand these rhythms intuitively. It is active when the fields are alive with insects. It retreats when heat settles. It thrives in a landscape shaped by hands but still governed by seasons.

Watching it, I am reminded that not all wild lives need vast forests to persist. Some survive through attentiveness. Through adaptability. Through knowing when to stand ground and when to step aside.

In that sense, the Grey-bellied Squirrel is not merely a resident of Laman Padi.
It is a quiet participant in its living history — agile, observant, and deeply aware of the invisible agreements that allow many lives to share one place.

And once you learn to see it, you realise:
it has been watching you all along.

 

Common Butterfly Lizard

(Leiolepis belliana)

The Common Butterfly Lizard is a burrow-dwelling, open-ground specialist. Unlike many garden lizards that rely on trees and shrubs, this species is built for sunlit clearings: lawns, sandy soil, disturbed ground near paths, and the kind of open peripheral edges a resort naturally creates around pools and ponds.

Here is what makes them special, and why your sightings around the pool lawns make perfect ecological sense.

They forage with a low, purposeful confidence. In the early hours and late afternoon, they move across open ground in short, alert bursts, scanning for small prey — insects, larvae, tiny arthropods — and occasionally sampling tender plant matter. Their head lifts, pauses, then dips again. The pattern is repetitive but intelligent, like a careful sweep. The pool lawns, regularly trimmed and lightly watered, become a buffet: insects are abundant, visibility is high, and the sun warms the soil just enough for quick activity.

Then comes their signature act: the burrow.

When threatened, the Butterfly Lizard does not simply sprint for a tree or vanish into shrubbery. It aims for the earth itself. The holes can look startlingly similar to crab burrows — clean, round, practical openings — and the lizard will dive into them with a speed that feels rehearsed. Sometimes it disappears completely; sometimes it pauses near the entrance, half inside, watching, ready to vanish if you take one more step.

Those burrows are more than escape routes. They are home-base.

They use them for shelter from predators, for regulating body temperature, and for surviving the fierce intensity of midday heat. The ground becomes both refuge and architecture: a private room built into the island.

This explains their “shy but chaseable” nature too. They can afford to forage in the open because they always know where their nearest exit is. Their nervous system is calibrated to the distance between feeding ground and burrow mouth. That is why children find them so entertaining: the lizard lets you come close enough to feel the chase, then vanishes as if the ground itself opened for it.

Are they poisonous? No.

They are not venomous, not toxic, not dangerous. Their defence is behavioural: speed, alertness, and the burrow.

Can they bite? Like most small lizards, only if grabbed—a defensive nip more than an attack. The practical guidance is simple: look, don’t handle. For children, it is a perfect lesson in respect: you can observe closely, even playfully follow, but you don’t need to capture.

And in the larger story of the resort, the Common Butterfly Lizard is quietly important. It is a sign that the landscape isn’t sterilised. That there is enough micro-life in the grass to sustain a ground-forager. That the soil is alive enough to be dug into, inhabited, and used.

In other words: it belongs there.

Around the pool lawns, while people swim and sunbathe, this little creature runs a parallel civilisation—
foraging, pausing, disappearing into its hidden doorway,
then re-emerging when the world feels safe again.

A small, shy resident of Tanjung Rhu, teaching us—if we pay attention—
that the island is not only above ground.
Much of its life is held quietly beneath.

 

The Resort Beach

I made this image deliberately flat.

A long lens, compressed space—perhaps 100 mm at f/8—pulling sea, mountain, and sand into a single, pressed plane. Depth is denied. Perspective is disciplined. The world is asked to become quiet.

There is no human presence here. No birds crossing the frame. No footprints interrupting the raked surface of the beach. The sand has been carefully levelled in the early morning—grass trimmed, debris collected, rubbish swept away. The labour is invisible, yet its effect is complete. Order without spectacle. Care without announcement.

The sea becomes a band.
The mountains recede into mist, reduced to silhouette.
The beach holds the foreground like a breath held gently.

Everything is compressed into horizontals, into strata—sand, water, air, mountain—each refusing to dominate the other. The image feels abstract, almost painterly. It reminds me of modernist minimalism, of large-scale photographic fields where content gives way to structure. I think of Gursky—not in scale, but in intention: the removal of narrative excess until only system, rhythm, and surface remain.

And yet, this is not cold.

There may be animals here—too small to see, too quiet to register. Life has not disappeared; it has simply withdrawn beyond the threshold of visibility. What remains is not emptiness, but emptiness-as-capacity.

This is where the image begins to speak in the language of Dao and Buddhism.

In Daoist thought, usefulness arises from what is not there. The empty space of the bowl, the uncarved block, the silence between sounds. Here, the flatness becomes that space. Nothing insists. Nothing performs. The landscape is allowed to be itself without explanation.

In Buddhist terms, this scene carries a sense of śūnyatā—not nihilistic emptiness, but openness. No clinging. No aversion. Just suchness. The beach does not try to be dramatic. The sea does not ask to be admired. The mountains accept their distance without complaint.

Standing before this image, I feel the same calm that comes when thought loosens its grip. The mind stops searching for subjects and begins to rest in relationships—line against line, tone against tone, presence against absence.

This photograph does not tell a story.
It creates a condition.

A condition where the viewer can pause.
Where the noise of intention falls away.
Where the world is momentarily pressed into balance.

And in that balance, something subtle happens:
we are reminded that peace is not something added to the world—
it emerges when enough has been gently removed.

End