From Forest Royalty to Parking Lot Bandits: The Fall of the Macaques

When I was five, I was outside the house with an ice cream cone when a long-tailed macaque charged at me as if it had a score to settle with dairy. I froze. But my dad came running like a hero; he chased that macaque away and knelt beside me. “You have to be brave, don’t show fear,” he said. Sure, Dad. Easy for you to say—you weren’t the one holding a melting vanilla cone while facing a potential attack from a monkey. Since then, every visit to Batu Caves brings back some of that childhood fear. The macaques there are serious trouble. I can’t count how many times one has lunged for my bag or scared me out of my wits. It’s not an unfounded fear—I don’t scream and run—but it’s a reasonable caution. Have you seen their teeth? These guys are not joking.

Then life took a different turn. I became a guide, a naturalist. With that came knowledge, understanding, and eventually respect. I learned to respect the very creatures that once frightened me. Long-tailed macaques are smart. They adapt in ways that would humble most of us. They’re omnivores, meaning they can eat nearly anything. I’ve even seen them swimming underwater to catch snails and crabs. During the dry season in Langkawi, I watched a troop line up to swing into a hotel swimming pool using a low-hanging liana. Not a river or a pond—an actual hotel pool. They didn’t just jump in randomly. There was a system. An impatient monkey that tried to skip the line was quickly removed from the group. Social justice, macaque style.

They’re observant, too. When I first moved to Langkawi, they would smash cans against rocks or railings to open them. Eventually, I noticed them opening cans the way we do—pull-tab, sip, done. I hope you aren’t the rock-smashing type. They’re mischievous, clever, and honestly, kind of incredible. But here’s where things take a turn—and yes, I’m looking at us, humans. Giving food to a macaque can create havoc. It disrupts their natural order. In macaque society, your rank determines your rights, especially when it comes to food. So when a human gives food to a low-ranking monkey, the troop perceives it as a sign that we are beneath them. And you can bet they will treat us accordingly.

But is that their fault? Of course not. They can’t think about how we earn our meals through hard work, long hours, stress, and probably at the expense of our sanity. They just see food appear in your hand, and they want it. The outcome? We’ve taught them to depend on us. Worse, we’ve made them reliant on unhealthy food. We’re giving them processed snacks that their bodies aren’t built to handle. Studies show that when captive macaques were switched from white bread to whole grains and natural foods, their cholesterol, blood sugar, and overall health improved significantly. Now, imagine wild macaques living on potato chips and soda. We’ve also driven them out of their natural homes. They now sift through trash on roadsides instead of foraging in forests and fig trees.

And here’s the twist most people don’t expect: as of March 2022, long-tailed macaques are classified as Endangered on the IUCN Red List. Yes, Endangered. The very monkey you probably see when driving through a reserve, hiking, or parking near a food stall. How can something so common be endangered? Because they aren’t where they belong—in the forest. Their numbers are declining, their habitats are shrinking, and their reliance on human-altered environments is not natural, healthy, or sustainable. Research indicates their population has dropped by over 40% in the past four decades. Trade, culling, habitat loss, and tourism pressures all contribute to this silent crisis. And what role do they play in nature? They’re not pests—they disperse seeds, control pests, and are part of the fragile ecological balance that keeps rainforests thriving.

So, no, I don’t dislike macaques. I admire them. I recognize them as the smart little forest engineers they are. But I do have an issue with how we as humans interfere. Every time you offer a snack for a selfie, you send the wrong message—not just to them, but to the world. You imply that your likes matter more than their survival, that your moment is worth more than their future. So please, stop feeding wildlife. Let them find their own food in the forest, as nature intends. Your chips and soda will cause more harm than you realize. And no, your Instagram reel isn’t worth the extinction of an entire species.

They’re not pests.
They’re not pets.
They are wild, wise, and worth protecting.

Until next time,
Shakira
Whispers Beneath Trees