It's not something I expected to be doing, but last Saturday, I found myself inching along a wooden plank bridge, trying to make as little noise as possible, all for the chance to sneak a peek at an orang Belanda.
Part of the mounting excitement came from what the park rangers at Sarawak’s Bako National Park had told us the day before: “There’s no guarantee you will see any animals.”
Nevertheless, over the course of the morning, afternoon, and evening, we managed to spot, among others, bearded pigs, pit vipers, flying lemurs, and even a frog calmly sitting by the path.
In fact, it would have been rather bizarre not to see any animals at all, given that the park near Kuching is home to hundreds of bird species, dozens of bat and reptile species, and 23 species of mammals. Among them the most sought-after is the proboscis monkey – in Malay, orang Belanda, or Dutch man – found only on Borneo, and understandably prized by tourists who have travelled thousands of kilometers to see them up close.
At first I was fairly unperturbed about seeing one. After all, seeing any wildlife at all would have made the trip worthwhile for me. But after listening to the guide talk about how much people wanted to see the proboscis monkey, then being told that a group was foraging nearby out of sight as we hiked up and down various trails, then hearing one rustling noisily through the rainforest canopy.... Well, after all that, it would have been a shame to leave without seeing one.
This is something like the scarcity principle in action. Because it was so difficult to spot that elusive monkey, I wanted to see it even more. And then when it finally happened, it felt like a great achievement.
But to get to that point, you first have to feel like you might miss out on something special. So let me put it this way: If you’re a nature lover and you have the chance to visit Bako National Park but don’t, then you’re missing out.
The Sarawak government, it seems, is also trying to make sure more people visit these parks. Last year, Sarawak’s Minister for Tourism, Creative Industry, and Performing Arts, Datuk Seri Abdul Karim Rahman Hamzah, called for improvements to be made to poorly maintained national park facilities, which currently suffer from issues such as water shortages and deteriorating infrastructure.
However, how to pay for these improvements remains an open question. Despite welcoming approximately 50,000 visitors annually, current entrance and accommodation fees are too low to sustain the park’s ambitions. As the state’s Deputy Minister of Natural Resources and Urban Development Datuk Len Talif Salleh noted, “It is evident that our national parks are not self- sustainable or able to break even to cover their operational costs”.
At present, Bako’s entrance fee is just RM10 for Malaysians and RM20 for foreigners. In total, this brings in under a million ringgit annually, a significant contribution towards the roughly RM4mil budget allocated for the management and development of all totally protected areas in Sarawak.
Yet, a 2023 study by Universiti Putra Malaysia and Universiti Malaysia Sabah found that locals would be willing to pay up to RM50, and foreigners up to RM100, for entry into Bako.
On the surface, the solution seems obvious: raise prices. If people are willing to pay more, why not charge more? But that’s only part of the story. There are already additional costs that make a trip to Bako far from cheap for many locals.
For a start, the boat transfer is about RM200 for a return trip, with each boat carrying up to five people. Then there’s the guide, which can cost another RM200. And if you’re making the effort to get there, it might be worth staying until the next day, with accommodation ranging from RM100 to RM200 a night. So a family of four could easily spend around RM600 for a two-day, one-night stay in the rainforest. And remember, they don’t guarantee you’ll see any animals!
Which brings me to perhaps a controversial take. Perhaps we should both improve the quality of the experience (by upgrading the facilities and improving customer service) while also deliberately limiting the number of visitors. Say, for instance, capping entry at 120 people a day.
One obvious immediate advantage is that fewer visitors mean a better experience for everyone, including the animals. A recent study found that proboscis monkeys are easily stressed by human presence. Loud noises, sudden laughter, even pointing at them can disrupt their feeding behaviour and cause them to retreat. Even a passing motorboat can cause issues.
The second advantage is more subtle. By restricting access, you create scarcity. And scarcity will increase perceived value. In other words, fewer slots could actually drive higher demand, and potentially justify higher prices.
Of course, this must be handled carefully. There are already troubling examples elsewhere, for example in parts of Africa, where the pressure to deliver “guaranteed sightings” has led to unethical practices where animals are chased, baited, or disturbed for the benefit of photo-hungry tourists.
There is also a downside to exclusivity. Higher prices and limited access risk turning nature into a luxury experience reserved only for those who can afford it. It also opens the door to unintended consequences, such as operators bypassing restrictions to “smuggle” tourists in for profit.
Yet this tension may be unavoidable. Conservation today relies, to some extent, on both public funding and public participation. We need people to care, and that starts with knowing, which is then strengthened by actually experiencing.
Perhaps one day we will reach a point where ecosystems are stable enough that we no longer have to worry about habitats disappearing or species going extinct. But until then, there’s no guarantee that you will always be able to see them in the wild.
