Langkawi was made a duty-free zone in 1987 as an incentive to lure holidaymakers. It worked; by 2016, three and a half million people were visiting the island annually. In 2018, the government announced it was “targeting 9 billion ringgit (US$2.17 billion) in tourism revenue in Langkawi by 2020”, helped by a newly expanded international airport that could handle four million passengers per year.

‘We don’t know if we can survive until then’: Phuket waits on tourists

When Nadia Jamaludin first touched down in Langkawi, in 2015, “There was always something happening, reggae musicians visiting from [Kuala Lumpur] or DJs performing on the beach at New Year”.

It was that atmosphere that convinced her to settle on the island, having moved from the Perhentian Islands, on the opposite side of Peninsular Malaysia. “In Langkawi, I discovered things Perhentian doesn’t have, like ATM machines and clothes shops, yet nature is still incredible,” says Nadia. “Even now, I’m still amazed by the sunsets.”

Nadia found work at Soluna, a boutique guest house centred on a Balinese garden that is popular with Italian and German holidaymakers. “We’re almost always full; we sometimes have to turn people away,” she says, as we tour the grounds.

Much has changed since the virus struck, however. “Some guests stayed with us throughout the MCO,” she says, of the initial two-month lockdown. “By the summer, they were gone.”

The MCO was replaced by a conditional movement control order in May, followed by a recovery movement control order in June, which has been extended until the end of the year. Domestic tourism began picking up, and bars, spas and restaurants opened again – albeit under tight regulation.

“Soluna closes every July for a month so my boss can visit her family in Italy,” says Nadia. “But this year, we closed for three months. I had to draw on my pension fund to survive.” The guest house has reopened but, despite room rates having been discounted by 30 per cent, few guests have returned.

Still, Nadia feels lucky compared to the migrant workers who, in better times, sustain the area’s tourism industry.

“They are all gone,” she says, showing me a row of empty one-room houses standing between Soluna and another small guest house, the Langkawi Country Lodge, where workers – mostly Bangladeshi, Indian and Burmese – usually live. “They were either sent back to their home country or crammed into resort staff quarters.”

“We worked on 37 properties in a decade,” Yati says, proudly. Last year, after they found an abandoned house near Pantai Cenang (Cenang Beach), they drew up plans for the Langkawi Country Lodge, and started with 10 rooms and four backpacker dormitories, with plans to add to it.

“Before the MCO, business was booming, all our rooms were full,” Yati says. But holiday joys quickly morphed into lockdown blues.

“We’ve been lucky enough to keep some rooms occupied with foreigners stuck in Malaysia,” says Yati. “Only one person per household was permitted to go to the supermarket. That was me. I had four rooms occupied at the time but when I fed my guests on the terrace, the police came, as restaurants weren’t permitted to open. I had to explain that I only have an outdoor eating area.

“The worst month we had was September, with just one room sold. But, fortunately, I found some catering jobs to keep us afloat.”

A spike in cases in mainland Kedah has been of particular concern, as they have made statistics for the whole state look bad and have led to the temporary disruption of ferry services.

Some hoteliers in Pantai Cenang do not have the means to weather a protracted slump. “The Coconut Guesthouse is for sale,” says Mastazi, citing just one example of resent closures. “And NR Motel is now selling fried rice.”

Petty crime is also on the rise. “We guest house owners regularly speak with the local police,” Yati says. “Langkawi is one of the safest places in Malaysia but we’ve been warned robberies are increasing.” The crimes are those of desperate villagers, it would appear.

Lee Wei Beng has worked in the food and beverage industry since 1993, and has enjoyed a front-row seat to Langkawi’s rise from “kampong [village] style”, when buildings were “no higher than a coconut tree”, into a resort-studded “honeymoon island”. Lee, who works as a seafood supplier, travels all over the island, and is uniquely aware of the difficulties facing the tourism industry.

“This year is not about doing business, it’s about survival,” Lee says, when we meet in Resorts World Langkawi, a luxury hotel complex fronted by an infinity pool and bar that we have virtually to ourselves. “Judging by my margins, tourism is down 75 per cent. Businesses like the Langkawi Country Lodge will be OK because they have very low overheads, but for bigger businesses, this is the time to think differently.

“When there’s no business, you have to get busy,” he says. “Spend time to fix what needs fixing. Develop relationships. And work on getting people through the door. I tell my clients to organise events, ladies’ nights, BBQs, whatever you have to do. And advertise. If you pass by two restaurants and only one has staff inviting you in, it’s obvious which one you’ll choose.

“Many people here don’t understand how social media can help their business. Well, now is the time to learn.”

Will Malaysian tourist draw Langkawi be a victim of its own success?

Lee also thinks the island needs to diversify away from the one-track economy that has left Langkawi looking cursed once more. “What about establishing a university here, or inviting some medical clinics to set up like they have in Penang?”

One evening, Nadia takes me to Pantai Kuala Muda, to witness one of Langkawi’s famous sunsets. The remote beach is the domain of native islanders, affording me a glimpse of what Langkawi was like before Mahathir lifted the curse.

In the glow of the disappearing sun, I meet a man casting a weighted net into the water, then picking through it to see if there’s anything edible within.

“Have you been a fisherman for a long time?” I ask.

“Actually, I’m a taxi driver. But there’s no business, so I come here every day to try and catch my dinner.”