Where the dragons still breathe, we stand too close

Written By Shanenn Maher

Into the Dragon’s Domain: Reflections from Komodo Island

Last month, I stepped into the prehistoric breath of Komodo Island, an arid, ochre landscape where time feels folded in on itself. The air shimmered with heat, the earth smelled faintly metallic, and just beyond the mangrove line, dragons stirred.

Standing there, surrounded by the low rustle of brush and the collective hush of tourists waiting for a glimpse, I couldn’t help but feel I was trespassing into another epoch. It’s one thing to read about Varanus komodoensis, the largest lizard on Earth, and another to see one moving toward you—deliberate, heavy, its tongue flicking the air like a warning.

But what startled me more than the creature itself was us—the crowd.

A Dance Between Reverence and Spectacle

Groups huddled close with phones raised high, eager for selfies. One woman crouched near a dragon’s tail, grinning. I watched, appalled, as a ranger, stick in hand, motioned her forward and smiled reassuringly for the shot. Another ranger adjusted the angle for a family, making sure everyone “got their turn.”

Each ranger carried a long wooden pole with a small V-shaped notch carved at the top, their only defense in case a dragon lunged. The simplicity of it struck me—a single stick separating human flesh from a creature capable of killing in seconds.

It felt surreal. I was standing among prehistoric predators, yet the scene was more reminiscent of a film set than a conservation site. I felt complicit, knowing my ticket and camera were part of the same economy that turned this encounter into performance.

The dragons were magnificent: ancient, slow, sovereign—but they were also surrounded.

The History Beneath the Heat

Komodo Island, part of Indonesia’s Lesser Sunda archipelago, rises between Sumbawa and Flores, forged by volcanic collision and tectonic drift. Its isolation lies within Wallacea, a biogeographical boundary where Asian and Australasian species coexist in evolutionary tension.

Nearby Flores Island holds one of anthropology’s most haunting discoveries: Homo floresiensis, a small-bodied hominin species that lived here roughly 50,000 years ago. The finding redefined what we know about human evolution and adaptation, revealing how islands become crucibles for new forms of life.

Human life on Komodo has always been fluid. The island’s early inhabitants, sometimes referred to as the “Komodo people,” no longer exist as a distinct group. Today’s residents are descendants of Bugis and Sumbawa settlers, exiles, and migrants who intermarried and established the current mix of Muslim, Christian, and Hindu villages. Their livelihoods rely on fishing, small trade, and increasingly, tourism.

Dragons, Buffalo, and the Island’s Uneasy Ecology

Komodo dragons are apex predators that dominate their ecosystem. They feed on deer, wild pigs, and water buffalo, which were transported to the island decades ago to sustain prey populations. Yet these introduced buffalo have reshaped the terrain, trampling vegetation and altering soil composition.

Beyond dragons and buffalo, Komodo hosts Javan deer, civets, macaques, boars, and over sixty species of birds. The surrounding waters are part of the Coral Triangle, one of the world’s richest marine ecosystems, home to manta rays, reef fish, sea turtles, and coral gardens that stretch beyond sight.

The dragons, though powerful, exist in balance with everything else. They are scavengers as much as hunters, recycling carrion and shaping prey behavior. But as more humans arrive, their environment grows thinner, their instincts less wild.

Audio up for a glimpse at tourist behavior

Tourism’s Paradox

Komodo National Park, established in 1980 and recognized by UNESCO in 1991, now draws hundreds of thousands of visitors each year. Tourism sustains over sixteen thousand livelihoods in surrounding areas, but it also reshapes the island’s delicate ecology.

The more famous the dragons become, the greater the strain. Tourist boats crowd the harbors, waste seeps into coral shallows, and the trails grow worn from daily passage. Some visitors try to feed the dragons for closer photos, while others approach dangerously near.

I watched as park rangers, tasked with both protection and hospitality, guided these moments like choreographers—pausing the group, positioning tourists, ensuring everyone captured their proof of proximity. There was an odd tenderness in their professionalism, but also quiet resignation. One ranger told me, “They are our economy. Without them, no one comes.”

The tension between reverence and revenue hung in the air.

Indonesia’s government has debated closing parts of the park to reduce pressure, but such decisions are complicated. Local communities rely on visitors. Conservation groups call for community-based tourism, arguing that stewardship must come from those who live closest to the dragons, not from corporate investors seeking profit within a protected zone.

Incidents and Human Encounters

Since the 1970s, around two dozen recorded dragon attacks have occurred, five of which were fatal. Though statistically rare, each incident underscores the razor-thin line between fascination and danger.

In 2017, a Singaporean tourist was bitten after approaching too closely while dragons were feeding. In 2009, a fruit picker was killed after falling from a tree, and just this year, a seventy-four-year-old man was attacked on Rinca Island.

When these events happen, rangers respond immediately—using their simple wooden poles to hold the dragon’s head away, calling for backup, and rushing victims to medical boats bound for nearby Flores. There are no fences or barriers here, only vigilance, familiarity, and faith that the dragons will not feel provoked.

And still, moments after an attack makes headlines, new groups arrive, smiling for the next photograph.

Reflections from the Edge of Evolution

I left Komodo feeling both awe-struck and uneasy. The island feels ancient, untouched, but its reality is shaped by the modern appetite for experience. Watching the dragons move felt like watching the Earth remember itself. Watching tourists swarm them for selfies felt like watching that memory dissolve.

Anthropology reminds us that observation changes what is observed. That day, I saw more than dragons. I saw the anthropology of tourism—the commodification of awe, the choreography of danger, and the quiet complicity that comes with witnessing beauty in captivity of our own making.

As our boat pulled away and Komodo’s volcanic ridges softened, I closed my eyes, sinking into my seat, wondering what these dragons will look like fifty years from now. Will they still roam freely across their island kingdom, or stand surrounded, posed, patient, and waiting for the next camera flash?

Until next time, may our curiosity lead us gently..
toward places that challenge what it means to observe,
and remind us that reverence begins where entitlement ends.

Archive Note:
This post is part of The Archive’s ongoing series exploring how culture, economy, and environment intersect in the spaces we photograph and the stories we tell.

Shanenn Maher
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