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By Laine Gonzales
Eighteenth Annual Solas Awards Gold Winner in the Destination Story category
I stare across a sea of palms. These plantation trees replace the dipterocarp trees that once towered 100 to 200 feet above the forest floor. What became of the canopy dwellers once their habitat vanished? Maybe they moved on. I don’t want to think about the alternative.
Southeast Asia’s landscape is changing at an alarming rate. Only fifty percent of its rainforests remain. Still, the chainsaws continue unabated. Here, the pace of deforestation occurs more rapidly than in any other tropical area. Staring at the palms, I am painfully aware of that. Yet a deeper awareness moves through me so powerfully that I shiver. The external changes I see around me mirror the unpredictable, progressive, and sometimes chaotic changes I’m experiencing in my own internal landscape.
~ ~ ~
Borneo fascinates me. Its ancient forests and unique wildlife placed it at the top of my bucket list. An opportunity to experience this island first-hand presents itself when I meet Wong, CEO and founder of the Bornean Sun Bear Conservation Centre (BSBCC). Conservation biology is one of my passions. Travel is another. My ideal journey includes both. As soon as Wong invites me to volunteer at the Centre, I renew my passport, fill a malaria prescription, and pack my bags.
I’m no stranger to overseas adventures. I’ve worked in such extreme environments as Antarctica and the wilds of Africa. Borneo seems tame by comparison. True, I feel squeamish with the possibility of encountering blood-sucking leeches. Because they transmit no disease, I decide I can handle losing a few milliliters. Aside from the leeches, concern hardly crosses my mind.
~ ~ ~
Borneo ranks as the third largest island in the world. Its landmass, roughly 289,000 square miles, is divided between three countries: Malaysia, Indonesia and Brunei. The BSBCC lies within Malaysian Borneo, at the northernmost tip of the island. Centre staff rescue and rehabilitate sun bears while educating the public about the bears and their disappearing habitat. Their facility houses bears that were previously owned illegally, treated inhumanely, or both. They provide a safe haven and plenty of nourishing food to rehabilitate their bears. When possible, the staff habituates bears for release into the wild. Some bears are blind or have other physical disabilities that make release impossible. These permanent residents act as ambassadors for their species because they attract visitors and money to the Centre.
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Angela, the other volunteer, and I share a room, bathroom and the same volunteer assignment. Other than that, we are worlds apart. At 19, she’s in the prime of her life. At 50, I’ve crossed the barrier separating the fecund from the infertile. While my roommate learns to navigate the sea of monthly menstruations, I do anything I can to stay afloat in the swirling eddy of menopause.
~ ~ ~
On day one, volunteers tour the BSBCC facility. We walk through the “bear house”, a structure consisting of individual, roomy cages where the 44 bears are secured at night. Next stop, the aerial walkway and viewing platform. From here, we look down on a 2.5-acre outdoor forest enclosure where bears roam freely during the day. I catch my first glimpse of a sun bear climbing a tree.
Informational signs impart details about the bears. Weighing up to 150 pounds, sun bears are tiny compared to other bear species. Small but fierce, they’ve fatally attacked humans. Nocturnal and reclusive, they rarely encounter humans. Mainly, a sun bear spends its time climbing trees in search of its favorite food, honey. When it finds a hive, the bear uses its 4-inch-long claws to tear it open and its 10-inch-long tongue to lap up the contents.
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Our work at the Centre is physical. We muck out bear cages, dice vegetables, feed bears and help with various “handyman” projects. Watching Angela move through the day with ease makes me keenly aware of how I do not. My hot flashes amplify the tropical heat and humidity leaving my beet-red skin drowning in perspiration. I am ashamed to admit that my energy level receded along with my estrogen. By the end of the first week, I am seriously fatigued and questioning whether I’ve taken on more than I can manage.
Angela and I are in charge of feeding the bears. We each carry a heavy bucket, full to the rim with fruits and vegetables, while walking the perimeter of the forest enclosure. Every few feet, we hurl handfuls of food over the fence that separates us from the bears. This strategy forces the bears to forage for food instead of being hand-fed. Angela skips along as if her bucket weighs nothing. Meanwhile, sweat oozes from every inch of my skin. I struggle with the combined labors of hefting my food bucket and tossing items over the 10-foot-high fence. My aggravation intensifies with each step. Finally, I snap and shout, “Angela, slow down. This isn’t a race.” She looks at me, puzzled, says nothing, but slows her pace. I stew for a moment before issuing an apology. Shame overtakes me. Yet again, I let my irritability escalate to outburst. Self-restraint – another casualty of menopause?
Feeling remorse, I offer to treat Angela to lunch. As we walk the main road to a nearby café, we pass a group of young, male construction workers. Taking a break from their hammering, they leer at us and let out a chorus of catcalls. I know they aren’t addressing me. Those calls are intended for Angela. There was a time when I, too, would have elicited the same attention. However, menopause has taken its toll, spreading my midline, flattening my bum, and making my breasts less perky. I now draw respect instead of lust. I step forward, aware that I am stepping into a new and different life experience.
~ ~ ~
The focal point of the BSBCC is the rainforest enclosure. As often as I can, I head there to observe and photograph bears. Occasionally, I catch them “playing”, chasing each other or rolling around in a tangle of bodies. Mostly, they sleep. They climb trees to nap in the fork between branches. When more than one bear wants to loll in the same tree, they spar. These confrontations involve bared fangs and batting paws. Loud barking and agitated growls continue until one cedes territory, retreating to the ground. Watching from the platform, I feel amused and jealous. Those bears are free to act out their aggression. I am not. My fluctuating serotonin levels cause frustration, and it is usually inappropriate to make my feelings known. Often, I swallow my anger.
At the risk of anthropomorphizing, I wonder if female bears, aged beyond motherhood, wrestle with mood swings. Do they feel content one moment and ready to lash out in rage the next? Do their hormones cause internal strife? For me, the flood of certain hormones and the ebb of others means I never know what to expect. I want to be a confident woman moving easily through this phase of life, head held high. Often, I am. Other times, bewildering changes in my biochemistry leave me feeling anxious and vulnerable.
There is one bear, Fulung, who consistently pulls me out of my head and back to reality. To say I love this bear is an understatement. In some ways, he is the typical sun bear: black fur with a cream-colored bib on his chest. But he seems more curious than the others. His bright, inquisitive eyes scan the forest enclosure. No odor can evade his continually sniffing nose. Even his stubby ears perk in response to the slightest sound. Every time I venture out to the platform, Fulung greets me. He gets as close to the fence as possible then stands on his hind feet, pink nose sniffing the air. Maybe he recognizes me. Maybe he prefers my company to Angela’s. He stretches one paw out towards me while placing the other across his chest. Anthropomorphizing again, I think he is saying hello.
~ ~ ~
When my three-week volunteer commitment ends, I head to the Danum Valley. Estimated at 130 million years, this area contains some of the oldest rainforests in the world. Where sunlight penetrates the canopy, lush scenery – a mind-boggling variety of green hues – is visible. Usually, the dense canopy blocks most light. In this space, eyes fail as the most important sense organ. A cacophony of sounds – birds, cicadas, frogs – beats against my eardrums. If I’m lucky, I may hear the roar of a male orangutan, or the high-pitched call of a gibbon. I’m here in June, the dry season, so rainfall is sporadic. Still, the smell of damp soil wafts upward. Standing amidst one of Borneo’s primary, unlogged rainforests – life pulsing all around me – I feel exhilarated.
Primary forests are becoming rare in Borneo and other parts of SE Asia. I glance up the trunk of one giant tree, craning my neck to see the canopy. I don’t see much movement in its branches, but I know better than to assume it void of life. Vines cling to its trunk creating microhabitats for things too small to be seen from my vantage point. It’s midday and most forest activity occurs after sunset. At night, spiders will adorn its branches with webs, hoping to catch flying insects. Bats will soar from its height, emitting sonar bursts in search of prey. An owl will call, whoop whoop, claiming this tree as its territory. Perched atop a sturdy branch, a lone monkey-like tarsier will bide its time, waiting for a moth to fly within arms-length.
This tree, like so many others, is in danger. It takes up space that could be used to grow palms for oil. Where is this oil destined? It will be one ingredient in a wide variety of food and beauty products sold in places like the USA.
I close my eyes and imagine a whirring chainsaw cutting deep into this giant. Sap – its lifeblood – escapes from the gash and pools at its base. I can almost hear the tree cry out in anguish much as I cry out for my lost youth and vigor.
Humans deplete these forests of their trees. An analogous event is taking place inside my body; declining estrogen depletes my bones of calcium and other essential minerals. In both cases, the structural damage is irreparable. Each tree that falls weakens the forest’s integrity. My thoughts bring on depression as I admit there are things I alone can’t change. Stopping the forest onslaught requires a global effort.
~ ~ ~
Overlooking the palm plantation, I feel a mix of emotions. Slowly, I make peace with menopause. In its wake, I adjust to mood swings, hot flashes and a sluggish metabolism. Nietzsche’s famous words have become my daily mantra: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” And I am stronger. Case in point, I’m here in Borneo.
With age, my priorities become clearer. My life’s purpose is to do everything in my power to help save Earth’s stunning biodiversity, not the least of which are Borneo’s remaining dipterocarps. I’ll need help with this daunting task– lots of it. And there is a sense of urgency. In the words of Bonnie Raitt, “Life gets mighty precious when there’s less of it to waste.” I stare at the palms and realize the first step: encouraging the use of sustainable palm oil, grown with minimal disturbance to the forest.
I close my eyes and picture that same tree I encountered in the Danum Valley. This time, there is no chainsaw. This mighty giant stands, side by side, with a forest of others sheltering an unimaginable diversity of life. I breathe in deeply and smile. One feeling now dominates: hope.
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Laine Gonzales is a travel writer and photographer. She’s journeyed to all seven continents and most of the fifty US states. In Antarctica, she waded into the frigid Southern Ocean waters to collect plankton. She helped lasso Nile crocodiles in South Africa, fed captive sun bears in Borneo and tagged nesting sea turtles in Costa Rica. Her story “Pteropods in the Balance” appeared in the online journal Hidden Compass and four of her short stories have won Travelers’ Tales Solas Awards. She ventured briefly into podcasting/vodcasting, and her “Tales of an Ecological Badass” can be heard at Spotify or viewed on YouTube.