There is a worldwide crisis in fisheries, while over the same period there has been a ‘rise of slime’ with problematic levels of bacteria, algae and jellyfish. In addition, the many millions of tons of plastic garbage in the oceans is symptomatic of our consumer throwaway society - by 2050 it is predicted that by weight there will be more plastic in the oceans than fish!
Now sea turtles are rarely spotted in Likupang bay, the corals are threatened and mining on Bangka Island has started. Many of the animals and plants once common are now endangered. The WWF Living Planet reports that analysis of 14,000 populations of fish, birds, mammals, amphibians and reptiles had declined 60% on average of the past 40 years, and extinction rates are running at 100 times its natural level. We are a generation who will have to explain to our children why we are eliminating those wonderful animals that are so much a part of every child’s imagination, and of so many nursery stories.
The pollination crisis, the fisheries crisis and the incipient extinction crisis are but three of many crises we have brought on ourselves. The human population and its material demands are ever increasing, sucking the life blood out of our only inhabitable planet, and generating multiple other modern ailments such as traffic congestion, health-wrecking air quality, obesity and type 2 diabetes. And so the devastation continues as humans pursue their greed with unsustainable consumption and pollution.
Such an all-pervasive plundering is wrought by a ravenous modern humanity which is increasingly divorced from the natural environment in which we evolved. Much of our society is afflicted with the syndrome: It may not be the right thing to do but if I don’t do it somebody else will. Or our consciences might seek the justification: There are other people who will sort out this threat for me, so I can just carry on regardless. And there are many who just don’t care, have given up, or are burying their heads in the sand.
It seems that, as Plato predicted, forgetfulness has been implanted in our souls, our spirits. We are so far removed from our origins that we can no longer remember from within ourselves why we behave the way we do. And in behaving the way we do, we have forgotten our dependence on nature and the environment.
It is almost as if some have forgotten our dependence on Earth. Spending astronomical wealth on trying to inhabit Mars is futile – there is no Plan B or ‘Planet B’. We have to look after this one first, and the challenge here is more than big enough. The folly of ignoring facts such as the limits to material growth and global warming will generate an inevitable negative result, no matter what the newly elected President Trump says.
Unless we come to our senses and take decisive action, this suicidal folly will surely ensnare the human race and condemn our much loved children to a horrendous future. To sustain the thin biosphere on this lonely planet we have to truly understand the facts and then take responsibility.
However, the media is increasingly fixated on unrealistic fantasy whilst trying to forget the uncomfortable reality, allowing us to carry on sleep-walking into oblivion. But we desperately need to understand what the facts actually are so that we can learn to adapt before it’s too late. Improved public awareness is needed of the critical issues facing humanity and how we can take action on an individual and community scale, including actions to reduce, reuse and recycle.
The Tropical Sun is a saga of passion and the struggle for survival, where the Likupang tribe strives for deliverance from an oppressive threat. It is an attempt at a realistic but ‘entertaining’ exploration of the nature of humanity. It was inspired by love for the incredible natural world we inherited, and a world needed for our childrens survival. In the story Bandri and his tribe regarded nature and their environment as the spirit of Mother Earth. They regarded their souls as spirits, using the term also for passion – semangat, and had derived a holistic approach to their place within nature. Hopefully, such perspectives might help to reorientate attention towards our fundamental human needs.
The question we are left with is: Can our humane passion for life conquer the sword of hatred, folly and greed that is killing Mother Earth, and ultimately threatening to kill us?
Author’s Note
This is a brief rendition of two journeys: a motorbike ride and the writing of this novel.
On 17th October 2014 I attended a coconut farmers meeting which catalyzed a frustrated trip the following day to the local municipal mayor’s office in a town called Zamboanguita. My request for more consideration to be given to the town’s residents was met with total rejection by the then mayor, who ordered me in no uncertain terms to get out of his office as he repeated “That’s the way I do things – I don’t care!”
Given the sometimes volatile nature of politics in the Philippines, I felt it wise to cool off and rode my motorbike to the City of Dumaguete, where I could find an internet café in the shopping mall. There I wrote the post (https://beephilippines.info/small-coconut-farmers-meeting), avoiding any mention of the crass neglect that many self-seeking bureaucrats inflict on the population they are meant to serve. Filled with despair for the future of the environment and the deserving majority, I left the mall as it closed, emerging into the darkness of the evening.
On the horizon storm clouds approached, marked by lightning flashes. Donning my bike helmet, I rode back towards Zamboanguita and into the storm. Riding a motorbike on inadequate roads and in crazy traffic while avoiding the stray dogs is usually tricky, but doing it at night in a thunderstorm requires concentration.
Focus on the road seemed to be helped by allowing my mind to run over a simple story about the early human settlers in the Pacific islands, which sprang from the apparent futility of trying to convey ecological fundamentals to a modern society increasingly detached from nature and obsessed by media fantasy. As I rode, the story took on a life of its own, such that I forgot my own destination, riding straight past our place and onwards into the night.
Riding right through Zamboanguita, the road continued between coconut palms, by paddy fields, over a river, up and down hills, around bends, through villages, and on into the night. No traffic appeared on the road now and I guessed that I must be well past wherever I had intended to go. Looking down at the petrol gauge it was on empty, and I was lost. Wherever I was, it was dark and unlit, unknown and ominous. I stopped.
I expected the bike to stutter and fail as I re-started, but the remaining fumes allowed me to ride a little further, around a corner where I discovered an open petrol station, even though it was three in the morning. Standing between the two pumps, lit by a bright light from above, was a young man, tall, slim, athletic, and handsome, in basketball attire. With great politeness he filled my tank, and declined a tip.
The rain stopped, and the balmy night-air dried my shorts and tee-shirt as I rode homewards. In my mind a narrative had been created of generations past, of peoples who braved and survived forgotten journeys far more perilous. The skies brightened and parents walked with their children to early morning church services. Riding down the hill towards the river I wondered why the raindrops had not evaporated from my visor, but reaching up I realized that the drops had fallen onto the visor from inside.
In Zamboanguita, a relative waved me down and asked where I had been – apparently people were worried. In the bright morning sunlight, when I rode up the drive between the coconut palms, my father-in-law was pumping water surrounded by orange cosmos, and my mother-in-law was cooking breakfast. “Where have you been all night?!”
Confirming their supposition that I was going through some sort of meltdown, I started chuckling – one of those chuckles that is difficult to stop. “Oh God,” I replied. “I’ve never tried writing a novel before.”
The first draft called ‘Spirit of the Sun’ was boring and passive, burdened with a writing style borne from academic study. My family believed that I should be spending the time more profitably, and sometimes so did I. But writing a book is a journey in itself, and so, little by little, the novel progressed, drawing closer to its imagined destination.
&nbs
p; My young son, Philippe, inspired me always and so the author is named in his honour.
J. S. Wright. October 2016
The Tropical Sun - Belief, Love and Hate Page 37
