BEFORE we even talk about El Nino’s past mischief, let’s peek at the Enso weather forecast for 2026 – which is shaping up to be a climatic soap opera of its own.
By the way, Enso is basically the Pacific Ocean’s mood swing.
It comes in three flavours – El Nino (the warm, fiery troublemaker), La Nina (the cool, wetter sister) and Neutral (the “I’m minding my own business” phase). These phases don’t follow a schedule – they switch whenever they like.
And when they do, the whole world feels it – heatwaves, heavy rain, droughts, floods... all courtesy of the ocean deciding what mood to be in that season.
Current models suggest that our friendly neighbourhood La Nina will linger into winter 2025-2026, keeping things relatively cool and rainy.
But just when the plantations start to exhale, the climate decides to pull a plot twist worthy of a South Korean drama: there is forecast of a possible transition to Enso-neutral in early 2026, followed by a potential El Nino comeback by mid-2026.
Anyway, scientists call this climatic mood swing “Enso whiplash,” which is an elegant way of saying: “Hold onto your umbrellas and your hats – we don’t quite know what’s coming.”
Some forecasts even suggest El Nino might sneak in as early as spring, while the World Meteorological Organisation gives a 55% chance of El Nino developing by June-August 2026.
In other words, Mother Nature is still deciding which season of drama she wants to serve next year. The world waits.
Monsoons and one uninvited guest
Malaysia in the monsoon season is a country-wide splash zone.
Very often, the east coast of Peninsular Malaysia turns into Atlantis, Sarawak and Sabah brace for their annual drenchings and the rest of us tiptoe through ankle-deep puddles with the poise of Olympic figure skaters and the optimism of a kayaker eyeing a flooded car park.
And while we prepare for soggy socks and dramatic WhatsApp flood alerts, a familiar rascal of the opposite temperament stands quietly at the sidelines: El Nino, the dry-tongued troublemaker with a Spanish name, global notoriety, and an uncanny Malaysian talent which may show up uninvited at precisely the worst moment, though crude palm oil prices may shoot up further.
South American fishermen first noticed this climatic diva in the 1600s when the Pacific Ocean decided to play sauna instead of freezer. Since it enjoys peaking around December, they named it El Nino de Navidad.
Despite its deceptively cherubic nickname, El Nino behaves less like a “Little Boy” and more like the distant cousin who turns up during Christmas, and leaves the household wondering which side of the family did he come from again?
If only it shared the innocence of the season. Instead, it waltzes into our weather system with swagger, overturns cloud schedules, and leaves the oil palm industry clutching its heart like a jilted lover.
Oil palm’s complicated love life
Readers of my earlier piece in The Star, “Pollen, Perfume and Palm Oil: A Love Story,” will know that oil palms are not mere plants.
They are the protagonists in a long-running tropical telenovela that makes The Bold and the Beautiful look like amateur theatre.
Every frond hides a subplot, every inflorescence is a star waiting for its close-up, and every bunch is a grand finale months in the making.
The oil palm does not simply grow, it strategises, schemes and prepares its reproductive destiny a full two years ahead – more foresight than many governments, and certainly more than most New Year’s resolutions.
At the base of every frond, a tiny inflorescence ponders its future: male, female, or in a moment of youthful confusion, a mix of both, we call hermaphrodites (bisexual).
These early decisions literally determine tomorrow’s yields. This is botany with the ambition of Broadway – structured, choreographed and full of drama.
Oil palms, of course, are notoriously thirsty.
Each mature palm drinks around 400 litres of water a day, which is the botanical equivalent of a Malaysian uncle who cannot begin his day without his kopi O, a plate of nasi lemak, and perhaps a second breakfast for emotional support.
When the monsoon behaves, the oil palms flourish – glistening fronds, luxurious canopies, and tiny weevils (nature’s hardworking, winged Cupids) flitting through the flowers like dedicated matchmakers.
But when El Nino strides in wearing aviator sunglasses and a smirk, the taps run dry.
The soil cracks, the fronds curl, and the palm sulks like a diva denied her spa day.
The normally well-coordinated reproductive choreography collapses faster than a poorly rehearsed school play, and suddenly the plantation’s love story becomes a tragedy with wilted props.
A slow-motion tragedy in the making
El Nino’s cruelty lies not in the heat alone but in its timing. It harms the palm long before planters see the fallout.
Months after the drought, pollinated bunches shrink or rot, whispering: “Sorry boss, not performing this season.” A year later, the female flowers go missing entirely – as if on strike.
And two years on, the palm shifts to producing mostly male flowers, prioritising survival over reproduction – a botanical version of “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m stressed.”
Growers feel the heartbreak everywhere in yields, in forecasts, in budgets, and in discretionary bonuses that vanish faster than raindrops evaporating on a 40°C afternoon.
There is no Panadol for this kind of agricultural headache, no magic foliar spray to coax a traumatised palm into forgiveness. Recovery is slow, stubborn and stretches across seasons like a long, weary sigh.
Oil palms, like humans, go through life stages: dramatic teenage years, productive and reliable middle age, and finally dignified seniority.
Add El Nino to the mix, and suddenly every stage becomes hyper-emotional – almost as if the entire estate is undergoing a synchronised mid-life crisis.
Shakespeare on oil palm: The drama unfolds
If Shakespeare had been born in Sandakan instead of Stratford-upon-Avon, he might have penned The Tragedy of El Nino instead of Othello.
The scorching sun would be his tyrant king, parched peatlands his battlefield, and the oil palm his tragic hero – valiant yet vulnerable, standing tall yet suffering silently.
Estate managers would be his generals, marching across cracked landscapes with fire beaters, water trucks and prayerful glances at cloudless skies.
Millers would stare at receding water ponds as though appealing to the heavens: “Just one good downpour, please.”
And the oil palms, stoic yet exhausted, would droop their fronds like weary actors surrendering to their final curtain call.
History reminds us that this drama is not new.
The infamous El Nino episodes of 1982/1983 and 1997/1998 carved deep scars – fresh fruit bunch yields dropped by up to 16%, crude palm oil production fell by 14%, and global prices surged in ways that thrilled traders but traumatised growers.
As always, the vegetable oil market remains a stage with far too many actors and unpredictable plot twists – soybean production, biodiesel mandates, geopolitics, and weather patterns all scrambling for the spotlight.
Lessons in resilience
And yet, buried beneath all the theatrics lies a powerful lesson in resilience. Irrigation systems, estate water bodies, contour trenches, mulching, canopy optimisation – all good management practices – are the hard hats and body armour of the plantation world.
They are no longer indulgent upgrades but survival necessities, the unsung heroes that soften the blows, hold moisture where it matters, and steady the ship when the climate throws its tantrums.
Yes, they demand investment. But in a world where the weather behaves like a moody teenager – silent one day, dramatic the next – these safeguards are the shields that keep modern plantations standing tall.
Risk management has evolved into a new kind of agriculture astrology.
Growers and traders study Noaa charts the way ancient sailors studied the stars, hoping to predict the next climatic mood swing. El Nino will return. Rain will return.
And the oil palm – resilient, stubborn, beautifully tropical – will recover, as it always does.
In the grand theatre where climate meets cultivation, the story continues.
The rains will fall again. The palms will rise again.
And we will keep dancing with nature – sometimes gracefully, sometimes awkwardly, but always with hope.
Or, as the Bard might have said had he been writing from Sabah: all the world’s a stage – and every palm, every stakeholder, every planter must play its part.
And if even Shakespeare can be recruited to explain oil palm, it proves how rich and abundant our storytelling ideas can truly be – ripe, ready and waiting to be nurtured.
What we lack isn’t imagination, but the vision, will and resources to pursue it.
Joseph Tek Choon Yee has over 30 years experience in the plantation industry, with a strong background in oil palm research and development, C-suite leadership and industry advocacy. The views expressed here are the writer’s own
