Text: Marjolein de Jong | Photo: David Meulenbeld | 2 June 2025
Ahead of her lecture, Notenboom invites us to her home. She lives in a small village in North Holland, where the village road was once the boundary between Catholic and Protestant families. Without exception, she takes a dip in the IJsselmeer, which is adjacent to her dike house, every morning at seven o'clock.
'I get happy watching nature take its course,' she says from under an umbrella in her backyard. 'Seagulls pulling worms out of the grass, bumblebees that don't seem to be bothered by anything. Everything works together. You just have to see it.'
You live in green here, and the other half of the year you live in the wilderness in Canada. How has that shaped you as a climate journalist?
'In Canada, I live in the middle of nature. I step out the door and I have to fend for myself. There is no safety net. I'm always on alert there. There could just be a bear in my garden. I watch where the wind is coming from, what clouds are hanging, what the ice is doing. I gather information all the time. That is also how I approach expeditions. You can't be disconnected from nature there.'
'There was a huge need for someone who could explain the climate problem in plain language.'
You were one of the first journalists to write about the climate. When did you realise: I have to do something with this?
'The real realisation came when I was allowed to go to the North Pole for National Geographic in 2007. That trip went differently than planned. We landed on ice that was already melting and we had to wait a week before we could be picked up. During that week I talked to scientists from Russia and Canada, and it was through them that I realised how serious that melting ice is.'
'I decided then: I am no longer going to write travel reports, I am going to use my travels to raise the bigger issue of climate change. So from then on, I visited the most extreme areas. Because precisely those places, like Antarctica, the North Pole or Mount Everest, are the first to be affected. And it's very visual: the ice is either there or it's not. My formula became: fuse adventure and message, because with that I can touch people. That worked.'
'People wanted to hear stories. I sometimes did as many as 65 lectures a year. First I stood in primary schools, then in secondary schools and later increasingly in the business world. There was a huge need for someone who could explain the climate problem in plain language.'
'It is no longer confined to supposedly distant places like the North or South Pole.'
Were those stories always taken seriously?
'No. Then I would tell about global warming at a conference and someone would raise their finger and say, "But it's sunspots, isn't it?" It's alienating sometimes anyway. I sometimes hear myself saying things I said ten years ago. Or I see a documentary about Greenland on television and think: yes we already know that, don't we? It remains topical, which is good, but there is little innovation in it. That frustrates sometimes.'
How do you deal with that frustration?
'It got me thinking about the question: we know what we should do, but why don't we do it? I then started delving more into behavioural psychology and leadership. Because somewhere in that lies the key.'
'I then decided to take directors and CEOs on trips to places where you can see climate change with your own eyes. I took them to Antarctica, where they made on-the-spot plans for sustainability within their companies. And at the same time, I keep looking for other ways to tell the story. That's why I now also make films and podcasts, and write books.'
What do you notice about climate change in Canada?
'In 2020, there were huge forest fires, just in my backyard. First there was persistent drought, then came the beetles that weakened the trees, then thunderstorms and then the fires. All in a row. I was in the middle of it. It is no longer confined to supposedly distant places like the North or South Pole.'
'The people who contribute the least to the problem are hit the hardest.'
You also travelled a lot for National Geographic to areas where people already have to flee because of climate change. What did you see there?
'I have a lot of empathy for people who already have nothing and then also have to move. In the Sahel, I saw families who have to search for vegetation and water with their few goats, often hundreds of kilometres away. And then they also think it's because of themselves, that they didn't pray hard enough. That affects me immensely.'
'In India, in New Delhi, I met people living in hovels by the railways. Fifty degrees and no air conditioning, there is no escape from the heat. The people who contribute the least to the problem are hit the hardest.'
I can't judge whether you're still hopeful, or whether you've lost that.
'That's right, I'm ambivalent. I tried incredibly hard to get the story in the media. And now I often think: I can only do what is good for my own environment. No longer big, but small and concrete. And we also have to remember: some things do go well.'
'Solar panels, electric cars, people choosing not to fly anymore. Ten years ago, that was unthinkable. In Europe, we have really become pioneers. In America, it often goes no further than electric driving as a status symbol. But still: it is special that we have managed to make such changes, because people don't like change at all.'
'I continue to believe in telling other people what you do yourself.'
What do you think is needed to initiate real change?
'First of all: insight. You need to understand what is going on. Next, the transition has to be effortless: it shouldn't hurt, or cost extra money. But most importantly, we only do it when everyone does it. That is why I continue to believe in telling other people what you do yourself. It may not work on a large scale, but if I ignite my neighbour and he ignites another, it eventually spreads. That can just cause a chain reaction. I still believe in that.'
