The forest here has stayed largely intact, and the reason, as she sees it, is straightforward: local people simply aren't allowed in. Only tourists and their guides may enter, which keeps most of the cutting and foraging that might otherwise happen from happening at all. Illegal cutting still occurs from time to time regardless, and bushfires occasionally take their own toll. Most locals wouldn't go in anyway — the forest is understood to belong to the ancestors, and entering without performing the proper ceremony first isn't something taken lightly.
Waste management has shifted under similar pressure. A large rubbish belt once sat out in the bush, until residents were told that tourists find the sight of it off-putting. Now garbage is collected at individual homes and burned periodically instead. The chief enforces the change directly — inspecting houses, issuing warnings for uncleanliness, and fining anyone who ignores the warning.
Most people will keep their houses clean because they do not want to pay that fine.
Some still throw rubbish in the bush regardless, and the bush doubles as a toilet for most households, since almost no one has one of their own — everyone has a bathroom for washing, but that's a separate matter entirely.
She's ambivalent about growth. She doesn't particularly want more tourists showing up, but she recognises the community needs the income and the jobs that would come with an increase. The roads and public transport, especially during the rainy season, remain a serious problem — one she hopes tourist money, or government investment prompted by tourism, might eventually fix.
A forest kept intact by exclusion isn't quite the same as one kept intact by choice. She holds both truths at once, without much complaint.