The Last Echo of the Canopy: Listening to the Transformation of Borneo

 

Wazzup Pilipinas!? 

In the heart of Borneo, a symphony millions of years in the making is being systematically silenced.

For generations, the rhythmic, guttural calls of gibbons at dawn served as the clock for the people of Pemaluan. The piercing cries of hornbills and the unique, haunting songs of the great argus pheasant defined the landscape’s identity. But today, the air in this corner of the rainforest is vibrating with a different, more mechanical frequency: the relentless, high-pitched whine of the chainsaw.

As Indonesia constructs its new capital city, Nusantara, to replace the rapidly sinking, overburdened metropolis of Jakarta, a radical metamorphosis is underway. This is not merely an architectural project; it is the forced reconfiguration of one of the planet’s most vital ecosystems. And as the forest falls, a group of scientists and local Indigenous collaborators are racing to capture its final echoes, creating an acoustic time capsule of a world on the brink of erasure.

The Sound of Disappearance

"Sound is a unique kind of data," explains researcher Wendy Erb, who has studied the forests of Kalimantan for a decade. "It becomes, in some ways, a time capsule of a place."

Erb and her team have deployed an array of acoustic recorders across 20 distinct sites, from mountain peaks to mangrove forests. Their mission is to document the "before"—the baseline of biodiversity—before the concrete of Nusantara permanently alters the landscape. For 18 months, they have been tracking how wildlife reacts as the quietude of the jungle is replaced by the roar of heavy machinery, the construction of apartment blocks, and the imposition of a modern "smart forest city."

The data they are gathering is revealing, but the emotional cost is raw. For the residents of Pemaluan, who have inhabited this land for generations, the change is personal.

"The most iconic [sound] is the great argus," says Abidin, a lifelong resident of Pemaluan. "Now, our people say that usually, the chainsaw is the loudest."

A Prophecy of Change

For the local communities, the forest is not just a collection of flora and fauna; it is their library, their pharmacy, and their legacy. Abidin speaks of a traditional prophecy: "Those who were once behind, one day will be ahead."

He views the rise of the capital—the reversal of the flow of power that has long centered on Jakarta—as the fulfillment of this ancient foresight. Yet, the prosperity promised by this shift feels hollow to those who face the loss of their traditional way of life.

The struggle is one of profound disconnection. Abidin fears for his children, worrying that as the forest disappears, so too will their language, their ancestral traditions, and their ability to thrive in a rapidly urbanizing environment. "If we become scavengers in our own hometown," he reflects, "it’s better to just die."

Co-Creating Conservation

This project stands apart from traditional top-down scientific endeavors. By centering the expertise of local people, Erb and her team are ensuring that the research is not just about observing the forest, but about valuing the people who call it home.

The locals are not mere subjects; they are co-researchers, identifying recording sites, interpreting the landscape's history, and documenting biocultural heritage—such as the knowledge of besawan, a plant that serves as a vital survival food in times of emergency.

"I think the science will be better off for it," Erb says. "And I think the local people will most importantly benefit from being a part of defining the problems and defining the solutions."

The Weight of the Future

Despite a significant budget cut in 2025 that cast doubt on the project's timeline, construction in Nusantara continues unabated. The landscape is changing daily, and with it, the precarious balance between human ambition and the natural world.

While the scientific team cannot stop the march of progress, they are preserving something critical: the voices of those who feel unheard. Whether it is the call of a gibbon that once signaled the passing of an ancestor, or the desperate plea of a community fighting to maintain its identity, these soundscapes ensure that the change is witnessed.

As Abidin continues to teach his children the calls of the animals—even as those animals grow scarcer—he remains steadfast. "I still feel that this is my home."

In this race against time, the scientists and the people of Pemaluan are proving that the most important part of listening is not just hearing the change, but understanding the value of what is being lost, and the profound, lingering duty to remember it.

This report is supported by a grant from the Pulitzer Center and published in partnership with Mongabay and Project Multatuli.

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