Jakarta is drowning.
One-third of the city could be under water by 2050, thanks to sinking land and rising seas. So Indonesia is building a new one. In Borneo. By 2045, the government hopes to have a smart, green metropolis up and running. They call it Nusantara.
It sounds grand. The marketing videos talk about history meeting the future in a hub of biodiversity. A collective endeavor.
The forest has other plans.
Wendy Erb, an ecologist, knew something was off the moment the capital moved to Kalimantan. She has worked there for a decade. Moving the heart of a nation to the middle of a rainforest isn’t just real estate. It is a biological event.
“We have recorders on top of mountain peaks, in mangroves, next to caves.”
The project is simple on paper: capture the acoustic landscape. Create a time capsule before the machines roll in. They sampled twenty sites. Recorded for eighteen months.
They want to know where wildlife goes when the noise changes. When the chainsaws start.
The Noise of Change
Meet Abidin.
He has lived in Pemaluan his whole life. Born there. Never moved. It is the land of his ancestors. He loves the mountains. The quiet. The safety.
Then the construction came.
“Gibbons call at dawn. Just before morning. If they call at nine or ten, and the forest is quiet… someone will die. That’s how my grandfather knew. Now, I hear chainsaws.”
Abidin remembers when the white-breasted water hen was the loudest thing in the forest. When the hornbills shouted. When the great argus bird was the king of the clearing. The Balik people revered that bird. His own children do not know what it sounds like.
The great argus is iconic. It is also fading.
Instead of birds, there is metal. Engine hums. The distinct shriek of machinery replacing the gibbon chorus. Abidin is scared. Not just for the birds. For the memory of his people. If the sound goes, the knowledge goes.
So they are recording. Not just as scientists, but as archivists of a disappearing culture.
“The prophecy was like this… It’s like the flow of a river.”
Abidin explains that for centuries, everything flowed into Jakarta. The resources. The power. The attention. Now the river is reversing. His village is becoming bustling. He sees apartments. He sees a Swiss-Belhotel. He sees a palace.
It looks like something now. It wasn’t a city yesterday. It is not a forest tomorrow.
Listening for the Sick Forest
Erb and her team are listening for what she calls the “bubblegum lasers.” Giant squirrels. Strange, sharp chirps that mean health in the canopy.
If those stop, the forest is sick.
But it is not just about species counts. It is about people. Local researchers helped them define the problems. They identified the sites. They taught the team the names of things they did not know. Like besawan, a plant stalk eaten only in emergencies when there is no food.
“Does it taste good?” Erb asks.
“If cooked, yes.”
The science improves because of the local input. But the humans benefit too. They are defining their own reality. Not waiting for outside experts to tell them what matters.
Can we tune our ears? Can you notice when your home starts to feel wrong?
No Clean Ending
Abidin has fears for his grandchildren. They are far behind kids in Java when it comes to education. The old lifestyle—relying on the forest—is dying. He doesn’t know how they will survive in a city they do not understand.
“I myself cannot live in the city… If we become scavengers… better to just die.”
It is harsh. But true.
The researchers cannot stop the construction. The apartments are there. The budget was slashed in 2025 by a new president, casting a shadow over the project, but the bulldozers are still working. The future is uncertain, but it is also inevitable.
All they can do is record. Preserve the voices. Both the forest’s and Abidin’s.
Erb worries that people will lose their connection. The web between land and person is snapping, thread by thread. Abidin tries to teach his children the language. The sounds of animals. He hopes they will remember the culture when they are his age.
The recorder is still on.
The rain falls on Borneo. Somewhere, a chainsaw cuts in.
