“Poverty amidst wealth.” These words were spoken quietly yet firmly by a tribal elder in Kampung Kawaf, Teluk Bintuni Regency, West Papua. A simple sentence, yet it hits with startling force. The people here live in a land rich with natural treasures: dense primary forests, sago groves, nutmeg plantations, mangrove crabs, and endemic Papuan birds. Yet, daily life remains difficult: clean water is scarce, access to markets is nearly impossible, and their gardens were once destroyed by corporate operations. That August evening in 2025, inside a modest wooden house lit only by the hum of a diesel generator, I heard the paradox firsthand: abundant in natural resources, yet impoverished in reality.
Earlier that day, our team, comprising members from EcoNusa and the University of Papua, had ventured deep into Sugueru, an old secondary forest still bearing the scars of exploitation. We conducted a biodiversity and economic potential survey of Kampung Kawaf’s natural resources. Remnants of a logging company’s road remained visible, slippery, root-ridden, and occasionally lined with jagged limestone, demanding careful footing. The trek spanned sixteen kilometers round-trip. Our breaths grew heavy, our legs weary, and our bodies soaked in sweat mixed with the scent of damp earth. Pioneer trees like kalanggo (Duabanga moluccana) grew densely, cloaking the forest’s wounds, as if nature were trying to conceal its painful past.
We pressed on until we reached the Swaroh forest. As dusk approached and the sky turned a pale orange behind towering canopy trees, the forest offered an unexpected gift. A low, resonant call, “whoop… whoop…”, emerged from the underbrush. We froze. A mambruk (Western crowned pigeon, Goura cristata) strode elegantly across the forest floor. Its large body shimmered with blue-grey feathers bathed in soft evening light, and a regal fan-shaped crest adorned its head. It appeared only briefly before vanishing into the undergrowth, yet that fleeting moment was enough to erase all fatigue, replaced by a silent gratitude. It was as if the forest whispered, “I am still here.”
Swaroh forest feels like a green cathedral. Giant trees stand tall, their moss-covered trunks rising powerfully from deep-rooted foundations. The locals identify the timber as ironwood and matoa, names rooted in daily life and lived memory, not academic texts. To them, ironwood symbolizes strength, while matoa is the sweetness enjoyed by children. I came to understand that for rural communities, trees are not merely species, they are part of memory and emotion.
From the forest, we continued to an old logpond, a site once used to store felled logs near the coast. Today, the former logging ground has transformed into a mangrove forest. The mangrove roots dangle like vast nets, anchoring the soil and shielding the coast from waves. As we stepped across the sticky black mud, the air was thick with the pungent scent of salt and decay. Between the roots, mud crabs scurried into their burrows. For the community, crabs are living gold. Yet their harvesting follows a sacred rhythm: there are times to take, and times to leave them be. This unwritten wisdom has preserved the mangroves, often more effectively than formal law.
Not far from there, the sago grove stretches wide like the front yard of a giant home. The sago palms stand close together, their leaves whispering in the breeze. Sago is the lifeblood of the people, from the white starch that becomes papeda, to the rotting trunks that feed wild pigs. Locals fell the palms, let them decompose, and set traps for wild boars. The decayed wood also becomes home to sago grubs, another protein source. It is a simple yet complete ecosystem: plants, animals, and humans entwined in a fragile yet faithful circle.
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Near the forest, community-tended nutmeg gardens thrive. All of this richness should be enough to sustain their lives. But reality tells a different story. The cost of transporting nutmeg by boat often exceeds the selling price. To access clean water, residents rely on rain or must dig ponds, as the karstic land conceals groundwater deep underground. The pain of the past lingers too, locals still remember how their nutmeg gardens were razed when the company arrived. Now, rumors of the Trans-Papua Highway bring new anxiety. While outsiders hail the road as a symbol of progress, the community sees it as a harbinger of loss: of forests, of gardens, of life itself.
That night, we returned to the village to rest. The chirping of crickets blended with the gentle patter of rain on the tin roof. Inside the wooden house, we sat cross-legged, listening as one story followed another. An elder bowed his head and quietly said, “We are poor, despite the wealth beneath us.” His words lingered longer than the rain outside.
I closed my journal that evening with a heart full of conflicting emotions. The biodiversity survey in Kawaf taught me that the forest is not merely a list of species. It lives in the mambruk’s call at dusk, in the crabs hiding in mangrove roots, in the sago that feeds and nourishes, in the ironwood that stands unwavering, and in the stories of people enduring in the face of hardship. Biodiversity here is not only about a rich environment. It is a chronicle of human resilience, of the paradox of poverty amidst wealth, and of a forest that continues to breathe, despite its scars.
