How bird poachers in Indonesia turned their town into a perch for birders
| Jatimulyo and Yogyakarta, Indonesia
A decade ago, when Kelik Suparno heard the Javan blue flycatcher’s melodic whistle, he perked up at the promise of a payday. Knowing a single bird could earn him two months’ salary at one of Indonesia’s bustling bird markets, he set off to capture the critically endangered creature.
Now, when he hears its distinct, high-pitched “twee-twoo” sounds, he perks up for a different reason. It means he gets to introduce a group of outsiders – researchers, photographers, tourists – to his favorite species.
Like many other men in the mountain village of Jatimulyo, Mr. Suparno made the switch from bird hunter to nature guide shortly after the village banned poaching. And now, as increasingly popular birdsong competitions across Asia threaten the country’s wildlife, Jatimulyo could set an example for other communities.
Why We Wrote This
Keeping songbirds is a source of joy and pride for hundreds of thousands of Indonesians, but the tradition is also wreaking havoc on their ecosystem. Does it need to be a zero-sum game?
Indonesia is the epicenter of what ecologists describe as the Asian songbird crisis: the rampant, illegal trade of rare and endemic birds to the devastation of their wild populations. The crisis affects at least 26 threatened species within Indonesia, where it’s fueled by the rising popularity of high-stakes birdsong competitions. Everyone wants these species to thrive. The love of native songbirds runs deep, especially here on the island of Java, and many hope to pass that love on to younger generations. But protecting both the country’s biodiversity and its songbird culture will require balance.
“In Indonesia, all kinds of birds are being hunted, everywhere,” says Mr. Suparno. “The competition accelerates the rate of bird extinction.”
Like meditating
The practice of keeping caged songbirds originated centuries ago in Java, and among general collectors, competitors, and breeders, up to 84 million caged birds are believed to be kept on this island today.
Six belong to Emmannuel Tantyo, head of a neighborhood in the heart of Yogykarta – a city about 20 miles away from Jatimulyo, and often described as Java’s cultural “soul.” Here, in the mazelike streets surrounding the city’s historic palace, a kind of perkutut, or zebra dove, reigns supreme.
For Javanese men, it’s a symbol of prosperity, Mr. Tantyo explains, and a source of calm.
“When I wake up from sleep and hear the ‘too too too too’ ...” he says, pausing to find the right word to describe the feeling. He taps his fingers to his heart. “Peaceful.”
After Indonesia gained independence in 1945, the Javanese passion for bird keeping spread, spurred further by the introduction of birdsong competitions in the 1970s.
As the popularity of competitions steadily grew, so did the industry around them – bird markets cropped up in every major city, a network of birder associations flourished, and cash prizes ballooned. Today, Indonesia holds hundreds of competitions annually, drawing thousands of competitors from all walks of life, all hoping to win money and prestige with their champion crooners.
The competitions help uplift the entire economy, says Susri, a Yogyakarta-based perkutut breeder who, like many Indonesians, goes by one name.
In a dimly lit room attached to his house, he has dozens of birds in floor-to-ceiling cages labeled with the names of major international banks – because “All my money passes through here,” he quips – but he didn’t snag these doves from the forests of central Java.
“Even a bird like the perkutut has its own role in the ecosystem,” he says, and that’s where he believes wild birds should stay.
Competition coordinators generally agree. They are trying to phase out the use of wild-caught birds by requiring competitors to prove the origins of their flock, usually through special bands that are installed by breeders like Susri onto a bird’s leg when they’re young.
Phasing out wild songbirds would mark a seismic shift. A survey of 24 different songbird markets found that 71.5% of the birds were believed to have been taken from the wild, according to a preliminary study by Birdlife International and the international wildlife regulation group CITES. The study, presented during a 2023 workshop, found that only 2.2% of the birds were believed to be bred in captivity. Conservationists say that lax law enforcement and consumer preferences for wild-caught songbirds (which are often cheaper and, some collectors believe, sing better) help buoy the wildlife trade.
Ultimately, says Susri, it’s up to all sectors of society to preserve Indonesia’s wildlife. “We are all responsible,” he says.
In Jatimulyo, building that awareness took time.
For future generations
As the mist rises from the mountain top, Mr. Suparno leads visitors down a winding concrete path into the woods. Every turn reveals a new house or homestay, some with bird viewing areas set up in the backyard. High up in a tree, a man with a sickle is harvesting sap from a sugar palm, and a few feet off the path, a pair of brown Horsfield’s babbler chicks huddle in a low twig cup, safe from harm.
Back in the early 2010s, that nest may have been empty. It was villagers versus birds then, says Mr. Suparno. Today, they coexist.
In 2014, the village government passed a regulation banning bird hunting in Jatimulyo, home to at least 99 bird species, including four that are considered vulnerable or endangered. Initially the ban didn’t change things much. Villagers were unaware of the regulation; they also needed the income.
Over several years, the conservation group Kutilang Indonesia Foundation and other community development organizations helped raise awareness about conservation laws, and developed tourism and coffee programs to help boost Jatimulyo’s economy. In 2018, a group of ex-poachers started a nest adoption program, with funds divided between the landowners and former poachers who identify and protect hatchlings.
Mr. Suparno describes how, back in his hunting days, students and researchers used to stay in his home. Eventually, as he watched the local blue flycatcher population dwindle to just two, feelings of shame crept in. All these people were coming from afar to appreciate the birds in his village, while he was driving them out.
So Mr. Suparno decided to swap his glue traps for a green laser pointer and a bucket of bugs, which swings in his hand as he strolls down the path, listening.
“This is not ours to keep,” he says, about the local wildlife. “It’s what we pass on to future generations.”
It’s possible that a couple villagers may still hunt birds in secret, he says, but most, like him, have given it up. He can see – and hear – the difference.
