Borneo’s Seasonal Riches, and the Shadow Over Its Forests

Durian from West Borneo along the Entekong–Tebedu border is renowned for its exceptional flavor, not only because it is completely natural but also thanks to the richness of the soil. Doc. Eremespe.

By Bosi Pengkoras 

Borneo is entering a vibrant durian season, especially along the Entekong border, where naturally fallen, chemical-free fruits can be bought for just one U.S. dollar. Yet behind this abundance lies a growing anxiety, as oligarchs and palm oil expansion increasingly threaten the forests that make this season possible.

Borneo, the world’s third-largest island, is often introduced through statistics that attempt to capture its vastness. The island remains one of the planet’s most biodiverse regions, home to thousands of endemic species and equatorial forests that help stabilize the global climate. Yet numbers alone fail to describe how people here live, especially in rural West Borneo where communities follow a rhythm older than modern politics. They measure time through the seasons of fruit. And right now, the pulse of the forest is unmistakable. It is durian season.

Along the Indonesia–Malaysia border, especially near Entekong, generations have grown up anticipating this brief but intense period. Durian is not merely a fruit. It is a cultural marker, a reunion season, a micro-economy, and a reason for families to return to ancestral orchards. The season is short, sometimes only a few weeks, but it changes the entire mood of the region.

This year, forest farmers say the trees have been unusually generous. Before dawn, the forest floor echoes with the thud of mature fruits dropping from towering trees, some more than half a century old. Farmers walk with flashlights or kerosene lamps, gathering fruit that ripens naturally. These are not plantation durians grown with chemical fertilizers or ripening agents. They come from soil that still breathes, layered with fungi, leaf litter, insects, and the hidden ecological networks that industrial agriculture often erases.

The result is a fruit whose flavor is difficult to replicate: creamy, fragrant, complex, and defiantly wild. And the price remains astonishing to outsiders. For one U.S. dollar, a traveler can buy an entire durian. Not a processed one. Not a chilled package. A whole fruit that ripened naturally and fell at the right moment. For visitors from Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, or Singapore, this is nearly unimaginable. A dollar barely pays for a cup of coffee in a metropolitan café, yet here it brings a delicacy that inspires arguments, devotion, poetry, and fan culture.

Locals cherish this abundance, although many know it may not last.

A Forest Watched by Oligarchs

Across Borneo, the tension is growing. Farmers warn that the forests feeding the durian season are being watched carefully, and not by wildlife. The watchers are corporations, oligarchic networks, and speculative investors who see land not as heritage but as an expandable grid for palm oil plantations. Over the past two decades, large-scale clearing has carved wide, visible scars across landscapes once dominated by dipterocarps and fruit-bearing trees.

West Borneo still holds pockets of intact community forest, yet residents feel pressure tightening each year. A farmer may own an orchard today, but a company official can appear next month with a map, a contract, and an offer framed as opportunity. Some families accept. Some resist. Many do not have the legal tools to defend their generational lands, especially when their customary rights are unwritten or based on oral traditions.

The political landscape remains hazy and uneven. For many Dayak communities, land is inherited socially, communally, and spiritually. But state bureaucracy demands proof. A certificate. A stamp. A boundary line drawn decades after the ancestors planted the first durian seedlings. In this mismatch between traditional land stewardship and modern property law, corporations find space to advance.

Yet villagers insist on remaining rooted in the present moment. They gather the fruits while they can. They sell what the forest gives. They celebrate the season without letting uncertainty darken the immediate joy.

By late morning, the roads near Entekong transform. Makeshift wooden stalls appear. A few chairs. A marker-written sign proclaiming “Durian Jatuh Sendiri,” a proud label signifying that the fruit fell naturally from the tree. Travelers stop on motorbikes, tap the fruits with knife handles, listen for the hollow echo that reveals perfect ripeness. Sellers crack open a durian to reveal pale gold or deep amber flesh. The smell rises, sweet and floral, heated by the equatorial sun.

These are scenes that have played out for generations, yet each year they feel more fragile.

The Squirrel Myth, and What the Forest Still Knows

Among villagers, one belief resurfaces each season. The best durian, they say, is the one that has been tasted by a squirrel. The idea is simple. Squirrels select only the finest fruits. If a squirrel has bitten the top of a durian and left the rest intact, that fruit is guaranteed to be exceptional. Some sellers even display such fruits proudly, pointing to the neat triangular mark near the stem. Scientists would likely dismiss the claim as folklore. Squirrels pick based on scent and ease, not on human taste preference. But in Entekong, local wisdom still outweighs academic certainty.

Residents often challenge visitors with a smile. “Try it yourself,” they say, handing over a fruit with a small nibble at the top. Whether the myth holds biologically is almost beside the point. The ritual of testing, comparing, debating, and laughing is part of what makes durian season alive.

In a world where food increasingly tastes like data, standardized, engineered, predictable, Borneo’s durians remain defiantly local. Their flavors cannot be patented. Their genetics cannot be streamlined. Their forests, at least today, still stand. The squirrels still climb the ancient trees. Families still gather beneath the canopy to collect what falls.

Whether these traditions endure a decade from now is an open question. The pressure of palm oil expansion is real, constant, and well-financed. But the people of West Borneo insist that as long as their orchards endure, and as long as they return each year to harvest what the forest gives freely, the season will return.

For now, the scent of durian fills the air. And in Borneo, the aroma means one thing. The forest is still alive.