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Irwandi, well-educated with a laid-back style and quick wit, made protecting Aceh's forests one of his first goals when he surprised the pundits and won the governorship in 2006. He was a former rebel, but not the fighting kind. For years, he'd led the propaganda campaign for the insurgents who saw the government in Jakarta as self-serving and corrupt. He was serving a nine-year sentence for treason when the tsunami hit, crashing down the walls of the prison. "I didn't escape from prison," the rebel-turned-politician likes to say. "It escaped from me." Irwandi fled to Jakarta, then Malaysia and finally Finland, where he ended up joining exiled leaders of the Free Aceh Movement in negotiating an end to fighting after the tsunami
-- with both sides eager to end the suffering. After his return and election win, Irwandi immediately banned logging in Aceh. To this day, he can often be seen pulling over on the side of the road when spotting a pile of recently felled trees. He also makes spot checks at old logging camps and saw mills. Which is why his turnabout on the Tripa swamp forest -- home to the world's densest population of critically endangered Sumatran orangutans
-- has left Ibduh and other villagers so confused and angry. Already excavators have started knocking down trees and churning up soil. Drainage canals also have been built and villagers' drinking wells are already noticeably drier as result, they say. Security forces are deployed by the palm oil company along the perimeter of the forest, guns raised when anyone tries to enter. Ibduh and other other, older men recall happier times when they could still earn money collecting rattan, honey and herbs for traditional medicine. Not long ago, they say proudly, pristine swamps and the Tripa river were teeming with catfish so large that many of them were able to earn enough at the local market to go to Mecca for the hajj pilgrimage. Even now, gliding in a small wooden boat down the broad river that slices through the spectacular Tripa forests, saltwater crocodiles can be seen slipping silently from view. A rhinoceros hornbill lifts off with a gentle helicoptorish whoosh. And as skies darken, troops of monkeys clamor in the branches above to settle in for the night. "But for how long?" asks Safari, 32, one of the men. "When that forest is cleared, these animals will all be gone, every last one of them."
[Associated
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