National Geographic

his catch: a birdwing. A rare butterfly, and a pro-tected species.“It’s just a small one,” Jasmin says.Even so, it is enormous, able to cover a man’sentire hand. Its wings appear dull and mottleduntil Jasmin slides the forewing away from thehind wing, revealing a shock of yellow between.A ribbon of hidden beauty.The men celebrate. The birdwing will make agood sale, they say, even better than the blumei.They don’t discuss why: The blumei is illegal tocapture inside Banti murung Bulusaraung Na-tional Park, but catching the birdwing is restrictedeverywhere. So it will go to the black market.The next day Jasmin makes the journey downfrom the mountain to the market outside Banti-murung park. He and his helpers make theirlong trek in reverse: the mountainside climb,the motorbikes and swinging bridges, the van,and finally the heat of the lowlands.You can see Bantimurung park from milesaway. It’s part of one of the largest karst forma-tions in the world, shaped when limestone andsoil washed away and left great cones and towersof rock that rise and lean over the landscape. Thecorridors between them twist and dive, some-times underground, and emerge where ancientwaterfalls still carve them in slow motion.The market piles up against the entrance toBantimurung Ecotourism Park, a gateway to thenational park. In contrast to the quiet lonelinessof the catchers setting their traps in mountainmist, the market is explosive and many-colored,a carnival. Hawkers call out “kupukupukupu-kupu!”—butterflies! butterflies!—as a crowdmoves among rows of stalls. Two types of visitorspopulate the scene. The first is tourists who wearbutterfly T-shirts and sip from butterfly cups;they nibble butterfly candy under butterfly para-sols. The other group is mostly men in button-up shirts—dealers who’ve come to do business.They peruse the stalls where thousands uponthousands of butterflies sit on display, someframed, some encased in shadow boxes.Indonesia’s rules governing the capture, sale,and export of butterflies are complicated and rid-dled with exceptions, which allow even endan-gered species bred for the commercial market tobe bought and sold in certain instances. But howdoes one tell a wild butterfly from one raised ona breeding farm?As Jasmin moves among the stalls, I ask him:Is there a section for legal trade, and a section forthe black market? He wraps his arms together,and then interlaces his hands and fingers, toindicate the two markets are intertwined.If he notices a protected species on display,would he mind pointing it out?He shakes his head and gives a soft smile, thenwalks along the stalls, touching frames and dis-plays as he goes. “This,” he says. “This... this...this... this... this... this... this...” He indicatesabout half the butterflies.When the men in button-up shirts are seri-ous, they duck behind the stalls into backrooms to negotiate private deals. Jasmin isserious. In a room behind a storefront, anotherman shows him several boxes full of the waxpaper triangles. These butterflies started theirjourney in the nets of boys on far-flung islands,then were transported in vans driven by mid-dlemen, and finally they have been funneledhere—heaps and mounds of them, waiting foran overseas buyer.Surely the government knows about this trade?Jasmin gives the soft smile again and``````A butterfly dealer inWest Papua attractsmoths for a Japanesecollector by makingtraps with white sheetsand bright lights. Thedealer hires villagers tobreed butterflies andwork as guides, provid-ing jobs that make thebutterflies importantto the local economybut may harm conser-vation efforts.PREVIOUS PHOTOFrom subtle huescome vibrant colors:The variations inbirdwing chrysalides—the final stage ofmetamorphosis fromwhich a winged adultemerges—mimic thevegetation surroundingthe pupating caterpil-lars. These specimensare native to Cambodia.ROBERT CLARKBUTTERFLY CATCHERS 127