A Walk with an Orangutan at Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Center: Meeting Solomon

Solomon, the orangutan

Solomon looked right at me. He was calm. Dignified. Polite. He had a quiet air about him. He didn’t stare at me. He looked. And then he moved on.

He moved slowly. Unthinkingly. Unconcernedly. Unmoved that the small group of people around him was having a moment that they would go on to tell their friends and family about for years to come. The day they took a slow walk through the forest with an orangutan named Solomon.

But Solomon was not uncaring or aloof. As he walked along the raised wooden path that cut through the forest, he seemed to enjoy the people around him. When he would get too far in front of us, he would look over his shoulder, and then patiently wait for us to catch up. Once we were with him again, he would resume his journey.

When I had my camera up, he ignored me. But when I put it down and looked on him with my own eyes, he would lock gazes with me briefly. I am sure there is a metaphoric lesson in there about how technology isolates us from connections with the world around us . . . but I just kept the camera down as much as I could.

We met Solomon during our visit to the Sepilok Orangutan Rehabilitation Center. The center takes in orphaned orangutans and teaches them the skills they need to survive in the wild. It then reintroduces them to the jungle. To ease the transition, the center holds two feedings per day, when a worker shows up at a feeding platform in the jungle with a large bundle of bananas. Tourists are allowed to observe each of these feedings.

There is no guarantee that any apes will show up. We went to both the morning and afternoon feedings (one ticket gets you into both feedings). The first time we visited, only two orangutans made an appearance. But in the afternoon, there was a dozen. Including two babies. And including Solomon.

When the bananas were gone, the other orangutans melted back into the forest, and most of the tourists left as well. But Solomon stayed around. He sat in a tree and a small group of us gathered under him, watching.

And then he climbed down. He walked right through the group of tourists who were snapping away madly with their cameras, and he proceeded to stroll down the walkway.

We followed behind.

Solomon and his followers

At first I worried we might be harassing him, and I considered whether I should leave. But it seemed like Solomon liked the attention. He was relatively hairless, and one of the workers explained he had been born that way. Perhaps he was an outcast among the apes, but he was the most popular guy in the room among the tourists. And he liked it. So, I stayed and walked with him.

At one point, as Solomon walked along the pathway, he decided he wanted to hop the rail and play in the trees a bit. He walked right up to my daughters, who were standing against the railway watching him. My oldest could have easily reached out her hand and laid it on his head. She swears he looked up at her, looked her right in the eyes as if to say, “Dear miss, could you please let me through? Thank you ever so much.” (In fact, if you hear my daughter tell this story, she generally gives Solomon an upper crust English accent — you know, because he is so cultured and fancy.) My daughters parted, and he stepped between them, climbed the rail, and shimmied up a tree. Without pants on. Fancy, indeed.

But even in the trees, Solomon stayed close to us. After a bit of climbing, he would come back down and stroll along the path. We, his followers, would trail behind, Solomon looking back at us from time to time to make sure we were still there.

While on our little stroll, Solomon looked me in the eye several times. But unlike my daughter, his message to me was never quite as clear.

What passed between us? Intelligence? Not really. I don't even know what that means. Understanding? No way. We were too different to understand each other on any but the most superficial level. Respect? I would like to think so, but probably not — everyone knows instantly not to respect me, and he was totally naked . . . how do you respect someone out in public with no pants?

Maybe it was simply acknowledgment. There we both were, sharing that wooden walkway in Borneo. He looked at me. Not with anger, or annoyance, or greed (like the macaques do). Not with love and adoration, like a dog might. His look seemed to be the equivalent of a nod of greeting. A "what's up" or "howdy."

One of the reasons I travel is to connect. I was deeply moved by my connection with this ape. We are not the same, and to say otherwise minimizes many great and important things. But, although we are different, there are still things we can and do share.

As I sit here writing this, I am close to tears. Because travel made me lucky enough to have spent this afternoon in the forest with Solomon.