The Orangutan Who Chose Me

The heat of the day had given way to cooler air once the sun went down. I had spent my day roaming the jungle in search of amazing wildlife photo opportunities. The heat had exhausted me, so I made my way back to my hut, drew a nice warm bath, and soaked for about an hour. I had managed to capture a few beautiful images of exotic birds, monkeys, and snakes. My work carried me worldwide, and this assignment had me deep in the incredible jungle along the Kinabatangan River in Malaysia. The temperature had reached 93 degrees Fahrenheit, and the humidity was a staggering 88 percent most of the day. To say it had drained me physically was an understatement. Carrying nearly 30 pounds of photo and video equipment in my backpack had taken its toll on my back and legs too. But the rewards of beautiful images were worth it. Many people in the world have never seen such creatures, and it was my job to bring them to the front cover of some of the most entertaining wildlife magazines on earth.

After my soak, I loaded my memory card into the computer and began thumbing through the images. I am old school, so unlike many photographers who take hundreds of photos in a single day, I only had 34 images. I learned to shoot using a film camera, and a 36 shot roll was the largest I ever carried on a shoot. From the beginning of my photographic journey, I learned to be selective with my shutter presses and not overdo it.

The news was playing in the background because I had turned on ABC News. It was another boring newscast concentrating on what seemed to be bad news worldwide. I was not concerned with the content and soon changed the channel, replacing the noise with a few CDs featuring Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard. The soft country music made for a peaceful backdrop while I prepared my dinner, which consisted of black eyed peas, grilled turkey breast, cornbread, steamed broccoli, and a tall glass of sweet tea.

The clock showed 8:45 pm as I lay across my bed to relax. I finished my dinner and turned off the CD player. The sound of a slight breeze brushing through the lush underbrush and tree leaves was better than any music. I was fortunate to live deep in the jungle. One of my last assignments had sold for five figures to National Geographic, and I was hoping for another equally rewarding sale.

I was tired and had dozed off when I heard a quiet noise at the opening of my bedroom. There was no window, only makeshift shutters. I looked over toward the opening, and there stood an orange orangutan. It looked intently at me as I stared back. I wondered if it was going to attack me, but it seemed content to sit there quietly and observe. Then I noticed a stainless steel clamp around its leg with a short piece of rope attached. Apparently, it had escaped from its captor, and if so, this was good because it was illegal here to capture and hold wild orangutans. The staring contest continued for about ten minutes before I decided to ease out of bed and retrieve a screwdriver. If the orangutan was not hostile, I might could remove the clamp. It was obvious it had been attached for a long time because it was embedded into the animal’s leg.

When I returned to the bedroom, the orangutan had moved onto the dresser in the corner. I approached slowly and cautiously. I spoke to it softly, reassuring it that I would not hurt it. It stood motionless and quiet. I reached out and touched the clamp. It still did not move. I eased the screwdriver into place and began turning it counterclockwise. The orangutan made a quaint sound, almost like a squeak. I continued, and within a few seconds I had loosened it enough to slide it over her foot. As I moved the clamp away, she lifted her foot to help. When it came off completely, she let out an excited squeal that could have been heard a mile away. She was excited, and I was equally excited that she did not bite me. But just as I was relaxing, she jumped onto my chest and wrapped her legs and arms around me. For the first time in my life, and completely unexpectedly, I was being hugged by a great ape. She had clearly been around humans long enough to be somewhat tamed, although her experience with them had been a bad one, judging by the clamp and rope that had scarred her leg.

Time passed slowly as she clung to me. By 11 pm, she had settled down on the floor beside my bed, and I finally lay down to get some sleep. As I thought about the evening’s events, I realized I had not taken a single photo of her. Somehow that felt right. I did not want the moment to turn into a photo opportunity. The next morning, I awoke to find her gone. I was not surprised but was greatly disappointed. I had grown attached to her in just one evening. Still, she was a wild animal, and I knew she was back where she belonged.

My morning dragged on as I moped around like I had lost a lifelong friend. By early afternoon, I gathered my camera equipment and headed back into the jungle for more images. By 6 pm, I had grown tired of searching for the perfect photo. I had pressed the shutter only three times in five hours, which was disappointing. I returned home and began preparing my meal.

My dinner consisted of chicken chowder soup, toast, and an apple. I followed it with another soaking bath, not so much to wash away the dirt or soothe my muscles, but to drown my low feelings. At 8 pm, while I watched the same boring afternoon news, I heard the familiar chatter of an orange orangutan, and she stepped into the living room.

Three hours went by as she sat and lay on the couch next to me. I rubbed her tummy and she behaved like a pet dog. At 11 pm, I went to bed and once again she lay on the floor beside the bed. She had claimed her spot for the night. If she returned tomorrow, she would find a padded bed waiting. I had acquired a thankful ape, beautiful with her orange hair and the white hair around her face. I felt compelled to give her a name, something fitting for such a peaceful soul.

The next morning she was gone by daybreak. I made her a pallet beside the bed and placed a couple of homemade toys, simple rags stuffed with cotton and tied with ribbons on each end. I made one with red cloth and one with white cloth. It would be interesting to see which she preferred. I also placed a bowl of water and a larger bowl for food. I did not know exactly what to feed her, but I wanted her to know she was welcome.

That evening, I returned from the jungle earlier than usual. I had taken only five shots the entire day, and none seemed worth keeping. My mind was on her more than my work. I wondered if she would return.

At 7 pm I turned on the small lamp in the living room and prepared a plate of rice and vegetables. The afternoon had been warm and still, and the silence in the hut pressed close around me. I ate slowly, glancing toward the doorway every few minutes. Part of me felt foolish for hoping. Wild animals do not make promises, and they do not owe anyone companionship.

I had just finished washing my plate when I heard the slightest rustle outside the shutters. Her chatter followed a moment later, soft at first, then rising with excitement as she stepped through the opening. She looked at me, then down at the pallet where the toys still lay. She picked up the white one and turned it over in her hands with careful curiosity. A small squeak escaped her as she hugged it to her chest.

I laughed quietly. She had made her choice.

She climbed onto the couch again, settling next to me with more confidence than before. I reached over and rubbed her arm, and she leaned gently against my shoulder. Her trust was overwhelming. I found myself thinking about how a simple gesture from a wild animal could change the course of my day, maybe even the course of my life.

We sat together for a long time without speaking. I told her quietly about my day in the jungle, about the hornbill that refused to stay still and the crocodile that slipped into the river before I could raise my camera. She tilted her head as if listening. Maybe she only understood the tone of my voice, but it was enough.

At 10:30 she slipped off the couch and walked into the bedroom. She curled up on her pallet, clutching the white rag toy. I followed and covered her lightly with a soft towel. She blinked once at me, then drifted into sleep.

I lay in bed thinking about what would come next. She needed medical attention for the wound where the clamp had been. She needed protection too, because someone had captured her once and might try again. I could not keep her, not truly, but I knew I could help her find a safer path.

By morning she was gone again. The towel was pushed aside and the white rag toy lay tucked close to the pillow. I stepped outside into the bright morning and followed the faint footprints she left in the damp soil. They led into the trees toward the river. I stopped at the edge of the jungle. The river moved quietly, reflecting soft gold from the early sun. There was no sign of her.

She did not return for the next two days. I tried to focus on my work, managed a few decent images, but my thoughts stayed with her. I worried that whoever had captured her before might have found her again. Each night I left the lamp burning low and checked the doorway more times than I cared to admit.

On the third evening, as I reviewed my photos at the computer, I heard her familiar chatter. She stepped into the hut carrying a piece of fruit. She placed it carefully in the food bowl I had set out, then looked up at me as if offering a gift.

I knelt and touched her arm. The wound on her leg had begun to heal. I smiled and whispered, Thank you. She lifted the white rag toy and pressed it into my hand, then sat quietly beside me as if to say she was home.

I knew then that our time together, however long it lasted, was no accident. Some friendships arrive softly without a plan. Some find you in a jungle on the far side of the world. And sometimes the rarest photo is the one you never take, because the memory itself becomes the treasure.

That night the jungle hummed outside in its familiar rhythm, and the heat of the day faded into a gentle breeze. I knew she would leave at dawn, but I also knew she would return. And in the quiet of my little hut, I felt grateful for a companion who had no words but understood everything that mattered.

I named her Autum, and as long as I remained there, Autumn was welcome to visit.