Intelligent vs. Intelligible Communication: Lessons from the Forest

Language is often described as the hallmark of human intelligence. But when I think back to my years among the orangutans in Borneo, I’m reminded that communication—true communication—takes many forms, and not all of them require words.

There’s a quiet power in the gestures, glances, and postures exchanged between beings who share a moment of understanding. Yet not all communication is equal. Some is intelligible—clear and easy to interpret—while some is intelligent, showing thought, awareness, and intent.

Intelligible Communication: Being Understood

Intelligible communication is communication that makes sense. It is the ability to convey meaning in a way that can be received and understood.

When a mother orangutan softly grunts to her infant or when I see two males exchange long calls across the forest, the messages are intelligible to those who share that world. “I’m here.” “Stay away.” “It’s safe.”

Likewise, when a human toddler says, “Want banana,” the meaning is clear. Grammar isn’t required for comprehension—intent and shared context are enough.

Clarity, however, doesn’t always equal depth.

Intelligent Communication: Being Aware

Intelligent communication reveals something more profound: the mind behind the message.

When I taught sign language to ex-captive orangutans, I saw evidence of this intelligence every day. One young female, after failing to get my attention with a gesture, changed her strategy—signing again but more emphatically, her eyes fixed on mine. That was not rote behavior; it was problem-solving.

Intelligent communication shows flexibility, learning, and the capacity to anticipate another’s mind. It’s not just being understood—it’s understanding how to be understood.

The Bridge Between Minds

In our world of nonstop messages, posts, and alerts, we’ve become very good at being intelligible—quick, clear, and loud. But we’re losing our intelligence in communication: the patience to listen, the empathy to adapt, the awareness to choose our words or gestures with care.

Orangutans, on the other hand, remind us what intelligent communication looks like in its purest form—measured, mindful, and meaningful. Their interactions are quiet but deliberate. Each look, touch, or sound carries weight.

Perhaps in learning to recognize the intelligence in their communication, we can rediscover some of our own.

Takeaway

 Intelligible communication is about clarity.

 Intelligent communication is about consciousness.

If we want to connect across species—or even among ourselves—we must strive for both.

From the Archives: A Word Between Friends — Princess & Pola

March 18, 1979 — Guesthouse Living Room, Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

It was just after noon when I stepped into the living room of the guesthouse. A calmness hung in the air, that special kind of stillness the forest often offers in the heat of midday.

Pola, a young male orangutan who was part of our sign language project, was sitting contentedly in the corner, lips wrapped tightly around what looked like a crumpled, well-loved spice packet. He wasn’t chewing so much as savoring—drawing out every bit of flavor like it was a delicacy. His eyes were soft, his focus absolute. He was in a state of what I can only describe as spice meditation.

Then Princess entered.

Where Pola was introspective, Princess was always present. Attuned. Intentional.

She quietly approached Pola, leaned in with purpose, and signed “food.”

No reaction.

She signed it again, a little firmer this time—“food,” making sure he could see her hands clearly.

Pola paused. He looked at her. Then, wordlessly, he lifted the spice packet from his mouth and offered it to her—no resistance, no hesitation. She took it gently and moved away, with Pola following a few steps behind, as if curious about what would happen next.

There was no growling. No posturing. No grabbing. Just… a moment of request and a moment of response.

Now, some might ask whether Pola truly understood the sign from Princess. Was it a coincidence? A conditioned response? A social cue?

I think it was more than that.

Princess used sign language with another orangutan. Not for my benefit. Not for a treat. Not as part of a lesson. She initiated communication. She asked. And Pola responded—not by mimicking, not by reacting to a human, but by offering something he clearly valued.

That moment, fleeting as it was, marked something significant: language crossing species lines and turning inward—ape to ape.

It was raw. Unstaged. And profoundly beautiful.

This wasn’t about vocabulary size or syntax. It was about connection. Intent. The beginnings of shared meaning.

And in that simple exchange, over a spice packet no less, Princess and Pola reminded me that communication is not just about words or signs.

It’s about the willingness to listen. And the grace to give.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: When a Knife Became a Comb

August 29, 1979 — Camp Leakey Guesthouse, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

Some moments are so ordinary at first glance, they almost slip by. But then they linger in memory like ripe fruit on a vine—sweet, unexpected, and revealing.

It was about 6:30 in the evening. Dinner was over, and Princess, my most curious and clever adopted orangutan daughter, was lounging near the student house. I was with Benny, one of our student assistants. We had been working with Princess on sign language for some time by then, but that night, she taught us a lesson in creativity.

Princess looked up at me and signed, “You comb.” I gently combed her hair with my fingers, and she closed her eyes, clearly enjoying the attention.

Then she spotted something on the ground—a table knife, left behind from dinner.

She picked it up carefully and signed again, “You that comb.” She was offering me the knife… to use as a comb.

I raised an eyebrow. I asked her, in sign, “What’s that?”

She studied it thoughtfully and signed “comb” again, followed by “pen.” She was trying out words she knew to label something new. Her guesses weren’t wrong, just… experimental.

I showed her the correct sign for knife, and she accepted it. But then, with deliberate calm and a look of expectation, she signed once more, “You comb,” and handed me the knife.

I gently scratched the back of her hand with the blunt edge—her version of a brushing motion. Satisfied, she handed it back to me and signed again: “You comb,” holding her head forward this time.

So I did. With the dull edge of a dinner knife, I gently “combed” her hair.

It wasn’t about the knife. It was about function—repurposing one object for another role. Princess wasn’t just mimicking language; she was assigning meaning. She saw a tool, imagined a use, and asked a friend to participate in her vision.

And in doing so, she reminded me that language, like intelligence, is fluid. It adapts. It invents. It connects.

And so does she.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: A Lesson in Sharing — Princess and the Professor’s Son

 

July 17, 1979 — Dining Hall, Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting

It was a warm afternoon at Camp Leakey, and the open-air dining hall buzzed with quiet post-lunch activity. Plates were cleared, the thick air hung like a wool blanket soaked in humidity, and outside the screen windows, the forest hummed its usual symphony. Inside, a different kind of communication was about to unfold—one involving no words, but deep meaning.

Beneath the dining table, young Binti—Dr. Biruté Galdikas’s toddler son—had discovered a treat: a vegetable resembling corn called tabu telur. It was rare and intriguing, wrapped in leaf-like husks and shaped like something to be guarded.

So he did what any little boy might do: he took it under the table to enjoy it in private.

But Princess noticed.

She had been part of our sign language project for some time and was always curious—especially when food was involved. And she was watching Binti closely. She lowered herself beside him, peered under the table, and without hesitation, signed “food” directly to him.

Binti, still too young to sign fluently, understood the intent. But instead of handing over the prized vegetable, he began offering its outer leaves—one by one. A decoy strategy, perhaps.

Princess accepted each leaf graciously, inspecting them, nibbling lightly, then discarding them. They were, after all, inedible. This wasn’t what she’d asked for.

She signed “food” again. This time, she added “nut”—refining her request, showing her awareness that what Binti held was something meaningful. Still, Binti continued to peel back the leaves, offering husks instead of the core.

Then, in one smooth and calculated move, Princess reached over and took the tabu telur from his small hands.

Binti burst into tears.

Underneath that table, there was no parental intervention, no translator, no referee—just a sign-literate orangutan and a human child, negotiating over a prized possession in their own unique ways.

It was one of the rare moments I witnessed where a nonhuman primate used sign language intentionally and independently to communicate with a human peer—not as a show, not for a reward from a trainer, but for real social negotiation.

Princess didn’t just ask. She persisted, modified her communication, and ultimately asserted her agency.

And Binti? He did what any toddler might: he tried to hold on to something he valued. But in that exchange—leaf by leaf—he was also participating in one of the most remarkable cross-species dialogues I’ve ever seen.

A young boy and an orangutan, sharing a moment that was so much more than a snack. It was an early glimpse into how communication bridges not only species, but hearts.

— Orangutan Dad

From the Archives: Princess, the Fruit Connoisseur

 

September 19, 1979 — Camp Leakey, Tanjung Puting, Central Borneo

Some mornings stay with you forever—not because of what you taught, but because of what you were taught.

It was just before 8 a.m., and the guesthouse was still blanketed in that gentle stillness that settles in before the forest fully wakes. I had just begun a morning lesson with Princess, my sign-language-savvy orangutan daughter, when she beat me to the first word.

“Hug up,” she signed with quiet insistence.

I smiled and gave her the hug she asked for. Then she signed again, eyes gleaming with mischief: “You that food.”

Ah. So that was the real motivation behind the hug.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a guava. Before I even asked, Princess confidently signed, “sweet fruit.” Correct. I handed it to her. We repeated this little game with a second guava, and she signed the same phrase again—“fruit sweet”—as if reminding me she already knew the answer and was ready for her reward.

That morning turned into a taste-test of tropical produce. An orange became “drink fruit.” A mango? “Sweet fruit.” When I offered her a watermelon slice, she combined her favorite signs into a new phrase: “drink fruit sweet.”

She was inventing compound words—building her own vocabulary using the signs she already knew.

And when I tried to quiz her with something trickier, like the leaf symbol on a hat, she didn’t hesitate. “Leaf,” she signed, correctly and immediately.

But it wasn’t just language. It was preference, curiosity, humor.

She looked into my pocket after I told her it was empty. She discovered a hidden bag of peanuts and signed, “open food.” I opened it. Of course I did.

She wasn’t just communicating. She was thinking. Classifying. Creating new ideas. Asking. Testing. Trusting.

That morning, Princess wasn’t just a student—I was. And what she taught me, through fruit and signing, was this: Communication isn’t about mastering language. It’s about connection.

And when an orangutan tells you she wants “drink fruit sweet,” you listen.

— Orangutan Dad

What an Orangutan Isn’t: On False Beliefs, Online Insults, and the Fracturing of Truth

Lately, I’ve seen something both disheartening and strangely revealing scrolling through social media: a resurgence of memes and posts comparing various politicians—especially presidents—to orangutans.

Let me be very clear:

This is not funny. It’s not innocent. And it reveals more about us than it does about them.

As someone who has lived, studied, taught, and loved orangutans for over 50 years, I feel compelled to speak—not just on behalf of these sentient, contemplative beings we too often misunderstand, but also on behalf of what we are losing as a species when we let ridicule replace reasoning, and narrative replace truth.

False Beliefs About Orangutans

Let’s start with the basics.

• Orangutans are not violent. 
• They do not lie. 
• They do not manipulate followers with false promises or stir up outrage to gain status. 
• They are not lazy. 
• Nor are they stupid.

Yet time and time again, public figures are compared to orangutans as if this were some ultimate insult—usually invoking perceived ugliness, unintelligence, or barbarism. It’s racist in origin, ignorant in implication, and a total inversion of reality.

Orangutans are patient.

They are thinkers, not shouters.

They build, they nurture, they observe.

They spend time choosing the right branch for a nest, or teaching their child how to peel a tricky fruit.

If we were more like orangutans, the world might be quieter, more thoughtful, and more sane.

The Deeper Problem: Belief Without Thinking

The real tragedy is that these “orangutan president” memes aren’t just offensive—they’re symptomatic of a deeper societal issue. As I argued in a recent white paper on digital trust, we are entering an era where storytelling without science, and belief without evidence, is not just tolerated—it’s rewarded.

On social media, the most outrageous posts go viral. Algorithms promote emotion over nuance. Conspiracy theories spread faster than fact-checked truth. People learn to treat ridicule as reality and memes as moral judgments. And all the while, real orangutans—our evolutionary cousins—lose their forests, their families, their futures.

The Consequences of Digital Fracture

If we let misinformation fester, if we let social media mockery shape our moral compass, we will see:

• A breakdown in public understanding of science and nature.

• Escalating distrust in expertise, institutions, and even shared facts.

• Polarization so deep that basic cooperation becomes impossible.

• And in the case of orangutans—less empathy, less funding, and more extinction.

The danger isn’t just a silly meme. It’s that people begin to believe the narratives they scroll through. And those beliefs, repeated enough, calcify into action—or worse, inaction.

What We Can Do

If you're reading this, you’re already someone who thinks beyond the scroll. Here’s how we push back:

• Speak up when orangutans are used as tools of insult. Defend their dignity.

• Support real stories—those rooted in science, empathy, and lived experience.

• Engage with humility, not hostility, when confronting false beliefs online.

• Teach the young to recognize manipulation, to ask for evidence, and to love the natural world.

Amplify the truth, not the anger. Because in a forest of confusion, truth needs louder echoes.

 Final Thought

Orangutans are not metaphors for ignorance.

They are not stand-ins for political slurs.

They are persons of the forest—gentle, intelligent, endangered beings fighting to survive amid humanity’s chaos.

Let’s do them justice.

Let’s do truth justice.

And let’s stop confusing volume with wisdom, or memes with meaning.

Yours in truth and forest kinship,

The Orangutan Dad

Enough Is Enough: Finding Purpose Beyond Wealth

 

At this stage of my life, I can say something I wish more people would come to realize sooner: I have enough.

I’m not interested in the blatant acquisition of monetary wealth for personal desires beyond my current and projected needs. More money will not make me happier, healthier, or more fulfilled. What matters to me now—and what I believe will matter to all of us, sooner or later—is what we do with the time and influence we already have.

I am interested in establishing, maintaining, and deepening personal and professional relationships, and in enrolling others to make positive differences in the health and longevity of a vibrant planet, its vital ecosystems, and the endangered biodiversity we share it with.

At my age, I care less about accumulating things and more about building legacies—legacies of compassion, curiosity, and contribution. My platform, built over decades of work with orangutans and the people who protect them, is not something I see as mine alone. It’s a tool to inspire others—to help people discover their own passions, their own sense of purpose, their own way to make a difference.

You don’t need to be rich to make an impact. You don’t need to wait until retirement. You don’t need to have all the answers.
If you feel called to act, start now.

One powerful way is to create your own nonprofit, even a small one, as a vehicle to channel your energy into something meaningful. But if running a foundation isn’t for you, there are countless organizations that would welcome your support as a volunteer, advocate, or board member.

And even if you can’t give money or time, your voice still matters. You can make a difference simply by consistently speaking out—in public spaces, online or offline—about what matters most to you. Advocacy begins with awareness, and awareness begins with someone willing to say, “This is important.”

The world doesn’t need more billionaires chasing the next yacht. It needs more everyday people living intentionally, guided by love for life itself.

So let’s stop measuring success by how much we earn—and start measuring it by how much we care.

The Forest Still Whispers Her Name

He sat beneath the ancient fig tree—a chimpanzee whose eyes had seen the coming and going of countless rains. The forest was quiet, but not silent. Every rustle carried her name.

The elder looked toward the horizon where the sun had dipped low, and the wind brought memories instead of scents. “She used to sit here,” his heart seemed to murmur, “watching us, listening—not to our noise, but to our silence.”

The younger chimps did not understand. To them, she was a story—the woman who never left the forest in her heart. But the elder remembered her voice, soft as leaves falling on damp soil, saying, “We are not so different, you and I.”

Now she was gone. The forest, though vast, felt smaller. The morning calls rose and fell without her gentle echo. The old chimp reached for the empty air where once her gaze had met his. “You saw us,” he whispered, “when the world looked away.”

Above him, the sky grew deep and violet, and the forest breathed in rhythm—slow, mournful, alive. The troop gathered, uncertain, sensing the heaviness that hung between the branches.

Then, in the hush, a single call rang out—soft, resonant, like the first word of a prayer. It wasn’t sorrow alone. It was gratitude. It was memory.

And as night fell, the elder closed his eyes. “You taught them,” he thought, “that we are kin. That to protect us is to protect themselves.”

Somewhere in the canopy, a firefly flickered—briefly, beautifully.

And in that light, the forest whispered back,

“She is gone from the world,

but never from the wild.”

The Quiet Power of Jane Goodall: A Legacy of Grace, Kinship, and Compassion

                                            My reconnecting with Jane in 2005

Yesterday, the world lost a giant.

Dr. Jane Goodall — ethologist, anthropologist, author, messenger of peace, voice for the voiceless — passed away at the age of 91. Even though I knew she had slowed her pace in recent years, I could never truly wrap my mind around the idea that Jane was mortal. Her presence on this Earth felt elemental — like the rustle of leaves in a rainforest, or the long call of a great ape echoing through the canopy. Something you expect will always be there.

I had the privilege of encountering Jane several times over the decades. Each meeting was brief, yet unforgettable — inspiring me into primatology  and punctuating my journey with a renewed sense of purpose. You didn’t need long with Jane to feel her impact. She carried something extraordinary into every room she entered: a quiet but unmistakable moral authority, disarming humility, and a gaze that made you feel seen, truly seen — as if all your words had already been understood before you spoke.

What made Jane so powerful, especially in her later years, was not the volume of her voice but the gentle force of her kindness. She didn't storm stages or berate policymakers. She invited them — with grace, with evidence, and with an unshakable love for life. Whether she was speaking to heads of state or schoolchildren, she had a way of softening hearts and igniting minds. Her secret was simple: she believed in the goodness of people.

Like a chimpanzee mother who never stops tending to her young — patiently guiding, fiercely protective, lovingly present — Jane devoted her life to nurturing a global awareness of our kinship with the natural world. Even as her body aged, her commitment never wavered. Her travel schedule would exhaust someone half her age, yet she continued because she had to. This was her calling. Her life's work. Her love.

Her groundbreaking fieldwork with chimpanzees in Gombe revealed what science had long resisted admitting: that nonhuman beings feel, think, grieve, love, and suffer. That they are not mere data points in a distant jungle but sentient individuals with families, societies, and souls. She gave them names when others insisted on numbers. She told their stories — not to romanticize, but to humanize. In doing so, she changed the world’s perception of animals and ourselves.

But perhaps the most profound extension of her legacy came not from the forest, but from the hearts of children. Through her Roots & Shoots program, she planted seeds of compassion and curiosity in young people around the globe — cultivating a generation of conscious citizens who care deeply about animals, the environment, and one another. This was Jane at her most powerful: the elder advocate who passed the torch not with fire, but with warmth.

I often reflect on how Jane’s journey parallels my own in the forests of Borneo, where I taught sign language to ex-captive orangutans and discovered their profound intelligence and emotional depth. Like Jane, I came to see that our primate cousins are not just like us — they are part of us, and we of them. We share not just biology, but story, spirit, and destiny.

Jane's passing is a loss beyond words. But her legacy lives on — in the lush canopies of Gombe, in the countless lives she inspired, in the quiet decisions made by people who now pause to care a little more, consume a little less, speak a little louder for those who cannot.

And for those of us who had the honor to walk briefly alongside her, even from afar, we carry her light forward. We remember not only what she taught, but how she taught it — with grace, with gentleness, and with unshakable hope.

🙏 Rest in Power, Jane. You showed us the way. We will keep walking — for the chimpanzees, the orangutans, the gorillas, for the forests, and for all sentient beings who deserve to live free and understood.