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

Between Two Worlds: Loving Humanity, Admiring the Apes

There is a paradox that lives in my chest—one that has only grown sharper over the years following my time in the forests of Borneo. I’ve lived among orangutans—beings who were once caged, beaten, orphaned, or exploited by people, and yet who, given the chance, recover their dignity with grace. I’ve also spent decades working in service of my fellow human beings—in government, in nonprofit conservation, and in education. And it is from this perch, straddling two worlds, that I share a truth I live with every day:

I am conflicted about my own species.

I am a human. I love many humans. I’ve seen extraordinary courage, kindness, generosity, and brilliance among us. I’ve worked shoulder to shoulder with people trying to make the world better. But I’ve also seen how greed, fear, and indifference can turn us into something almost unrecognizable—capable of destroying what we claim to love, capable of pushing our only planet to the brink, and capable of torturing or neglecting those who cannot fight back: the innocent, the poor, the wild.

And in the quiet of the forest, I find clarity.

Orangutans are not horders. They do not display envy. They do not wage wars or poison rivers or chase fame. They live. They forage. They care for their young with a devotion that would humble any parent. They think. They remember. They contemplate.

There is a nobility in orangutans—especially those who have survived what humans have done to them and still choose to live, to build their nests, to raise their children, and, when possible, to trust again. I’ve known ex-captive orangutans who were shackled in roadside zoos and yet, once freed and treated with respect, looked at me not with vengeance but with quiet curiosity. I’ve seen wild mothers nurse and shelter their young with a patience and presence rarely matched by even the most mindful human caregivers.

So where does this leave me?

Some days, I feel a deep grief for what our species has done—not only to orangutans but to ourselves. We have turned away from our place in nature and confused domination with greatness. We’ve bulldozed ancient forests for cheap palm oil and let apathy drown out empathy.

But I also know this: humans can change. I have changed. Many of you reading this have changed. We can open our hearts and choose reverence over convenience. We can honor the ancient ones—the great apes—who still hold the wisdom of a quieter, slower, more connected life. And we can begin to reimagine what it means to be human not as a conqueror, but as a kin.

When I stand in the rainforest and listen to the long call of a male orangutan echoing through the canopy, I don’t feel superior. I feel small in the best possible way. I feel reminded.

We are not alone on this planet. And we are not the only ones who matter.

Let us be humbled. Let us be changed. And let us earn our place again—not through power, but through presence.