A Tale of Two Apes
- Harry the Good
- Sep 6, 2019
- 7 min read
Updated: Apr 26, 2020
“I would love the fruit please, and a coffee.”
“I’d love the fruit as well, maybe some of these pastries here? Umm, could I have some orange juice please?”
“Could I have the eggs please, err, sunny side up. And a coffee too?”
“Could I have the large breakfast please?” (Classic Benny G.)
The waiter nodded as he took our breakfast order and grinned. Apparently, this was code for “I have no idea what you just said.”
Ethan and I had returned to the lodge after our bizarre encounter with a dead otter, absolutely famished. Breakfast could not come quickly enough. We were delighted to discover that our breakfast was already prepaid and that we had a huge selection of choice. As we waited for it to come, we relaxed. Sepilok was supposed to be our oasis, our place of rest and recuperation between the excitement of the rainforest and the challenge of Mount Kinabalu. Amongst the beautiful trees and flowers, it was difficult not to relax. Life at Sepilok seemed to be lived at half pace. With double portions.
Our waiter deposited our breakfasts. It was like being reacquainted with an old friend. Within seconds we were tucking in, discussing what we were going to do that day.
Moments later, our waiter appeared again bearing some fresh pastries. He smiled warmly at us, leaving them on the table before confidently walking away. Complimentary pastry! What a wonderful way to start the day.
As we began to discuss the possibility of Wales progressing further in Euro 2016 than England, a ridiculous joke that scarily came true the next day, the waiter returned once more bringing coffee. And then more coffee. That made five coffees. Between four. This was particularly bizarre as Ethan had ordered, and received, fruit juice. Never mind, we smiled to one another. We could hardly blame the guy for getting a few things mixed up, after all, we couldn’t speak any Malaysian.
Conversation turned to Wimbledon which was about to start that day. We debated our favourites, who we liked, who we didn’t, who we hoped would accidentally suffer horrific injuries. Our friend returned, beaming, leaving us a large plate of fruit and some toast. The situation was beginning to get a bit ridiculous. We had enough food to feed a rugby team and we had no indication that this abundant generosity was about to stop. It didn’t.
As we were chuckling quietly to ourselves, like Elijah’s ravens, the waiter returned with yet more food. He was still smiling, but it looked like he was believing in it less. More toast and yet more pastries were left on the table. We nodded a polite thank you to this wonderful man, stifling laughter. As he left, we silently erupted. Next to me, Alex was shaking. Opposite me, Ethan was genuinely crying, contorting his face to prevent himself from appearing rude. Ben just looked happy that there was more food. It was at this point that this seemingly limitless well of calories was plugged as he didn’t return. It was probably just as well, if he had brought even a single grape more, I would have exploded with mirth.
We arrived at Sepilok Orang Utan Rehabilitation Centre very full. We had briefly visited the centre on the morning of our journey to Sukau, and had seen absolutely nothing. We were not expecting to see much this time either.
“Oh look, an Orang Utan!”
Before we had even entered the reserve, a cheeky red explosion of fur had appeared, sitting on top of the reserves cloakroom. He looked perfectly comfortable absorbing the sun’s rays on the corrugated roof. We edged forwards in an attempt to get a photograph. Despite the angle of the roof, we had a quite a good view, and the young chap was happy to pose for us. Hilariously, hardly anybody had noticed. Two large coach-fulls of Chinese tourists arrived, a mass of people suddenly filling the precinct. The noise levels rocketed: the happy chatter of mandarin and the excited clicking of expensive cameras. But not a single one of them noticed the Orang Utan. They took photographs of the flowers. They took photographs of the buildings. They took photographs of each other with the flowers and the buildings. One of them even took a photograph of her map. But not a single one of them noticed our little endangered friend. Unfortunately, disturbed by the the throbbing humdrum of people, the orang utan headed back into the forest.
We entered the reserve, quietly walking between the Ben Goddard-like trees that reached imperiously towards the welcoming sun. A few squirrels played in the trees over our heads, minute sun-birds flittered in and out on the tree fronds and lianas that draped themselves through the forest like benevolent pythons. But apparently Orang Utans were already extinct in this particular 100m² patch of forest. We waited for a while, desperate to catch a glimpse of red. After a twenty minute wait, we cut our losses and headed towards the orphanage.
Sepilok Orang Utan rehabilitation centre is a fantastic project. Rescuing orphaned orang utans from across the Island of Borneo, Sepilok provides food, water and motherly care to the abandoned Orang Utans that were sometimes brought to them at only a couple of weeks old. With their human foster carers, these orang utans will be taught basic survival skills, what food is good to eat, how to build a nest, how to make a decent cup of coffee etc. Then when they are old enough, the young orang utans will slowly be introduced to some of the wild orang utans in the reserve. Food is always provided and shelter is always available, but it is hoped that after exposure to the wild orang utans, these provisions will be made redundant. And boy does it work! Since the centre opened, over 750 orang utans have been successfully rehabilitated into the wild, with many of them rearing wild children themselves. Despite our disappointment in not seeing any orang utans, the fact that they didn’t need to use the feeding station was probably a good sign. Nevertheless, the current orphans at the centre were available to see in their play area. We had seen them playing a few days before, tiny scruffy balls of excitement that rolled around, swung on the ropes and trees and cuddled each other in adorable plaits of endangered ape.Each one seemed to have a different personality (orangutanality?), some were gentle and affectionate, others were boisterous, some seemed to be grumpy and anti-social. Each one of them was adorable.
Nevertheless, we never got to the orphanage. A large crash shook the enormous trees around us. In unison, every human being looked up, like a very boring synchronised swimming performance. One particularly tall but naked tree appeared to have come to life, the sash of ivy that clothed it writhing in agony. Whatever was in the tree, it was huge. Suddenly, emerging out of the ivy reached an enormous Orang-Utan. Long, auburn hair, massive swollen cheeks, and biceps the size of Birmingham, it was an elusive alpha male.
And he was furious!
Let me tell you a sad story, a tale that will pluck your heart-strings like banjo. Eddie, for t’was his name, was in love. He had seen a beautiful young lady flaunting herself high up in the Sepilok canopy, batting her ginger eyelashes at him. His heart had started to flutter. His eyes had begun to dilate and in his mind he was planning his honeymoon. So he had swung gently down towards her, wooing her with sweet words. They had chatted through the night, shared a meal together, done that weird thing with spaghetti and then sat upon the roof tops watching the moon wax and wane like Ruby and John. And then, without a word, without even sending a text, she had left. Eddie was heartbroken. Apoplectic with rage, he had climbed the nearest tree and done what any love-wounded man would do, he threw sticks. Apart from Eddie was no mere man. Eddie was 100% Orang Utan and what he called a “stick,” we would call a small tree. Hurling himself recklessly from tree to tree, seemingly uncaring whether he plummeted 50m to his death, Eddie vented his frustration on mother earth herself. With apparent ease, he tore off branches the size of a small sapling and hurled them unmercilessly to the ground below. It was spectacular. To see the emperor of the forest raging in uncontrolled fury and decimating the world around him was a formidable sight. He was totally in control, completely assured of his status. Every so often he would look at us, very aware of our presence, as if challenging us to say a single word. It was heart-breakingly human.
It was at these moments that I could see just how human-like he was. Here was an orang-utan, used to being the top dog and getting his own way, reeling in the face of rejection and humiliation. Unable to handle the situation, he had reverted to reactionary violence and thoughtless destruction. It was as if he needed to remind the forest that he was still in charge, covering his shame and humiliation with an awe-inspiring demonstration of power. The poor guy was embarrased and humiliated, and therefore felt threatened.
“I did that once,” said Ben nonchalantly.
We all looked at each other.
“You mean you climbed a tree and threw sticks because you were rejected?” asked Alex, jokingly.
“Well, I didn’t climb a tree, but I did once go to a park and throw sticks around after a bad date,” Ben admitted.
This was gold. I looked at my wonderful friend, gentle and soft hearted. I looked back up at the huge orange monster that roared it’s frustration out across the canopy. They couldn’t have been more different. Funny what a bit of heartbreak can do.
It was at this point that Eddie, brimming with agony-inspired carelessness began to descend from his tree, towards the ground and towards us. Hmm…
“Ok, if he reaches the ground we need to leave.” A ranger gave a bit of helpful advice. I was in no mood to argue. I’m not sure that even a love-struck benny G could have stopped the charge of an amorous orang utan.
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