North Sumatra, Indonesia.
As I look out the window on the ride from Medan to Bukit Lawang, the landscape quickly turns repetitive and unsettling. Hectares of oil palm plantations stretch out in perfectly straight rows, broken only by fields blackened from fires set to clear the land for new crops. In front of the scattered houses along the road, piles of palm fruit sit waiting. I had never seen palm fruits before. They are slightly larger than olives, red‑yellow, fleshy.
This is where the oil economy begins.
We stop to speak with a farmer. He doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want any photo taken. A sharp gesture of the hand ends the exchange.
Later, digging through my backpack, I find a snack left over from the trip from Italy. I read the label: among the vegetable oils and fats, there it is. Palm oil. The circle closes without commentary.
The day after, the trek from Bukit Lawang starts at dawn. Our guides, Dino and Pandi, warn us immediately about the leeches in the tropical forest. Trousers tucked into boots, repellent. It should be enough. I mentally scan the content of my backpack, but the only truly essential thing is water.
We enter the forest and the path slowly stops being a path. The vegetation folds over us. We are a group of four, tiny beneath enormous trees. We walk with the precise feeling of being guests.
When word spreads that another group has spotted something among the trees, our pace shifts. It could be them. The orangutans, in the local language, the “men of the forest.” I don’t think about photos or stories. I think only about what it will be like to see them.
They move through the branches in a way that’s both awkward and elegant. They jump, swing, use the vines for balance. And then, at a certain moment, the gaze. Not direct, not insistent. A passing look that includes you for an instant and then moves on. That’s what unsettles you. You’re not the centre. You’re not even interesting. You’re simply there.
Later, in the early afternoon, we meet the alpha male, the one with the large cheek pads. He rests in a nest of leaves he built himself, complete with a pillow shaped to his body. Even still, he has a calm, authoritative presence. He picks up acorns, cleans them carefully, and brings them to his mouth with almost human hands. Orangutans have their own culture. It’s impossible not to think of it that way. I can see why they are called the “men of the forest”.
We return at the end of the day on rubber rafts that glide down the Bahorok river and carry us straight back to the village.
The forest stays behind us, but not entirely.
Between the oil palm plantations seen from the car, the orangutans, and the label on my snack, something has cracked.
Something clings onto you like a leech.