Jungle Rescue: Saving the Orangutans (page 2 of 4)

In the fall of 1989, two weeks after Smits saved Uce, he got a message from an employee of the Indonesian forest ministry. The man had heard about the rescue and wondered if Smits would take in another ailing orangutan—a young male who'd been found in the jungle after his mother was killed. Forestry workers had named him Dodoy. Smits nursed him back to health, intending to send both orphans to a rehabilitation center.

But such programs, Smits learned, had problems. Most of them released rescued apes as soon as possible. The animals often clashed over territory with their wild counterparts, infected them with human diseases, or simply starved. Some experts called for a new strategy: Quarantine the rescuees and treat them for contagious illnesses, teach them the skills they need to survive in the wild, and release them in a patch of protected jungle with no existing orangutan population.

Using those principles, Smits decided to start his own rehab center. After numerous corporations, nonprofits, and the Dutch and Indonesian governments turned him down for funding, he brought Uce and Dodoy to an assembly at the international school his children attended. The faculty and students embraced Smits's vision—"Willie could sell salt to the sea," says Peter Karsono, an Indonesian teacher who later helped run BOS-and launched a fund-raising campaign. The students collected $5,000 through bake sales, sponsored walks, and appeals to their often wealthy parents. After an oil executive matched that sum, Smits had the seed money he needed.

Next he had to convince local villagers, most of whom belonged to Borneo's Dayak tribe, that protecting orangutans was better than killing them for their meat and skulls.

Smits traveled deep into Borneo's backcountry, where rivers were the only roads. Entering one tribal longhouse, he found a baby orangutan cowering near the half-eaten carcass of its mother. "How can you do this?" Smits shouted in the local dialect.

As the warriors reached for their blowpipes, Smits realized he'd made a potentially dangerous blunder. He switched tactics.

"Do you like lahung?" he asked, referring to a jungle fruit.

The Dayaks nodded. He listed several other indigenous fruits and asked if he could buy seedlings.

"They're very rare," a tribesman said, explaining—as Smits knew—that the seeds of many native plants would sprout only after passing through an orangutan's digestive tract.

"So do you think your children will be able to keep eating these good things," Smits asked, "if you kill all the orangutans?"

There was a pause. "I stopped hunting them," one man suddenly declared, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I shot at one and thought I'd missed. When she came down, I thought she was going to attack me. Instead she laid her baby at my feet and fell dead. After that, I couldn't do it anymore."

Others chimed in with stories of encounters with friendly orangutans. Smits shook hands with his new allies. Then he climbed into his motorboat and took his sales pitch to the next town.

 

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