Swinging Through the Wild: My Unforgettable Orangutan Encounters in Bukit Lawang’s Jungle
I still remember the sound. A deep, guttural grunt that seemed to echo through the dense canopy above. My guide Toni froze, finger pressed to his lips, eyes darting upward through the tangle of vines and branches. My heart practically stopped. After 24 hours of travel, a bone-rattling bus ride, and three hours of sweaty hiking through Sumatra’s steamy jungle, this was it. Somewhere in the green maze above us, an orangutan was making its presence known.
Related Post: The History of Indonesia’s Tobacco Industry at House of Sampoerna
“Jack, look there,” Toni whispered, pointing toward a flash of rusty orange fur. “She knows we’re here.”
That moment—suspended between anticipation and awe—is forever etched in my memory. I’d traveled halfway around the world to Bukit Lawang, a tiny outpost on the edge of Gunung Leuser National Park, with one goal: to see critically endangered Sumatran orangutans in their natural habitat. What I didn’t expect was how profoundly this encounter would affect me, or how this remote corner of Indonesia would completely upend my understanding of wildlife, conservation, and my own place in the world.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up and tell you how I ended up face-to-face with one of our closest relatives in the wild, sweating through every piece of clothing I owned and questioning most of my life choices.
Why Bukit Lawang Stole My Heart (and Nearly My Sanity)
I’ve always been drawn to places that exist just outside the mainstream tourist circuit. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve done my share of Eiffel Tower selfies and Roman Colosseum tours. But there’s something about destinations that require that extra push, that additional leap of faith, that always seems to deliver more authentic experiences.
Bukit Lawang wasn’t my first choice, if I’m being honest. I’d originally planned to visit the more established orangutan viewing areas in Malaysian Borneo. The tours there seemed more organized, the infrastructure more developed, the whole experience more… predictable. But a random conversation with a Dutch backpacker in a Bangkok hostel changed everything.
“Borneo’s great,” she said, sipping her Chang beer, “but if you want to see orangutans where it feels like you’re actually discovering them, go to Bukit Lawang. It’s a pain to get to, though.”
That last part should have been a warning, but instead, it was the deciding factor. A pain to get to? Sign me up!
Booking the trip was an adventure in itself. The official websites I found looked like they’d been designed in 1998, and sending money to a WhatsApp contact named “Jungle Eddie” felt sketchy as hell. I remember calling my sister the night before I transferred the deposit.
“This is either going to be the highlight of my trip or I’m about to lose $200 to an elaborate scam,” I told her. She helpfully reminded me that our mom was already worried enough about my solo trip through Southeast Asia, and maybe I shouldn’t mention the “possible scam” part during our next family call.
Spoiler alert: It wasn’t a scam. But at that point, I had no idea if I was making a brilliant decision or a massive mistake. That uncertainty, I’ve found, is often the precursor to travel’s most unforgettable moments.
Getting There: A Bumpy Road to the Jungle’s Edge
“Medan to Bukit Lawang: 4 hours by car” is what every travel blog promised. Let me tell you right now—they lied. Or maybe they traveled during some magical time window that I missed, or perhaps in a parallel universe where Indonesian roads don’t resemble obstacle courses.
My journey began at Medan’s chaotic Pinang Baris bus terminal, where I’d arrived via a quick grab-taxi from my airport hotel. I’d spent the previous night there after landing late, too exhausted to immediately continue the journey. The terminal was a sensory overload—vendors shouting destinations, the smell of clove cigarettes and durian, and absolutely zero signs in English.
After twenty minutes of confusion and pointing at “Bukit Lawang” written in my phone’s notes app, I was directed to a minivan that looked like it had survived several apocalypses. The driver, a chain-smoking man named Agus with the most impressive collection of dashboard ornaments I’ve ever seen, assured me this was indeed the right transport.
“AC, AC!” he proudly proclaimed, pointing at a vent that, as I would discover about 20 minutes into our journey, expelled air that was somehow hotter than the ambient temperature outside.
I’d read that these minivans don’t leave until they’re full, which can mean hours of waiting. Luck was on my side that morning—or so I thought—as the van filled up within 30 minutes. What I didn’t realize was that “full” in North Sumatra means something entirely different than it does back home. Just when I thought we couldn’t possibly fit another human being, three more people squeezed in, plus someone’s grandmother, a cage of chickens, and what appeared to be an entire family’s weekly groceries.
My backpack was strapped to the roof along with a mysterious bundle that occasionally moved. I decided not to ask questions.
The journey itself was… an experience. The road from Medan winds through palm oil plantations, villages, and increasingly rural landscapes. It would have been scenic if I wasn’t crammed against the window with a sleeping stranger’s head on my shoulder and another passenger’s child occasionally poking my ear out of curiosity.
About two hours in, we stopped at a roadside warung (small restaurant) where everyone piled out for a bathroom break and food. I was starving and ordered nasi goreng, which arrived in approximately 45 seconds and cost less than a dollar. It was also one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten, though that might have been the hunger talking.
“How much longer to Bukit Lawang?” I asked Agus between mouthfuls of fried rice.
He shrugged, cigarette dangling from his lips. “Maybe two hours. Maybe three. Depends on road.”
The “road” he referred to soon deteriorated from merely potholed to what I can only describe as a technical mountain biking course. The last hour was spent bouncing so violently that I became genuinely concerned about dental work coming loose. The van creaked and groaned, occasionally scraping bottom on particularly ambitious bumps.
Six hours after leaving Medan, we finally rolled into Bukit Lawang—a single-street village nestled against the Bohorok River, with the imposing green wall of Gunung Leuser National Park rising on the other side. Children played in the street, tourists in hiking gear wandered about, and locals sat in front of shops chatting in the late afternoon sun.
Related Post: The Scenic Serenity of Ubud’s Campuhan Ridge Walk
As I climbed out of the van on wobbly legs, my backpack was unceremoniously tossed down from the roof. I must have looked as disoriented as I felt because a young local guy immediately approached me.
“Hotel? You need hotel?” he asked with a smile.
I was about to decline—I’d booked a place called Ecolodge, somewhere across the river—when I realized I had absolutely no idea how to find it. My phone had no service, I was exhausted, and the thought of wandering around with my pack was suddenly overwhelming.
“Yes,” I admitted. “I need help finding Ecolodge.”
His face lit up. “Ah! My uncle’s place! I’m Dedi. Come, I show you.”
Wait, what? His uncle’s place? Was this an incredible coincidence or some kind of scam? Too tired to care, I followed him down to the river, where we crossed a suspension bridge that swayed alarmingly with each step. On the other side, tucked into the jungle’s edge, was my home for the next few days—a collection of simple wooden bungalows beside the rushing river.
And yes, Dedi’s uncle really was the owner. Sometimes travel coincidences are just that—coincidences.
Into the Jungle: Trekking with Nerves and Wonder
Meeting My Guide (and Doubting Everything)
The next morning, I met Toni, my guide for the two-day trek I’d booked. He was waiting in the lodge’s open-air restaurant, nursing a coffee and chatting with the staff. Mid-thirties, with an easy smile and well-worn hiking clothes, he had the relaxed confidence of someone who’d spent their life in these forests.
“Jack! Good morning!” he called, waving me over. “Ready for orangutans today?”
I mumbled something affirmative while pouring myself coffee, still not fully awake. The 5 AM wake-up call from the jungle’s dawn chorus—a cacophony of insects, birds, and who-knows-what-else—had jolted me from a fitful sleep. The mattress in my bungalow had the approximate softness of concrete, and the night sounds of the jungle had been both magical and slightly terrifying.
Over breakfast (banana pancakes that I still dream about), Toni outlined our trek. We’d hike about 6-7 hours today, spend the night at a jungle camp, then continue tomorrow before tubing back down the river to Bukit Lawang.
“Will we definitely see orangutans?” I asked, immediately feeling stupid for the question. These were wild animals, after all.
Toni smiled. “In ten years as guide, I only have two treks with no orangutans. But…” he paused dramatically, “those people talk too loud and wear strong perfume. You don’t wear perfume, right?”
I laughed and assured him my only scent was mosquito repellent and yesterday’s sweat. He nodded approvingly.
“Then we see orangutans. I promise.”
That confidence should have been reassuring, but as I packed my daypack (Toni’s team would carry our overnight gear), I couldn’t help but worry. What if this was the third trek without orangutans? What if I’d come all this way for nothing?
As I fretted over how many water bottles to bring (answer: not enough, as I’d later discover), another thought nagged at me. Was I ready for this? My “training” for this jungle trek had consisted primarily of walking to my local coffee shop and occasionally taking the stairs instead of the elevator at work. The most hiking I’d done in the past year was a “moderate” 3-mile trail in a state park back home, after which I’d rewarded myself with a large pizza.
Too late for second thoughts now, though. At 8 AM sharp, Toni, myself, and a porter named Agus (apparently a popular name in these parts) set off across the river and toward the park entrance.
The First Sights and Sounds
Nothing—and I mean absolutely nothing—prepares you for the sensory assault of a tropical rainforest. Within minutes of entering Gunung Leuser National Park, I was soaked in sweat. The humidity wrapped around me like a wet blanket, making each breath feel like I was inhaling soup.
The trail immediately began to climb, and any illusions I had about my fitness level were quickly dispelled. Ten minutes in, my shirt was drenched, and I was already reaching for my first water bottle.
“Pace yourself,” Toni advised, seemingly immune to both the heat and the exertion. “Jungle marathon, not jungle sprint.”
The forest itself was mesmerizing. Massive trees stretched skyward, their trunks wrapped in vines and epiphytes. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in occasional shafts, illuminating the mist that hung in the air. The ground was a tangle of roots, fallen leaves, and the occasional flash of movement as lizards and who-knows-what-else scurried away from our footsteps.
Related Post: The Gateway to Komodo: Exploring Labuan Bajo’s Charm
And the sounds! The constant background buzz of insects was punctuated by bird calls ranging from sweet melodies to what sounded like someone strangling a squeaky toy. Occasionally, a crash from high above would send my heart racing, only for Toni to casually identify it as macaques or leaf monkeys moving through the canopy.
About an hour in, I slipped on a muddy section of trail and landed hard on my butt. Toni and Agus tried not to laugh—they really did—but failed miserably. I sat there, covered in mud, and started laughing too. Something about that moment broke the ice, and I stopped worrying about looking like an incompetent city dweller.
“Now you part of jungle,” Toni declared, helping me up. “Jungle always takes something from you—maybe your clean pants, maybe your pride.”
As we continued climbing, the trail becoming steeper and more challenging, Toni pointed out plants and insects I would have completely missed. A tiny orchid growing on a tree trunk. A leaf that, when crushed, smelled exactly like lemongrass. A camouflaged stick insect that I would have sworn was just… well, a stick.
Two hours into the trek, we paused by a small stream to refill water bottles. As Toni added purification tablets to our bottles, he suddenly stiffened and held up his hand for silence. He pointed to a tree about 20 meters away, where a large black shape was moving slowly along a branch.
“Siamang,” he whispered. “Very lucky to see.”
The gibbon was magnificent—coal black with impressively long arms that it used to swing effortlessly through the trees. Moments later, its mate appeared, and they began a duet that I can only describe as otherworldly. The calls started low, then built to a series of whoops and bellows that echoed through the forest.
I stood transfixed, completely forgetting my aching legs and sweat-soaked clothes. This was why I’d come. This was worth every bumpy mile, every doubt, every moment of discomfort.
Little did I know that this was just the opening act.
Face-to-Face with Orangutans: A Moment I’ll Never Forget
The First Glimpse
We’d been hiking for about three hours when Toni suddenly stopped, head tilted as if listening. That’s when I heard it—the deep grunt I described at the beginning of this story. My exhaustion vanished instantly, replaced by a surge of adrenaline.
“Female,” Toni whispered. “With baby, I think.”
He pointed upward, and at first, I saw nothing but leaves and branches. Then—movement. A flash of orange. The foliage parted, and there she was: a female orangutan, her fur a brilliant coppery red against the green canopy. And clinging to her side, partially hidden, was a baby, its face peeking out curiously at the strange creatures below.
I fumbled for my camera, hands shaking with excitement. Through the zoom lens, I could see her face clearly—the intelligent eyes, the expressive features so unnervingly human-like. She seemed completely unbothered by our presence, moving deliberately through the trees, occasionally pausing to strip bark or pluck fruits.
The baby was more curious, repeatedly leaning away from its mother to get a better look at us before ducking back into her protective embrace. At one point, the mother stopped directly above us, about 15 meters up, and just… watched. I lowered my camera, feeling strangely self-conscious under her gaze.
“She’s beautiful,” I whispered to Toni.
He nodded. “Maybe 25 years old. Baby about two years. She know us, we see her many times.”
“Does she have a name?” I asked.
“We call her Pesek—means ‘flat nose,'” he replied with a grin. “Not very nice name, but she has distinctive nose.”
Looking at her again, I could see what he meant. Her nose was indeed flatter than I’d expected, giving her face a unique character. For about twenty minutes, we stood in silence, watching Pesek and her baby feed and move through the canopy. Eventually, they swung away deeper into the forest, disappearing as silently as they’d appeared.
I realized I’d been holding my breath without knowing it. As I exhaled, I felt a strange mixture of elation and something else—a sort of melancholy I couldn’t immediately identify. These creatures, so like us in so many ways, were clinging to existence in these shrinking forests. Their world was being consumed by palm oil plantations, logging, and development. How long would they survive?
Toni seemed to read my thoughts. “This why we need visitors,” he said quietly. “People come, bring money to village, give value to forest. No tourists, maybe no forest soon.”
We continued our trek, spotting several more orangutans throughout the day—some distant shapes in the canopy, others close enough to make eye contact. Each sighting felt like a gift, a privileged glimpse into their world.
Related Post: The Unique Patterns of Flores’ Spider Web Rice Fields
A Too-Close Encounter
Late in the afternoon, as we approached our camp for the night, Toni’s demeanor suddenly changed. He motioned for me to stop and step behind him.
“Tom,” he said in a low voice. “Big male. Very moody sometimes.”
About 10 meters ahead of us on the trail stood an enormous male orangutan. Unlike the females we’d seen swinging through the trees, he was on the ground, sitting casually in the middle of the path as if waiting for us. His size was shocking—at least twice as large as the females, with massive cheek pads flanking his face and a throat pouch that swelled impressively as he let out a low call.
“What do we do?” I whispered, heart pounding.
“We wait,” Toni replied calmly. “His trail too. We respect.”
For what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, we stood frozen while Tom regarded us with what I can only describe as imperial disdain. I was acutely aware that this animal could tear my arms off without breaking a sweat, yet there was no aggression in his demeanor—just a casual assertion of dominance.
A group of hikers approached from the other direction, talking loudly. One woman gasped when she saw Tom and immediately raised her phone to take a selfie, stepping closer despite her guide’s warnings.
Tom’s demeanor changed instantly. He rose to his full height—well over 1.5 meters—and released a bellow that seemed to vibrate the air around us. The selfie-taker scrambled backward, nearly falling in her haste to retreat.
I’m not sure if I was more terrified or irritated in that moment. On one hand, Tom’s display was genuinely intimidating. On the other, the tourist’s disregard for both safety and basic respect for the animal was infuriating. Toni later told me that such encounters can alter orangutan behavior, making them either too comfortable around humans (dangerous for both species) or unnecessarily stressed.
After making his point, Tom casually turned and moved off the trail, climbing effortlessly into a nearby tree despite his bulk. As he disappeared into the canopy, I realized I’d been holding my breath again.
“That was…” I struggled to find the right word.
“Special,” Toni finished for me, grinning. “Not many see Tom so close. You lucky—or unlucky, depending how you look.”
I’m still not sure which it was. The encounter left me with a strange mix of emotions—awe at being so close to such a magnificent creature, fear at the raw power he represented, and sadness knowing that these critically endangered animals are losing their battle against human encroachment.
That night at camp, as I lay in my basic hammock strung between trees, listening to the nocturnal chorus of the jungle, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tom’s eyes. There had been such clear intelligence there, such obvious awareness. What had he thought of us, I wondered, these strange, sweaty creatures invading his world with our cameras and water bottles?
Beyond Orangutans: The Unexpected Joys (and Frustrations) of Bukit Lawang
While the orangutans were undoubtedly the stars of the show, Bukit Lawang itself turned out to be far more than just a jumping-off point for jungle treks. After returning from our overnight adventure—via an exhilarating river-tubing journey that had me alternately laughing and terrified as we bounced through rapids on inflated inner tubes—I decided to spend two extra days exploring the village and surrounding area.
The village stretches along both sides of the Bohorok River, connected by suspension bridges that sway alarmingly with each step. The river itself is the social center of Bukit Lawang. In the afternoons, locals and tourists alike gather on its rocky shores to swim, wash clothes, or simply sit and chat as the cool water provides relief from the relentless humidity.
My first afternoon back, exhausted from the trek, I joined a group of travelers at a riverside café called Sam’s Bungalows. Perched on cushions with my feet dangling in the water, cold Bintang beer in hand, I struck up a conversation with a German couple who’d been in Bukit Lawang for nearly two weeks.
“We were supposed to stay three days,” Claudia told me with a laugh. “But this place… it just makes you want to stay longer.”
I could see what she meant. There was something about the rhythm of life here—the absence of cars on the village’s only street, the easy interaction between locals and visitors, the backdrop of jungle-covered mountains—that made it hard to imagine leaving.
The next morning, I wandered through the small market near the main bridge, where local women sold fruits, vegetables, and handcrafted souvenirs. I bought a small orangutan carving from an elderly woman who spoke no English but communicated perfectly through smiles and hand gestures. When I tried to walk away after paying her asking price, she called me back and pressed a banana into my hand—a small gift that somehow meant more than the carving itself.
Not everything was idyllic, though. That afternoon, I hired a local guide named Dedi (not the same Dedi who’d helped me find my lodge) for a tour of the nearby village and surrounding jungle trails. He promised to show me hidden waterfalls and local wildlife that most tourists never get to see.
About the author: Jack is a passionate content creator with years of experience. Follow for more quality content and insights.
