Orangutan, M.D.: Rakus and the First Wild Animal Wound Treatment

In the depths of the Sumatran rainforest, scientists witnessed something no one had ever seen before—and it might rewrite what we thought we knew about medicine. A wild orangutan got injured… and what he did next left researchers stunned. Was it instinct? Intelligence? Or something else entirely? This one’s wild—literally. In this episode, we talk about Rakus the Orangutan and then talk to________

Let’s begin with a side road. I want to talk about chimps. Not Rakus the orangutan just yet. We’ll get there.

Let’s go to Tanzania, in the 1980s.

Researchers studying chimpanzees in Gombe National Park began noticing something strange: when chimps showed signs of intestinal distress—lethargy, bloating, refusal to eat—they’d sometimes go looking for a specific type of plant. The plant was Aspilia, a coarse-leafed shrub that wasn’t part of their normal diet. And they didn’t chew it for flavor or nutrients. They swallowed the leaves whole—rough edges and all—and then passed them.

The reason? Those rough leaves scraped the lining of their intestines and dislodged parasites. It was a form of self-medication.

That same behavior was later observed in bonobos, gorillas, and even some bird species. It was part of a growing field of science called zoopharmacognosy—which literally means “animal drug knowledge.” And it challenged what we thought we knew about animals.

We’ve long assumed that humans are the only species capable of understanding and using medicine. But the more we watch animals, the more we see signs that the line between us and them is a little blurrier than we thought.

Let me give you a few more examples.

Sloth bears in India have been seen rubbing their faces in medicinal trees after being stung by bees. Woolly spider monkeys in Brazil consume plants with sedative properties during mating season—potentially to reduce aggression. Birds—starlings, specifically—will line their nests with aromatic herbs that repel mites. Porcupines chew on bark high in tannins when they have intestinal issues. Some parrots and lemurs eat clay to detox after consuming mildly toxic seeds. There are even capuchin monkeys who crush millipedes and rub them all over their fur—basically insect repellent.

These aren’t random behaviors. They’re targeted responses to specific physiological issues. The animals get sick, they seek out something specific, and they use it in a way that helps them heal.

But in almost every case, it’s ingestion. The animal eats something that affects their insides.

That’s why what happened in 2022 in the Sumatran rainforest is so remarkable.

This is where we meet Rakus.

Rakus is a male Sumatran orangutan living in the Suaq Balimbing research area, part of the Gunung Leuser National Park in Indonesia. The park is a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve and home to one of the last remaining wild populations of Sumatran orangutans—an endangered species with fewer than 14,000 individuals left in the wild.

On June 25, 2022, researchers from the Suaq Project, a long-term field study run by the Max Planck Institute of Animal Behavior and Universitas Nasional in Jakarta, were observing Rakus when they noticed he had a fresh facial wound. It looked like it came from a fight with another male—a horizontal gash across his right cheek, several centimeters long, just below his eye.

Now, injuries in wild animals aren’t uncommon. Most of the time, the animals lick the wound, or leave it alone entirely. But Rakus did something no wild animal has ever been seen doing.

He began searching the area for a specific plant.

He located a vine known as Fibraurea tinctoria—in Indonesian it’s called akar kuning, which means “yellow root.” This plant isn’t common in the orangutans’ normal diet. It’s a type of climbing shrub that contains berberine, an alkaloid compound with anti-inflammatory, anti-microbial, and analgesic properties. In traditional human medicine across Southeast Asia, it’s used to treat wounds, ulcers, and skin infections.

Rakus plucked the leaves and began chewing them—not to swallow, but to create a paste.

Then he took the plant pulp and applied it directly to his facial wound.

And not just once.

Researchers observed him applying the paste multiple times over a period of seven minutes—chewing, dabbing the wound with his fingers, even smearing it across the entire injury. After that, he packed the wound with the chewed leaf matter—essentially creating a natural poultice, like an herbal bandage.

And then he rested. He built a nest and laid down for several hours.

The researchers had seen nothing like it.

Over the next several days, they watched the healing process. The wound stayed clean. It closed within five days. Within a month, it had completely healed, leaving only a faint scar. There were no signs of infection or necrosis. Rakus continued moving normally and showed no signs of pain or discomfort.

This was groundbreaking.

Because while there have been previous cases of animals consuming plants with medicinal properties, there has never been a confirmed case of a wild animal creating a topical treatment and applying it externally to a wound. It’s the first time this behavior has been documented in the wild. Not in a zoo. Not with human training.

This was an orangutan who had never been in captivity, had never seen a doctor, and had—somehow—figured out how to self-treat a complex wound with a specific healing plant.

And what makes it even more interesting is that this wasn’t a plant Rakus regularly ate. It’s not a food source. This was something he seemed to seek out for a purpose.

But how did he know?

That’s the big question. Was this instinct? Was it trial and error? Did he observe another orangutan doing something similar? Is this behavior passed on socially in certain groups of apes? Or was this a one-time innovation?

So here’s where things get even more fascinating.

Let’s talk about orangutan intelligence.

Orangutans are among the most intelligent non-human primates. They’ve been observed using tools—sticks to extract insects, leaves as umbrellas, even fashioning gloves from foliage. They learn by imitation, they pass knowledge across generations, and they’ve been seen planning routes and using memory to return to fruiting trees months later.

But this… this is something else.

This is medical behavior—something we’ve traditionally believed only humans could do. Rakus didn’t just eat a healing plant. He processed it into a salve, targeted a specific area on his body, and applied it with care.

That suggests three things:

-Self-awareness — Rakus recognized that he was injured, and that the injury needed to be addressed.

-Knowledge of the environment — He knew where to find a plant with the properties to help.

-Intentionality — He didn’t eat the plant. He used it for healing.

In a 2024 paper published in Scientific Reports by Dr. Isabelle Laumer and her team, the researchers emphasized how rare and valuable this observation was. They noted that while chimpanzees and bonobos have been observed eating bitter plants when sick, or rubbing themselves with crushed leaves, no wild great ape has ever been seen using a plant in this way for wound care.

And this raises a larger question:

Where does medicine begin?

If an orangutan can treat a wound with an herbal poultice, doesn’t that suggest that the roots of medical knowledge go deeper than human civilization? That maybe the desire—and the ability—to heal isn’t unique to us?

Let’s rewind the clock 60,000 years.

In Shanidar Cave in Iraq, archaeologists found the remains of a Neanderthal male who lived with multiple injuries—including a crushed leg and a blind eye. He had survived for years. And around his body, they found traces of medicinal plants—wildflowers, yarrow, and others used traditionally to reduce pain or fight infection.

That find suggests that prehistoric hominins—our ancient cousins—were also practicing a form of medicine.

And if Neanderthals could do it…

…and orangutans can do it…

…it means that the roots of healing might stretch far deeper into our evolutionary history than we ever imagined.

That doesn’t mean orangutans are building hospitals. But it means they understand cause and effect. Pain and relief. Injury and response. It means there might be cultural knowledge—passed along by observation—about how to stay healthy in the forest.

And here’s a thought: Rakus was an older male. His wound was on his face—he couldn’t even see it directly. That means he had to feel it, assess it, and then decide to treat it.

And that opens up a new line of inquiry.

If Rakus knew how to do this… are there others?

Could this be a common behavior that just hasn’t been observed before? Orangutans live in dense jungle habitats and are incredibly hard to track. Scientists observe only a fraction of their total behavior in the wild. So it’s entirely possible that orangutans—and maybe other species—have been practicing natural wound care for years… and we just haven’t seen it.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

In the 1960s, Jane Goodall’s first observations of chimpanzee tool use were considered shocking. Before that, the scientific consensus was that humans were the only species to make tools. But chimps broke that assumption wide open. And once we started looking, we found tool use in dolphins, crows, even octopuses.

So what if Rakus is the tip of the iceberg?

What if we’re about to uncover an entire world of animal medicine that we’ve overlooked?

And beyond that—what can we learn from them?

Many of the medicines we use today—aspirin, quinine, morphine—come from plants that were used for centuries in traditional medicine. And many of those traditions were learned by watching animals.

The people of Borneo learned about certain antimalarial plants by observing sick monkeys. Indigenous tribes in the Amazon follow the feeding habits of parrots and sloths to find medicinal herbs. Modern pharmacology owes a debt to the knowledge of animals—both human and non-human.

So when Rakus reached for that yellow vine in the forest, he wasn’t just healing himself. He was reminding us that the line between human and animal is thinner than we think.

And maybe, just maybe… that healing instinct is something we all share.

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