Togar.

Togar learns everything from a single person: his mother. His people teach in a way all their own, by watching. An orangutan infant spends whole years glued to its mother and draws from her every single thing it knows: how to cross the canopy, what's edible and what isn't, how you live up there. No one explains it in words; it sees her do it and does it afterward.

For Togar, learning isn't a duty, it's his way of being with her. Each thing he gets a little better at is a while longer on the same branch, at her side. He pays attention, he tries, and the next day he tries again a touch better. That's why this backpack suits a kid at that very age so well: the age of watching the grown-ups, copying them and wanting to do it now, even with a long way to go. Togar has years and years of learning like this ahead, and they don't weigh on him: they pull him forward. His biography tells, slowly, everything he draws from his mother.

There's one thing Togar already does almost as well as his mother: remembering where everything is. As he follows her through the canopy, he stores the forest away in his head: this tree bears in one moon, that one in another, the old trunk in the corner that sometimes gives something good. His mother moves through the jungle without ever getting lost, as if she carried a map no one else can see; Togar is starting to draw his own, tree by tree.

It's what he's best at, and even he doesn't know where that head comes from. An orangutan carries inside it a huge chart of its forest and fills it in from small, by dint of ranging over it. Togar already knows a few trees by heart and shows them off. For a kid, this backpack is for carrying their things and knowing which pocket each goes in; for Togar, at six, the forest no longer gets lost on him: he has it ordered in his head, tree by tree.