Togar.

Togar is five when he notices his mother slip a stick into the fruit guarded by little hairs that dig in, to get the seeds out without hurting herself, and into an old trunk to reach the honey. So he finds his own. He tries it, it doesn't work, he tries it again. And he keeps it.

That stick doesn't come built in. Using a tool to open a fruit or get at honey is something you learn by watching, that mothers pass to their infants, and that each valley of the forest does a little its own way, like inheriting a custom. Togar is receiving it gesture by gesture, without knowing that one day he'll pass it on to another infant. For now he lugs it everywhere, the same way you'll carry this bag: always on you, just in case.

There's a time of year when the Sumatran forest loads up with fruit all at the same time. For a few weeks there's durian and figs to spare, and mother and infant spend the day going from one tree to another, eating with hardly any need to walk. These are Togar's best days: a full belly and his mother close, in the same loaded canopy. For an infant who still depends on his mother for everything, it's a season without complications: eat, follow her branch to branch, and be happy.

From that good run he learns something that doesn't last: that abundance ends and that afterward come the lean months, when you have to walk more and remember well where each tree stood. That's why, while it lasts, he gathers and makes the most of it. This bag is just right for those days of gathering extra: when you come back loaded and everything has to fit in one go.