The Plantation - Di Morrissey [1]
And to my new grandson, Everton Peter Hansen, who has come into my life to bring us joy.
Acknowledgments
THANKS TO …
My darling Boris who shares my life and whom I love so much.
My daughter, Dr Gabrielle (Morrissey) Hansen, for her advice and love and the gift of her growing family, especially the precious Sonoma.
My son, Dr Nick Morrissey (and his beautiful Mimi), who first suggested I write about Malaysia. Congratulations on your appointment to the faculty of the University of Georgia, I’m very proud of you.
Josephine De Freitas (and the wonderful Philip) for her memories of growing up on a plantation in Malaysia.
Huge thanks to Martin Bek-Nielsen for his time and hospitality at United Plantation.
To Liz Adams, my incomparable editor, who is more friend as well as advisor and life coach!
Liz Foster for her calm efficiency. And to copy editor Rowena Lennox for her unerring eye.
To Christopher Jonach, pilot extraordinaire!
To my publisher, James Fraser, and everyone at Pan Macmillan, love and thanks.
To my lawyer Ian Robertson with affection and admiration.
And to all those friends and advisors in Australia and Malaysia, including: James Ritchie, Dato’ Wong Sulong, Harold Speldewinde, PT (Puvi) Singam, Aidi Bin Abdullah, Lawrence Cheah, Barry Wain, Alison Fraser and Narelle McMurtrie at the Bon Ton Resort, Langkawi Island.
Prologue
Sarawak, 1960
IT WAS THE DUSTED light, sifting from the rainforest canopy that captivated her. In the green illumination the skyscraper trees, living columns bound in twisted vines, towered above the forest floor. Silence prevailed.
The woman, dressed in sturdy cotton slacks and shirt with camera and notebook at the ready, sat comfortably on the layer of rotting leaves where a seed sprouted at the base of a venerable tree. She no longer felt a stranger in this jungle nor was she afraid of being here alone.
She stared upwards to where, far above the floor of the forest, giant ferns, orchids and lichen proliferated on the trees, seeking a place in the sunlight. She still marvelled at the hundred shades of green; the variations of leaf shapes; fruits and seeds ripening to the moment of bursting; and the platoons of insects, birds and animals, small and large, busy at their daily task of survival.
She waited and listened for the faint shudder of branches, the rustle of leaves, the cracking of a small branch high above, that would announce the arrival of those she hoped to see. But the sounds that came to her were unexpected. They came from closer to the river, near the small trail that lead from the camp of tents and palm huts. She waited, holding her breath, thinking perhaps that it was one of the creatures she was yet to see, or perhaps a wandering pygmy rhino, a sun bear or a wild boar.
Then, through the trees, she saw silent movement and glimpsed the shape of two men. One was European, the other a shorter, darker man with the distinctive hair and profile that signalled that he was indigenous, but he was no one she recognised from the local Iban tribe.
She was about to rise to her feet when her attention was caught by the rattling of swaying treetops.
The two men also stopped, startled by the sound, and gazed upwards as a female orangutan, an infant clinging to her, swung to the next tree.
Thrilled by their arrival, the woman jumped to her feet, but then she stopped in horror.
The European was lifting a rifle, looking through its sights as he aimed skywards. The other man lifted the blow pipe he was carrying, ready to let loose a poison dart.
In Malay she shouted, ‘Stop! What are you doing?’
The men spun in shock and the orangutan and infant crashed through the trees out of sight.
The European, startled and angry, shouted at her. ‘Get away. What are you doing here?’
The woman strode forward, avoiding roots, pushing vines and branches aside as she made her way towards the men. ‘I am from Camp Salang. Who are you? You can’t shoot orangutans! They’re such beautiful