The Road to Nowhere
Far away, hidden deep in the interior, lie three palm oil estates — one on a hill, one by a river, and one in the middle of a swamp, or loagan as the locals call it. These plantations were developed in the early 1990s by a well-known government-linked company (GLC).
Even today, there is still no paved road to reach them. The only access is a dusty, bumpy trail that cuts across several estates owned by prominent companies. Amir always says, “We are at the end of the road, in the land people call jin bertendang — the place where even spirits hesitate to live.”
Planters have their own saying: they take a remote jungle, a so-called haunted land, and turn it into a township as modern as Kuala Lumpur. And once it prospers, new settlers — the “black-haired spirits” — arrive to reap the benefits.
Lapok: The Old Town
The nearest small town is Lapok — a name that, like The Old Bachelors (Bujang Lapok), reflects its weary character. In the dry season, the streets are choked with dust. In the rains, flash floods drown it within hours.
No wonder the estates of hill, river, and swamp became constant discussion at headquarters — yields were low. Yet Amir knew the real culprit was not laziness or incompetence, but geography itself.
The hill was too steep for efficient planting.
The river was rising every year, its bed clogged with silt from uncontrolled logging upstream — legal and illegal.
The swamp drowned roots whenever floods hit, turning stands of palms into sleeping soldiers lying in the mud.
Disputed Land, Complicated Claims
On paper, the estates were on state land, handed to the GLC for development. But once fruit bunches began to ripen, villagers appeared with claims.
“This is our ancestral land.”
“My grandfather planted here first.”
Some claims were genuine. Many were opportunistic. The disputes piled up in courtrooms, an endless cycle of truth and falsehood tangled together.
The Mill in the Middle of Nowhere
Eventually, when there was enough fruit, a palm oil mill was built in the heart of the hill, river, and swamp. From then on, trucks rolled in daily, unloading harvests to be crushed, sterilized, and pressed.
But life here was never simple.
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Workers endured floods and long separations from families.
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Theft surged when palm oil prices spiked — outsiders trespassed and cut fruit as if the estate belonged to them.
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Social tensions brewed with locals who used the same paths to reach their villages.
Amir’s job was not only to keep machines running, but also to train and uplift local workers so they could compete with staff from more established estates.
Sacrifices in the Wilderness
Managers came and went. Each left a mark, each faced the same challenges. But all who served here deserved recognition. To survive in the hill, river, and swamp meant:
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Sacrificing family time.
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Enduring loneliness and isolation.
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Wrestling with machines, nature, and bureaucracy.
Amir knew it took more than technical skill to thrive here — it took resilience, patience, and faith.
Legacy of a Harsh Land
Today, outsiders still shake their heads: “Why bother with such a place? It will never match the yields of lowland estates.”
But those who lived and worked here know better. They know the beauty hidden in hardship. They know the pride of turning mud into life.
And Amir smiles when asked about this land:
“Is it beautiful? Yes. Is it fertile? Sometimes. Is it unique? Always. But only those who have lived here — who have fought floods, mud, and isolation — have the right to tell its story.”
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