CHAPTER 15 The Planters' Association

CHAPTER 15
The Planters' Association
Ken Anderson was the chairman of The North Borneo Plantations Association for the year 1961. He banged on the card table with the gavel, which was his sole seal of office. "Before we start the meeting there is an important administrative announcement. Will you please place your last orders for drinks, with Ah How."
Ken was the senior manager of one of the largest rubber estates on the West Coast. To my rather youthful eyes, he looked quite elderly, as indeed did many of the other planters at the meeting. (Looking back, I suppose they were probably all aged between forty and fifty-five.) They were dressed informally, in open sports shirts, shorts and knee length stockings. The meeting was being held in the Jesselton Recreation Club. The room was already sweltering hot, and as the sun climbed directly over-head at mid-day, it would get even hotter. The ceiling fans whirred above our heads and through the open French windows, I could see the green of the Jesselton padang and the new Chinese shop houses beyond.
The Club Steward, the venerable Ah How padded silently around the room taking orders. Within minutes he returned with the assorted gin-and-tonics, brandy-gingers, whisky-stengahs, and Tiger Beers. The gavel banged on the table once again.
"The time being ten-thirty. I will call the meeting to order. Before we start on the agenda there are two items concerning membership to be dealt with. Today, we have a good-news, bad-news situation gentlemen. First the bad news. We have received resignations from yet two more member companies, whose plantations have been fragmented and sold off to Chinese smallholders. Later in the meeting I will be paying tribute to the two outgoing estate managers. Between them they have no less than forty-three years service in North Borneo. As some of you may know," he continued, " they are leaving on the MV Kimanis, which departs from the pier at 2.30 pm tomorrow. The Committee has decided to arrange their farewell party on board the ship, starting at eleven-thirty. You are all invited to attend, and I hope we will have a good turn-out."
"And now to the good news. We have received an application from a prospec­tive new member, Pamol North Borneo Ltd. This company, which is a subsidiary of Unilever, is developing Tungud Oil Palm Estate in the jungle between Mount Kinabalu and Sandakan. Pamol's application is interesting for two reasons. First, although CDC have replanted some of their abaca plantations with palms in the last year or two, Tungud will be the first oil palm estate ever, to be a member of this association. Secondly, this will be the Sabah Planter Association's first member from the Labuk region since the last tobacco estate closed down, in 1918." The Chairman took a long sip of his beer, wiped the film of sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief and continued. "As you know gentlemen, the rubber industry on the West Coast has been in a state of steady decline since the rubber price plummeted after the end of the Korean War. In view of the pace at which our plantations are being sold off or fragmented, I wonder how many of us in this room will still be operating in Borneo ten years from now? It is therefore very encouraging to all of us that Unilever should have sufficient faith in the future of the Colony to start on a long- term project of this nature. You all know the problems we are currently facing in the rubber industry. It is not impossible to think that, if the CDC and the Unilever projects are a success, palm oil could eventually come to replace rubber as the colony's major agricultural export. I have pleasure in proposing therefore that Pamol's application for membership should be accepted. Can I have a seconder please?"
Our application for membership was duly approved, and Ken then continued. "Tungud's representative on the association will be their general manager, Leslie Davidson, who is present at this meeting." Sixteen pairs of eyes were turned in my direction. I was suddenly conscious of the fact that I was the youngest person in the room, and probably younger than some of the assistants whom the managers had left back on their estates. The Chairman, perhaps thinking the same thought, kindly added "Mr Davidson has worked on oil palms for ten years in Africa and Malaya, and he was a planter in Central Johore during the Communist Emergency. I would like to welcome him to the North Borneo Planters' Association, and to wish him success in the new venture."
The membership matters dealt with, the Chairman and the Hon.Secretary proceeded to deal swiftly and efficiently with the rest of the agenda. I was impressed by the business-like way in which the meeting was conducted in spite of the heat and in spite of the amount of alcohol which was consumed. The meeting broke up around lunch time and was followed by an enormous curry tiffin.
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In the 1960's, with the nationalisation of the Ceylon tea plantations, the expulsion of the Dutch from Indonesia, and of the Belgians from Congo, and with the "Isation" of the tea and rubber estates in India and Malaya, the expatriate planters were in imminent danger of extinction. The North Borneo rubber planters were probably amongst the last of the old-style expatriate eastern planters. In my years in Sabah, I developed a great respect for them.
They lived on remote rubber estates, some of them connected to Jesselton only by the narrow-gauge railway line. Whilst on their estates, the planters worked hard. Rubber estates start tapping operations shortly after dawn, so that the tapping can be completed before the equatorial sun is hot enough to affect the flow of latex. After a morning in the field, supervising the tapping and the other agricultural tasks, the planter would be in the factory by noon to check on the latex deliveries and the subsequent rubber factory operations. The afternoon would be spent in the office.
With the increasing amount of government controls and agency house returns, there was a heavy load of administrative work, and few estate managers would be out of their offices before five or six pm.
There were hardly any European wives in those days, on the West Coast estates. Mrs Anderson, a strikingly beautiful woman, was, I remember, one of the few. A year or two later, after Ken retired, they ran a hotel in the Orkney Islands. Except on the few rubber estates, which were large enough to have assistants, the planter would be the only European on the property. Sometimes he had a local house-keeper to look after him. It was a lonely life and it is small wonder that when the planters got together in Jesselton to collect the monthly wages for the workers or to attend a Plantation Association meeting, they tended to let their hair down.
Over the years the planter has had a poor press. Some of the blame for this must surely lie with novelists like Somerset Maugham. Apparently, when he visited Borneo and Malaya in 1920 and in 1922, Maugham would get his young friend and companion, Gerald Haxton, to befriend expatriate drunks, mis-fits, and local down-and-outs in the bars of Kuala Lumpur, Singapore or Jesselton. Haxton would dredge up the more juicy bits of local gossip, and would bring these tit-bits back to Somerset Maugham for regurgitation in one of his short stories.
Many years later Maugham was to write, in one of his notebooks as, I suppose, some sort of apology, "The reader must not suppose that the incidents I have narrated were of common occurrence. The vast majority of these people, government servants, planters and traders were ordinary people, ordinarily satisfied with their station in life. They did the jobs they were paid to do more or less com­petently. They were good, decent, normal people. I respect and even admire such people, but they are not the sort of people I can write stories about." The last sentence reads suspiciously like the philosophy of a paparazzi, "Never mind the truth. Let's find a bit of dirt to write about."
I found it amusing when Somerset Maughan in another of his published note­books said that planting was one of the jobs, which seemed to require no education or experience. Based on my knowledge of the rubber planters on the West Coast, characters like Bob Balantine, Reg Lawes, Hornet Williams, Ken Anderson, Graham Steele, Archie Findlay, Neville Williamson and others, nothing could be further from the truth. To start with, the manager of a plantation needs to have a sound knowledge of current trends in tropical agriculture and he must be fully experienced in the husbandry of his particular crop. He must be familiar with the different leaf, trunk and root diseases, and with the insect and animal pests which affect his crop, and he must know what action to take in the event of an attack.
He must be able to recognise all the major nutritional deficiency symptoms of the rubber tree, and he must have sufficient knowledge of soil-science and fertilising to take action to remedy these. He must be able to plan and construct drainage and road systems. He must have a knowledge of building techniques since he will have to design and construct a wide range of buildings. He must have a reasonable knowledge of town-planning since he will have to supervise the layout of his workers villages, including the sanitation and electrical system. The rubber estate manager is usually directly in charge of the factory. He requires therefore a
sound knowledge of process-control, practical engineering, vehicle repair and maintenance, and materials handling.
All of the above refers only to one aspect of the planter's job. A very large part of his duties is related to the recruiting, training, and management of his labour force and staff. An average sized rubber estate would have a total labour-force of perhaps five hundred workers. These workers live, along with their wives and families, on the estate. They do not leave their work in the evening and return the following morning like workers in a manufacturing business. Their well-being and welfare is therefore the responsibility of the estate manager for twenty-four hours a day. He must have an extensive knowledge of their language and customs, as well as a large measure of compassion and common-sense.
A manager in a manufacturing company, in charge of a labour force of five hundred would undoubtedly have the services of a range of specialists such as personnel officers, work-study experts, builders, architects, company-lawyers, and so on, ready to call on. The planter, because of his isolation, deals with all of such matters on his own. To manage an estate proficiently takes years of training and experience. The average estate manager will usually have served an apprenticeship of ten years or more as an assistant or a divisional manager, directly responsible to his estate manager for perhaps a thousand acres of rubber trees, and for a labour force of two or three hundred workers.
All of this applies equally of course to the new breed of planter, namely the Malaysians who took over when the expatriates moved on. The planters' profes­sional body in South East Asia is the ISP, (The Incorporated Society of Planters.) To become an Associate, requires the passing of examinations in one or more of the local languages, Malay, Tamil or Chinese. It requires passes in examinations in Soil Science, Botany, Surveying, Estate Book-keeping, and Estate Practice.
When in the fullness of time, I became the chairman of Unilever Platations International, I interviewed and recruited many planters of many races, in different parts of the world. I can say with some confidence that Somerset Maugham, from what I have heard of him, would never, if he were still alive, have had the ghost of a chance of getting employment with us. I do not think he would have lasted a week as a planter.
On the Monday morning, I was due to have a meeting with the Chief Secretary who was standing in for the Governor during his absence on leave. I therefore stayed in Jesselton for the weekend and was able to attend the farewell party for the two retiring planters on the Sunday. The Kennedys were on leave and I was invited to stay with the Harrisons & Crosfields' manager Sandy Guy and his Australian wife Peggy. We all went down together to the M.V.Kimanis at noon. It turned out to be a memorable occasion. Due to the happy coincidence of the Planters' Association meeting being held the previous day, virtually every planter in the colony had turned up. One or two were looking a bit frayed around the edges even before the start of the party.
A few colonial officers were also leaving on retirement on the same ship. Consequently groups of well-wishers from their various departments had come to see them off. The officials and the planters were gathered, glasses in hand, around the departing officers, with much back-slapping and good fellowship. The babble of voices was punctuated from time to time by the popping of champagne corks and the equatorial sun sparkled on the vivid blue waters of Gaya Bay. The police band had been brought out for the occasion. They played selections from Gilbert and Sullivan under an awning on the deck. It was an idyllic, rather Edwardian, scene. Noel Coward would have felt completely at home.
It was not very often that the planters and the colonial officers got together at an unofficial gathering of this kind. Both groups had seen their numbers dwindling over the past months. There was a feeling in the air that an era was drawing to a close. The ship was scheduled to sail at 2.30pm. However, for some technical reason, its departure was delayed until 4.30 pm. The party continued therefore for much longer than planned and, in the intense heat, the drinks flowed freely. No one seemed inclined to leave. After an hour or two, the various groups had all merged into one large party. More toasts were proposed to each of the departing passengers and even to some of the startled tourists who had joined the ship in Singapore for the round trip.
It was oppressively hot in the crowded saloon. I went up on deck to cool off in the slight breeze coming off the sea. I was leaning over the ship's rail, when I was joined by Donald Stevens. After our first meeting at lunch with the Governor, I had taken up Donald's invitation to visit him at his newspaper office, and I had met him and his brother Ben, on a few other occasions. Donald, as the leader of the Kadazan Party, was up till then, the only local citizen I had met who seemed to have the remotest trace of political consciousness. The general lack of interest in independence in North Borneo had come as a surprise to me. Having been in Malaya in 1957 during the Merdeka celebrations and having only very recently been working in Nigeria during the run-up to Independence, it was very much to the forefront of my mind.
"Look Donald," I said, "In Scotland, every schoolchild learns stories about William Wallace and his struggles against the English for independence. I wonder what folk-tales are going to be told about your struggle for independence?"
"But we have no intention of struggling for independence" said Donald. " Tell me," he continued, "how many Kadazan doctors, or engineers do you know? Until we can raise the educational level amongst the Kadazans we are in no rush. We are happy for the colonial government to continue to hold an umbrella over us until we are ready for independence. Maybe in another ten years or so."
After a few glasses of champagne, I was in fine fettle for taking a broad look at the grand sweep of history. "Donald, there is no exam to see if a country is ready for independence. Do you think that Congo or even Nigeria were ready? It comes whether you are ready or not, as soon as the colonial power loses interest. That is what is happening in Britain today."
"But what has all this to do with your friend William Wallace?" Donald asked.
"Well if you were to play your cards right you could become the William Wallace of Sabah," I suggested. "Look, I happen to know that there are lots of statues of Queen Victoria in little towns all over India. No one wants them there. We could buy a job-lot very cheap and get them erected on the town padangs of Jesselton, and Sandakan. You could then get together with some friends, tog your­selves out in masks and camouflage jackets and blow them up. I don't think anyone would mind very much, except for Special Branch of course. It would give them something to do. You could probably arrange it in advance with the Governor. It would be good fun, and I guarantee that in future history books, it will go down as the start of the wars of independence; something like the Boston Tea-Party." Donald chuckled heartily, and we left the deck to go back to the saloon for another drink.
Three years later, after Sabah had become a State of Malaysia, with Tun Mustapha as the Head of State, and Donald Stevens, (then Tun Fuad Stephens) as its first Chief Minister, there was an investiture in Government House. Donald, presented me with the ASDK. As I leaned forward to have it hung round my neck, he whispered "Are there still any spare statues of Queen Victoria going cheap these days Leslie?"
But, to return to the party on the Kimanis, things were going rather too well. I have a confused recollection that a Scotsman had materialised with a set of bag­pipes. The hours winged by. No one showed the slightest desire to leave. The Captain, no longer quite so genial, approached Sandy Guy with a worried expres­sion. "You realise Sandy that we must leave the quay by 4.30 at the very latest. Can you help me to persuade our guests that it is time to disembark?" H&C were the agents for Straits Steamship Co. and I suppose it was for just such an occasion as this that they received their handling fee. Sandy banged on the bar with an empty bottle. "Time Gentlemen please," he bellowed. The effect was less than dramatic. The Captain was muttering about such technicalities, as low tide, minimum draft etc., but no one seemed to share his concern. Eventually Sandy got the band to strike up 'Auld Lang Syne.'
This at last triggered a response, and there was a general drift towards the gang-way. Departure was now imminent. The gangway was being raised, when it was noticed that my good friend Joe Berwick, the Director of Agriculture had not yet disembarked. He appeared momentarily at the prow of the ship, a bottle in one hand. He waved happily to the crowd below, and disappeared, pursued by several of the crew. Eventually they ambushed him. The gangway was lowered again and Joe still waving his bottle was frog-marched down by a couple of deck hands. The mooring ropes were cast off fore and aft. The Kimanis engines throbbed powerful­ly. The ship started to move slowly away. The police band, lined up on the pier, was playing Auld Lang Syne for the third time, and everyone was waving goodbye to the departing passengers.
Joe stood, swaying slightly, between Sandy Guy and myself. "Must have a pee!" he muttered, with a note of desperation. Both Sandy and I were similarly
afflicted. The problem was that the Jesselton pier was a good five hundred yards long and the public toilet was at the other end. Fortunately, all eyes were on the Kimanis. The three of us surreptitiously edged behind some sacks of copra stacked on the other side of the pier, and unzipped. Three streams arched gracefully into the blue waters of the harbour below. Blessed relief! The Captain blew a thunderous farewell blast on the ship's horn. Sandy and I instinctively half turned our heads. There was a splash from below. We turned back. The Director of Agriculture had disappeared. His balding head broke the surface fifteen feet below. "It's great," he shouted, "Come on in!"
Joe's shouts attracted the attention of the crowd. Sandy and I furtively zipped up as they swarmed around us pointing and yelling. Some busybody flung a substantial cork lifebuoy into the water. It narrowly missed Joe's head. He shook his fist, and struck out further away from the pier. There were a few further moments of drama whilst a launch came out and unceremoniously hauled him aboard. Alex Campbell, the general manager of the Rubber Fund Board volunteered to take Joe back home with him for a few hours until he was feeling more robust.
We believed that was the end of the excitement for the day. I went back with my hosts. About 9 p.m. Sandy's phone rang. It was Alex. Was Joe with us? Apparently Alex had, as promised, taken Joe home with him, wrapped him in a sarong and put him into his spare bedroom to sleep it off. An hour or two later he had been surprised to hear the sound of his Land Rover being driven off. He caught a glimpse of Joe, dressed only in a colourful sarong, steering an erratic route, out through the front gate. Alex had already phoned the police, the hospital, and quite a number of Joe's friends, but had drawn a blank.
The mystery was solved, for me at any rate, the next morning at the Secretariat. It was customary for any plantation representative meeting the Governor or the Acting Governor officially, to be accompanied by the Director of Agriculture. At 7.30am therefore, on the Monday morning, feeling none too bright, I called at the wooden building which housed the Agricultural Department offices. To my astonishment Joe was sitting at his desk, looking in remarkably good shape for a man whom we expected to turn up in the hospital at the very least. "Have you seen Alex Campbell anywhere?" he asked me. "I found his Land Rover in my garage this morning. Alex takes a heavy dram sometimes you know. Probably he got a bit pickled last night and didn't want to risk driving it home."
"What did you do last night?" I asked him.
"Nothing very exciting, I went round to the Chief Secretary's house for a rubber of bridge, as I do most Sunday evenings. Actually I was a bit tired after that party on the Kimanis yesterday afternoon. I don't remember much about it to tell the truth. Am I right in thinking that we all went down to the beach for a swim after­wards?"
Together Joe and I went across to the Governor's office. We were ushered into the presence of the Chief Secretary. He greeted me cordially enough, but he seemed a bit frosty with his Director of Agriculture.
I was so pleased that you remembered our bridge party last night, Berwick. I would be grateful however if you would take the trouble to wear something rather less informal than a sarong for our game next Sunday."