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Ann Turner
Ann Turner ( Wilson) Slim School 1952.
Slim School
The road is still rutted from yesterday afternoon’s heavy rains. Thick yellow mud has formed into long crusty gullies. I tread carefully along the widest one and breathe in the heavy clay-smelling air – I love that smell.
The morning mist drifts around, and even this early my clothes already feel hot and sticky. On either side of the road the jungle creeps right into the ruts. Vivid emerald, pale sage, shiny olive, delicate jade and a hundred other shades of green make the hacked back vegetation look as if someone has hurled giant pots of green paint everywhere. Local people, who live in open sided huts on stilts adjacent to the army camp, are cooking the morning meal on open fires. A mixture of spices, coconut oil and smoke from the cooking fires together with decomposing vegetation sweetened with fragrant jasmine frangipani and passion flower make an intoxicating assault on the senses.
Waiting for us at the end of the road inside a wire fence is a long line of armoured vehicles. We have reached the perimeter of the army camp – the guards have opened the gates for us to pass through. Some of them salute smartly while others come to help with luggage. The armoured vehicles are part of a convoy which will take us up to our school in the mountains. Other vehicles carry produce, equipment and locals who need protection from bandits who attack whenever they can. These bandits have been in the jungle since they fought the Japanese in the last war. They do not want the British in Malaya either so now they are fighting them. The convoy will take many hours as it climbs up and around snake-like bends through thick, jungle clad hills.
Odd –shaped boxes and cases lie on the hot tarmac, hockey sticks and tennis racquets strewn amongst them; children drift around saying goodbye to hot, uncomfortable-looking parents. I hang around until the last possible moment before clambering into that steel box oven.
Wooden benches run along each side of the armoured truck, with a channel up the middle for our feet. Above our heads on each side are three very small rectangular openings with steel shutters that can be clanged shut in case of attack. Air filters through a whirly ventilator in the roof.
Slowly we move off; we hear the soldiers calling cheerily to each other and I stand up to peek between the slats. At the side of the road at the open-fronted food stalls, the Chinese, Tamils and Malays are offering, for sale, slices of amber melon, golden durian and half coconuts filled with milky juice to the people in the convoy.
We start to climb and on one side where the land drops sharply from the road I can look down and see wave upon wave of violently green jungle without a dent in it and seemingly absolutely silent. No smoke or any sign of human habitation spoils the undulating sweep of the tree ocean.
As we near the halfway point, the air cools to a balmy, bearable temperature. The convoy rolls slowly to a halt. The soldiers jump from the vehicles, their boots making heavy thuds; their guns click ready as they rush into the little open shops, out through the backs, scaring the owners, their children and livestock, yelling orders to each other. They take their responsibilities very seriously, these young National Service soldiers. Most of them are only a few years older than we are, but in their green uniforms, jungle boots and carrying guns they look very grown up and comfortingly capable. I always hope that they will not capture anyone lurking about ready to open fire on us.
When all is deemed safe our truck doors are pulled down and the grinning soldiers help us down. I breathe deep breaths of glorious fresh air. No where else in the world smells as wonderful to me. All the exotic smells of the plains now fuse with tea bushes, eucalyptus and pine. For a while we are allowed to stand outside the truck – but not walk about. It feels good to stretch a bit. Some of the soldiers bring us cool lemonade – delicious!
Back in the steel box we go, but this time it is not quite as suffocating. Conversation flows more easily with increased physical comfort. What we did on vacation, what we will do this term and which pupils and teachers have returned to England, being the main topics.
. The small village of Tanah Rata is where the younger children leave us. They will spend their term, safely in the village at their own school. There are some tearful goodbyes from homesick infants to older siblings. They are not totally abandoned, however; during the term some of us will visit their school for various interactive functions. We are only a few miles away. Once in the village, the commercial trucks and passengers go their own way. They deliver much needed essentials to shops and restaurants or return to their own homes. Now we are a much reduced convoy – just us and a few supply trucks. We travel the last short distance more comfortably with the back of the truck open. The golf course comes into view bordered by pretty, English looking houses. The British use the Cameron Highlands as a hill station – a rest centre. In the past, before the war, rubber plantation owners escaped the humid heat of the plains to come here for vacation. They either built their own mock Tudor mansions or stayed at the “Smoke House Inn”. The Inn, also pseudo-Tudor, is where parents stay when visiting and where, we, if lucky, get taken to lunch.
As we continue the last leg of our journey, excitement grows as the river and bridge come into view. Over the bridge, a right turn, cliff to the left, valley on my right and there – there is the muddy hockey field: Oh! Bliss: we love that hockey field. Rumbling on, through the gate a smart sentry on each side in his guard box gives us a welcome salute and there it is; a long, low, brown wooden group of building which we will call home for the next three months. Built around three sides of a hardened mud square, the school is utilitarian and has no architectural or aesthetic appeal. What it does have, however, is a view of rolling hills; not the gentle hills of England but mammoth, jungle covered highlands that seem to go on forever. Behind the wooden structures the land drops sharply to a verdant valley, home to our pig farmer. I hope there are more piglets this term – we all buy shares in one of the sows. If she eats them our share value goes down.
We have a swimming pool – not a chlorine smelling indoor horror, but a sun-warmed iridescent pool under a small waterfall in the jungle. It’s quite an adventure when we do go - the whole lot of us go together. Armed soldiers leave just before us to make sure it’s safe; then, more soldiers escort us for the half hour trek. I always hope that we might catch a glimpse of the Orang Asli people. They are said to be very shy and tiny and live in the jungle – an indigenous tribe known for their skill with a blow pipe and poison arrows. They have never attacked us or any of the other local people – they use the arrows for hunting.
This school is named for General Sir William Slim and we all feel proud and privileged
to be here. As an army child I have been to many different schools but this one, where I will be
for the next two years, will always have a special place in my memory.