TOSS the fruit of the oil palm in your hand—a reddish-orange lozenge not much bigger than a chestnut—and it is difficult to imagine all the trouble it has caused. At Carey Island, an enormous plantation run by Sime Darby, a Malaysian grower, more than a million shady palm trees buttress Kuala Lumpur’s outermost sprawl. Workers with telescopic scythes cut down fruit bunches a bit bigger than footballs, which break into pieces on the ground. At an old, clanking mill, where the greasy nuggets are pressed and steam-sterilised, the air smells sweetly of syrup
TOSS the fruit of the oil palm in your hand—a reddish-orange lozenge not much bigger than a chestnut—and it is difficult to imagine all the trouble it has caused. At Carey Island, an enormous plantation run by Sime Darby, a Malaysian grower, more than a million shady palm trees buttress Kuala Lumpur’s outermost sprawl. Workers with telescopic scythes cut down fruit bunches a bit bigger than footballs, which break into pieces on the ground. At an old, clanking mill, where the greasy nuggets are pressed and steam-sterilised, the air smells sweetly of syrup
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