Orang Asli


Speeding through the Cameron Hills,
I encounter a family, clad sparse
talking a different dialect,
behaving strange.

It is eleven in the morning
the man, an Orang asli
sells fresh honey.
Jetto, greets with the coloured
warm toothy smile  He smells fish
The  natural aroma of honey out beats the pungency.

His wife, a wee neater, spreads
hand crafted baskets and boxes.
The  bamboo products  are weaves of craft.

I interview them, cross the code of conduct.
Get personal.  Demand the house number,
age and earnings. Question his skills.

Over indulgence.

Jetto shoots back.
with a guffaw,  house number?
qualification? His wife  throws
an all knowing grin.

His answer petrifies. “The jungle
is my home. I am daring, adventurous
These are my credentials.
Want anything more?”

Jetto grows large in stature.
An eclectic in spirit.

I stand degraded.

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