Prowling through Putrajaya

The road to Putrajaya snakes its way through a morass of blade-leaved ferns, pitcher plants and columnar tualangs.A troop of macaques mock me from the treetops as I peddle through the buzzing scrub.Monitor lizards watch me from their swampy lairs, bemused by the odd two-wheeled creature that has disturbed their wet slumber.
The miasmal language of the jungle, with its earthy codes and nectarous omens, is alien to my suburban senses.Yet, as the flock of myna birds take wing from the trees, so too does my memory. Tales from my grandfather blossom in my mind.Tales of the emergency years, when the forests of Malaya ran red with blood and Bolshevism.I begin to see the jungle in flickering newsreel sepia;a stygian maze where every hornbill hoot could be a call to open fire, and every crackling step could be your last.
As I wheel around the bend , imagining myself leading a motorcycle platoon into battle, a different kind of rustling erupts from the sun-speckled shade.Then, as if by some bomoh's magic, my fancying becomes flesh.
The snout of a shotgun parts a mass of ferns to reveal a group of rain-addled Malays brandishing fire-arms.The day's humidity turns to tundra ice as I slam on my breaks.
The largest of the men, pock-faced and barrel chested, saunters up to me. As he reaches into his khaki jacket,I can see my profile crowned by screaming headlines.I can hear the local tour guides enthral flower-shirted Americans with tales of my disappearance.
My eyes clenched shut, I wonder if I will even feel the kukri's arching slash.
"Why you come this way, lah?"
Prompted by the voice, I timidly open my eyes.The assassin is offering me an umbrella, a puzzled look etched upon his face.
"Rain come soon.Best you take this."
I offer my breathless thanks to the group of boar-hunters, shaking hands all around.
Beneath my wheels, I feel the craggy track melt into a smooth asphalt road as I ride off into a new jungle of mosque spires and taxi-cabs.