The Boot Camp

I've heard that in the Navy, the lowest from of life there is is the cadet. Followed closely by that stuff that grows under the ships. Then flies, cockroaches, etc.

Cadet life is governed by a strict regimental routine. You wake up when you're told. You iron your shirt the way you're taught. You move as a platoon. Even at mealtime, there's a protocol in place.

Being an officer in the Navy Reserve, Mike vividly remembers his first boot camp. Sweaty, stressful and sleepless. Tho now he smiles to himself when he recalls the experience, it was definitely two of the worst weeks of his life.

Mike's cousin who is an officer in the Navy Regular had told him about the horrors of mess etiquette before, but that didn't prepare him for that Monday afternoon. It was the first official day of boot camp, and the Red Division arrived outside the dining hall in orderly rows of three after a whole morning of drills and classes. They were informed that lunch that afternoon would be conducted in mess etiquette.

Mess etiquette is a naval tradition which both Mike and I agree is like walking on eggshells. As if it weren't bad enough that you were tired and hungry, you had to observe a strict set of rules and protocols from before you enter the dining hall right up to the point you leave.

You request to the senior officer to enter the hall. You request to take a seat. Your chair does not make a sound when you sit. You request to say a prayer. You request to start eating, but you don't move a muscle until the senior officer touches his food. You eat in pin drop silence. If your cutlery makes a noise, not-so-nice things happen to you.

The 1pm sun was vertical in the sky. All 42 cadets of the Red Division were shiny and dripping with sweat, their feet steaming up inside black leather shoes on the scorching hot tar road. They were six minutes late, so the Officer On Duty had them do six push ups and remain in the push up position until he said.

You know the feeling when you unknowingly touch a hot iron? Before you even feel the blinding flash of heat, your hand pulls back. Now imagine having to keep your hand on the iron for a whole minute. Mike could feel the skin on his palms cooking.

Once back on their feet, they could proceed with the mess etiquette lunch. Mike was the squad leader for Red Division that day, and it was his duty to do all the requesting on behalf of his division.

Mike had read through the mess etiquette script in the training manual (yes, there's a script), and being relatively good in English (or 'speakang' as the others would call him), he had no problem carrying out his task in textbook fashion. The OOD even wordlessly clapped him on the shoulder as a silent congratulation.

Eating was still an ordeal. Not making a sound is unbelievably complex when you are using stainless steel fork and spoon on a porcelain plate. And for dessert, which I think is the mother of cruel jokes, you are served with half an apple which you are supposed to consume noiselessly with your fork and spoon.

Seated next to Mike was Azie, a girl from Kemaman, Terengganu. She sat looking at her apple halve like it were a Rubik's Cube. Still smug from his stint as squad leader, Mike gladly offered to help her with the fruit.

He had transferred it to his plate and was cutting it down with the meticulousness of a French chef when *Ptinnnng!* The entire room froze.

"Haa! Sape tu?!" the OOD demanded. He was a square-jawed six-footer with a body like a young Malik Noor. And his shiny name tag broadcast his name: 'RADZI'

Every cadet's head was bowed, but all eyes scanned the room for the culprit. If nobody confessed, they would all get it. Mike raised his right hand.

"Excuse me, sir." Not a hint of fear in his voice. Under the table, he could feel his leg twitching.

"Engkau?!" Radzi yelled. "Kau makan bawah meja!"

Mike's heart sank into his stomach. He picked up his plate and crawled under the table. This was embarassing. He looked at the food on his plate. Then at all the black leather shoes around him, smelling of scorched shoe polish and sweat.

Two minutes later came another *Ptinnnng!*

"Eks-kews me, sir." a familiar voice squeaked.

Azie with her plate joined Mike on the floor under the table. Looks like her mastery with the fork and spoon couldn't overcome the intricacy of the chicken wing, either.

"Saya tak lalu makan la, Mike." she whispered.

"Weih, air hang tak bawak skali ke?" Mike remembered he had left his glass on top of the table. His thirst was catching up with him.

"Amboi! Syoknya dating kat bawah meja!" A box shaped head peered under the table at them. "Korang dua makan kat luar!"

Sitting cross-legged on the hot tar road, plate in one hand, apple halve in the other, sun mercilessly beating down, Mike looked over at Azie. He wished he had signed up for the Air Force Reserve instead.

The Lab Report

"I want your lab reports handwritten and submitted today," Professor Jabir said, wrapping up the lab session.

There was an uneasy silence among the five sweat-drenched figures standing in a semi-circle in front of Prof Jabir. They had spent the last two hours on their feet, taking data off a steam power generator. The system occupied half the lab and had been a bitch to work with, considering that it was a hot afternoon to begin with. Nobody told the poor sods that studying Mechanical Engineering was gonna suck this bad.

The five guys looked at each other, each expecting the next guy to speak up. Finally all eyes turned to Mike.

"Aw, crap." Mike thought to himself. He was the most diplomatic of the group, and besides, even if he did get shot down, it would be okay cos he didn't really have much dignity to lose anyway.

"Uh, Professor," Mike broke the tension. "Would it be possible for us to hand in our reports tomorrow? It's going to take a few hours to do the necessary calculations and plot the graphs for an accurate report. We really wouldn't want to keep you waiting."

Prof Jabir looked at his watch with the expression of an art critic examining a painting. It was 5.15pm.

Prof Jabir was a small man - a whole head shorter than Mike and I, in fact. But what he lacked in height, he made up for with the intimidating way in which he carried himself. He was extremely brilliant and dedicated to his work - prolly picked up from eleven years of study in Japan - and he made sure everyone knew it. He was in his mid-30s and still a virgin, I'm pretty sure.

"I tell you what, Mr Stone," Prof Jabir looked up at Mike. "When I step into my office at 7.30 sharp tomorrow morning, I expect to see five lab reports of quality that's worthy of my time - ready and waiting for me."

More than once, Mike had caught himself wondering how far this man would fly if Mike dropkicked him. 

* * *

"14 hours to go, bro. All the time in the world!" Shazni Hafizi was Mike's lab mate and brother from another mother. He was the quintessential Malaysian frat boy.

"And you know what's even better?" Mike said. "My seniors handed me down samples from previous years' lab reports!"

"Caya lah, Mike!" Fizi's eyes widened. "We do together. And no wasting time. Focus is the key."

But of course, since it had been a long and tedious day, they both rationalised that it was important for them to unwind first and start work after dinner. So much for 'no wasting time'.

It was 10.05pm when Mike showed up at Fizi's hostel room. No sign of the guy - must be on a park bench somewhere feeling up his girlfriend. He had left his laptop running, so Mike figured he'd do something productive with his time while waiting. 

He picked up one of Fizi's plug-in game controllers and turned on Pro Evolution Soccer 2008.

* * *

"Hang main cam haram la, Mike." It was almost 11.30pm when Fizi showed up. "Aku rasa hang lawan kambing rumah nenek aku pun boleh kalah."

Fizi picked up the other controller and pulled up a chair. Mike switched the option to 2-Player mode. So much for 'focus is the key'.

"Lab report aper citer?" Mike asked, eyes still stuck on the screen.

"Alaa... 8 hours to go, bro." Fizi said, selecting his team. "All the time in the world!"

* * *

"Screw this." Mike finally said, putting down the controller. His eyeballs were numb and the muscles in his thumbs felt like they were pumping acid. Fizi strained his eyes to read the clock at the bottom of the screen.

"6 and a half hours to go, bro." Fizi quipped. "All the time in the world!"

"Screw this game and screw you," Mike got up. His ass was numb too. "I'll get started on my report first. Come get it from me at 4 o'clock."

Fizi was a black belt at plagarising without making it look like it was plagarised. So much for 'we do together'.

"Aiya, playing against the computer sucks la,"

"Then call your nenek's kambing to come play with you,"

* * *

Tyra Banks moved like a python in heat, doing her belly dance routine. She made her way towards Mike and slowly unzipped his jeans, never once breaking eye contact. As her hand boldly ventured in, there was a sound of knocking wood.

"That's odd." Tyra said.

Mike awoke. The knocking at his door got louder. In the darkness, he groped the bedside for his handphone. The LCD clock showed 5.23am. Somebody had better be dying.

He opened his room door to find Fizi standing at attention.

"Comrade Mikhail!" Fizi saluted.

"This guy's the biggest jabroni I've met in a long time," Mike tought to himself, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Finished." Fizi held up both his report and Mike's. Mike was temporarily rendered speechless. He couldn't believe he got woken up for this.

"Oh, wow! That's just amazing! I'm so happy for you!"

"Come on, laa. Let's go slip it under Jabir's door."

"You woke me up for this? Why don't you go yourself?"

There was a pause. And Mike knew what was coming.

"Aku takut la bro." Fizi pleaded. "Even during the day I'm afraid of going near the guy's office."

Mike took a moment to confer with his Jiminy Cricket.

"I could tell this clown to bugger off and go back to my warm mattress. Tyra Banks. Belly dancing. But that means neither mine nor his report report is going to get handed in."

"However, this clown is after all my bro, and this is his darkest hour. It's my duty to stand at his side through this. It's Spartan Law!"

"Tyra can wait another half hour, I guess." Mike thought to himself as he picked up his helmet and put on his slippers. "And I need to stop watching 300 so often."

By the time Fizi's motorcycle pulled up outside the Faculty of Mechanical Engineering, Mike was kicking himself for not putting on a sweater. The early morning air was moist and freezing cold, his lungs felt heavy when he inhaled.

The entire building was pitch dark inside. You can make fun of Asian horror movies all you want, but put in a situation like that, you catch your mind mentally bracing yourself in case you see a pale girl with long black hair levitating in the long windowless corridor ahead.

Mike and Fizi whipped out their handphones to light their way. As they made their way to the stairway that leads up to the lecturers' offices, Fizi asked: "Mike, you know Kak Fira, the admin clerk?"

"Who doesn't?" Fira was a demure looking kampung girl who wore the kebaya in such a way that it let your imagination do the work. Definately a head turner.

"Late one evening," Fizi said, "She got assaulted by a hantu pochong on this very stairway."

Mike closed his eyes. Warm mattress... Tyra Banks... Belly dancing...

The Roadblock

The traffic policeman waved them to the side. Mike slowed down his black Modenas Kriss 100 and stopped at the traffic roadblock. In the state where there are more motorcycles than any other vehicle - and where Mat Rempit is a way of life, not a social fad - traffic road blocks are the norm.

Mike and his passenger instinctively got off without being told. The policeman eyeballed them both from head to toe. Without missing a beat, Mike popped open the seat to reveal his laminated road tax bolted underneath.

The policeman peered at it. It was good for another 3 weeks. As he was inspecting the road tax, Mike whipped out his wallet and handed over his driver's license. The policeman stared at Mike again before accepting the license. This kid was no newbie.

"Ni dari mana ni?" the policeman asked, looking at Mike's license. It was the first time any of them had spoken.

"Tengok movie tadi, cik." Mike replied. Nonchalant.

"Tengok movie?" There was a hint of something sinister in the policeman's voice. "Number plate kamu ni tak ikut peraturan. Kesalahan besar tu." 

"Fuck" Mike cursed in his head. "No fuckin' way I'm gonna beg,"

Both Mike and I had seen our share of dudes begging traffic policemen to let them off with a warning. It's never a pretty sight. Anyone who tells you  they 'kautim' with the cops to let them off is not telling you that by 'kautim' they mean putting their cool aside and putting up a sorry face, going "Tolonglah cik" over and over again.

The policeman waited for a response. Mike nodded without saying anything. Like a kid who knows he did wrong, accepting a scolding from his parent.

The policeman was in his forties. The patch on his arm ranked him as a corporal and his name tag read SUHAIMI. It must have been a busy day for Korperal Suhaimi cos he smelled like cigarette smoke and dried sweat. But his shirt collar was plywood stiff and his PVC boots still showroom shiny. 

"Bila kamu buat ni?" Korperal Suhaimi asked, eying the front number plate. The characters had to be block shaped, but instead they were rounded at the edges.

"Ni motor second hand, cik." Mike said "Masa beli memang dah macamtu."

"Dah tahu salah, apasal tak tukar?" he prodded.

"Baru dua minggu beli ni."

He'd had that bike for close to 7 months.

"Lagipun ni first time kena tegur. Tak tahu pulak ni salah besar."

This was the third time it had been pointed out to him at a traffic road block.

"Semua dah buat makluman dah. Takde alasan tak tahu." The corporal was getting agitated "Ni kena saman ni."

"Aiseh, kalau saman, leceh cik" Mike lowered his voice but kept his cool. " Kami studen lagi, duit biasiswa belum masuk."

They had got their money at the beginning of the semester, a good month and a half before.

Korperal Suhaimi hesitated when he heard 'studen'. An almost unnoticable smile creeped across Mike's face in the akward pause that followed. Being a student means you get pity points from the police. And the government university sticker on the side of his bike almost always got Mike off scott free.

"Tu kamu boleh buat rayuan kat mahkamah nanti," Korperal Suhaimi broke the silence. "Sini IC kamu." he demanded.

"Goddamnit!" Mike thought to himself. But he kept his poise. This man he was dealing with is an unshakeable rock, and Mike was gonna pull all the stops on this dude's ass, without having to resort to begging. He had one last card to play, literally in his pocket.

He took out his MyKad and his BAT C20 along with it. BAT C stands for 'Borang Angkatan Tentera C". It was his reserve military identification card. If this didn't do the trick, nothing would.

The corporal looked at both, looked at Mike, and gave him back the BAT C20. He went to get his summons pad.

"God's last name really must be Damnit" Mike thought. He felt cold sweat on the back of his neck watching Korperal Suhaimi write the summon. 

"Three hundred ringgit is a lot to pay for keeping my dignity," Mike figured. "I was hoping it would cost a bit less."

Looking back, Korporal Suhaimi wasn't an unreasonable man. I bet he's prolly a decent dude, just that he wasn't feeling particularly gracious with Mike that day.

And the fact that it was 3am and Mike's passenger was a demure looking Malay girl prolly didn't help much.