I wrote this as a small favour to a friend, Captain Mohd Kamil Abu Bakar. He's an airline pilot and former Malaysia Airlines Director of Flight Operations or DFO. I'm not sure what a DFO does daily but I can imagine the scale and urgency of his job with more than 1000 pilots under his watch, not to mention all the stewardesses.
Retired and rich, Kamil now loves to read and write. He'd read, write, read, write, write, in that order. Poke him with one question, he'll hit back with rolls of response. A manic writer, he's published six books in the past four years, just one book shy of the world record held by Stephen King. Only he doesn't write about manic subjects, you know, poltergeists, psychics, graveyards, cars, maids.
His books are collections of true stories from his flying years and his action-packed schooldays. He's a proud Old Putra or OP, meaning he went to RMC and came out in one complete piece. A top student, he was selected to do medicine. But he opted for pilot training, figuring that it would take him two years to get a flying certificate but 22 years for a medical degree. A no-brainer.
Now for more good news. He's embarking on his seventh book. Tentatively titled "Aviation Stories", it's another anthology of aviation stories, what else. All are edge-of-your-seat stuff, he assured me. I did marketing research as a student many years ago and I still closely follow branding and packaging trends. You won't sell many books with technical titles like that. It's like naming your pet cat "pet" or "cat". "The Pilot Who Sold A 380 To A Monk" will sell better. But it's him and his book, so I wouldn't want to interfere.
It was all prim and proper until he got me involved. He wanted me to contribute a story. I was dumbfounded, I mean, he has hundreds of better-looking friends or families he could turn to. Anything on aviation, he said, from a non-airman perspective. I delayed and dithered for weeks to find anything inspiring to tell people. Finally I hit a spark of genius and decided to write a story around my first flight.
Apparently Kamil had engaged his brother to edit his book. My piece had to go through this bro, no exception. The last time I had my work edited was way back in Form Five when Mr Tan, my English teacher, corrected my English. He used a cheap red pen to violently delete the word "dilapidated" and he warned me to never ever show off again. This minor trauma would live on through the later years, keeping me religiously on the side of the straight and safe English.
Kamil sent me the edited version and I wasn't too pleased. This editor brother had to be one of those old-school Fowler's grammar geeks. I thought my original version was sharper and faster. I'd written " in 1979, only MAS flew to Kota Kinabalu". It was edited as "in 1979, only MAS operated flights to Kota Kinabalu". I told Kamil I was writing a story, not a product manual.
Anyway, here's the unedited and slightly expanded version of " My First Flight".
The first time I flew was in June 1979. That was 45 years ago. No, I'm not a pilot. I flew as a full-paying and full-fare passenger.
I was two months into my gig as a Trainee Executive with Petronas when my manager thought I was already good enough to tag along on a business trip to Kota Kinabalu. There'd been only one practical way to travel to Sabah - by air. In 1979, only Malaysian Airline System or MAS flew to Kota Kinabalu.
Since it was an official trip, my flight and accommodation were all organized by the company. There was a ticketing section or something whose only job was to book flights and hotels for staff. It was a thankless job because staff were all talented and dynamic and they changed dates and directions for fun. You'd to be nice to the ticketing people or you'd end up in a dodgy hotel with a Chinese name.
I was writing a project proposal when an office boy in blue uniform popped in out of the blue to hand my flight ticket. I dropped my pen and project, and quickly grabbed it. I'd never seen a flight ticket all my life. It was actually a few pieces of printed paper hastily stapled together.
The first name on the ticket was my father's name, so I thought it was a mistake. The office boy had disappeared in a flash, leaving me helpless. (I'd learn later that it's his job to appear and quickly disappear like that).
The day before my first flight, I was edgy and all over, probably more nervous than a pilot on his maiden flight. I can't recall the flight number, but it was slated for departure at 12.30 in the afternoon. I woke up at 4 in the morning to shower and get dressed. The little commotion was enough to stir up my two room-mates. "Hang nak mampoih ka?" They mumbled in their half-sleep.
The old Subang Airport was an uncomplicated, frills-free and fully functional two-storey structure. There wasn't much architecture and character to speak of. The airport was pretty much what it was - an airport. It was busier than a wet market, with throngs of people milling around, laughing and loud. An important minister and party leader was leaving for some place, and that explained the merrymaking.
At the check-in counter, a fine-looking lady smiled and I was only 26 with nice shoes, hairdo and all. Tearing away the first piece of my ticket, she asked for my seating preference. No, not window or aisle. It was smoking or non-smoking, you've to believe this. Those were the free-wheeling days, when anybody could fly and fry. It was easy to fall for the fallacy of the cool and manly Marlboro Man. I'd come to my senses a few years later and quit cold turkey.
Oh, the lady issued the boarding pass and I was good to go.
While waiting at the boarding area, I could see the flight crew making their way well ahead of all of us. Somehow they seemed to walk faster and they also talked faster but in loud whisper. I supposed they'd been trained not only to look eager and competent but also to keep their secrets.
Two of them, in white short sleeves with stripes and colours, had to be the pilot and co-pilot. Pilots are not allowed to fear heights for the same reason plumbers can't be scared of shower heads. I guess it's quite alright if pilots are scared of plumbers. Sorry for this silly banter. The point is, I wasn't that good with heights and this being my first flight, I wished the pilots were bringing along a flight counselor or psychologist to trick passengers like me into believing that flying is fun.
Apparently you don't have to be big and strong to be a pilot. After all it's pilot, not pirate. The two guys were only slightly taller and heavier than me. I don't know whether a pilot's job is actuallly more challenging than driving a manual car on the Federal Highway. At least the pilots have the comfort of real or trained co-pilots. We only have our wives, generally untrained and unreal, to navigate us through. No wonder pilots are calmer and they rarely swear, if ever.
But, according to another pilot friend, Capt Haniff (ex-Malaysia Airlines and another OP), it's also critical for a pilot to have soft skills like communication and good eye contact to keep his crew consistently happy and motivated. "I must take good care of my crew" he insisted. "Yes, why not" I just played along. He accused me of lacking empathy.
Deep in my schooldays, we'd be whiling away watching cheap matinees and reading fast-paced paperbacks in between cruel Chemistry classes. I'd be fantasizing about playing crazy characters, from a gunslinging lawman in the Wild West to a wise-cracking New York private eye, all the way down to a drunk Shaolin master. But never a pilot.
Don't get me wrong. I know all about pilots earning insane money, and they get to marry the stewardess, fly to exotic places, eat caviar, and lots of other good stuff (They'd deny this outright if you asked). It's just that most of us were brought up to believe that we should all study hard and long to become a doctor who would later work even harder and longer as a houseman, only to get bullied and paid a pittance.
Of course, doctors can grow to be specialists or sub-specialists and earn even bigger bucks doing colonoscopies, bariatrics, talk therapies and other strange procedures. But they don't get to marry stewardesses. My one-time dorm-mate, Dr Fadzil Man, has progressed from a serious psychiatrist/casual golfer to become a serious golfer/casual psychiatrist with a holiday home in Sapporo. He's married to a doctor. Sorry to drag you into this, Pakdokter, but I've to prove my theory.
Finally it was our turn to board, and the aircraft was parked somewhere off the gates. There were a few on the tarmac and they all looked the same. We'd to walk a bit, and for the first time in my life I came face to face with a jet plane. It was a Boeing 737, fairly intimidating, and bigger than what I had in mind.
I was half-way up the ladder when something struck and almost stopped me in my tracks. The deep red and white MAS livery with the stylized image of the wau bulan in a circle was uncanny and evocative, enough to make me homesick. The whitish sky that turned into a riot of competing colours and the sweet music buzzing out of the airborne kites.
My daydream was soon broken by the crew who greeted me with soft " selamat datang". The cabin was surprisingly spacious with a whiff of sweet scent, a far cry from my shared, sweaty rented room in Bangsar Park. The colour and decor was pleasing, nothing aggressive, just the right amount. I finally found my seat, aisle and smack in the smoking section. After about fifteen minutes, we were pushed back for the take-off, and now the moment of truth.
My boss, a seasoned traveller, could easily read my tell-tale maneuvers. The strong grip on the armrest during the take-off was a stupid give-away. In a show of political finesse, he enquired whether I'd been flying very often. I was used to trick questions, so there was no point in pussyfooting. No, boss, this is my first flight.
Feigning a surprise, he nodded and smiled, probably happy at the real prospect of my immortalizing him as the person who took me on my first flight. He quit Petronas a few months later to join Umno and politics full-time. With all the skills and a Master's degree, he rose through the ranks in no time to become a two-time MP and party go-to guy. It was decidedly more exciting than calculating discounted cashflows for Petronas projects.
I managed to catch the name of the pilot when he came on through the onboard PA to update us on the altitude, clouds, outside temperature. These bits of info weren't particularly helpful, but the pilot sounded very awake and upbeat, so I was more than happy. At the time I had two Tiger Lane dorm-mates who were MAS pilots, Capt Sany Johan and Capt Najib Abdullah. I knew these people too well, so I was thankful that it wasn't either of them. Hahaha. Sorry Sany if you happen to read this. (Najib passed away two years ago).
Lunch wasn't too bad although the portion was well below the nutritional benchmark for an average Kelantanese. Soon I was in for another round of nerves when it was time to land. One of the crew, maybe a senior stewardess, came on air to announce in a clear, impeccable English, and slightly slanted Bahasa Melayu. "Tuan-tuan" became "Cuan-cuan".
After dipping through the clouds with a brief shakes and rattle, we finally touched the runway with another series of jolts and jumps. Kota Kinabalu Airport in 1979 wasn't a pretty sight, but who'd care. I was safely back on planet earth and that should mean more than anything.
I'd fly a few more times to Sabah and Sarawak, and, before I knew it, I was beginning to enjoy flying. My small issue with heights was somewhat resolved by choosing only aisle seats. You'd miss the view and grandeur from the window, but watching people running to the toilet can be equally spectacular.
My one-year trainee time just flew by. I stayed on long enough to be part of the company that had grown to become the country's undisputed champion in about anything. You name it. I'm biased, of course. Over the 30 years, I've had my fair share of travelling, both on official business and on my own with wife and kids. The apple fell far enough from the tree, as none of the kids had flight frights.
Well into my 70's now, I still fly every now and then to whet my wanderlust and suspicious mind. Travelling excites and inspires from the moment I hit the booking button to the time I hit the panic button at the sight of my credit card balance.
Air travel has truly come a long way since the days of the smoking section. Today there's a lot more to engage, anticipate and experience when you fly. A simple surprise lurks at every turn. Stuck at Changi and there's a dreamlike waterfall soothe away your long delay. Step into Istanbul Airport and you'd mistake it for a wedding hall (pic below). That's before you hit the city.
So what hasn't changed? The Pilots. They still look and feel the same. White short sleeves and matching black shoes aren't exactly high fashion, but that's how they set themselves apart. How I wish one day they could come to work in cosy Batik and Hoka, like Petronas staff.
Remember the ticketing section? They've closed up shop for good.
I've flown to Manila and Malaga, and I've flown from Chicago to Buffalo. But I'll always remember my flight to Kota Kinabalu in June 1979.
Note:
Kamil tracked himself all the way down to June 1979. He was already a pilot. But there's no twist to the tale. The pilot who flew me to Kota Kinabalu wasn't him.
