march on.

We were marching. In the jungle, or sort of. The track had led us to a lalang field. The white bristles were lolling in the wind, curling darlingly to the slight draft. The field looked like it was covered in tropic snow. The trees were blackened and sere, though. They had little colour to offer, save for the sparse caps of green on the better of trees. Barely half alive, they had been reduced to their boney frames. The sky looked stranger. It was fair, but felt deep at the same time. Or was it the clouds? which were thick and austere and firm, with a small patch of raincloud down the centre. I slowed down to take in the view. There was something magical about it, like it had the potential for blossoming romance, or for daydreams, or for the steady snapping of cameras during a family picnic. It had the potential for something happier, and that brilliant blurredness of reverie. But we had to keep marching on.

Marching on, we reached a shade under a decently large tree. Water break, the navigator declared. He had taken what they said about everybody being a leader seriously, I suppose. I sipped from my water bag. The mouthpiece was salty. I found a dust-coated beetle on the ground. Already dead. I rolled it around by the tip of my right boot. It felt light and hollow. The afternoon scorch must have burnt it empty. How useless its silver wings were, now. It was just a bug, and now dead. Nobody would remember it, or even bother to notice. Simple, unglorified creatures could always be ignored. The navigator had re-established the bearing and we had to go.

Marching on, we came into denser jungle. The paths there were much less sandy. It was covered in pools of mud turned cakey and some surviving puddles. Yesterday's rain. By then most of us were too tired to talk. The weight of our packs that the others had earlier boasted to be amazingly light was starting to pinch on my shoulders. There was a good chance the others felt it too. Or that I am much weaker? Yet in situations like this most would refuse to admit or show signs of struggle. Suffering – physical suffering – was usually kept private, however mild. This was part of the process of becoming a man. Or "man". They had broken us into groups of twelve to trek through the island as practical training for our topography and navigation package. Us, who were following behind, plainly looked at the feet of the person moving in front. The leading front few, behind the pretense of their references to compass and map, were really keeping to the footpaths and tracks others long before had left behind. This was a joke. Too many times had the preceedure been followed; the only endpoint is physical. The process is the focus. Just follow. Just march on. Even if you knew the operations were meaningless, it was equally pointless to go against them. So none of us talked, and nobody looked around to find a different path.

Marching on; we are almost reaching April.