Chapter 2 The Plan

Getting a lift from my sister that evening I met Olly at the upmarket bar.  Located in the corner of a mall it represented everything I’d come to hate about England.   A glistening Mecca for shoppers, it was a place which sucked away anything you had after you’d paid the bills, a place where people consumed unaware it was the place consuming them. As he held the door I smiled.

“Hey bud, good to see you, it’s been a while.” 

“Eight months,” he replied with a perplexed look which regularly accompanied his thinking.

“Bang on, I last saw you on New Year’s Eve, just before my flight to China.”

“How was it?”

“China,” I smiled, “fucking amazing.”

We ordered two pints of Stella and headed for a table, my first action to instinctively light a cigarette.

“When’d you start smoking?”

“China, I always had a few when I came out with you guys but China was fatal.  They don’t shake your hand in China, just thrust a cigarette in your palm, I used to say no, but…..anyway, what’s this about The Marines?”

“Got my PRMC in two months.”

“PRM what?”

“My physical,” he said lighting a Benson and Hedges and taking a heavy drag.

“How’s the smoking fitting in?”

“O.K., as long as you do the training it doesn’t make much difference.”

“So, what’s your routine?”

He looked exited as he prepared to speak.

“I’m at the gym six times a week, just around the corner from work.  Do ten kilometres on the treadmill, then some weights.”

He rolled up his sleeve and gripped a solid looking bicep. 

“Really noticed the difference in the last couple of weeks.”

“So, this Marines thing's going to happen?”

He took another drag on his cigarette.

“Yeah, gotta do it, haven’t ya?”

“Had enough of the office?”

“Same shit every day mate.”

“Spreadsheets and shit?”

It was the three succinct words he used since college to describe his occupation.

“Too right mate, I’m going to shoot me some rag heads.”

I looked at him as he dipped his cigarette.

“Some what?”

“Rag heads, you know, Al Qaeda, get myself to Afghanistan and blast me some rag heads.”

That didn’t sit comfortably with me, I didn’t want to blast me some rag heads, in fact, I didn’t really want to blast anyone. The Legion was something different for me, a resting place for my soul, somewhere I could be for a while, experiencing lifes extremes but contained.

“O.K., I’ve got something for you, I’m thinking about joining The Legion.”

He looked stunned, closing his eyes and rocking back in his chair as if he’d slipped into a trance.

“The Legion, you mean The French Foreign Legion?”

I nodded.

“I thought Stu said you’d come back to buy a house.”

“That was the plan, but you know what I’m like.  Can you see me working in an office?”

I looked at him processing another thought.

“What about The Marines?”

“What about the Marines.”

“Best fighting force in the world mate, if you want the best training you’ve got to join The Marines.”

He was right, but it wasn’t about that for me, The Legion offered something else, something romantic, an opportunity to experience a life most people would only ever read about. 

“I know all that mate, and you're right, but for me, it’s got to be The Legion.  I get to learn French, disappear for five years, get a tattoo, no get out clause, no coming back.  That’s how I want it”

“I don’t know mate, it’s full of fucking criminals.”

I shook my head as if I knew better.

“No mate, that’s how it used to be, it’s just another division of The French Army now.”

Breaking to collect two more Stella’s I returned to the table.

“I hate the fucking French,” he started. 

“I don’t, in fact, I kind of respect them, the way they keep their farmers afloat, eat good food, it’s got to be better than this country.”

I spent the next twenty minutes filling him in on my training requirements and what I’d need to do to get in.

“So, when’re you leaving?”

“Soon, I figure I need about three and a half months to get fit.”

“You don’t you need to apply?”

“Not for The Legion, you just turn up at the gates and say you want to join.”

“Sounds fucking crazy.”

“Ha, you know I’m a little crazy,” I raised my glass, “Here’s to fate and destiny.”

Looking to the dance floor there were a few girls having a go. Most large thighed with skirts which needed to be longer, a couple prettier wearing ‘don’t even think about it' looks.

“So, where’s all the girls tonight?” I said.

“Solihull mate, Monday night.”

“Yeah, would it make a difference if it was Friday?”

He gazed around the bar.

“Not really.”

“Where’ve you been out recently?”

“Snobs and Solihull.”

It was the old cycle, Solihull frequented by the locals or the indie club in Birmingham he’d been attending since college.  The lads always complained they never met anyone nice but then they never went anywhere nice, never made the effort.

“How about the girls in China?”

“Ha, what girls? Unless your going to marry one you might as well forget about it.”

“What, so you didn’t meet anyone?”

“Didn’t have sex for seven months mate, in fact, I haven’t had sex for nearly a year.”

I raised my glass again, we were the brave ones, the musketeers, the lads could keep their nine to fives, their mortgages, we were off to conquer the world.

------------------------------

The house was empty when I woke the next morning.  I sometimes felt like I lived in a different world to my family, them marching to work and marching back again, lives ruled by schedules and duty. Making a simple breakfast I sat in the dining room heading a piece of paper ‘Things to do’.

1. Make a training schedule.
2. Sell my shares.
3. Decide where I’m going to train.
4. Start running.
5. Quit smoking

Satisfied I’d covered the key points I munched through my toast and picked up the morning paper working back from the sports pages until I hit a story about a young American.  She’d campaigned against the destruction of Israeli settlements and been crushed to death by an earthmover.  It described her as someone who had to be at the tip of things.  Growing up in middle class America she’d become aware the whole world wasn’t like home and she’d wanted to change things, to go to a place where things needed fixing.  I considered the futility of her efforts, but perhaps we were the same, a lust for life, righteousness, wanting to feel everything beneath our fingertips.  
 

Clearing my plate and cup I loaded them to the dishwasher, taking care to make it was as if I’d never been there.  I was aware my return had upset the delicate balance in the household and I was determined to keep my head down until I’d finalised my plans. 

The morning drifting by with some daytime T.V. by midday I was ready to return to the plan. Back at the computer I searched for more information and came up with an unofficial site.

There are several things to consider before making the leap from simply thinking of joining the Legion, to actually travelling to France and enlisting at a recruiting centre:

• Appraise your physical condition. Activities in the Legion tax your physical endurance and abilities to the maximum. The most important physical requirement is running. You are advised to be able to run at least 10 kilometres with ease. Medical problems of any nature will almost surely disqualify you. Even seemingly minor issues such as poor eyesight can prevent you from being accepted. Recommended minimum physical prerequisites are:

- 30 pushups.
- 50 situps.
- Climb a 20 foot rope without using your feet.
- Run 8 kilometres with a 12 kilogram rucksack in less than one hour.
- 8 chinups with your palms away from you as you grip the bar.

That was it.  If I could concentrate on it full time I reckoned three and a half months would be enough, but where?  If I wasn’t working my father would be on my back, so home was out of the question.  Renting a place in England didn’t seem to make sense either, after only two weeks I was already stifled by the dullness.  France seemed logical, get some digs in Paris, find work in a bar, train in a salty gym, mornings running past Notre Damme.  I checked the net, but it looked too expensive.  Where else? Corsica which The Legion used for training exercises, the Canary Islands where my friend Mark prepared for his climb over the Pyrenees.

As I racked my brains Thailand popped into my head.  On New Year’s Eve my best friend had mentioned a friend who’d been training at a Muay Thai camp for a year.  It was the right kind of fitness; lots of running, training twice a day, total dedication.  

I’d watched a documentary about an American training in Bangkok while I’d been working in the bar. They’d shown him on his early morning runs through the streets and climaxed with his fight.  A lanky six footer they’d not been able to find an opponent big enough in Thailand, flying in a karate champion from Japan.  When he’d removed his gown the American's jaw had dropped.  A stocky bulldog covered in Yakuza tattoos for the first round the imported ringer had looked like he’d kill him; thunderous kicks, heavy punches, but it was fitness which decided the bout.  The Jap blowing by the second, the Muay Thai man knocked him out in the fourth.

It seemed like the perfect plan, back in the place I loved, a place where I could afford to be without working.  Scouring the net I came up with the Fairtex camp in Bangkok.  Training charges listed at $100 a week the facilities looked exceptional, gleaming rings, a weights gym, pool, sauna, bungalow accommodation.  E-mailing to request a start date I received a prompt reply.

“Mr Adamson, we are delighted you would like to train at our camp.  Please send a deposit of $150 to reserve your place.”

$150 wasn’t a lot, but the fact they’d asked for it in advance suggested there’d be other hidden charges.  There were a couple of places on the islands but having seen a camp in Kho Samui I got the impression the lure of the beach might be too much distraction. 

Continuing my search I found Lanna Boxing in the north. The website hadn’t been updated for a couple of years but training charges were listed at less than a hundred pounds a month and pre-booking wasn’t required.  I read the daily routine, twice daily sessions, one beginning at six thirty and the other at four. The morning run eight to ten kilometres, it was exactly what I needed.

Bounding downstairs I picked out my Lonely Planet guidebook and flicked to the appropriate chapter ‘When you visit Thailand one of the first things people will ask you is 'Have you been to Chiangmai yet?’.  It sounded idyllic, a city backed by mountains, an ancient walled centre, dozens of temples, good restaurants, cheaper than the south.  On my first visit people had told me how beautiful the north was, enthusing about elephant treks through and opportunities to learn massage, none of which had appealed at the time, but now, now it seemed perfect. 

That evening I sat in the lounge with my family imagining the setting; forested mountains, moated fortress, lots of long term expats staying in timber guesthouses and my camp on the slopes, running through the jungle.  It had to be right, even if it wasn’t there’d be nothing to stop me returning to Bangkok.

When I considered my current state of fitness later that week I thought back to bodybuilding days. I’d been in good shape in then, idolising Arnold Schwarzenegger and lifting weights five times a week. It had ended when I met Suzy, making a living behind a desk, evenings watching television and eating pizza.  I looked more like Homer Simpson now, an excess girth around my midriff, tipping the scales at over fourteen stone. 

On Wednesday I decided to make my first fitness check.  I’d measured the distance in the car the night before, three kilometres which ended at the mini golf, if I could make it in thirteen minutes, I’d have made the selection time for The Legion.  

A warm evening I picked out a pair of well worn trainers and stretched briefly in the hall before bounding from the door.  My legs initially stiff they gradually loosened as I wound my way through the estate.

Leaving the houses behind I crossed at the traffic lights and checked my watch seeing I was four minutes fifty two seconds in and reckoning I was a third of the way.  Moving down an incline as cars whizzed past as I starred ahead ‘Can you see what I’m doing? I’m preparing to join The Legion, The French Foreign Legion’.  I felt like Linford Christie running in the Barcelona Olympics, my gaze trained before me, total concentration.

Rising on the other side of the dip I told myself not to look at the watch.  I knew it was going to be tight, but if I could just keep going I knew I could do it, ‘Just keep the legs moving and I can do it’ I told myself. 

I resisted until I came in sight of the finish, 12 minutes, 42 seconds my watch read.  Finding another gear, I hurtled through the final metres and collapsed.  Staring at the sky and grabbing my watch to see 13 minutes, 12 seconds. Given the time I’d taken to fall to the floor and look at my watch I’d done it, fist time out and I’d fucking done it. It would be different in The Legion however, I’d read recruits were often deprived of food, making being more than fit a necessity.

Over the following days I stuck to a daily regime of running and completed my upper body exercises before bed.  Those were less successful, just over thirty push ups, a similar number of sit ups, each crunch was a jerky motion as my stomach protested its lack of muscle. 

Having been in Asia three times in the previous two years planning the trip itself wasn’t a problem.  Booking a flight by phone, locating the Thai embassy for my visa, everything else I needed, I already had.  I went to see Stuart before leaving, my best friend since college it was always the same when I arrived.  A quick greeting at the door, brewing a cups of tea, then moving to the lounge to admire the Rolf Harris painting above the fireplace.

“How you doing?” he greeted me.

“Good thanks, how was your day?”

“Same as ever, same as every other day.”

We carried out the routine and I fired off the news.

“Huh, you gonna laugh at this.  I’ve changed my plans again, I not buying the house, I’m having a go at joining The Legion.”

He wasn’t surprised, and he listened with interest as I told him how I’d come to the decision and what I’d have to do to get in.

“When you going?”

“I reckon I need about three months to get ready.”

“You’re going to live with your old man?”

“Fuck no, he’s already on my back about work, there’s no way I’m telling him I’m joining The Legion, thought I might go abroad, maybe Thailand.”

“Thailand, ahhh… sounds amazing mate.”

He always enjoyed hearing about my plans but never failed to disappoint me with the lack of his own.  Moaning endlessly about his jobs he was as I’d been, stuck in a job he hated, no idea of what he wanted to do.  Under my influence he’d left his office job, floated around for a while and gone to another one. ‘Mate just try something new,’ I used to say, but he hadn’t listened.  He wasn’t like me; he liked it easy, wanted something to get him out of bed in the morning but never took the time to see what it might be. 

We continued to chew the fat for half an hour and retired upstairs for a game of football on the X-box.  We always played on the same side, taking Newcastle or Liverpool through the European Cup, him crossing, me heading.  After an exhausting session of finger twiddling we called it a night at midnight.

“I’ll let you know my plans later in the week, I reckon I’ll be gone pretty soon.”

I signed onto the dole that week, a seventy pounds allowance covering my expenses while I completed my preparation. 

“Why did you leave your last job?” the girl asked.

“I didn’t, I’ve been teaching in China, my contract just finished.”

“O.K., you’ll need to complete a resident’s form and come back in a week for an interview.”

There was always some hoop to jump through but it was better than spending my savings.  I’d show them an empty bank account and I’d get my dues, if I’d declared my savings, I’d have lost my benefit, and that was insane to me.  The careful savers who’d told their girlfriends they couldn’t go out on Fridays lost there benefit while Johnny go lucky who spent his money wining and dining got his.

I sat to dinner with my father and two younger sisters on Friday.  It was an uneasy atmosphere, my father and I never getting along due to his unflinching belief in the importance of careers, my older sister with hardly a word to say and Emma, the most wonderful person in my life.  Seven years my junior I’d loved her the moment she’d been born.  Pushing her chair home from school, playing whatever game she’d wanted to play.  She was the only member of my immediate family who seemed similar, not willing to tow the line, battling with my father’s narrow view of the world.

“I’ve decided to go back to Asia,” I announced. “I’m leaving in a couple of weeks.” 

My father wasn’t listening, it was one of the things which pissed me off about the whole family, talking for five minutes and then listening as they changed the subject or reeled off whatever was on their minds.

“So Paul, have you decided what you’re going to do yet?”

 “I just told you, I’m going back to Asia.” 

Silence followed, my world was a million miles from his.  He’d never been anywhere, worked regular hours, didn’t have a clue what I did when I was away.

“So, you're going where?” he questioned.

“Thailand.”

“Are you teaching?” 

“No, boxing, Muay Thai boxing.  If I have spare time I might teach, but the training’s full time.”

He said nothing more that mealtime and nothing of note up to my departure.  He regularly disappointed me with his lack of enthusiasm for anything outside of what he deemed acceptable. You were supposed to have a career, you went to university, qualified to do something, worked until you retired, never took a day off.

I’d believed it all, right through getting married and getting my own steady job, but eventually I’d worked him out.  He was scared, only ever knowing one type of life, anything outside was a threat.  What if there was a different way? A better way?  He thought my travelling was time away from my responsibilities, it didn’t matter what kind of work I did, I should just be doing something.

We’d had a conversation about working 9.00 to 5.00 when I’d been at university.

“I don’t want to work like you do,” I’d said.

“Son, that’s life, everyone has to do it.”

The moment he’d said it I’d been sure he was wrong, it was certainly what most people did, but I’d found other kinds of lives since, people teaching abroad, people working for themselves.  The type of work most people did seemed like lazy work to me, work you didn’t have to think about or take responsibility for, mindlessly moving through routines; salesman selling people into debt and rationalising it was just what they did.  A dentist might have taken seven years to qualify, but even his work wasn’t much different from a shelf stacker when you thought about it; filling gaps, cleaning, replacing bad with good.  You collected your cheque and the world beyond that wasn’t your problem. 

The day after voicing my plans I took my Karrimor rucksack and gradually filled it; three pairs of socks, tight fitting underpants, shorts, Thai phrase book, a novel borrowed from Emma, toiletries, documents. I bought a specialized pair of running shoes, sold my share certificates, closed my mobile phone account, visited the library to copy a set of French language tapes and collected my visa.

I filled free time watching my favourite action movies, ‘The Last Samurai’, ‘Kickboxer’, the kind of films which inspired me, men moving towards physical perfection, the gruelling process of stripping away.  When not watching films I conducted research into the prostitution scene in Thailand.  Not sure when I’d get to have sex again after joining The Legion I thought I might make it a pre-Legion treat. Websites listed the areas Patpong, Nana Plaza, Soi Cowboy.  They offered menus of services, cheap hotels and reviews of the girls.  Looking at the standard packages I budgeted £100 for one night in heaven.

Three days before departure the money change was my final errand.  I visited HSBC purchasing travellers cheques and felt nauseous as I walked out, budgeting £500 for monthly expenses and another five just in case, I was left with £3500.  It was the first time I’d let my money run so low. ‘You're not coming back this time,’ I told myself, ‘it’s different’.

Over our penultimate dinner I counted the cheap shots my father aimed at me ‘Kaz is a hard worker’, ‘Kaz does more than her fair share’, ‘I’ve never had a day off in my life’, ‘Some of us have to work for a living’.  It was unrelenting, a cattle prod he’d used to usher me down his path, but it didn’t work anymore. 

Saturday being departure day I borrowed my sister’s car to shop for a farewell meal, walking around the supermarket as people went about their weekend shop.  ‘How can you do it?’ I'd thought, mothers with screaming children, overweight guys with overweight girls, the cycle repeated again and again. 

Deciding to give the meal a Thai flavour I picked out a jar of green curry and added a couple of oysters for the boys.  A bottle of white wine and baguette completing the menu I spent the afternoon cooking.  They were hungry when we got around the table, my father’s animosity replaced by munching.  I was satisfied, satisfied in the knowledge I was ploughing my own furrow.  

Giving me a lift to the bus station that evening he had no idea of my plans. I couldn’t remember having ever talked to him about anything important.  He gave off subliminal messages and I was expected to imitate, not to question, just to imitate and get on with things, any emotion a sign of weakness, any new idea taboo.  Go to work, pay the bills, that was all there was to it, but I had questions. He carried my bag and handed it to the driver.

“Well, have a good time, let us know when you’ve arrived,” he said with his usual cordial shake of the hand.

“And send a contact address, in case we need to get in touch.”