Chapter 21 The build up

Having trained twice a day for nearly a month I found myself running on empty and as on my previous trip I began sleeping in during the mornings, rising late to enjoy leisurely breakfasts and reading until I joined Cameron in the afternoons.  He was in decent shape now, definition in his stomach, saggy muscle replaced by taught across his chest.  It tended to take a couple of months to complete the process.  The first week always the hardest, the second beginning to reveal the changes and by the fourth you’d be up to speed.  Then it was exhilarating, no longer tired after training it was just a drive towards perfection, able to push yourself to the limit, needing minimal time to recover.    

Cameron unavailable on nights out I sometimes tagged along with other members of the camp.  One Saturday a hugely overweight Israeli who turned up annually to lose weight starting a fight outside Bubble.  One minute everything calm, the next a Thai girl stepping from her jeep, “This Thailand, not your country.”

“Fuck you bitch,” he’d returned as the boyfriend leapt from the passenger seat machete in hand.

“Hey mother fucker, what you gonna do? what you gonna do? Bring it on,”

The fat guy said before he ran inside. 

The guys from the camp generally stayed out of trouble but there had been incidents.  A guy being punched in the face by a pimp after he tried to stop a girl going with someone she didn’t want, a Marine who’d smashed three guys with a pool cue and Gareth, the gentleman that he was when a guy’d accused him of pissing on his shoes in a nightclub he’d taken him outside and dropped him with an elbow.

The camp seemed to attract its share of weight losers and the following week I met another.  Jogging with an I-pod and a waistline demonstrating an absence of self control we chatted on our return to the gym.

“Hey, you know anywhere good to eat?” he’d asked.

I told him there were endless choices but it depended what he fancied.

“McDonald’s.”

“Yeah we’ve got that. You here long?”

“Two weeks, then back to England and a trip to South America with my girlfriend.  You know anywhere to go out in Chiang Mai?”

That was it, another Friday, another tour of the city.  I took him to the fights, helped him score weed at The Rasta Bar and moved to Bubble. 

“You been here many times?” he asked as we stood on the balcony.

“A few, kinda my favourite place for a dance.”

“How long’ve you been boxing?”

“Two months this time, I reckon I’ll be here another month, how about yourself?”

“I’m between jobs, thought I’d try to lose some weight, not too bad really, the bank’s paying for it.”

“The bank?”

“Yeah, one of those contacts where they pay me not to work for a competitor.”

“Sounds nice.”

“I work in The City, I was with the Dutch bank Amro, have you heard of them?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I basically deal in hedge funds.”

Taking my nod as an admission of ignorance he spent the next ten minutes using baby talk to explain what he did. 

“Sounds interesting,” I said as he finished.

“Just got a new post with a Japanese bank.”

“Did you study economics?”

“Modern language, Oxford, want another one?” he asked pointing to my empty glass.  I declined, but didn’t when he bought one anyway.   

“You enjoy your job?” I asked as he handed me a Deep Bomb.

“I enjoy making deals, that’s what I do best, worked sixty hours straight on one deal,” he said proudly.  “Didn’t leave the office, ordered in takeaway, thrashed things out.”

I looked at him, overweight, probably with a fleshy bank balance to match.  I could imagine him in The City, commuting on the tube, expensive suit, sweating with the crowd.  I considered whether I’d like it, the job, the Oxford education, a bank balance I’d never have had to look at.  It was the kind of life I’d been told to aspire to, what my friends at university had talked about, but I didn’t.

He was another kind of slave, for all his status, he was a prisoner to a career.  Would he have time to leisurely read a book or loaf in a coffee shop, I didn’t think so.  Perhaps he could have retired early, but then what, by that age you’d be too set in your ways to make the best of exploring, too old for Muay Thai, too old hold to get a girl without paying. 

“I’ll be visiting my daughter in Peru,” he restarted.

“You have a daughter?”

“I was studying Spanish, twenty two, I still provide for the child.”

He fished a picture from his wallet.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Seven now.”

Two weeks before Cameron’s fight he approached me in the gym, “Mate, fancy doing a bit of T.V. work? A guy at my guesthouse is looking for extras.”

“What kind of work?”

“No idea, the guy just asked me if I knew anyone.”

Riding to his guesthouse the next day I was joined by Jamal, Walter and an American Murphy from the camp.  Standing in an empty bar I was asked to perform a freestyle dance and did my gay thing as a Thai taped with his camcorder.

“O.K., now, if you could all dance together.”

We looked like a New Kids on the Block, five guys and no rhythm.

The following day we attended the main rehearsal in a hotel basement, forty extras huddled in groups.

“O.K. guys, this is the song,” a leotarded American said as she handed out the song sheets.

‘I don’t care if your gonna fry me, and I don’t care if you wanna hang me, cus I gotta stero T.V.’

 

“O.K., everybody listen up, we’ve not got long today so were gonna practice the song, and move straight into the dance, O.K.?” 

That was it for the next two hours, drilling the song over and over, gradually adding the steps.

“Now, you guys, you’re American soldiers fighting the Vietnamese but this is like a West End production, so I want you smiling,” she said as she showed us how to smile. “You’re gonna be dressed military but your having fun, O.K., from the top.”

Moving through the dance again and again I couldn’t get it, at one point almost walking out as my frustration reached boiling point. I couldn’t get it, left to my own devices I was a decent dancer, moves perfected over a series of drunken nights out but asked to work to someone else’s tune I was lost.  When we finally finished an American with ginger hair broke out in waves of flawless Thai.  He looked like a cartoon character pale skin, quaffed ginger hair.  My frustration now replaced by envy as I wished I could say more than, ‘How ya doin?’

“Hey Cam, any idea how long this is going to last?” I asked.

The co-ordinator told us we had one more stop. We moved to the third floor, a large room stuffed with military uniforms, four guys at a time passing through.  

“O.K., you’re next?” a girl said waving me in.  I stripped to my underwear, watching as she picked out my uniform and looking to see my name would be ‘Sergeant Dutch’.  I pulled on an oversized helmet and looked at myself in the mirror; protruding cheekbones, narrow shoulders, I wondered if I’d gone too far with the diet. 

Finishing I asked about getting paid.

“You get paid downstairs.” 

We each received five hundred baht in brown envelopes and we made our way outside as Cameron’s contact called after us.

“Guys, I call you tomorrow, we need you on Wednesday, 4.00 a.m., O.K.?”

Wednesday was the final of The European Cup, Liverpool playing Milan in Istanbul and when Jamal tried to arrange for us  to travel to Thapae Gate together I told him I’d meet them their.  He’d stared at me like a traitor.

“Mate, it’s the European Cup, I’ll see you in town.”

On the eve of the shoot I rode to Nen’s old bar for eleven, surrounded by Liverpool fans as I ordered a soda.  One, two, three nil by half time it was a disaster, the Milan players congratulating themselves as they left the pitch.  The Liverpool fans leaving in the belief their team were buried I decided to watch the second half; it was the pinnacle of the game, the best players in the world, the greatest prize. 

The atmosphere dead, I walked to Spicy, the two huge screens relaying the match as people danced and courted.  By the time I’d emerged from the toilet Liverpool had a goal back and ten minutes later two.  The Thai’s went mad, there were only two teams supported in Thailand and Liverpool were number one. 

“You want whiskey,”  a Thai girl asked as she held a bottle to my glass.

“Great,” I said as she poured me a good measure and topped me up with Pepsi, we raised a toast and turned back to the screen.  Another goal for Liverpool, three, three and the atmosphere was deafening.  Leaping up and down I thought about whether Stuart would still be watching at home. 

As the adverts came on before extra time I had to rendezvous for my advert, ‘Should I miss it?’ I thought, a once in a lifetime opportunity to see Liverpool win the cup or another breaking into T.V.. It was tough but I felt I owed it to Cameron to make the shoot, trotting down to Thapae Gate where red taxis waited in the square.

“You with us?”  a pretty girl with a clipboard asked.

“Yep.”

“O.K., go now.”

Telling me we were making a two hour journey I climbed on-board, a group of Thai’s opposite preparing to become my Vietcong enemy.  Looking at their faces it seemed amazing to think there’d been a war out here, boys with rifles fighting Americans in the jungles, for what? ‘What the hell was ever worth fighting for in a place like this?’ I thought.

Arriving just after six the location was an elephant reserve, dozens of trucks already on set, a large open sided tent laid out with tables for a couple of hundred cast and crew.

“O.K., please collect uniform and change behind, then can take breakfast,” Clipboard girl said. 

Doing as ordered I changed into my light green uniform, collecting fried rice topped with an egg and sitting next to an older guy with straggly grey hair. 

“Doesn’t look like we’re getting bacon sandwiches on this one,” he said.

“You done this before?”

“Oh yeah, whenever there’s something shooting.  Sniper Three was the last one I did.  Real nice, had bacon and eggs on that one.”

“You get yourself on screen?”

“Made a couple of shots, you can see me on The D.V.D case.”

I’d seen the first Sniper, a lone shooter in the Vietnam, it had been O.K., but I was sure the third installment would be a pile of shite and took amusement in his pride at being associated with it.

“A word of advice for you,” he said, “It’s going to be a long day, do as little as possible.  Don’t worry, you’ll still have plenty to do, just don’t go volunteering for anything.”

As another guy swayed around the tent I looked into his bloodshot eyes.

“Didn’t see the footie result, did you?” I asked.

“Fuckin won, won,” he called in a Scouse accent.

“Who?”

“Yeah, fuckin won.”

“Liverpool?”

He let out a belch

“Yeah, Liverpool, fucking Liverpool.”

That set me on a high for the day, they weren’t my team, but they were English and it was probably the greatest comeback of all time.  “Amazing, amazing” I thought watching the final of the European Cup in the middle of the night and now here in the jungle preparing to make my screen debut.

I kept my head down when the first call came, following as the extras moved to the river.  It was an impressive set, a rope bridge above the water, bamboo guard tower, a Vietcong camp higher up the bank.  Still early the sun was just up, a light mist hanging above the water. 

“O.K., please climb inside,” the director called.  Bamboo cages half submerged in the riverbed I watched as the prisoners shivered into the icy water.

“I know it’s cold in there, but just bare with us.”

An hour and later looking the opposite of enthusiastic they returned to shore.

“You, you, you,” I turned to see a co-ordinator pointing at me.

“O.K., take rifle, go other side.”

Wading through the water I rose to the bank and climbed until the jungle barred my path.

“This is the scene where were singing, ‘I don’t care if you want to fry me’, the leotard from rehearsals called.  “Now I need you to dance from side to side like this and on the final line thrust forward.”

“O.K., rehearsal, everybody quiet, going on three,” the director called.  As song began to boom it was like something from Apocalypse Now, the silence of the jungle suddenly replaced by a deafening base.  Trying to pick up the rhythm, it was hard without poking the guy in front of me with my rifle.  Three more rehearsals and the director’s tannoy was back in action.

“O.K., this time we’re going with the live explosion, I don’t want anybody to flinch, exactly as before.”

“Explosion?” I questioned turning to the guy behind me.  I watched as a small Thai waded into the river, fumbling below the surface and running out a line as he retreated.  As music blared again we began the final run.

“I don’t care if you wanna fry me and I don’t care”, ‘Boom!’, the bottom of the river erupted, a plume of water jetting towards the sky. 

“Cus I gotta stereo T.V.,” I continued as shrapnel pelted my helmet.

“Great guys, that was great.”

Turning to look at the others we all wore the same expression. 

“That was too close, fuck, I know it’s Thailand but Walter, did you have live ammo?” I asked.

“I don’t know, they say it a blank, but blanks still fire right?”

Keeping my head down I survived another explosion and managed to work up a good tan.  It was the kind of day everyone just did their thing, relaxing in the shade, swapping cigarettes, eating.  In the afternoon I eavesdropped a conversation between Murphy and Jamal, neither I’d considered worth spending time with but Murphy was sounding interesting now.  He’d fought and lost a few times and having seen his last fight I could understand why.  Walking straight onto his opponent he’d opened with a flurry of missed punches, got beaten to the canvas, got up, got beaten to the canvas, got up and been counted out on a technical knockout. 

They were discussing San Diego where Murphy lived and Jamal had visited.  Murphy saying he had two lesbian friends from home visiting him that weekend.  Ex U.S. Navy Jamal ribbed him about the superiority of the British army but he wouldn’t rise to it.  When Jamal challenged him to a race Murphy said it would be a no contest.  I liked him, everything I’d seen said I wouldn’t, but I did.  It was his straightforwardness mixed with misplaced confidence, absolutely misplaced but he was enjoying himself. 

Chatting to a Swedish guy I’d shot the first scene with he told me he had a regular gig as an extra in Bangkok. 

“Last week I did an advert for Dove Soap, the week before a drama for Thai T.V., not well paid but I get invited to some good parties and my social’s paid while I’m away.”

“Your social?”

“Yeah, job benefit, they never check, so I figured why not.”

We didn’t finish until seven, the final scene a charge down the river. 

“O.K., we need to cover each other, buddy up in two's, one looking left, one right,” Jamal ordered as he took control, the guns were real, there was danger in the jungle.

As we did the first take he charged forward screaming and looking across to Swedish I mouthed ‘What the fuck’ as Jamal disappeared into a hole beneath the water.

“Great, and back to starting positions.”

As I looked at Jamal I could see someone conflicted, refused entry to the intelligence core due to his Moroccan heritage, he was sore.  He’d told me before joining the army he’d been an actor, and I’d never worked him out, from darling of the stage to super trooper for the infantry.

“That’s a rap everybody, see you tomorrow.”

The next morning I missed my alarm call waking at five a.m., “Shit, shit, shit”.  I was still tired but if I didn’t make the shoot I didn’t get paid and more than that I’d be letting Cameron down. 

Arriving to see a Songtao taxi still waiting I apologized to Clipboard Girl for being late.

“Don’t worry, many people not come.”

Following the same routine as the day before I kept a low profile not called on until the afternoon when we shot the finale. 

“O.K., my boxing extras, I want you at the front.”

The entire cast on set, the camera would be passing down our line, everyone behind watching us to pick up the moves as we performed the dance.  Nervous to begin with I gradually got the steps, occasionally glancing behind and the rest of the time looking forward at the female lead; long legs, shirt knotted over a flat stomach, she was stunning.

Finishing up I collapsed in the shade, the Swedish extra chatting to a handsome young American and the ginger guy with the perfect Thai.

“Ah man, I love this country,” Ginger started.

“Where’d you learn Thai?” I enquired.

“Army, the only way I could learn anything.  They asked me if I wanted to do interpreting, so I said, 'fuck yeah', had to learn a hundred words a day.  After a while I’m fluent and they posted me out to Thailand.  Man, that was a sweet time, used to get sent to dinner with the officers, after a couple of hours they’d just say, ‘knock off son, get yourself a beer’.

“What you doing now?”

“I was working at Walmart back in The States, my stripper girlfriend took off with another guy so here I am.  Bought a condo before I left, selling fake sunglasses on e-bay to cover my payments.”

He was another smart guy, and like Murphy, once I’d spoken to him I couldn’t find anything to dislike, enjoying his life, riding the breaks. 

Continuing to sit in the shade I was joined by one of the principal actors. 

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“Good.”

“You’re English?”

“Yeah, the three of us are based in London, they flew us out for this one.”

“They’re spending some money on this thing?”

“Half a million dollars.”

“You working regularly?”

“Pretty much, have had consistent work for three years now, just finished a dance show in Copenhagen.”

“Sounds like fun.”

The clock ticking towards six the crew moved to the last scene.

“O.K., everybody this is where we blow everything up.”

As Murphy and Walter sat on the front of a jeep I watched the set disappear in a cloud of smoke, the bamboo guard tower teetering and then crashing down the bank.  The noise started a stampede in the elephant compound, Murphy and Walter turning to reveal blackened faces.

“Might not want to sit so close next time,” I chirped.

Returning to the catering tents we handed over our uniforms and asked about pay. 

“No problem,” Clipboard Girl said. 

Five minutes later the manager handed out more brown envelopes and I handed over my passport.

“I need to copy your I.D. for the insurance, you can collect from my hotel tonight,” she said. 

When I asked where that was Clipboard Girl told me it was the same room she was staying in. 

“Going anywhere tonight?” I asked.

“Maybe Warm Up.”

Climbing into the Songtao I started dreaming about a date.

“Ah, fucking Thailand, I tell you all the fucking women are all the same, they all want this,” I looked to see an older guy holding up his wallet.  I’d seen him before, helping himself to more than his share of post-shoot drinks and now he was verging on the paralytic.

"Thai girls, ha, leave em alone, they’ll fuck you over and leave you with nothing,”  staring across at Swedish and the handsome American I kept silent waiting for him to finish.  ‘What was wrong with Thai girls wanting your wallet’ I thought.  ‘Overweight Westerners in late to middle age getting their hands on some of the world's most beautiful women, didn’t they think there’d be a price.  The girls giving up the chance to be with someone handsome, someone their own age, listening to worn out men telling stories of how life had never done them any favours.  We had the easy end, hand over the cash, get what you paid for’.

“So you Muay Thai guys must be pretty fit,” the handsome American began, “doing all that running, I used to run track in the States, could do four hundred in fifty four.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I’m guessing it’s good,” I replied.

He was the opposite of Murphy, college educated, full of facts and figures, I didn’t envy anyone from America. For all they had it sounded like a place devoid of life and sincerity.  Anywhere which produced a bestselling titles like ‘Winning Friends and Influencing People’ certainly wasn’t a place I wanted to live.  Offering them the chance to train with us I was sure they wouldn’t.  They both looked fitter than us, bulging muscles, tight stomachs but they were eye-candy and that’s why they trained. 

Back at the gym Jamal fought that Friday and for all his talk of being the best runner in his unit when it came to Muay Thai you had to be a fast and his over muscled legs weren’t.  As the first round opened the Thai didn’t waste any time smashing the back of his knee and I called the fight.

“Over in three.”

It was, hobbling through the ropes by the time he’d reached the doctors corner his left leg had ballooned.  I couldn’t help thinking why? Why Westerners kept pushing themselves to the verge of sickness just to say they’d been in the ring, but perhaps it stemmed from the work ethic at home.  There had to be an end product, it wasn’t enough to enjoy the sunshine we had to be able to say we’d done something. 

A week before Cameron’s fight he received news it had been moved from Chiang Mai to Lampang an hour outside the city.  Initially disappointed, he was just happy to be fighting.

“Mate I can’t wait, a couple of boys I went to acting school with are coming over for the fight, just that feeling, standing there knowing you’ve got to do it.”

“Well, I tell you what I’m looking forward to, are you going to do what no one else has managed?”

“What’s that?”

“A post fight drink?”

“Ah yeah, I’m well up for that.”

In the final build up he was more relaxed than anyone I’d seen. Training once a day, I’d watch him going with the trainers, awkward in style but determined in the Australian sense I was sure he’d do himself justice.

On the night of the fight a full contingent from the camp turned out to watch, Cameron’s friends arriving with a couple of girls in tow we rode in a string of songtao taxis to the venue.  Rainwater streaming along the highway as thunder cracked in the distance we arrived to a carnival, food stalls selling all the favourites, a stage of dancing girls entertaining a group of army officers and the floodlit ring. 

In the first bout that night there was another boxer from the camp, Christina, a six foot Dane who’d taken Lutia’s crown as the number one female fighter at the camp.  She made short work of her petite opponent, rangy blows making it impossible for the Thai to get close blood was spraying from her nose.  When the referee stopped it in the third I listened to Andy as he turned to Lutia.

“Don’t worry, you’ll beat her next time,” it was the Thai she’d lost to the previous week. “If you stay long enough you could be as good as Christina,” he continued.

I cringed at that, Lutia had done everything to be a fighter, sold her life at home, dedicated herself to training.  She was another of the people I couldn’t work out, what made her so focused, where she found the drive to keep going.  She seemed to treat the sport like a religion, wholly devoted to what she was doing, not a moment of hesitation about what she was doing; it was Muay Thai, that was it, to eat it, sleep it, breathe it.  It was the thing I was still looking for some, one thing to focus on with total dedication. 

I walked to the find Cameron lying on his back, eyes closed as he awaited a massage.  Looking behind a young Thai in frightening shape was having his final rubdown.  ‘Shit, I hope that’s not his guy’ I thought.  If it was, he didn’t want to know before the fight. 

As his time approached he received hot oil, every muscle coming to prominence as his fibres twitched.

“Fuck Cam, you should see yourself,” I said.

“Man, I’m fucking burning to death.”

After one false start climbing into the ring to be told he was the next fight, he debuted close to eleven.  Thunder rumbling in the distance he edged cautiously through the ropes, puddles threatening to send him straight to the canvas I sighed relief when I spotted his opponent, a tubby smiler loping through the ropes and throwing salutes to the crowd. 

“Come on Cam, kick his ass,” I shouted.

As the first round began they were both trying to hold their footing, Cameron offloading a few jabs, the Thai holding a glove to his chest and swaying in a playful dance. 

“That’s it Cam, fantastic,” I shouted as he fired a teep to the stomach.

He didn’t have the fighter’s style, he didn’t flow, but there was something in his manner that told you he’d give it everything.  Playing cat and mouse for the first two rounds, in the third the Thai started landing.  There’s was a certain level of pride among fighters, even journeymen determined to maintain their self respect. The Thai cracking in a few low kicks I was screaming for Cameron to get out of range.  He began stepping backwards or walking to a clinch. 

“That’s it Cam, keep it going,” I shouted.

Looking to my side I’d been joined by one of the Australian girls who’d accompanied Cameron’s friends, deducing she’d been attracted by my enthusiasm.

By the fourth Cameron was putting on a show, wincing through gritted teeth, eyes staring madly at his opponent ‘Come on you fucka, that all you’ve got’.

Rain hammering the canvas, he slipped and sprawled to the deck.

“Come on Cam.”

Taking his time he waved his hands gesturing no knockdown and encouraged his opponent forward. 

At the end of the round I feared he wouldn’t make it, “One more Cam, one more, no matter what.”

Hoisting his shorts for the final round the mad look was still there.  Hobbling forward, then switching stance to offer his better leg.

“Brilliant Cam, brilliant.”

The Thai set about the fresh limb and stepped forward to sweep the weaker leg.

“Come on, a few more seconds, Cam get up.”

Smashing the deck he pushed himself from floor, the crowd roaring.  He had no style, no finesse but nothing could make him make him stop.  It was his own fight, a fight with himself to make it to the finish.

As the bell tolled I screamed to the thrall, “Fucking brilliant, you’re a lion.” 

Climbing through the ropes I followed him back to the changing area.  He’d lost the fight but the Thai’s were genuine in their appreciation.

“Man that was awesome, awesome,” he enthused.

“Cam that was fucking amazing, I’ve never seen anyone stand up like that, your leg looked fucked and you’re just standing there.  And switching legs you clever fucker.”

“Ah man, I didn’t know if I was going to make it, those last few kicks were killers.”

“So, we still going for that drink?”

“Too fucking right.”