The Long Hitch Home

by Jamie Maslin

  “Excuse me, is this the way to Lamai Beach?” I asked through the open window, pointing to the right, despite knowing full well that it was. “I’m hitchhiking there.”

  “Fucking get in, tourist!” called the white-haired and bearded driver in a broad U.S. accent. As we set off he introduced himself as Tom and the passenger as Rob. Both were Californian.

  “Only other time we saw another hitcher out here was a Swedish girl. Blonde. Although the carpet didn’t match the curtains!” said Tom.

  “Oh, you got to find out, did you?”

  “Not me. Rob did.”

  Rob, a man of few words, remained silent with a Snoop Dogg satisfied grin across his mug. Soon I was traveling across Koh Samui’s lush interior, punctuated now by little roadside stalls and the occasional settlement, past billboards for buffalo fighting, and evidence of recent heavy rains. Further up the road and we passed another pickup, this time with a monkey in the back, wearing a chain around its neck.

  “Farmers use them to collect coconuts,” explained Tom. “One guy got his monkey drunk, it grabbed his machete and slashed him in the throat. Killed him stone dead.”

  Soon we were approaching significant tourist infrastructure and pulling into Lamai Beach, where I got out and began strolling up its high-street. Lamai was tourist central. Everything from McDonald’s restaurants, travel agencies and Seven Elevens to dingy bars and “British Pubs” lined the crowded street. The British theme was a frequent one, with numerous establishments catering specifically to my fellow countrymen, of whom there are many in Thailand, with pubs showing English soccer games and soap-operas on TV, while offering “Full English Breakfasts” and other British fare on the menu for those who think the best way to spend a holiday is eating exactly the same food, watching exactly the same TV, and having exactly the same conversations as at home. The sort of person who sings a location’s praises as being, “Just like England but you’ve got the weather,” and whose idea of broadening their horizons, if feeling really adventurous, extends only so far as sampling the local beer. In short, the type of person I have contempt for. I did my best to ignore these establishments, but there was an additional element to the street I found harder to tune out.

  Massage parlors were everywhere, both of the legitimate variety and ones offering an altogether more intimate service with, to use the local parlance, “happy ending,” as indicated by the super-short skirts, fishnet tights, low cut tops, and suggestive looks and kisses blown my way by the girls hawking for business outside of them. When several buxom beauties tried to near-bundle me inside one establishment I hastily crossed the road, taking refuge in an internet café opposite. Here I tried to concentrate on checking my emails and the Facebook message Owen had sent, while the girls kept gesturing for me to join them in the parlor. Owen’s message said to ask at the camp for Ricardo, a big, black Canadian fighter with a samurai sword tattoo running the length of his spine, whom Owen had left the key to his room with.

  As I sat here, all of a sudden an uncharacteristic thing happened to me. Now I’ve thought long and hard about whether to include this bit in writing, and in truth it would be easy enough for me to brush over it, to sweep it beneath the carpet, and pretend it never happened. But I don’t want to be that sort of writer, or indeed person. When I make a mistake, especially abroad, I want to hold my hand up to it and be held accountable. So it was today, for as I gazed out the window, what I can only describe as a sort of dark excited tunnel-vision of temptation took a hold of me. It started as a slightly alluring image squatting uninvited in my mind, but culminated in a pitiful act, which for a brief moment of gratification brought almost instant regret. At first I tried to be strong, really I did, but the more I struggled to cast off the lurid demon of temptation the more it ate away at my will, growing in power, feeding off my resistance, until it was an unshakable image clouding my reason. An internal conflict erupted inside me. I thought of what friends and family would say at home, then just as quickly lurched to the other end of the argument, attempting to justify it to myself.

  “I’ve been on the road a long time, and hey, everybody has needs. And what’s more with Owen out of town no one will know.”

  All of a sudden I reached tipping point. The attraction became too much and my defenses crumbled. Temptation smothered me, filling me now with excited resignation as I graphically pondered what I knew was about to transpire, and it may sound disgusting, but the thought made me salivate. Standing up from my PC I left the internet café and headed across the road, where, and it brings me no pride to write this, I indulged in a Full English Breakfast.86

  * * *

  The opening salvo to Rocky blared out from loudspeakers on the rear of a pickup truck decorated with billboards along its side, advertising a forthcoming Muay Thai event.

  “Real international Muay Thai comes to Koh Samui,” announced a pre-recorded message over the top of the music, “fighters from Australia, England, Sweden, Germany, Canada, the United States, and Thailand will battle for the ultimate championship belts. This event will be televised around the world. Kick off 9 p.m. tonight, Chaweng Muay Thai stadium. Be there!”

  I heard the Muay Thai camp before I saw it. Making my way up a steep hill beyond the far end of the high-street, I began to detect the distinctive sound of shin and fist thwacking against leather, each blow accompanied by an explosive vocalisation characteristic of Thai fighters when striking. As the camp came into view—a big open-plan training area beneath a metal roof, decked out with kick and punch bags and a couple of rings—I saw that just one guy was training, taking, by the looks of it, a private lesson from one of the camp’s trainers who was holding the pads for him. Both were glistening in sweat from the extreme exertion in the midday heat, which was considerable even in the shade. Owen had mentioned in his message that training was split into morning and afternoon sessions, and that in between these most of the fighters hung out at a resort opposite, lounging by the pool: the location I would most likely find Ricardo.

  I made my way there along a little path going past expensive looking holiday chalets. It was a large pool complex, furnished with sun loungers and overlooking the sea, set amid landscaped surroundings with vivacious flowers, artistic boulders, palm trees and the occasional Buddha statue wearing a necklace of orange flowers. A most appealing place to recuperate between training it certainly was, but currently it was empty. I started back towards the camp and on the way saw two black guys, one big, one small, approaching in the opposite direction.

  “Jamie?” asked the bigger of the two as I approached.

  “Ricardo?” I replied.

  After a brief chat he introduced me to his training partner and fellow Canadian, Manny, then handed me a key to Owen’s room.

  “Are you guys fighting soon?” I asked.

  “In a couple of nights,” said Manny. “Fancy coming?”

  I did indeed, especially after Manny told me about Ricardo’s last jaunt in the ring.

  “Knocked the guy out in thirty seconds.”

  “Great stuff,” I said. “Might have to put a wager on you.”

  They walked me back to the camp and showed me its accommodation. Rooms were situated just behind the main training area. Each came complete with a large bed, TV, fridge, wifi internet access, and a joint toilet/shower room. Owen’s room was the nearest to the training area, with Ricardo and Manny a couple of doors down. I thanked the guys and arranged to meet up with them later, but for now, I needed a shower. Being such a roaster of a day I took it cold, its chilling effect not unlike drinking a triple-espresso—it was just what I needed.

  On Owen’s bed was a camcorder and a scribbled note:

  Thought you might like to watch one of my fights.

  Look for “KO Number 2.” I think you’ll like it.

  I flipped out the contraption’s little screen, located the recommended file and hit play. Shot from just beyond ringside, the shaky footage began with Owen wearing a shiny-red dressing gown, traditio
nal flower necklace and decorative Mongkon headgear, being led into the ring by a flagpole-carrying official, hoisting the English colors. Flanking Owen on either side were his two corner-men wearing shiny-red waistcoats, who, after a quick pep-talk, left him to get on with business. It was a tentative first round from both fighters, but in the second Owen really got into the literal swing of things, offloading a brutal volley of kicks, punches, knees and elbows. One ferocious barrage after another culminated in a big left-hand that sent his poor adversary spiraling towards the canvas completely spark out. The ropes broke his fall; unfortunately he hit them windpipe first, leaving him suspended by his neck, bowing in the middle, until the ref could prise him off. The crowd went wild. Owen raised a hand in celebration.

  “Bloody hell!” I said out loud, cringing.

  I rewound and watched the finale several times.

  I hoped for fireworks like that tomorrow night.

  * * *

  I had first set eyes on Owen the previous summer, standing near a multitude of giant speakers and lights at a packed-to-the-rafters Wembley Stadium. Firing on all cylinders, the speakers thumped out earth-shaking beats while the lights spun on their rotatory axes, shooting colored beams onto the stage that I had assisted to assemble. Here, wiggling about in an interesting get-up of fishnet tights, a black leotard and something akin to an ill-fitting, armless white straitjacket with big eighties-style shoulder pads—which oddly looked like a sort of oversized baby’s bib—was Barbadian R&B beauty, Rihanna. Mincing about with her were a platoon of greased up bare-chested male dancers in army-style combat trousers and boots, carrying what I took to be anything other than standard issue military kit—bright-pink plastic pump-action shotguns.

  Three others, with whom I was familiar, stood near the speakers with a newcomer: a tall, blonde-haired, athletic, beast of a man, who brought to mind a Scandinavian Olympian. Even from afar the group was easy enough to spot, thanks to their regulation hard hats and bibs—this time of an orange Day-Glo variety. I was dressed in kind and approached my work colleagues for the start of our shift that would see us working through the night dismantling everything we had formerly put up. There was Steve, a cockney jack-the-lad actor, grafting here while waiting for his next theater job; “Metho Man,” a muscular South African, so named for his penchant for smoking crystal meth in the stadium toilets; and Christopher, or simply “twat,” to those who’d spent more than a couple of minutes in his presence.

  As I reached them, the unknown newcomer stared at the show with uninhibited contempt. Shaking his head at the antics on stage he let out a deep frustrated sigh.

  “The sooner I get out of this job the better,” he said to all gathered.

  “You and me both, mate,” I responded, thinking of the long night ahead.

  “You two could always go permanent you know,” ventured Christopher. “There are several perks if you do.”

  I shuddered at the thought. The blonde one stared a hole through him.

  “I would sooner be circumcised with a rusty butter knife,” he stated with utter conviction.

  It was, I think, in that moment that I knew I had found a kindred spirit.

  Owen was, it turned out, a professional deep-sea diver who normally worked on oil rigs, a lucrative, and equally dangerous job that paid fantastic wages when the work was there; the problem was he never knew when it would be. Having gone through a dry spot of late on the diving front, he had seen his savings run out thanks to some seriously fast-living—to the extent that he had put his beloved racing motorbike up for sale, and had been forced, like me, to take a job erecting and dismantling stages.

  “Make no mistake,” he told me. “I will walk out of here the second the phone call comes!”

  And he did, eventually. With a call that saw him earn a cool $180,000 dollars for just six months work. Not too shabby. With money in the bank again he relocated to Thailand, to spend his time training and fighting, while waiting for the next call. I was looking forward to seeing him.

  I spent the rest of the day soaking up the peaceful ambience of the nearby beach. After so much draining travel, taking it easy was a beguiling experience to savor. I went for a leisurely swim, visited some nearby rock pools and a prominent phallic rock formation known as “Love Rock,” then climbed to the top of a scenic lookout, where I gazed out across a sparkling emerald bay below. By the time I got back to the Muay Thai camp it was in full swing, packed with foreigners and locals alike, smashing the bags, pads, and each other while emitting a chorus of guttural grunts. Two girls, both Western, joined the ranks of those training. As I strolled through to Owen’s room I passed the gym’s main ring, where a sweat-drenched Ricardo was dancing around kicking the hell out of the pads.

  Come nightfall I sat with Ricardo, Manny, and a host of other fighters from the club at a heaving outdoor food market off the high-street that served up myriad Thai culinary delights at cheap prices. A steaming hot meal of “pad Thai”—a Thai-style rice-noodle stir fry served with delights such as tamarind, chilli, crushed peanuts, lime juice, and sugar—came to just fifty cents. I selected a big seafood version filled with king prawns and squid, then got stuck into a fresh pineapple milkshake, before finishing with a Thai-style crepe served with banana and Nutella.

  The stall selling these had attracted quite a crowd, both purchasing and spectating. The spectacle was all in the making. Unlike the liquid batter genesis of normal crepes, Thai crepes begin life as a sort of gloopy dough that has to be stretched out to the appropriate shape before cooking on a hot plate. The guy at the stall took the process beyond pure functionality, into the realms of art-form-cum-street-performance. Flinging the dough into the air, he whirled it around his head with adroit vigour, then, all of a sudden, slammed it down on his shiny work surface with enough force to make a few of the older tourists jump. A flurry of lightning-fast finger-tip movements followed to stretch the dough out, and then the whole process was repeated.

  Over my food I got talking to “Scouse Bob,” a heavily tattooed Liverpudlian with a lumpy-looking forehead that spoke of several recent elbows strikes.

  “Fancy a game of connect whore?” he asked.

  “How do you play?”

  “Oh, you just have a normal game of Connect Four with one of the prozzies.”

  The “prozzies” were stationed at bars in and around the food court, dancing at poles trying to sell their wares, but were, bizarrely, also available for games of Jenga and Connect Four—so long as you sat drinking at the bar that they worked out of.

  “Whatever you do don’t challenge one of the older prozzies to a game. If they look a bit ropey, then they’ll have been stuck at the bar practising all day every day.”

  We gave it a go. I won a couple, lost a couple.

  It was an odd experience really, as despite the happy salacious masks worn by the girls—as well as those pretending to be girls—I was aware of what a grim business prostitution in Thailand really is.

  Back at the table we found several of the fighters discussing one of the trainers at the camp with a sense of awe and intrigue, as rumors flew around as to the guy’s colorful past.

  “I heard he killed a taxi driver once, kicked him in the neck, went to prison and everything for it, but managed to buy his way out,” said one.

  “It’s all true,” confirmed Scouse Bob. “Apparently he was fighting at five, training properly at seven, had over two hundred fights by the time he was nineteen, then retired and became a gangster for a few years before becoming a monk.”

  A case of never letting the truth get in the way of a good story? Maybe. But I was sure looking forward to meeting the bloke.

  * * *

  “Mazza, you old bastard!” exclaimed Owen with a wide smile as he strolled into camp during the morning training session, reaching out a huge hand for me to shake—no hugs please; we’re British.

  The whole long lost buddies routine began with banter, followed by an exchange of wild stories that flew back and forth,
each vying to outdo the other in our adventures. After dropping off some knickknacks Owen had purchased on his trip away to relax on a nearby island before his big fight tonight, we headed off to a café together to grab some food. While walking there Owen spotted something stuck up on a wall near the food court.

  “They’ve only gone and done it again!” he said shaking his head in dismay.

  I took a closer look. On the wall was a promotional poster for tonight’s fights on the island. Splashed prominently across it were pictures of different fighters heading the bill, including Owen; only it wasn’t labeled as such. Across his image was emblazoned, “Sebastian,” juxtaposed next to a picture of the Swedish flag.

  “What the—?”

  “Happens all the time,” explained Owen. “Promoters put up flags representative of the holiday makers currently on the Island to try and get them to come along and support their fellow countryman. Sometimes even follow through with it in the stadium. I’ve seen Canadians led out by guys carrying the stars and stripes, and being pretty pissed off and distracted by it too.”

  “And the Sebastian bit?”

  “Different fighter from the camp. Must have mixed our names up. One guy at the camp only found out he was fighting when he went for a run and saw a poster of himself promoting that night’s event.”

  With Owen’s bout tonight, the camp trainers had prescribed him only light exercise today, so after a hearty breakfast we worked hard at taking it easy, hanging out for the rest of the morning by the pool and beach. In the early afternoon we went for a legitimate Thai massage at the only place recommended by the camp, a little nondescript establishment well off the main drag. This, apparently, was not your bog-standard tourist massage, but the real deal to prepare fighters before their bout. And good lord it felt like a bout. Joints popped, bones cracked, tendons stretched and muscles took one hell of a pummeling, as Owen and I were thrown into an array of contortionist-like positions by a couple of motherly-looking middle-aged women. Particular attention was given to the shin area—which Thai boxers kick and block with instead of using their foot. Here the masseuses jammed their elbows into the muscle alongside the shin, bearing-down and levering wildly, as if trying to prise meat from the bone. I can’t say it was particularly enjoyable at the time, but it sure made me feel limber afterwards.