No paint, no gain

Aim and fire

I just got shot four times. Twice in the back, once in the ribs, once in the shoulder: a big day out by any standards.

No, I am not a victim in a Bangkok drive-by attack. I have just been playing paintball at an extreme sports centre at Mae Rim, on the fringes of Chiang Mai where much of "Rambo IV" was filmed.

The arena is the size of a children's playground, to my surprise. I expected to be plunged into the depths of a forest, our screams echoing around the canopy. Instead of trees, giant iron shields, monster cotton reels and towers of tyres punctuate the terrain.

My rivals and team-mates were students from Singapore's Nanyang Polytechnic. Inclined to clowning, they camp it up Rambo-style, posing with a gun in each hand, pointing their weapons at each other's heads and giggling deliriously, lubricated by a Chiang Mai X-Centre canteen lunch.

The bullets we receive look harmless, like marbles, and the guns are a cinch to shoot - you just pull the safety catch then the trigger. No shooting from point-blank range, we're told.

The object is to capture the enemy flag, taking out as many enemies in the process as possible. Anyone hit must instantly retreat and finish the shootout in the sin bin.

Split into two sides distinguished by black visors and green visors, we amble into the muggy sunshine. I stare down the track at my enemies through the haze that lends an authentic smoking-battlefield look, accentuated by the props' shot-up appearance.

Along with hamburgers, being loud in public and costly, hi-tech conflicts, the war game stems from America. The first paintballs were created by the Nelson Paint Company in the 1950s for forestry service use in marking trees, and were also deployed by cattlemen for marking cows.

Hardcore enthusiasts typically refer to adversaries as "prey" and give conflicting advice. One minute they'll urge you to stay in a bunker. The next, it's "keep moving, or you risk being outflanked".

The directive to stay low when you move can be quickly contradicted with "don't bother, it slows you down - just run".

Meanwhile, remember to use codes like "My hand hurts" when you mean that you are out of paint. And don't forget that feet, which are often left sticking out, are a legitimate target.

My squad leaves the tactics to Melvin Chan, 26, a marathon runner and engineering graduate with national service under his belt. Melvin and a comrade will cover the flanks while I take the centre, ready for anything. I've taken the precaution of gulping down coffee - lots of it - so I can do stupid things with more energy and faster.

Showtime! I run and duck into the shelter of the first available iron shield and begin adding to the clatter of deafening pops that shatters the stillness.

Embedded so far back, I feel sure that nobody can hit me. "Ouch!" Two minutes in and I've become the first casualty, nailed by an invisible sniper who's left a telltale yellow stain on my boiler suit. Don't believe the paintball evangelists who swear the fun takes the sting away. Everyone feels it.

Arms raised in surrender, I trudge to the hut, suddenly very conscious that I've become the biggest target on the field, a war-zone water buffalo.

Blam! Fffp! Clang! The racket intensifies. Bullets swerve, dip, and, fizzing, slam into barriers. Hitting prey when so many roadblocks exist is tricky.

The fusillade degenerates into a deadlock broken only when Melvin breaks cover yet somehow stays camouflaged. Skipping past the defenders he captures their flag in the way that you or I might enter a convenience store and pluck a Singha from the fridge.

Covering him I get shot in the back a couple of times by a girl dubbed "Debbie Bond" who sneaks up on the side. I also take a hit in the shoulder from a guy whose aim I have to admire - he only had a sliver to shoot at.

As the game unfolds, my technique tightens up. My advice: wait, bore the enemy into submission or making a false move.

When someone raises a head, because the kick from your turbo-charged popgun is light, you can fire one-handed, barely ever peeking over the top of your redoubt. So what if you miss? You get heaps of bullets.

Fewer than in "Rambo IV", however, as Debbie Bond discovers. Chamber empty, she bows out and then photographs the firefight from the stepped seating behind the netting, sorrowfully nursing a finger.

The ranks thin. In a moment, I will engage in a one-on-one duel with the hawk-eye who hit my shoulder.

Meanwhile, Melvin the marksman, who has swapped sides, strolls into view.

Focused on the flag, my former friend and mentor fails to see me. Hurrah for paintball.

Seized with excitement, I tug the trigger and wait for the splash of yellow. Nothing happens.

Determined to have my moment of glory, I pump my finger on the hot metal furiously. By now, Melvin should resemble a banana.

But I have failed to unleash a single bullet or any pent-up frustration - my gun is out of air, or rather carbon dioxide.

Whatever. The facts are academic as, in classic action-flick slow motion, Melvin turns ... and wastes me.