Intermediate Level

It's not the first time since I've been here that I've been discouraged, and in fact I think that somehow, this is still the same instance of it. I don't mean to say in any way that I regret being here, or that my resolve to learn and to train is at all wavering. But just the same, sometimes you're up, and sometimes you're down, and sometimes you're just a long long way from home.

I'm sure that anyone who has had an extended stay abroad has some idea of the feeling to which I'm referring, but for those who haven't, I should clarify that I'm not at all depressed, I'm just sort of coming to terms with this whole undertaking. It's easy, before one leaves on a venture like this one, to be swept away by the romance of the whole idea, and to consider any future hardships in a dewy sort of light that makes every character in the untold story seem fascinatingly multicultural and dynamic, with quotable bits of wisdom and faces like Easter-colored marshmallows. Certainly I've already had my share of montage-worthy experiences, but today in particular I've been a bit disillusioned; the gentle flock of sheep that were my expectations have been shorn and whipped, and are now standing in a light drizzle, staring dubiously at a smiling Texan with an umbrella and undiscriminating molars.

No doubt many of you reading this are wondering if perhaps some unfortunate incident has provoked this comparatively melancholy on my part, and while I think that in some ways it's inevitable, even healthy, to feel this way a bit, perhaps there was a catalyst which made me feel it necessary to write this down.

Yesterday I was promoted from my previous classes, and I was instructed to join the intermediate Muay Thai classes as of this morning. I was pleased (with reservations) at the time, as I accepted the unspoken compliment of my trainers, but I understood also that this meant a whole new set of instructors, and presumably a great difference in severity of training. Honestly, the idea of training harder did not––and does not––upset me. I've already come a long way in terms of physical fitness, and I understand that I need to keep tackling harder tasks for that trend to continue. What's more, I'm here to be challenged, and in fact I relish the opportunity to find the new boundaries of my capacity.

Unfortunately, I found the intermediate class to be too much of what I had expected. The trainers at this level are much more committed to fight conditioning, and seem to be professional fighters more in the Western tradition. From the little I heard from the other students, and small facts gained about the general population of the camp during my stay so far, I know that two of the trainers have had professional boxing careers which have taken them across oceans in their adult lives. They both met with dubious success, and I don't know at all the backgrounds of the other four or so who seem to come and go freely during class, but they all seem to bear the business end of a punch in recent memory.

The dispositions of these trainers is very different from those I've described already. The air in the class is much less jovial, and at times vindictive. During technique exercises, the Thai men circulate with stone faces, making brief but constructive comments to the students, and sometimes demonstrating on an unfortunate trainee. During drills, however, of which there are a great many, the instructors become small, unapproachable islands, bristling with armaments and exporting only irritated grunts and physical pain. During bag work (in which each instructor holds a pair of pads in various positions for three-minute rounds, while a student strikes at full power, following the trainer's position and commands), they regularly move pads away at the last instant, while the student is reeling from the momentum of the missed strike, leap forward to backhand or leg-kick students. I quickly realized today that trying to block these sudden shots is not only extremely difficult, but in fact a punishable offense, as the instructors fully intend to strike unfairly, and for the students to get used to the feeling of being hit.

Likewise, the trainers often bark out commands to do short spurts of various physical exercises, and then deliberately disrupt them. They shout, "TEN PUSHUP! GO!" and then when we drop to the mat to begin, they heckle, step on our backs, kick out our hands, or punch us in the ribs. During a drill practicing the Thai Clench today, five instructors gathered around one unfortunate Englishman and took turns grabbing him by the head and throwing him across the ring, while he did what [very] little he could to resist them.

Training in an atmosphere like this has admittedly affected my attitude today, but not at all in the sense that I'm unwilling to return. I recognize this as in fact one of the purest examples of what I came here to do. Today, in the ring, when I saw George being tossed about like a veal steak in a room full of militant vegans, I considered that the trainers clearly intend to demoralize us. They want us to be discouraged, they want us to feel that it is futile to try to succeed. They want us to be beaten, bloody, and downtrodden, and they ensure that we are just that every class. I can say with certainty that in some sense they have accomplished their goal, that the novelty of my stay here has gone the way of all European attempts at colonization; that said, I see that what is left is only the hard and rather bleak reality of Muay Thai.

It is particularly clear to me today that for the Thai, this art is not a casual hobby. It is not something undertaken lightly, or a lifestyle to be conveniently emulated. The only way to get through this training is to accept the stark reality of elbows and knees, to learn to ignore physical pain the same way I have learned to ignore humidity and heat. The goal of these men is not to teach us how to block punches, but how to endure them. As with the deceptive strikes during bag-work, there is no possibility of evasion, no moment to block, no strategy to predict. There are elbows, knees, knuckles, and the warm, sweat-stained embrace of the mats.

Tonight, I came home. I took a shower, then wrapped two knuckles in medical tape, and put band-aids in various places on both feet. I washed my knuckles, put ice on my shins, and realized that this will be the closest thing to a victory-dance that my trainers will allow me to do.

Perhaps the most important thing I did this evening, however, was to hobble over to the corner of my room, and take from its case my dormant guitar. I placed the tuner on my knee, plucked the strings one by one, and then opened all of the windows facing the mats. With the smell of sweat and coming rain, I plodded gingerly back to my bed, picked up my instrument, and I belted out every song I knew at the top of my voice.

I think that in the coming weeks, I will need to gain great fortitude, I will need to accept the reality of pain, and I will need to not forget how important it is to play music.