I think that this is a trend which actually began before I was directly prohibited from training, and comes as a result of the growing detachment I feel from many to most of my fellow students. I don't think that it would be appropriate to say that I am in any way reclusive, but rather that my status as a sort of intermediate invalid has made me somewhat eccentric and a bit more private, as if my cracked rib were a suddenly inherited family fortune of ill repute, or the overnight growth of a genius IQ which I share only with a portentously named lab rat.
Generally, when I wake up, I snack from my own food stores until just before lunchtime, when I try to beat the post-workout rush of dripping torsos which crowd the bar at the Tiger Grill. After eating, I return to my room usually until dinner, for which I generally wait until about an hour after the final training sessions have concluded, so as to again avoid the crowd. Occasionally, after lunch, instead of going back to my room, I will wander down to the office and request the use of a motorbike for the day, which provides its own series of diversions.
At mealtimes, I generally resist the temptation to order my food to go, and I sit either at the outdoor bar or in the public set of tables between the intermediate and advanced training areas. I always bring with me something to read, and for some time now I've been muddling through Moby Dick, as I've thought that it bears re-reading since the arrogant glossing I gave it in high school. There is a significant amount of foot traffic through this part of camp, particularly as the main entrance is just across the intermediate area, and I am often hailed by passing acquaintances during the meal. In all honesty, these brief exchanges and passing nods are quite likely the peak of my socialization here in recent days.
I feel that it's important for me to explain that I really don't feel any misplaced sense of superiority or even distaste toward the people around me. I admit that at other points during my stay, I have been quite frustrated with the pop-culture, fraternity-like element which infests modern combat sports and their participants, but at this point my irritation has mostly faded into rueful humor. I hear the screaming from the MMA mats though most of the day, I see the broken chain of dull sparkles as the prostitutes leave in the mornings, and I feel the weekends nights wash over my room carrying most of my neighbors away on tsunamis of cheap beer and cheaper friends. For my own part though, I have become quite content to sit alone in my room with my books and my guitar.
I think that when I arrived, my disgust for the popped-collar culture in which most of the students here participate came from some type of insecurity towards it. I recognized that my monogamy, general sobriety, and continual use of many-syllabled words marked me as an outsider of doubtful character who will bear watching. I have never been in any way hazed or ridiculed for my deviant behavior, but I understand now that many of the men here are slightly uncomfortable around me if only because they don't know how to act. I have tried to make it clear that I don't appreciate stories about prostitutes, and that I don't tolerate violence toward them, no matter how amusing the situation seemed to others. I have had a total of four beers spread across my entire stay in this country, and only two of them were on the same night, and I'm frankly just not very talented when it comes to objectifying nearby women. I know that it will seem unfortunate to most of you reading this that these characteristics in me make me comparatively unfit for the social scene here, but it is in fact the case, and for some time, though I had no desire to change, it was hard not to feel a vague sense of insecurity for no other reason than that I was so clearly not like everyone else. Here in my last month, however, I have finally and fully detached from all even fragmented desires for acceptance from this group, and I have decided to put my efforts in a different direction.
For the first two months of my time in Thailand, I was fortunate enough to find a few friends to whom I related well. Most notably Chris, about whom you have heard some scattered things before, André, a hunter from Montreal, and a young French woman named Aurora, have comprised my few genuine friendships. Unfortunately, André has returned home, Chris is rarely in his room, staying mostly with one of the American MMA trainers who smokes weed with him a few times per day, and Aurora has drifted toward more admiring eyes for the time being. In themselves, these things are somewhat lamentable, but they have happened gradually enough that I have felt them only in the way that I have felt the country shifting out of the rainy season; change has come slowly and intermittently, but there's something different in the air, and though I find myself sitting in the same places, it's just a bit quieter all around.
Since I've been reading more, I have been reminded of a sort of parable from (I believe) The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, which seems particularly appropriate here by both its meaning and its symbols (forgive me if I take some liberties; it has been several years). The story basically is that of a one-legged hooker who lived in a small town, and before whatever accident deprived her of one of her engines, she had apparently been well established and accomplished in her profession. Finding herself suddenly one appendage poorer, she at first was understandably discouraged, as any cosmetic abnormality can be disastrous for a lady of negotiable virtue, but after some reflection, she devised a plan. The specifics of the story (if they were ever provided) escape me, but in the end she concluded by telling some dusty Steinbeck avatar that she had done quite well for herself since the accident, and in fact, "started chargin' folks extra. It ain't every day they get a chance at a one-legged hooker."
After what I hope is a significant stretch from this quaint story of turning adversity to one's advantage, I have found some encouragement for my own situation. Since I am generally so out of sync with the social rhythms of my classmates, I have actually been fortunate enough to encounter some otherwise unnoticed occurrences on what could be considered the dark side of camp. I have realized that my own pseudo-approachable status here is in many ways quite analogous to that of the Thais from the perspective of these same westerners. As I so far have very little save affection and admiration for the trainers themselves, I have decided to put whatever time and energy I devote to socializing in the future into a more complete relation to the trainers. Like me, they generally keep within the small groups of their own kind, but they are far from xenophobic, and even in so short a time, I have found my efforts with them well rewarded.
Late on a Saturday night, from a back corner of camp past all of the rooms and behind the beginner training areas, I heard the sound of music while I was on my way to the bathroom. Outside it was mostly deserted, as the vast majority of the students were out in search of tomorrow's headaches and uncomfortable burning sensations. Returning to my room, I put on a shirt, and wandered over toward the music to find a birthday party among the Thais for one of the trainers with whom I am well acquainted. Perhaps twenty of them were gathered on the ground near a small fire, and Dang, standing on the periphery, saw me from a distance, and, calling my name, waved me over. Grinning contentedly, I sat down among them and listened to Nazee play a few Thai folk songs which were pleasant enough, though obviously I understood very little. After the third song, the musician, nodding to me and laughing, asked, "Ah, you kno...ah...Jon Denva?"
"I know of him." I answered.
"OK then. We play heem now." Nazee said with a chuckle.
(see video below.)
I apologize for the poor quality and the erratic movement of the camera. I was actually recording Nazee somewhat surreptitiously, and as he was looking at me for most of the song, I had to hold the camera down a bit and pretend to less desperate to record the moment for posterity.
For those of you who couldn't tell, that was Nazee's interpretation of Country Roads, by John Denver, though his faulty English and the excessively enthusiastic sauce-pot accompaniment from in front of me perhaps hampered the performance a bit. Just the same, needless to say, I enjoyed it immensely.
Yesterday, the head MMA trainer, and American named Ray Elbe (a contestant on the Ultimate Figher 9 reality show) gave me his business card, on which, as you'll see below, he is featured in the midst of a strategic wardrobe malfunction between a pair of scantily-clad young women (of the two-legged variety).
He handed it to me outside of the cage, saying, "Here bro, Chris says you used to do some grappling. You should come by some time, we'll show you how it's done."
I smiled and nodded. "Thanks...bro. I'm pretty much sticking to Muay Thai right now, but I'll be sure to use your...uh...contact info here if I need to get in touch with you."
"Yeah man, I don't really see you around much."
"Yeah," I said slowly, "I think we just have different friends."
startin to sound like a programmer, being all anti-social and whatnot.
ReplyDelete