Talking With Your Fists

Injured

2009-11-22T18:42:00.000-08:00

Well, it's been a good run for me so far, but it's time I explained to everyone at the same time that it seems my stay abroad has come to a sudden and unexpected end. In my last post, a few weeks ago, I mentioned that I was finding ways to manage my time around the rib injury which prevented me from training, but it looks like that same injury will govern my lifestyle a great deal more than I had thought.

It has been several weeks now since I was hurt, and while I go significant periods of each day without serious discomfort, there are still no days entirely free from it, and the small amount of training in which I've engaged has been extremely unpleasant, and impossible to pursue in earnest. I have finally come to terms with what several of the staff here have been telling me, which is that with a cracked rib, any serious martial arts training is really impossible for at least a few months, and, particularly considering the nature of the training I had planned in Brazil, it has seemed most prudent to postpone the remainder of my voyage and return home at the beginning of December.

I've spoken to my parents about this a few times, perhaps unsurprisingly they support my early return, and most of the trainers here seem satisfied with the decision. Needless to say, I am disappointed, but I am continually reminded that Brazil will still be there next year, and I have already had an extraordinary experience by any standards. For now, I have been enjoying thoughts of the many wonders that await me in the furnaces and faucets of America, and of the friends and family that I'll be seeing much sooner than I had thought. I have been fortunate in easily finding a place to stay, and it seems to me now that I have had as much good luck as bad, and certainly have little cause for complaint.

For my last few weeks in Thailand, I have decided to treat myself well, and using the dwindling finances that I had reserved for my next destination, I have rented a large, air-conditioned room (technically a "villa," I'm told) at a resort down the road from camp. I now have a real mattress, hot water, and my own bathroom. I have spent several days at various markets at the towns and beaches around the island, and have found many things that I look forward to presenting to people back home, and I have hired the personal services of Prathet, one of the most able and talented trainers in camp, to give me short, private lessons in which I can learn and be somewhat challenged without risking further injury.

At this exact moment, I am sitting on a small leather couch near the bed, and I am staring out of a large double-window taller than I am. Next to the resort is someone's small house, and I can see several chickens and a rooster darting about in the open ground nearby under some palm trees. The room is filled with furniture made out of dark, beautifully stained wood; there is a wardrobe, a TV stand, and a small table against the wall with a mirror attached to it. In the evening light, the sun drenches long, diagonal lines of the room, and I can see the bits of dust and drifting lint on all the surfaces. My guitar is against the wall in a corner next to the television that has yet to be turned on, and today's clean, pressed sheets are stretched across the sprawling double bed in the center of the room.

I appreciate that here there are no ants crawling through cracks around the windows, here there is more than a lazy fan oscillating drowsily up on one wall, and even though here I am comfortable and distracted in about every way I could want to be, I must admit that it's hard not to feel as though I've somehow lost something, as though the murmuring A/C unit on the wall, or the unnervingly constant internet connection are false friends, all-too-charming acquaintances met at the funeral of a wealthy family member.

When I take a shower now, there is no intermediate walk outside, no contact with the sun and open air, and comparatively little need to shower at all now that I spend so little time sweating. Little by little I've started to see things about myself shifting back to mirror a world that I had left what seems like a very long time ago. Due to the climate control and the attitude of the staff at the resort, I have started wearing shirts every day; soon I may even recommence with shoes. I have started keeping multiple windows open simultaneously on my computer, as the internet connection can now handle that, and while I still spend a lot of time sitting still, my mind is on more tracks than it was a month ago. The scabs on my knuckles, never fully healed in the last three months, have finally hardened and fallen away, and I'm left with this soft, pink tissue that seems unprepared for its past.

As mentioned above, I've been gathering a lot of souvenirs lately, and I think that perhaps these tokens of myself will be among them. Yesterday I bought a small figurine of an elephant that had been carved by hand by an old woman who always sets up a stall at the night markets. When I go home, I will fold this up in newspaper, and put it in my suitcase next to three shirts and my habit of sticking a towel under the door to keep out insects that we don't have in North America. I will pack away my handwraps and my boxing gloves, and stick inside of them my memories of how to tie the curtains to let in the breeze and keep out the sun. I hope to keep handy my awe at air conditioning and hot water, and the guitar-string calluses on the fingers of my left hand are among the few things that show no signs of fading.

It strikes me, as I prepare to leave Thailand, that as with anything, it's the people here who have made this experience real to me. It seems hard to imagine that the tokens of this life would remain after I've left their witnesses behind, and though it may seem strange from the outside, I feel as though my body has learned as much in the past few months as my mind would in a studious year at college. My experiences here are held in such a way that I find it very hard to describe them in words, and thereby give them some form which is separate from the smiles of the trainers at camp, or the way we would stand just under the roof of the intermediate training area and watch the water come over the ridge in a solid wall during the rainy season.

I know that when I go home I won't suddenly forget all that the Thais have taught me, but for someone so used to putting things into words, it is somewhat unnerving to have the only real understanding of this time somewhere inarticulate. On Saturday night there was a party at the camp, and when I saw Nazee, I waved to him, and he walked up to me, grabbed me by the head, laughed, and kissed me on both sides of my face. When I am home, dealing with jackets, good beer, schedules, and other things unknown here, I will try to keep my souvenirs close by, and whether or not I can explain it well, in my shoulders and my neck, and in my fists, knees and elbows, I will remember these people for a very long time.

Quiet Places

2009-11-04T04:46:00.000-08:00

For the past several days, I have been in enough physical discomfort to prohibit any significant form of training, but not so much that I am unable to get up or move about my room and the camp. I can sit up well enough, which means that I can also ride a motorbike to town, or go to the store or the movie theater if I'm so inclined. In other words, one might say that I am still invested with my usual amount of potential energy, though in practice, I rarely stir outside of the four walls that now surround me.

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."

A Brief Update

2009-11-03T06:44:00.000-08:00

Several days ago, I received one of the more painful blows of my martial arts career, which is to say one of the more painful blows of my life. While in a clench (a standing grapple, for the laypeople) with a young Thai fighter, I was thrown off balance by a skillful twist from my opponent, and I flew into the ropes. With agonizingly perfect timing, as I rebounded off the ropes, this young man (maybe 14 years old) jumped in the opposite direction with both hands around my head, and pulled himself forward to deliver a knee to my ribs. The whole situation, considering that he jumped, that he moved forward, that he had the necessary hand perfectly positioned, and that I was rebounding off the ropes directly into his strike combined to lend him double to triple the amount of force which he would have otherwise delivered. It was a complicated event, but it ended with a cracked rib for me.

I'm told that as far as these things go, I've come off rather well. It has hurt to breathe for a few days, but there are less painful positions, and I've been sticking to them pretty faithfully. My entire torso was wrapped with bandages, and I've been warned by the general manager here to stay out of the ring on pain of explusion for a significant period of time. All together, I should be able to train again in just a week or two, though I will probably be staying out of clench fighting for a bit longer than that. The only significant danger, I'm told, is in a repetition of the injury in the near future; in short, if a rib is barely cracked (like it is now), I stay in my room for a while, if a rib is broken, I go home. USA home.

I apologize for the brevity of this, and for my lack of updates on any other front, but it's something of a hassle to prop myself up like this, and I'll make a point to tell some real stories tomorrow. For now, I just thought I'd let everyone know.

The Fights That Came Before

2009-10-29T01:13:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this post to immediately follow its predecessor, and I separate the two because I wanted to distinguish some of my personal feelings about the nature of fighting and this particular combat from what I've observed about this event in my capacity here as a researcher. Just before the fight, I described some of the rituals involved with Muay Thai here in Thailand, and I would now like to examine them again with reference to my own experience, and in light of my original hypothesis for this project.

Some may have actually forgotten this, and so I will explain for you and for those just joining us that my original purpose in making this voyage was to examine martial arts as cultural objects which are expressive of the history and values of the people who created them. In the past, I've made the comparison to language, which, through its evolution in a culture, changes to reflect that culture. For a simple example, linguists and historians often examine how many words there were for a certain idea or phenomenon in a society in order to get an impression of how much that thing was talked about or emphasized. It's a bit simplistic to explain that way of course, but changes like these, collected over time, constitute a dynamic history of a culture that continues to change, and in fact affect the present by the habits made in the past.

I still think that this analogy to language is appropriate, and I would like to draw attention to a certain duality inherent in the phenomenon of both. If we consider martial arts (and, I hope it's evident, I include in the art of Muay Thai all of the traditions and ceremonies which accompany its practice) as a sort of language, then we must consider that Muay Thai, for example, in its conscious implementation by its practitioners, bears features of which not all of its practitioners are conscious. For example, not all of my trainers are religious, certainly not all of the students are, but it is still accepted by them that one does not enter the ring between the ropes when wearing the Mongkon. Similarly, very few Thai boxers still practice Muay Boran, which was the old military art from which the sport of Muay Thai has evolved, and so many fighters are unaware that some techniques that they practice have their roots in the deflection of spears and clubs, Buddhist ideas of which body parts are sacred, or even the accommodation of nearby elephants. This ignorance does not affect their ability to effectively practice Muay Thai, just as one does not have to be an etymologist to speak a language, but it is relevant that in practicing Muay Thai, these fighters are representing a long evolution of which they may be only partially conscious.

This duality is notable on its own, but it becomes particularly interesting when one considers that Muay Thai, as a competitive sport, is constantly changing to meet the needs of ever-varying styles and competitors. Any competitive activity will necessarily be in a constant state of change, as new competitors seek to dislodge old champions with new ideas, but Muay Thai is such an integral part of Thai culture that changes come from other directions as well. King Naresuan in 1584 saw that Muay Thai became required training for every soldier in the Thai army, and practiced it himself. Royal interest and influence in Muay Thai has continued ever since, such as king Prachao Sua, AKA the Tiger King, who supposedly loved Muay Thai so much that he sometimes fought incognito in village contests.

In other words, in addition to the inevitable practical and aesthetic changes made over the course of centuries, the monarchy has directly acted to affect the course of Muay Thai's evolution as well, tying it still more closely to the Thai culture in particular, as opposed to just a sport with its own history. The monarchy has also greatly affected the practical habits of Muay Thai by the organization of several official Muay Thai stadiums, such as the famous Lumpini stadium in Bangkok, which have added requirements and limitations on technique and equipment for competition.

Muay Thai, then, is a means for the preservation of many ancient traditions and beliefs, despite the fact that many practitioners are unconscious of that which they act to preserve. In addition, Muay Thai, as a living form of expression, is constantly changing in practice and in ceremony to affect the shifting beliefs and priorities of the Thai people and government. Thus, the martial art acts at once to maintain the old and incorporate the new, and paradoxically sustains tradition through constant change.

It is somewhat difficult to frame this argument with so few specifics, but perhaps this will be an undertaking to pursue in earnest upon my return. For now, doubtful as I am of the general interest in a catalog of the many techniques of Muay Thai and their cultural/historical significance, I will suffice to say that to me, this venture has already been incredibly enlightening, and I consider it essential to the true study of the art. I consider the difference between studying learning the same techniques in America, and coming to learn Muay Thai here, to be more or less analogous to the difference between being able to pronounce a word, and knowing what that word means.

The Fight

2009-10-29T00:54:00.000-07:00

When I walked out of the ring, I was covered in sweat, my left leg was throbbing sullenly, and my arms hung like curtains that I couldn't summon enough wind to move. I oozed through the ropes, and a few people clapped me on the back as I tottered down the three steps to the ground. I nodded and smiled my way through the crowd as people politely complimented me on my defeat, and their respects slipped into my body like novacaine around a toothache that was irritating but according to the professionals wouldn't require surgery.

I was a little disappointed and somewhat frustrated as I left the party to shower and change clothes, but overall I just couldn't shake the feeling that the whole affair had just been rather anti-climactic. I wasn't pleased that I had lost, but it certainly wasn't an embarrassing defeat, or one of which I would have to be ashamed for the rest of my fighting career. I hadn't been knocked out, I had landed a few good shots of my own, and in fact I hadn't even sustained much damage, but I just felt that neither I nor my opponent had fought the fight that we could have.

For all three rounds, Craig (my opponent) had stayed mostly out of my reach, and when I came after him, he retreated, often dropping a quick outside leg-kick on his way out. Some of these kicks I checked, more I didn't, and I realized that I have a bad habit of ignoring strikes that I don't expect will do much damage, despite the fact that whether or not they hurt, they still make their way onto the judges' cards. It was these counter-kicks which did the only real damage of the fight, and which guaranteed Craig the win, and in fact were probably the most exciting part of the fight. We clashed in earnest very few times, and he usually retreated quickly, more than once leaving me swinging for the fences in unsuccessful attempts to land a solid blow. I was very frustrated by his strategy, and I wish then and now that he had been more willing to directly engage as I had expected him to, but I have to give him credit for developing a successful strategy that neutralized my height and my reach, and sticking to it.

All of that said, I consider the whole experience of the fight to be extraordinarily valuable, both from a personal perspective and an academic one. Personally, I now feel a substantial difference in my bearing and confidence, and I think it comes as a simple result of withstanding the consciously directed violence of another person. Certainly, my fight could have been more ferocious, but I expect that a certain moment in it will remain fixed in my memory for a long time, somewhere between my first kiss and when I received my black belt.

The moment was after Phatet, one of my closest trainers here and one of my corner-men for the fight, poured the last of a cup of water over my head between rounds, patted my shoulder, and stepped out of the ring. I stood up, heard the bell, met Craig in the middle of the ring, kicked, was blocked, felt the counter land hard across my left thigh, and I darted forward with a jab followed closely by a quick, simple combination. Craig fell back immediately, bounced off the ropes, threw a loose jab that I dodged, and then turned and retreated a few more steps. All told, this clash is hardly an unusual one in the course of a fight, but I remember, as I saw him retreat again, ducking back quickly to avoid my hands, that he was afraid of me. I don't mean that he was cowardly, or unable to face his fear, but that this man, this trained fighter, didn't want to be in range of my limbs an instant longer than he had to be. He wasn't giving up the fight by any means, but he was afraid of me, and I knew, with a sort of frosty effervescence, that he should be.

As I mentioned, I've been frustrated by the result of the fight, but overall I just feel that it wasn't what it could have been. I certainly had a respectful fear of Craig's capacity in the fight as well, and I failed to push hard enough through the match to disrupt his well thought-out game plan. I am frustrated, I am disappointed, but there remains that abiding sense that I have now stood against exactly the type of person who has intimidated me in the past. Craig is stronger than me, he is more aggressive by nature, he places more value on public displays of strength and masculinity (he flexed for the crowd and fondled the ring girls between each round). I always knew that I would be afraid when I had to face a man like that violently, which is to say in an environment and with standards which he so values, but there's something that makes my shoulders sit higher when I remember that of course I was afraid, but after the first round, so was he.

In My Corner

2009-10-22T01:03:00.000-07:00

Those of you following this scrupulously will be aware that this Saturday, which is to say two days from the composition of this post, I will have my first competitive fight. A little over an hour ago, I found out that my opponent is to be a man named Craig, who arrived at the camp around the same time I did, and has been at the periphery of my experience for the past several weeks. I've spoken to him since I saw the matchings, and he's as good-natured as I would hope for him to be, and I have good expectations for a clean, challenging fight.

For the fighters and martial artists who read this, I suppose it's also relevant to mention that I outweigh Craig by about 5 kilos, though he's clearly much stronger. He has broad shoulders and a stout frame, his arms are large and much more muscular than mine, though I stand several inches taller than him, giving me a significant reach advantage. I don't know what his background is, but I take our boxing skills to be roughly equal, though it has been a long time since I sparred with him.

I am somewhat encouraged by the fact that very rarely do the trainers allow us to kick during sparring, and so hopefully my strong background with lower-body techniques will be another point in my favor. I have to say, however, that Craig is, by his bearing, the veteran of more than one street fight, and I heard him once explaining to someone that he has been to prison back in England (though I don't know how many times) for some extended term, and I must presume that that stay was hardly untroubled. All told, he is a daunting opponent, and one that I consider to be at my level, not significantly above or below. All signs point to a hard fight, though I remain cautiously optimistic.

I spoke to my mother yesterday, who perhaps unsurprisingly seems confused about the need for me to participate in something like this, and apparently would prefer that I avoided it entirely. In response to a similar reaction which I anticipate from some of my readers, I feel that perhaps I should explain.

On one level, I am not being in any way facetious or insincere when I say that a fair part of my interest is academic. My purpose here is to study the way in which Muay Thai relates to Thai culture and history, and an official and organized Muay Thai fight is rich in both. Before the fight, both combatants enter the ring much in the style of Western boxers, following a presumably grandiose announcement from an official, including the notable parts of a fighter's record, along with their country of origin. Once both parties are present, a traditional piece of music beings to play, referred to as Pi Muay, on an instrument which somewhat resembles a clarinet. As the music plays, both fighters proceed in a dance called the Wai Kru, which begins by walking around the ring three times and bowing/saluting in some fashion at each of the corners, and after a minute or two of formulaic dancing, finishes with whatever personal touches the fighter wishes to add.

Technically speaking, the laps around the ring are not actually a part of the Wai Kru, but are referred to as "sealing the ring," as they seal the ring from evil spirits by walking with one hand on the ropes, and stopping to pray at each corner. The Wai Kru itself has a certain series of proscribed movements, but these are more convention than ceremony, which is to say that many/most fighters alter or even abbreviate this part. The dance itself, in whatever form it takes, is actually very important, however, as "Wai" means "bow" and "Kru means "teacher," the dance is the fighter's opportunity to show respect and thanks to his or her trainers and teachers. In other words, the dance may be and usually is adapted to personal taste, but should never be excluded.

Below is a link to a video of this dance as performed by Nazee, one of my trainers, and the man with whom I have been taking private lessons in preparation for the fight. He proceeds through the dance almost entirely according to conventional practice, but the main personal touch is right at the end and is in fact Nazee's trademark. Before going back to his corner, he mimes drawing and firing an arrow at his opponent, stepping forward, surveying the damage, and concluding that the other fighter's future is grim. Much, much more about Nazee to come.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCX41E9J5yM

During all of this, the fighters wear a headpiece called the Mongkon, which in years long past was a towel or a cloth twisted tightly around the prayers and good wishes of the fighter's trainers, friends and family. Today, the Mongkon still represents the same thing, though one is usually re-used by a gym or a group, and it does not usually contain the written prayers anymore. Sometimes the fighters enter the arena with the Mongkon already in place, but while wearing this, the fighter will never duck between the ropes to enter the ring, but will instead enter only over the top rope to show respect for the prayers, and to symbolize that God and prayer are above all things.

In the last week, Nazee has been teaching me this dance, and while he is somewhat critical of my funk, and insists that I move more to the music, I think that I'm at least getting enough of a handle on it so that I won't embarrass myself or him on Saturday.

In addition to studying the cultural/historical aspects of this ceremony firsthand, a great deal of my motivation is social. About a month ago, I mentioned Dang, the head trainer in the beginner classes, and the fact that he started fighting when he was still a small child. Though I was aware at the time that his case was hardly atypical, I have discovered since then that without exception, the trainers at the gym have all entered the ring several dozens of times at least, giving them a fight record as long as most professional boxers in the Western world. For some time, I have felt that my utter lack of experience in serious combat with a trained opponent is something unimaginable to the Thais here, and in fact could become a source of alienation. I don't mean that they would think of me as weak or cowardly, but rather that they would (and in fact do already to some extent) question my motivation in training Muay Thai without ever thinking to apply it.

Most of the trainers have in fact fought far more than any western boxers would in two lifetimes, and they still continue to compete. I feel that I should warn everyone who could be reading this while running or operating heavy machinery to pause for a moment before I impart this next piece of information, as the average professional boxing carrer is usually thought to be around 50-80 fights in a lifetime. Nazee, my personal trainer pictured in the video above, will fight at Patong Stadium here in Phuket in two weeks. This will be his 382nd fight. Three hundred and eighty-second fight.

Surrounded by people like this, it is easy to see that fighting in the ring is such a quintessential part of the characters of the trainers here, that I know that I am expected to enter the ring and test my own skills. Just as I was pushed to advance from the beginner mats, and again from the intermediate area, my trainers (particularly Nazee and Phatet, who I consider to be the most talented and helpful of the advanced trainers) have been subtly encouraging me to step up to the level of a Muay Thai fighter, and not just an American with a hobby.

Add to this the fact that as a lifetime martial artist, actual combat is something that has always lurked at the back of my mind as a silent challenge from the world. It has always seemed to me that to conduct oneself with legitimacy in the arts that I have chosen to study, one must be able to apply them to a hostile opponent. I've waited this long because I believe that there is also a great value in perfecting technique for its own sake, even if it be in a vacuum, but a large part of the aesthetic value of martial arts is their power, and it's time I tested my own.

Two days ago, I asked Chris if he would be my corner-man for the fight, and help me warm up and get focused on the night of. He was honored, and agreed instantly, and I'll be very glad to have him there. While perhaps not as terrified as I had always expected to be at this prospect, I admit that I am rather apprehensive about the whole event, and as Chris is my oldest and closest friend here at the camp, I expect him to be a very helpful and reassuring presence. I am also confident that he is well suited to the responsibilities that will await him in this, as he is not only an insatiable aficionado of combat sports, and so well versed in the preparation and care of fighters, but also he is the veteran of a significant prison sentence, served mostly in Texas penitentiaries, in which he once had to fight a man to save his own life.

At this moment, sitting on my bed alone in my room, it seems that I have come to be very far away from my life back home. I am still very much glad to be here, and I am excited for the fight on Saturday, but as I read back over this post, thinking of how personable I've become with these hard-knuckled men of necessity, with their shotgun biceps and backs and stomachs made of iron and knotted rope, I admit that part of me very much wants to read a book, and then talk about it with someone who has weak shins.

Back to Basics

2009-10-19T19:42:00.000-07:00

First off, I should apologize for my long silence, and offer a few words of explanation. I appreciate that some of you have even gone so far as to ask about the progress of my next post, as I am always flattered that there are people following this closely, and I will certainly try to get back into the habit of regular publication.

To sum up the last two weeks or so, I will say that right now, seated in my room on my bed, I am as close as I have really come in some time to again being lord and master of my particular circumstances. The allied insurgents of a large-scale technological failure, a brief trip out of town to visit a friend, the foreign and rebellious contraption in the corner of my room, and my own mild ineptitude at surviving on this side of the Pacific have all made fair bids at the overthrow of my kingdom, and while unsuccessful, have caused a great deal of strife amongst the baronies. Even now, my computer has an entirely new and entirely empty hard drive, my guitar is adjusting to some new strings that have yet to be broken in, and my stomach is shuddering through aftershocks. It's been a long two weeks.

The communists began their muttering last Wednesday, when I awoke to find that my computer had stopped responding to all commands. I rebooted it, attempting to negotiate, but all it showed me was a blinking icon of a folder with a question mark inside of it. The fact that nothing was coming onto the screen certainly irritated me, but in hindsight I think it was the question mark which really provoked my wrath. When it comes to my appliances, I can tolerate some idiosyncrasy, and in fact can even turn a blind eye to a certain amount of inconsistency or sloth, but I will not brook insolence in a computer. In the end, I placed the contraption under arrest, found it guilty of taunting me with the question of whether or not it had a hard drive, and turned it over to a repair shop in town for sentencing. Some days later, they informed me that sadly, it had shown no remorse for its actions, and would have to be lobotomized. Unfortunately, my Empire can show no mercy to insurgents.

The procedure took several days, but now my computer has been returned with an entirely new mind. I was actually charged no small amount for this service, and the attendant at the shop gave me her best Nurse Ratchett smile as she said that in fact the storage space had been upgraded, though no data was able to be transferred from the previous incarnation. Fortunately (and somewhat morbidly), she also gave me the old hard drive in case I could find someone able to extract the data once I return home.

In the intervening days between the computer's trial and execution, I was fortunately able to occupy myself in pursuits other than the contemplation of my 80 gigabytes of treachery by taking a trip to Bangkok. As at least a few readers of this are aware, a good friend of mine named Rachel DeCuir has recently arrived in this country, and has begun a much more extended stay for the purpose of teaching English in a rural school as part of the Fulbright program. Previous to their diffusion amongst their various provinces, however, the Fulbright scholars are all staying in Bangkok for a short orientation program so that they can have some help learning the language and customs. Remembering my own feelings of isolation and discouragement upon my arrival in this distant land, I thought that perhaps a friendly face would be welcome.

I took the bus to Bangkok, and we departed on Friday evening. This being the second time that I had traveled to the city in this manner, I was somewhat better prepared for all the small irritations that accompany the 13-hour ride, and I did my best to pass most of the night in comfortable oblivion. I arrived at the Bangkok bus station around 7:00 AM, with the sun only timidly occupying the Eastern horizon, still balking at the dense clouds of smog with their leather jackets, slicked-back hair, and hard, greasy knuckles that promised a long fight for dominance of the Bangkok sky.

I took a taxi to what has become my preferred place of lodging in that otherwise unfortunate metropolis, and stayed just long enough to drop off my backpack and brush my teeth. Slinging my guitar-case over my shoulder, I strode out of the hotel and, following the directions given over the phone by Rachel's roommate, I was soon facing the recessed front of Suksitnives International House.

I know that Rachel was glad to see an old friend in what is otherwise so callous and disheartening a place, and the feeling was mutual. We spent the next couple of days in general exploration of Bangkok, and actually covered a significant amount of relevant ground, traveling by canal, seeing the area of the Royal Palace and many surrounding monuments, becoming proficient in the Skytrain transit system, and having several small adventures along the way. Though I still possess a strong general distaste for Bangkok, I will say that my perception of it did improve through our wanderings, and all the while it was extremely refreshing to converse with a personality that would never be found amongst the juiced-up muscles and peacock struts of the students at Tiger Muay Thai.

In fact, being with Rachel, and going out as we did one night with the other Fulbright scholars, made me again very conscious of the particular strain of narcissism which infests the camp like a fungus. Unfortunately, I see it almost everywhere, and, like most fungi which adheres to humans, it is rather contagious. Every time I step out of my door, I see it mouldering the biceps and battered chins of most of the Westerners here, and I smell it's dank odor in the breath of people who actually begin sentences (not an exaggeration) with the phrase, "Yeah, you know, that's the awesome thing about me..."
I think that the worst thing about it is that it creates an environment in which competition is so omnipresent that it's hard not to start thinking that you're better than everyone because you aren't as competitive as they are. The whole thing is paradoxical and painfully ridiculous, but even spending a couple of days away from it helped me to be able to laugh about it more than just getting exasperated. What's more, it was nice to be around people who were actually interested in the cultural roots that I'm trying to trace, people who read books without the words "EXPLOSION," "ULTIMATE," or "POWERHOUSE" in the title, people who are looking to learn more in Thailand than how to fight during the days and separate the ladyboys from "the good ones" in the evenings. Good to get out of camp I guess, and just play some music for a while.
On that note, I did bring my guitar with me to Bangkok this time, and I was glad that I did. This was the first time since I've put any significant effort into learning that instrument that I've carried it with me on any serious venture, and it makes the whole experience much more picturesque, charming and generally enjoyable.

In the past two months or so, I have come to consider my guitar to be a sort of court-jester in my Kingdom of Comfortable Circumstances, though perhaps one that was selected by one of my more adventurous secretaries after a several day drinking binge. My court jester, you will understand, is unfortunately a terribly fresh arrival from the distant land of Ibanez, and as of yet he (for somehow I've gained the impression that it is male) shares a language with no one in the realm, least of all me. Nonetheless, every day we meet, sit down to peer over some strange scratchings and tablature from his homeland, and I shake his hand and he does his best to be entertaining. So far, we have both been generally well-meaning and studious, and we had been making some progress on basic grammar (to be, to have, subject-verb inversion to form a question, contractions, etc.), but a great deal of our conversation remains halting and broken, the pauses marked by strange buzzing noises. Recently, however, he seems to be harboring some distinctly Soviet tendencies, and has rather stopped cooperating. Personally, I suspect some sedition by the Laptop before its sentence was carried out, but unfortunately I have no proof.

Whatever the cause, many of the strings have been refusing to stay in tune, and sometimes it just sounds a bit off, particularly when trying to play new songs. I've spoken to it about this, quite sternly I might add, but as I possess only a failing electronic tuner, the translation equipment is as limited as my ability to make sense of it. I'm sure that there is an answer here, and that soon enough my jester and I will be conversational in our awkward, discordant way, but at the moment it feels as if we were discussing present tense conjugations of "to be" and I am suddenly asked to understand the subjunctive. Yesterday I sat down to inquire about a talk I had with Glen Hansard, and my jester practically spit in my face. That evening, I changed his strings out of spite.

Finally, after I returned from Bangkok, I gained yet another reason to detest that city and almost everything that comes from it. For part of my last day there, and for the four days immediately following my return, I experienced physical discomfort unrivaled by anything to which the trainers here have yet subjected me. I had a fever, joint pain, skin sensitivity, nauseousness, and serious bowel complications that do not need to be detailed. Needless to say, I did no training in that interval, and spent it mostly cooped up in my room, sleeping, watching movies, grumbling at my blankly complacent and empty-headed computer, and arguing with my court-jester.

The causes of that terrible illness are still unknown to me for certain, but I have two primary suspects. The first is actually the more shocking of the two, and one that I never saw coming. Both of the full days that I spent in Bangkok were dappled with rain, and on one day, I was actually caught out in a light drizzle for a short time. I have since been informed that the pollution in that accursed city is so abominable that if one is rained on, then, having the characteristically weak immune system of an American, it is important to shower immediately, or risk becoming ill. The second culprit (pictured below) is perhaps less shocking, and is simply my own fault for being a bit too adventurous with my meals in a questionable market setting.

For those of you wondering, that is, in fact, grilled squid on a stick, though the inside was sadly and dangerously undercooked.

Anyhow, I recovered by the beginning of last weekend, and was able to go to class on Saturday. I have resumed training on my normal schedule, and in fact have taken a major step in my martial arts career. I don't mean to be dramatic by leaving this as a cliffhanger at the end of the post, and so I will furnish all basic details now, and go into a more extended explanation soon.

As of today, I have officially signed up and weighed in to compete in a full-contact Muay Thai fight this Saturday. Both combatants must wear 16oz. gloves and a mouthpiece; all punches, kicks, and knee strikes are legal, though points will only be given for recognized Muay Thai techniques. These fights are very short, and meant only to be a centerpiece to a barbecue and party that will last the whole evening, so each fight will be three rounds, each round lasting two or three minutes (TBA). I weighed in at 86 kilos (about 189 lbs.), and I will find out who my opponent is on Thursday, though I know that it will be another fighter from the camp. Think well of me that night my friends; I wish that so many of you were here.

Advanced

2009-10-06T01:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I stood on the mats below the boxing ring, facing one of my more enthusiastic trainers. He had a regular Thai pad on each arm (I use the term “pad” loosely here), and my wrapped fists were clenched inside of black 16 oz. gloves. We faced each other in identical stances, though his bore about 13 fewer inches above it, and he held the pads up next to his head in a normal boxer’s position, regarding me expressionlessly from between them.

We circled each other slowly, bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm, and suddenly he gave a harsh, guttural cry and spun to the side, holding both pads together facing my right. I took the signal, and threw my already aching right leg toward the pads with as much legitimacy as I could give it; my shin and ankle thundered into the pads with a satisfying explosion, but before I had time to rejoice in the small patch of fluff which flew off of the pads in my direction, I felt a small ankle at the back of my left foot, and in a fraction of a second I was on my back, staring up at the ceiling.

As usual, a loud cry of “OOOOOHHHH-WAAAAAIIIIEEEE” echoed around the mats from the trainers nearby, and I lumbered back to my feet, nodding and smiling ruefully at my grinning opponent who was bouncing gleefully from side to side. I set my stance, regained my rhythm, and the moment my gloves came up to my chin, my trainer’s grin vanished, replaced again by blank, unyielding concentration, and the pads resumed their irregular orbit in front of him.

This scenario repeated itself over a dozen times, often requiring a long string of techniques from me before the heavily anticipated counterattack, when this man’s shins and forearms formed a complex drum line across my head, ribs and thighs. Sometimes I was able to respond; sometimes I managed to catch the counter-kick, or to at least raise my own shins to ‘block’ it, much as one places a stop-sign in front of a careening semi, but more often my stomach and jawbone grimly accommodated their foreign visitors.

When the whistle blew for the end of the final round, my trainer held the pads to his right one more time, uttering a loud cry in Thai which I took for encouragement. As I threw my shoulders and hips into the kick, my leg whipped around in defiance of all exhaustion, and as I felt the last reserves of my speed and ferocity course through my muscles, I just had time to see a tanned foot rising over the rim of my carelessly lowered left glove. There was a flash of light, and a second later, with no knowledge of how I had arrived, I found myself once again on my back, staring at the ceiling, and feeling a ringing numbness where the left side of my jaw should have been.

My trainer scampered over to me smiling, helped me up, and I grimaced, rubbing my jaw, and shrugged helplessly at him as if to say, “I’ll do better next time.”

He smiled broadly, and put both of his hands on my shoulders, staring up at me earnestly. “Haha, no. You ge keeked, do no feel bad. I know EVERY-thing.”
Laughing again, he released me, clapped me on the shoulder, and made the Thai gesture of thanks/respect before shaking my hand. This, I have found, is the regular story of the advanced class here at Tiger Muay Thai.

The trainer who I’ve described here (whose name I will make a priority to learn) is in fact already familiar to me. He, along with many other Thais, fluctuates back and forth between the beginner and advanced mats, and in fact is the same trainer who still leads the beginner class in the aforementioned ceremony of his own invention beginning with “WHAS YO NEM?!”

I have noticed a few other familiar faces as well, though it seems that some do stay exclusively in one area, as much to my regret, Dang has yet to make an appearance outside of his customary rounds. Their attitudes are much the same as well, and I have found the complete return to this jovial spirit of training extremely refreshing. My young friend’s bellowing introductions don’t take place here (being perhaps unnecessary, as at its heaviest day I’ve seen up to six people in the class including me), but there is unmistakably the same emphasis on personal relation.

For example, the trainers seem to have a pretty firm idea of what each of us is capable of performing, and assign some students mildly heavier or lighter workout numbers for certain exercises. Likewise, I have found myself remembering the styles of the particular trainers, knowing to whom I should address certain questions, and what amount and what manner of physical punishment will be dealt out by each one during the dreaded pad-work drills (described at the beginning).

What’s more, at this level, I have found that the trainers sometimes disagree on certain minutiae of the art. Far from being frustrating, it is actually interesting and encouraging to have conflicting corrections from different instructors, and while any of those attending or spectating always quickly yield to whoever is leading the lesson, I often see them after class, standing on the mats in small groups, demonstrating movements and speaking thoughtfully in Thai.

Overall, the trainers seem to worry a lot less about students slacking or not paying attention, or being in any way undisciplined. The students here, what few of us there are, seem to be distinctly less concerned with proving themselves against the others, or really with anything other than committing themselves to the training, and it strikes me that Dang’s beloved bamboo switch would have very little purpose. This is not entirely without exception of course, but I have already found the students in the advanced class to be very friendly and inviting, and I do not at all have the impression that anyone is comparing him- or herself to me (I say this, of course, bearing in mind the fact that I have once been mistaken on this account; despite that, I feel that I'm more on the mark this time).

Though I have been shaken somewhat by the recent social troubles involving my progression, I can say honestly that I am very happy to be in company with these people. I have met a young English girl named Karla who is in possession of both phenomenal boxing skills and a genial and approachable demeanor, and her boyfriend Adrian, who has actually grown up alternating homes between Bangkok and Manchester, and so speaks fluent Thai and has the mannerisms of the West with the comfort and ease of someone who is still at home.

In short, I have finally begun to find a few people to whom I actually relate somewhat, even if only on a casual level so far. I have already had interesting conversations about something other than sex or violence, and the forecast is good for many more.

Next time, I should really talk about Chris; I feel that he is a central character whose detailed description is long overdue.

Up and Down

2009-10-02T05:15:00.000-07:00

For the past few days, I've just been kind of pissed off. Right when humanity was looking sunny, the Americans came along. It all begins with good news.

On Tuesday morning, I walked across camp to the intermediate mats at the same time I always do. The trainers were sitting and standing around the edges of the boxing ring, and I stepped up next to the base of it, depositing my bag and water bottle on the ground, and kicking off my sandals before I stepped onto the mats. I nodded up to the reclining Thais as I started stretching, and the head trainer shook his head at me and waved his hand. I paused, looking at him inquiringly, and he just pointed back through camp, saying simply, "Avanse."

I stared at him blankly, not knowing what he meant, and he nodded back the way I came, pointing again. "No mo tren here. Today you go avanse." Once I understood his meaning, I was pleasantly surprised, and immediately pressed my hands together under my chin in the Thai sign for thanks/respect. He nodded again, returned the gesture, and waved me off toward the advanced mats, returning to his companions. I picked up my things, and turned around to find that one of the nebulous, floating trainers who seem to have no fixed position had materialized behind me. He smiled simply at me, and led me away to the advanced area.

The class itself was conducted in very much the same pattern as the intermediate class, though obviously with significant differences in subject matter and intensity. I'll say a few words about the class in a later post, however, as I find it difficult enough to limit myself to reasonable verbosity on just one topic at a time.

In the few days since I was moved to the advanced class, I have been extremely frustrated by the reactions of my peers. I recognize that moving to this level of training is something of a change in social status; this is a demonstrable sign that I have attracted the attention of my trainers, and earned their respect, which is doubtless the most sought-after prize in the camp. What I did not recognize, however, was the intrusively competitive nature of many of my acquaintances here, and that their evident confusion, mixed with thinly veiled insults, would leave me thinking that I had seriously over-estimated the number of friends I've made.

Let us examine, as an exemplary case study, a young American man named Luke. Our arrivals at the beginning of September were within two days of each other, and up until this week, we've been on roughly the same training schedule. Overall, I know very little substantive information about Luke, but in the manner of fellow countrymen in foreign places, we have maintained something slightly above a friendly acquaintance through shared meals and random meetings around camp. Since Tuesday, however, things have been different.

Every time that I have seen Luke in the last four days has involved some mention of my placement in the advanced class, and a not-so-subtle comparison of my abilities to his. Of course, the first time I saw him after my promotion, he immediately congratulated me, but it was clearly forced, and he followed that nicety with a rather offensive (and inexplicable), "Huh, you know I never really saw you training much in intermediate. I guess advanced has been a pretty small class though, they probably want some new people."

What bothers me most about my promotion, however, is not actually the jealous incredulity of those with whom I had trained before. In the company of everyone, it seems, whether or not I had trained with them before, the fact of being in the beginner or intermediate Muay Thai classes has become something of which one is obligated to be ashamed. Chris and I took a new arrival named Dave out to lunch yesterday to show him around town, and after Chris spent the first few minutes of the venture heckling me about my class change, Dave filled our lunch with obnoxious proclamations along the lines of, "I mean, I seriously can't believe they put me in the beginner class. I'm all like, 'dude, I know my training's been off and on, but don't put me with this bunch of pussies.'"

(As an aside, I should say that, to his credit, Chris seems to have been almost completely unfazed by my advancement this week, and while occasionally joking with me about it, he has provided my only real outlet for this frustration)

I would like to ignore Luke's change of attitude, and I would like to remind Dave (and all of the so many others) that the beginner class, or "this bunch of pussies," refers to, at one time or another, every person in the camp. Frankly, the notion that anyone's talents are being wasted as they stagnate under the oppressive, Philistine yoke of the beginner or intermediate trainers is very offensive, as is the realization that all of these comments are coming as an attempt to make their speakers feel that they might still be better fighters than I am, though they are unjustly imprisoned while I am shown undeserved favoritism. If I didn't think that arguing with them would make the alienation problem worse, I would explain to them that they may well be better fighters than me, and that I frankly couldn't care less, as I'm here to study an art form, not prove my masculinity by bouncing my skull off the hardened fists of unimpressed Thai men.

I should also point out that it has been almost entirely Americans who have thus displayed this shallow and competitive nature toward their friends. Maybe it's just a random coincidence, but the others I know, particularly the non-Westerners, seem to be less bothered by my promotion. Perhaps not surprising.

This is all the more frustrating for me as it runs so contrary to my own experience in the States. I don't mean that I'm any stranger to the hyper-competitive nonsense that is a large part of modern martial arts, but rather that I have been selective enough (and fortunate enough) to train only in gyms at which community and dignity are highly valued. At this point I feel it appropriate to mention Conway Mixed Martial Arts, the site of my physical education and intermittent employment in Conway, AR, and a place where I learned a great deal about the dignity of martial artists.

Anyone who has trained at Conway MMA knows that you won't get far as a stranger. I have spent the past four or five years cultivating a strong friendship with the Newton family, who owns and operates the school, and I consider many of its students to be personal friends. What's more, I have always felt that whatever success I earned on my own was an honor for the gym, and I know that I was far from the only one to feel this way. Each time I've been promoted, in whatever style or class, I have always met with encouragement and genuine congratulation, not suspicious stares and backhanded comments. After the first Jiu-Jitsu tournament in which I competed, I and everyone else from Conway MMA handed our medals to Joel after the whole thing was over, and they stayed on the wall in the school, never to be worn by any of us as far as I'm aware.

I think that the Thais understand that. While my last post now appears to me in something of a naive, rosy light, I do still sense a certain camaraderie among many of the students, and its presence is absolutely undiminished in the trainers. I'm encouraged by the office of the camp, in which walls and tables are filled with trophies and championship belts that the winners left there. Every fight picture and video I've seen always shows the Thais displaying some symbol of their training ground, and the art of Muay Thai traditionally features a pre-fight ceremony in which both combatants conduct a dance and a walk around the ring while adorned with physical symbols of the prayers and well-wishes of their trainers and family. I'm sure that these men are aware that many of their students consider promotion something personal, almost like a popularity contest, but they obviously pay so little heed that I can only be assured that they find it as ridiculous as I do. Following this, I plan to continue to try to flesh out what this bond is, though it may be more subtle than perhaps I had originally thought, particularly among us foreigners.

Back to the personal business, I guess what I mean to say is that this one goes out to the guys (and girls, Missy) back home. I know that many of you would love to be where I am, and several of you expressed your envy to me directly, but I especially appreciate that before I left, everyone came down, had pizza, shook my hand, and sent me off with smiles and good wishes. I think that after I come back, and after my financial situation is sorted out, I will make it my business to come back here, and to take at least one of you with me each time. My experience at Conway MMA has always been one of strong community and genuine friendship, where the stripes on your belt, or the notches in your gloves, are never as important as the respect you show on the mats. If only I could show these floundering, insecure peacocks that where I come from, we stand up straight, we don't talk shit, we do our best, and when one of us does well, we shake his hand, we clap him on the back, and we all do what we can to help him do even better.

Love.

We Are the Fighters

2009-09-28T00:38:00.000-07:00

From time to time I'll hear a few words, or even as much as a sentence, delivered in just the right way, or perhaps at just the right moment, so that they seem to echo with a profundity that would otherwise not be implied by the arrangement of the words themselves. Today I was thinking about the first time that this happened to me in Thailand. It was my first week in the camp, and no doubt I was a little extra-susceptible to wonder, due to a combination of culture shock and a lot of well-trained punches to the head. I was perched uncomfortably on a bar stool at the Tiger Grill, wings folded, head down, trying to ignore the pervasive agony in my muscles, when a man named Will came by. I still know very little about him, other than that he is a young man, a general manager here, and was born somewhere near Boston, but he introduced himself to me almost immediately upon my arrival, and checks up on me from time to time.

As he passed, he clapped me on the shoulder, saying, "How you feeling, man?"
I feigned indifference to the protests of my entrails. "Ah, I'm alright. Just recovering."
Will chuckled, presumably seeing through my façade. "Alright, good to hear."
Then, just before continuing on his way, he paused for a moment which, in my memory, always plays like a close-up just before a scene change.

"The pain happens, man. Don't worry about it; there's only the fighters here."

It's been a little less than a month since he said that to me, but it's taken less time than that to realize that he was right. There is certainly a solidarity amongst everyone here at Tiger Muay Thai, trainer and student alike, but I don't actually think that it is hugely different than that achieved, for example, at Conway Mixed Martial Arts, my gym back in Arkansas. I don't know that every martial arts training ground has a similar community aspect, but due to the quality of my previous instruction, I'm no stranger to it, so I can't say that I really expected anything less. In fact, what has provided a much greater subject of interest to me is the habits and lifestyles of the people here, and though they perhaps do not reflect the feelings of similarity encouraged by shared hardship, the elusive commonality which persists.

As an aside, I remember quite well that in every school at which I've trained, and indeed in every community of which I have been a part, there are those who either resist, ignore or betray the feelings of solidarity extended to them. Certainly, that has already been the case more than once in my limited experience here, but for the purposes of this discussion, I'll be limiting myself to the large majority of students, all of whom seem to share an understanding with, and mild affection for, their trainers and classmates.

The really remarkable thing about the community here is that so many people seem to have so little in common with one another. For example, just this afternoon, I went to the office to buy a few of the necessities sold there, such as soap, disinfectant, and an extra pair of handwraps. While my purchases were being calculated, I stood next to an Irishman with a chest full of tattooed proper nouns, a slurred voice that seemed to have few worthwhile uses, and half-lidded eyes that might otherwise be keen, but had the air of having lost their edge after long being beaten against poor choices. He was very drunk (as it was then a little after 2PM), and mentioned that he was on the business end of several tablets of Vallium. He explained to me that he deserved this day of stuporous rest as he had just lost 50,000 baht (about $1,500 USD) last weekend to the classic alliance of a prostitute and too much alcohol.

By contrast, on the trip to Bangkok mentioned last time, I shared a bus with a man named Berneung (corrected spelling). Berneung is Thai, and a man of few words and fewer facial expressions. He is not grim or prickly, but simply impassive, though his eyebrows are permanently fixed in a slightly peaked position of imposing analysis. He followed the rest of the TMT crew to the bars each night, but I didn't hear him speak a single word to any women who didn't train with us, and he only quietly shook his head each time he was offered a drink. He doesn't say much to anyone from what I understand, and showed very little response even after his quick and decisive victories in the ring that weekend. On a side note, I'm told that though his personal demeanor has been consistent in recent memory, he has actually demonstrated a bit more flair for the dramatic, as in this picture taken of him a few months ago which has since been made into a poster for sale around Phuket (Berneung is on the right).

These two men clearly have very little in common. What is of course striking about the comparison is that as far as anyone can tell, they have a perfect understanding. Between these two specifically, I cannot vouch for anything other than that once Berneung held pads for the Irishman whose name I've forgotten, but it is implicit among the social group here that each would help the other if there was need. What's more, I know that there are many here who are as different from me as these two are from each other, but when I've been outside the camp, I know instinctively that I'm with them, and they're with me.

I want to emphasize here that this isn't even something based on foreignness. I can remember a similar feeling of camaraderie springing up quickly with people I met in France, if only because people who are outside of their comfort zones tend to band together quickly, and generally part with equal swiftness when the need is over. Here, however, I have observed and experienced this bond between Thais and foreigners, between the travelers and the xenophobes, and even more impressive, I've noticed that it endures.

All of this is admittedly rather nebulous, though I've forgiven myself somewhat due to the fact that don't particularly think that I'm describing anything really momentous or outside the experience of most. The reason I go into it, however, is that it is the most concrete symptom of a phenomenon that I have found which directly relates to my study here. It strikes me that ours is a completely imagined community here at the camp; we have no specific personal bond, and indeed many of us have never met. Other than the fact of one's training here, the personal criteria for our acceptance of another, then, are functionally nonexistent.

This idea immediately reminded me of an earlier post in which I asked some vague questions about the differences between soldiers and martial artists, and in which I mentioned a book from which I have just borrowed a phrase, Imagined Communities, by Benedict Anderson. I sorely wish that I had been able to read more of that book before my departure, but one thing that I took from it which has stayed with me is that nations are, in fact, what I have just described. Here we are certainly absent the comparatively recent inventions of Western-imposed categorization and strict border recognition, but according to Anderson and Dr. King of the Howard University Anthropology Department (with whom I had a very illuminating conversation before I left), the fighters here have the basic genesis of a cultural identity. In short, the fighters of Tiger Muay Thai are certainly individual and separate, "but in the minds of all exists the image of [our] communion" (Anderson). I'll be trying to get access to more of this, as I think that it's fascinating.

Finally, I should clarify that I do not believe that membership in one imagined community excludes one from membership in others. I was warned by Will (from the beginning of the post) that the Thais may be somewhat offended if I tried to vent to them about my vexing run-in with the famous merchants of Bangkok mentioned in the last post. While many Thais would respond the same way emotionally, Will explained that it was quite possible that they would be a bit resistant to commentary on their social problems from a foreigner of the same brand who supports the problem. Even the trainers, that is to say, would not necessarily accept me as part of their community in this sense, despite whatever other camaraderie we share.

In short, the identity that we here have all adapted as Muay Thai fighters does not subsume all other identities, though it does somehow rank among them. I can say that I feel a certain kinship toward the fighters and trainers here that I do not for Americans in general, though that wouldn't make me indifferent if I met someone else from Kansas City. It is particularly relevant to me as well that this identity as Muay Thai fighters has rules to it, and traditions, and it behooves us all to follow them. The martial art has demonstrably incorporated us into an imagined community in which we follow its ethics. We don't kick for the groin, we don't follow our opponents to the ground; we show respect for our trainers and for our ancestors before a fight, and we use Thai words to describe certain features of the training or ceremony. This is, in fact, what I came here to study. We are not all Thai, but neither are we the same as we were before we were immersed into this Thai art, which has carried with it the old rules and traditions that are now becoming our own. And so, almost as if we said, "We are Americans," or "We are Christians," or "We are Buddhists," we know that we are Muay Thai fighters, as little or as much as that means.

For the sake of levity, I submit the following picture of one of my friends here for general approval, as a brilliantly telling allegory for my own presence here in the camp.

Bangkok

2009-09-23T01:21:00.000-07:00

I've been back in Phuket for a couple of days now, and I willingly confess that I've been procrastinating on writing this entry, because I couldn't quite conceptualize a description of the past weekend. I have decided to get to it now, however, as these entries are usually the best opportunities for me to take the attendance of my thoughts, to make them all stand up, pay attention, put down their accordions and Scrabble games, so that I can talk to them one at a time. I hope that this attempt will be successful, as these recent thoughts are rather a raucous bunch, and that I do not end up like a failed AA meeting leader, face-down in the gutters of my intentions, groaning about my life, and as incoherent as my stuporous charges who surround me.

(As an aside, I may or may not have been reading a lot of Milton lately, and while I have been procrastinating, the rest is perhaps just the pressure to invoke a Muse. Then again perhaps not.)

I left the camp with my friend Chris on Friday afternoon, and we shared a taxi to the bus station with Oscar, a Swedish fellow-student, Nu, a Thai trainer at the camp and part-time professional competitor, and Vernon, also a Thai trainer, who was recently ranked among the top-ten Muay Thai fighters in Thailand (Vernon is rumored to have once knocked out an opponent with a cartwheel-kick). We boarded the bus around 6PM, and began the overnight trek to the capital, where some organization which remains unfamiliar to me was hosting a Pan-Asian grappling and MMA tournament. We arrived, cramped and ill-rested, on Saturday morning, and just had time to find a taxi to a hotel, drop our things, and then race to the competition which began at 10AM.

We arrived just in time for weigh-ins, which didn't concern me or Oscar, as both of us had come to spectate rather than compete. We met about ten other people from Tiger (my gym, for those of you just joining us) who had wisely flown in, and together we formed a solid cheering section near one corner of the chamber. I'll spare a few words for the tournament itself here, but I must say that overall, it was much the same as Jiu-Jitsu tournaments in the States, though with many more languages being spoken around the mats.

Chris was the only of my traveling companions to compete on the first day, in the gi part of the tournament. He gave a good showing, but was defeated due, I think, to a few basic mistakes which he is usually above. We watched a few other brackets, but I retired back to the hotel rather early, citing nauseousness, thanks to the dubious quality of some of the roadside vendor "food" for which everyone on the bus had been periodically jostled awake the night before.

The competition the following day was distinctly more impressive, though perhaps I only thought so because I saw more of it. I was very struck by the level of physical conditioning of the fighters, particularly in terms of flexibility, as that's something that is too often overlooked in US mixed martial arts, in my own humble opinion. That said, perhaps there's a reason that the ever-practical Americans have comparatively ignored this method of training, as I did see one unfortunate man choked out by his own ankle, in a very complicated scenario of anatomical treachery.
The second day also proved more impressive for the Tigers, as our grapplers train exclusively without gis, in preparation for MMA fights. Chris did better than he had the previous day, and several of our fighters won their divisions. In the three MMA fights, Vernon and Nu each won almost without a struggle, at the great expense of their opponents' shins, and Tobias, our Swiss novice fighter, won against a much larger opponent with a well-executed rear naked choke. All-in-all, a very good day for Tiger Muay Thai, and despite our comparative lack of success the day before, we took home the trophy for second-most medals won overall.

Now, on to the city.

It is difficult, if at all possible, to reckon the size of Bangkok. Due to a misunderstanding with a cab-driver, at one point I ended up at 100th St. instead of 1st St., but I still wandered around for a few minutes, deceived into thinking that I was close to my destination by the fact that there were skyscrapers at 100th St. to compare to those at 1st. The city is all the more difficult to navigate due to the seamless-ness with which alley melds into street, and roads branch off at any angle and degree. It is somewhat difficult at points to differentiate the heavily residential districts from the commercial ones, particularly at the lower income levels. I remarked several times (necessarily in passing, as I can't imagine how long it would have taken me to explore these areas, even if a 6'4'' blond-haired white guy could have done so safely) that in so many places, the stalls and small stands which lined the street were just the fringes of much larger markets just out of sight. When one walks the streets of Bangkok, one can see hundreds of alleys and paths that run between the cheap craft and produce stands of the poor. These narrow passages disappear quickly into darkness, the gloom punctuated grudgingly by dim, flickering, flourescent bulbs, and it is difficult not to be haunted by what lies out of sight in the child and adult prostitution capital of the world.

At night the city shifts gear, but certainly doesn't slow down. Like any big city, there is the constant dull roar of streets clogged with traffic and industrial fans blowing mist and smoke out of the tops of buildings and gaps in the sidewalks. People pass constantly on the sidewalks, most averting their eyes to the ground when they see us coming. Saturday and Sunday nights I went out with the other Tigers, though both nights I refrained from following them to the end of their beer-washed paths. As we walked the streets, pausing at restaurants, markets and pubs, we certainly did our part to protect each other from the feeling of insignificance that often assails one in any of the great cities of the world, but I'm not sure that I really appreciated that feeling. True, it was nice to look around and realize that I'm about as safe as a person could be without Secret Service protection, but at the same time, Bangkok has so much fear, so much poverty, so much sadness, and yet so much power, so much wealth, so much pride and majesty that to insulate myself in this way made me feel almost dishonest, as I looked around at the people we passed.

For fear that I may not be making sense here, I'll provide an anecdote. When we left a Western-style pub on Sunday night, I decided to head back to the hotel, and on the way there, a man fell into step next to me. He was Thai, and looked unassuming enough, with short black hair combed over to one side and a dark leather vest on over a horizontally striped T-shirt. He smiled widely at me, as many seem inclined to do here, and said this:
"Heeey, you come out an paateee?"
I paused. "Uh, I'm having a good time," I said.
"Okay! Lots of guys weeth you, need girls! You come with me, I show you menee girls!"
I grimaced and turned my eyes forward again. "Oh. No, man. Thanks. Have a good night."
He waved his hands quickly back and forth, twice. "Oh no, ees no problim! Have menee girls! Girls like thees," he held his hands out in front of his chest, and, giving me a conspiratorial grin, he held his hand down near my waist level, "girls like thees."

It took a few seconds to realize that this man had offered to force a child to have sex with me. I'm not really that educated about how the whole industry works, but from what I understand, there are few volunteers, and those who employ child prostitutes, or indeed any prostitutes, are something less than philanthropic. It was perhaps the first time in my life when I have genuinely felt that one fact was all that I would ever need to know about a person, and the first thought that went through my head was that I should hit this guy in the face, for no other reason than that someone should.

I would be angry afterward; minutes later, when I got back to the hotel, fury would actually rise up in me which might cause me to do physical harm to someone. At the time, however, I was just shocked, and I thought, feeling almost coldly rational, that good people don't walk away from this. Good people take this to the police, good people find a way to help these girls, or if nothing else, good people don't let someone who sells children smile at them openly without knocking that grin to the pavement.

Though it actually pains me somewhat to say it now, I did not turn out to be that particular type of good person, though I am somewhat satisfied with my decision. Other thoughts entered my head, not the least of which was that flesh-peddlers quite probably travel armed, or that doing what was in my power, which is to say beating this man senseless, would probably only cause him to repeat that cruelty exponentially on the plentiful supply of people who were weaker than him. I had reasons not to hit him, and in hindsight, I still think that they were good ones, but there is a part of me that recognizes that moment as a chance to throw the most meaningful knee to the face that I have considered in my life thus far.

Before I went to bed, however, my anger subsided, and the morals I'm used to walking around with came back to me. Despite my hobbies, I really am something of a pacifist. When I'm in a room at Hendrix College, I don't believe in fighting to solve problems. I recognize that cruelty is the thing that cruel people know best how to handle, and that good people should generally not employ the methods of those they oppose. I don't think I'll solve any problems by becoming bigger and more dangerous than the pimps in Bangkok, which I guess means that, despite my inclination, I can't actually make a difference in a large societal problem on a whim.

I would encourage everyone reading this to look up a thing or two on the sex trade in general, and to perhaps familiarize yourselves, as I have in the past two days, on the type of thing that goes on everywhere, and quite significantly on the Mexican-American border. I suppose that our awareness is the least we can give, and I don't think that it's insignificant.

Before I left Bangkok I did one good thing. I don't think it really matters what it was, but it made me feel better, even if it was the societal equivalent of kicking a mountain in an attempt to move the range. While in the capital, I met a lot of different types of people, though of course in my two days, I didn't really have the opportunity to get to know any of them as well as I would like. I learned something about Lumpini Stadium, which is one of the best-known Muay Thai arenas in Thailand, and in the next post I will most likely return to the declared business of my voyage with a study of that blood-soaked place and its history.

For now, however, clichéed though it is, I would encourage all of my friends out there to do one good thing, preferably small, as it's generally less ambiguous that way. I think it will make you feel good, and somewhat powerful. Like you just voted.

A Few Peculiarities

2009-09-17T17:37:00.000-07:00

As I'm sitting here in my new room, having hurriedly vacated the old one due to imminent roof collapse (or so the office told me), I'm realizing that there are a fair number of subtle differences to my new environment of which I wasn't immediately aware. I will certainly get to those differences in a moment, but I was actually led by this realization to consider some of the general peculiarities and eccentricities displayed by the camp and the country.

The first thing that I, or, I think, anyone else, would notice about Phuket at this time of year is the rain. It would be an understatement to say
that it rains every day, as the sky is rather like an asthmatic with a serious head-cold: marked by long periods of calmness, but whenever roused from stillness responding with loud and violent sneezes, followed by long periods of wheezing, howling and sniffling. At this point, I have tried to emulate the native population, and just ignore the rain as much as possible. During the sudden and frequent monsoons, I notice no decrease in the sizeable amount of motorbike traffic on the roads, and no classes are ever canceled due to inclement weather, despite the absence of a single full wall around any of the training areas. In fact, after the second or third time, I have come to rather enjoy doing pushups or hitting a punching bag in the rain; it gives one a sort of fierce inspiration at the most violent and tenacious moments, and makes me feel as though the natural world is rooting for my success, as though I had just seen an eagle fly by, carrying an electric guitar.

As pervasive as the rain, yet sometimes more subtle, is the affluence of cats in the camp. After spending a few weeks here, I'm reasonably certain that there is actually only one rather large family in residence, but they seem to enjoy making themselves obnoxious (as cats so often do). In my last room, which was situated rather close to the camp's kitchens, I was sometimes awoken by a lanky, rather stretched-looking, camel-colored feline, who would hop onto the chair outside of my window, and whine incessantly, as if I was withholding a stock of food that was rightfully hers. Once, in exasperation, I opened the door, intending to justify myself through sheer evidence of poverty, and she sauntered inside, glanced disdainfully at my box of granola bars as if they affronted her, and went to sleep on my boxing gloves.
Before I moved, I had actually struck up something of a friendship with one of these creatures. Perhaps the smallest of the bunch, a small black-and-white kitten seemed very fond of murdering the sweaty hand-wraps that I hung out to dry on the rack outside my door. I never actually fed this one either, but she seemed content to show up each evening as I returned home, attacking the heels of my sandals as I crossed the restaurant area toward my door. I admit that I grew somewhat fond of her before I was forced to relocate, but I have since seen her sleeping on the shrine kept towards the front of camp, her head resting somewhat impiously on the Buddha's right knee.
Below is a picture of her habitual evening occupation with my shoes.

Since I have moved, I am actually closer to the fringes of the camp, and in fact the back window of my room looks out into the jungle. It seems that the cats are less inclined to venture out this direction, and so our relationship has gone the way of French cinematic romances, with much sighing and staring from long distances, but little in the way of activity or complete sentences.

I have, however, discovered a new set of creatures to plague my rest, which seem equally interested in my footwear as places of repose. I have taken to keeping my tennis-shoes inside now, after one evening when I stepped outside my door in only my socks, and when I attempted to put on one of my shoes, I felt something inside, about halfway down the sole. I pulled back, and was about to reach inside to smooth down the lining, or brush away whatever had wrinkled up enough to obstruct my toes, when I paused, reminded of the hand-sized spider that I had noticed in my room about a week before. Thinking better of reaching in blind, I tapped the heel of my shoe against the ground three or four times, and, holding it by the toe, I made a quick whipping motion with my hand, flicking the heel end away from me. At this final gesture, a frog just slightly smaller than my fist was sling-shot out of my shoe, and rocketed (presumably terrified) some ten feet into the grass, where it quickly righted itself, paused, and hopped away.
Since I have moved out here, I have noticed a particular excess of reptiles, which I suppose accounts for the comparative lack of insects and arachnids about. While I value that service, it is somewhat disconcerting when, in the middle of the night, I'm making my way toward the bathrooms on an errand of doubtful import to God and Country and I realize that I am being watched from all sides by a myriad of squishy bodies in the grass and clinging to the walls. All the same, I am glad to be free from houseguests like the one pictured below (for reference, my hand, from wrist to fingertips, goes about to the top of the first hinge on the window).

Speaking of the bathrooms, I feel that a word or two is due the facilities here, as it is truly some unfortunate person's thankless, Herculean responsibility to keep them somewhat in order. Overall, I have been very impressed by the state of the camp and by the rigorous cleanliness applied to the mats, but while it is certainly something to clean off the buckets of sweat and blood which are splattered across the training areas every day, I think that the bathrooms may have been doomed from the start. Without getting too graphic, I should warn any travelers to Thailand that native Thai cuisine apparently has a reputation for causing something of a traffic jam in the bowels of newcomers. I myself somehow escaped this unsightly syndrome, but many of my colleagues did not, and as new people are constantly arriving at the gym, I have come to expect the worst from the toilets and their immediate areas. In fact, as Western Europeans seem to be particularly vulnerable to the obstructive effects of pad thai, I have come to think of the bathrooms as existing perpetually in a state akin to the beaches of Normandy on June 5th, 1944: quiet and serene, well-attended, but on the eve of being stormed by large numbers of ill-fated Englishmen.

The final eccentricity of camp on which I'll comment today is the casual nudity which seems to pervade the mats. The population of the place is predominantly men, but certainly not without exception, which to me makes the general disregard for clothing all the more striking. To be fair, one rarely encounters full frontal nakedness in men or women, but I have only to look out my window to see one of the MMA fighters disrobe in the corner of the mats in order to put on his athletic cup and supporter; an activity which, to my mind, reminds one in private of humanity's absurdity quite well enough, and in public is at best a strong kidney-punch to one's dignity. Just the same, however, I have already had several three- and four-day stretches in which I haven't once put on a shirt, due to, if nothing else, the sheer impracticality of clothing on the upper-body in this level of heat and humidity. Without any means of air-conditioning in my room, let alone on the mats, it seems prudent to me to trade in a bit of self-consciousness in exchange for sparing myself from sending in my laundry every third day.

Finally, as I've clearly only just now discovered the ease with which I can post pictures here, I'll add the photos of Dang that I promised in my last post. I somewhat wish that I could have taken more candid shots of him, as his face in training is usually very different than the grin with which you see him here, but perhaps that will come later.

Intermediate Level

2009-09-15T03:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Summer Jobs

2009-09-11T22:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I learned something which really cut to the heart of my study here, and which I think will certainly impact the way I see Thailand for the rest of my stay, and may well remain permanently as one more subtle lens for the 6th-grade science project telescope that is my regard for the world in general.

As most of those reading this are surely aware by now, I've been hoping to get some idea of how the study and preservation of Muay Thai as a martial art is related to a sense of cultural identity for the Thai. It has been my theory that martial arts represent more than antiquated military techniques, and much like a dance or a dialect of language can represent a great deal of history for the nation that created it. As mentioned in previous postings, my notion of a nation has been (and is being) somewhat complicated, but in the slow broiler of my contemplation, that thought is still medium-rare, and I try to serve my hypotheses well-done.

Since I've been studying here in Thailand, I have realized very quickly that there is a completely different attitude toward training on this side of the Pacific. My instructors never ask if my limbs or joints are hurting, and while the select few Westerners who teach supplementary classes here have made suggestions about body maintenance, the vastly more numerous Thai instructors respond to complaints of potential injury with the zeal of Iron Chefs tenderizing rebellious fillets of some undecipherable sea creature.

In short, a new student such as myself quickly realizes that in order to maintain a healthy body, and in particular to assure one's full and continued use of that body after the next five years, it is often necessary to shrug off the heckling of one's instructors and take an unscheduled day or two off. I have often wondered not only how my trainers have survived as long as they have, but also why they seem to have such a single-minded focus on training, such that they seem to either not understand––or just deliberately not acknowledge––any reason why a student would not be practicing at every possible opportunity.

Up until yesterday, I answered the question of my trainers' Herculean motivation with a rather naïve supposition that Thai people just took Muay Thai training seriously, and beyond that I just slipped comfortably into the lukewarm oatmeal-like assurance that non-Westerners just do intense things to preserve their cultural traditions. In hindsight, I think I was somewhat borne out by a long line of lightly accented English-speaking samurai from the silver screens of my childhood, and a blurry amalgamation of many Buddhist and Taoist soundbites which inevitably saturates the career of any American juvenile martial-artist.

Fortunately, I was jarred out of this sunnily enthnocentric attitude rather suddenly near the end of my last training session, due, to no one's surprise I'm sure, to a conversation with Dang (as his name is actually spelled, I recently learned). Just before the end of class, and the head-scarved and bamboo-shaft carrying trainer's final exhaustive torments, Dang usually gives us a break for between three and five minutes. This time allows us to take off shin pads, hand-wraps, and any other equipment that we've donned in the course of class, and to recuperate for a moment before the final charge. During this time, Dang usually sits on the large black medicine ball which will soon become one of his sinister instruments, and alternately stares out at the camp or idly examines his heavily-taped stick.

Yesterday, as is sometimes our habit, we the students collapsed onto the mats in front of Dang, either leaning on our elbows or lying altogether prostrate, catching our collective breath one last time. From time to time Dang takes this opportunity to formulaicly heckle a student or two, or perhaps say something brief to another trainer passing by. On this day, however, Dang looked down at us from his spherical perch, and pointed his switch at an Australian man named Tim.

"Tim. Why you come learn Muay Thai?" Dang asked quickly.
"Ah, why am I learning Muay Thai?" Tim repeated, puzzled.
Dang nodded.
"Well, to learn to fight I suppose." Tim responded.
Dang smiled and nodded, muttering, "learn to fight, ah? Okay..." And I couldn't help but detect a note of condescension in his manner. He looked around, and we all perked up, mentally rehearsing our own profound and credible answers to the same question, which would surely leave this small Thai man feeling a distinct sense of respect and camaraderie with a kindred spirit who fights for all the right reasons, but after a few seconds, Dang just nodded again and resumed his study of the rubber trees on a hill beyond the camp.

After class, when I was collecting my regular mess of empty water-bottles, gloves, and sweat-soaked handwraps, I saw Dang pacing slowly around the mats, and I decided, at the risk of yet another cultural misstep with the oldest of my trainers, to satisfy my curiosity. After picking up my things, I walked over to Dang, and when he glanced up at me, I spoke plainly, keeping my sentences simple in English, as I know he prefers.

"Dang. How long have you done Muay Thai?"
He grunted. "Me? Oh, I do Muay Thai when very leettle, like this," and he held his hand out perhaps three feet off the ground.
I raised my eyebrows, insightfully musing, "long time."
Dang nodded, grunting again. "Seven yeer old."
At this, I was very much startled, though I had heard some stories from other fighters about children fighting professionally around that age. "You wanted to fight at seven years old?" I asked, trying to demonstrate my surprise.
Dang, eyes still scanning the mats, shrugged, tossing his head to the side casually. "Have to. Make money, my family."

I didn't really know what to say in response to that, so I decided to say nothing. I nodded, lingered for a moment, and then said a quick goodbye, to which Dang responded silently. I should point out that he did not seem embarrassed to have shared this with me, and he didn't have the air of one sharing a parable or any sort of valuable lesson. What he said, in that short moment, was, I came to realize, the simple reality of his life.

I found out this morning that Dang fought professionally from the age of seven until he was twenty, when he retired. I don't know that he has been a Muay Thai trainer since then, but it seems likely, and either way, as he is now 43, he has almost certainly been practicing this art for longer than I have been alive. What's more, I understand that stories like his are not at all uncommon, and that many, if not most fighters in Thailand retire around their early twenties, primarily because their bodies are no longer capable of the required level of physical endurance.

Though I do not think for a moment that I have more than scratched the surface of my trainers' attitudes toward Muay Thai, I have gotten a brief and illuminating glimpse into a different life. These men have always lived in a world in which days off are as foreign as McDonalds, and perceived as equally unhealthy. They seem not to acknowledge joint pain or bruising, and to regard such things in their students as amusing and petty excuses. For these men, their bodies are like an American farmer's F-150, meant for work, and not much good to anyone if you're going to worry about it getting scratched up. The only difference, I suppose, is how little an American would think about buying a new one.

Also, I cannot discount the sheer courage and tenacity which would have been necessary for Dang, at seven years old, to step into a ring knowing that either he or his opponent was going to leave on his feet. It is nothing short of staggering for me to consider a seven-year-old doing something which so seriously intimidates me even now, and then, win or lose, getting up, going home to eat (or not), and preparing to do the same thing again in a week or less.

I wonder how many times the gloves landed on Dang's chin or nose, and how many times he was flung to the mat in blood-soaked oblivion. I wonder if he felt that fabled fighter's spirit, felt the rush of competition and the drive for victory, or if he felt only the slow gnawing of hunger, and the knowledge that he wasn't the only one who could be hurt by his opponent. I think it reasonable to suppose that there were enough times when he enjoyed his work, or was proud of it, but it isn't hard to see by his quiet and melancholy demeanor outside of class, his sudden and unexplained questions of his students, and his awkward and abbreviated hemorrhaging of personal details that he has lost something that perhaps he would have back.

I think that on Monday I will try to get a picture of Dang, as the lines of his face are something that I think I would do well not to forget.

A Compliment Violently Delivered

2009-09-08T22:55:00.000-07:00

To follow up on the previous post, I'll relate a quick anecdote that I find amusing in hindsight, as most martial artists would, I imagine.

This morning I went to class, as per usual, and it proceeded more or less as expected. The class was still a bit larger than it usually is, but it appeared that we had lost a few since Monday, so the group was a bit more manageable. We went through training more or less as expected, and we did so at the direction of a trainer named (I think) Nan, while Deng and two others circulated around, watching certain students specifically.

I should note here that Deng has a distinctive habit of carrying around a thin bamboo switch, which he uses to punctuate his commands by slamming it onto mats or walls or thighs. The thing itself is perhaps just wider than my thumb, and it is held together by heavily layered masking tape in several places, giving it the air of a spiteful elderly middle-school disciplinarian who carries on despite several terminal illnesses. He walks with this old-fashioned study-aid seemingly everywhere he goes, only laying it aside to demonstrate techniques or when holding pads.

Throughout the class, Deng took little notice of me, as has become his habit, and, as mentioned in the last post, I have begun to take his abnormal attitude (or perhaps lack of attitude) toward me, which is to say primarily his lack of shouting, as a subtle compliment. Until the end of class, he in fact said very little to me, aside from grunting at me to come over to him so he could wrap my hands halfway through.

At the end of training, Deng proclaimed his customary orders to finish the workout:
"OK, AN NOW, FO-HUNID SEET-UP AN ONE-HUNID PUSH-UP."

As we all fell to the mats, preparing to embark on the final marathon for the morning, Deng retrieved the 15-pound medicine ball from it's usual seat next to a pillar, and strolling over, dropped it next to my head. I was familiar with this exercise, as I believe I have described it before, and I prepared my stomach for the ensuing bombardment. Instead of stepping over me, however, and preparing to somewhat gleefully deliver the daily punishment, Deng simply swatted my shoulder with his stick and, grunting, pointed to the student next to me. I looked up at Deng inquiringly, and he nodded to the ball and to my fellow, grunting, "You, peek up, fo heem, foty time."

Surprised, but flattered, I sprang up, grabbed the ball, and stepped over to the other student. He nodded to me when he was ready, and I started dropping the ball onto his abs, calling out each time I reached a multiple of ten. Deng stood nearby, surveying my work expressionlessly, and from time to time swatting me with the stick and growling "Mo powa."

Most martial artists (and perhaps other athletes, though I can't say from experience) now reading this will understand that moment to be something of a compliment, as the direct responsibility for any task, however minor, is customarily given to the most competent student available. Honored as I was, however, as we continued around the room, which I now coldly realized contained seventeen students, I began to realize that this was certainly no free pass. In case anyone is wondering, fifteen pounds is not an excessive amount of weight, but around the five-hundredth repetition, it becomes a little more cumbersome. Deng followed me from student to student, assigning them numbers based on, presumably, what he thought they could handle, and then flicking me absently with his stick whenever my efforts flagged.

No one in class seemed to resent my efforts, particularly, I'd imagine, those toward the end of the line, for whom I could barely muster up the first ten, let alone fifty, of the assigned thrashings. When I had finally finished, Deng smiled briefly and hit me on the shoulder, saying "See? Not so easy be like Deng."

Then he pointed at the ground, and when I was on my back, arms above my head, waiting for him to assign my sentence, he pointed to Harry, an almost impolitely large Englishman, and said to him, "Now you do fo heem. Eity time. Wait twenny second. Then seventy time mo. One-hunned-feefty time."

As I stared at Deng in horror, Harry smiled ruefully at me and shrugged, muttering, "Sorry mate. Best o' luck."

In the ensuing violence, I could only think that for all I value my ambiguous friendship with Deng, this was, unfortunately, an inevitable side effect of earning the respect of one's trainer. I'm glad that Deng seems to have a high estimate of my gastric capacity (rather higher than my own, in fact), but I can't say I was experiencing any of my typical respectful affection for him after Harry finished, and the little Thai man snatched the ball, raised it over his own head, and barked "Why you do so soft? Must go like thees! Twenny mo time!" He then proceeded to further demonstrate his respect for me at the great expense of my abdominal muscles, and indeed the majority of my digestive tract.

Now, sitting on my bed, a few hours removed from that final moment of my prostration in which I rolled groaning onto my side, coughing spasmodically, I can say that I sincerely appreciate the compliment. Certainly Deng offered little in the way of encouragement, only swatting my shoulder with his stick and grunting his customary "See, uh? Not die," but I can't help but feel that now, demonstrably, we at least have an understanding, though I'm not convinced that I have the sheer fortitude it will require develop that into a friendship.

Here's hoping.

It Isn't Just About Height

2009-09-07T00:44:00.000-07:00

It's only three o'clock in the afternoon here, but a I sit on my bed hoping that my fan will suddenly sprout an A/C unit and a dehumidifier like wings on a baby angel at Christmas, I realize that it has already been quite a remarkable day.

For the first time since I've been here, I got a normal, full, and restful night's sleep last night, due in no small part to the fact that my new friend Chris and I went into town yesterday, keeping ourselves awake past the normal point in the late afternoon at which Americans (or anyone from those time zones) seem to suddenly become tired. I write this small bit as a reminder to myself to say more about Chris later, as he is a somewhat striking figure on his own, but at the moment I'll focus on today's revelations.

After getting up early, I had time to relax a bit, eat a granola bar bought in town yesterday, and get myself more thoroughly ready for the morning's training session than I've yet been able to do. When I left my room for the mats, I saw that the class was abnormally large today, holding perhaps 20-25 people instead of the customary 8-12. We proceeded under the instruction of Deng (personally my favorite trainer), who usually teaches with a series of harsh, angry yells which do little to conceal his natural good humor, which seems to surface primarily around small children and students who have been satisfactorily exhausted. After stretching and basic warm-ups, the other trainers arrived, supplemented by a few extras from the intermediate and advanced mats due to our excess of students. Among the other trainers were two young men, both of whom I had seen before, but only one of whom I was acquainted with.

One of the two in question is a high-spirited and excitable young man whose short dark hair is usually pushed up into some unidentifiably hip style. He regularly teaches on the beginner mats, and is known among us for his signature habit of making everyone in the class come up to the front one by one and enact some version of the following play:

Trainer: "HEY MAN, WHAS YO NEM?"
Student: "Ben."
Trainer: "AGAIN!"
Student: "Ben." [louder]
Trainer: "AGAIN!"
Student: "BEN!"
Trainer: "WHA CUM FRO?"
Student: "AMERICA"
Trainer: "WHHHOOOOAAAAAYYYY!" [applause]

In this way, he has quickly gained a reputation for comforting boisterousness, and insistence on participation and enthusiasm. Like the rest of the trainers, his English is very patchy, but, also like the others, he is evidently not at all self-conscious about that fact, and corrects and encourages students constantly, even if sometimes unintelligibly.

The other trainer is a man I have only met once, when I was temporarily assigned to the intermediate mats on my first day. He is about the same height as the young man mentioned above, with a short mop of dark hair that seems generally unregarded by its owner. He is somewhat older than his counterpart in this story, though not as old as Deng, whose lined and weathered face mark him out as significantly more advanced than most of his colleagues. My own experience with this man was admittedly brief, but in the short time that he held the pads for me, he mocked me twice, and openly laughed at me three times. He usually has a somewhat dour expression on his face when I see him walking around the camp, and he seldom intermingles with other classes of students.

What took place between these two today may seem at first glance to be rather insignificant, but to me it was quite striking. When the class was divided into manageable groups, as inevitably it would have to be, these two, along with one other trainer who regularly helps in the beginner classes, took me and several other students off to the side to do a few drills. In the course of these exercises, I noticed the former of the two in question (I'll call him Trainer A, as I'm tired of doing anything else) was acting a bit strangely, and that his attitude was a bit less enthusiastic, and a bit more irritable, than was his custom. I did very little work with Trainer B, but from what I noticed, he seemed to be his usual self.

At one point, however, the two of them, in the process of changing partners, walked past each other in opposite directions, and for some reason, neither of them moved aside to let the other pass through all the other bodies surrounding them. When I saw them bump into each other in my peripheral vision, I looked over, and saw an expression on both faces that I had yet to encounter on this side of the Pacific. They were glaring at each other in a very peculiar way; they weren't aggressive, but as they rotated slowly, neither twisting unduly to let the other pass, they both glanced up and down the other, appraisingly, and their eyes were hard, and much colder than any weather ever seen on this island.

The moment passed quickly, and I'm not sure that anyone else even noticed. As Trainer A approached me to continue the drill, he grimaced at the ground, shook his head, gave me a quick frowning, quizzical expression, and then shrugged, rolled his shoulders, and resumed his customary energy, though slightly dampened as it had been all morning.

As I thought about this later, I realized that though I have no idea what the story was behind these two, there is no reason for me to be as surprised by the incident as I was. The two could be rivals, enemies, or even unfamiliar coworkers who suddenly shared a bad day, but I was starkly reminded that it would be a mistake for me to reduce any of these men to the caricatures that they so deliberately create during class.

For example, just an hour ago, I was eating lunch by myself at the bar when I saw Deng walking by. I nodded to him, and he smiled briefly and looked at the ground. He swatted me softly with a stick he was carrying on his way past and chuckled quietly, and suddenly, in stark contrast to the shouting, constantly animated figure I was used to from class, I saw a rather shy and dignified middle-aged man, walking home from work alone.

In short, I suppose it's just good to be reminded that people who speak my language in only a broken and somewhat endearing way are presumably quite articulate in their own. It is easy to get lost in the image that people deliberately present, particularly when one doesn't have the cultural understanding to read between the lines of another person's actions or behaviors.

What is all the more striking is that there have been two other incidents in the past few days which have made me think that Deng rather likes me, but in hindsight, I feel that I've acted something of an ass. After my second class with Deng, he took me aside and shook my hand, saying "I am happy with today training. You keep a-work hard."

Then he walked away. I jogged after him, thanking him and jokingly threatening him in the way that he had done to the students during the class, but though he smiled offhandedly, he seemed somewhat uncomfortable as he left, comparatively unresponsive.

Similarly, during class today he wrapped my hands for me before we put on the boxing gloves, and while that was done in silence (which I foolishly mistook for awkward, not knowing, myself, how to start a conversation), as he strapped my gloves on, he asked suddenly, "Wer you from?"
"United States," I responded, as jovially as I could make it.
He nodded at the ground and said rather gravely, "Oh, ok. My girlfriend in United States. Hawaii. She come here visit me 18th. She come it's my birday."
"That's awesome!" (in my wincing memory I shouted this, though I hope I wasn't that obnoxious) "Happy birthday!"
"Oh, yes." Deng nodded, before suddenly walking away again.

In hindsight, I realize that Deng respects me in class, because I don't talk to the other students during drills (which is oddly rare, considering how much it seems to irritate the trainers), and because I always go until I'm utterly spent. I'm glad for that, but I realize now that he was not trying to start a conversation with me, or wanting us to become the type of friends who sit down over glasses of beer to discuss women or the world. In his own way, which, it turns out, is rather awkward and reserved, he was simply trying to show that he had noticed me particularly, and to pay me the compliment of telling me something about him personally. In both cases, the image that I had gained in class of the loud, goofy, somewhat ridiculous and absolutely un-self-conscious Muay Thai trainer blinded me from seeing a simple man who on his own never seems to speak loudly or rashly, and who is willing to attempt to be sincere to some foreign kid of whom he actually knows very little.

Next time I think I'll just say thank you, and try not to proclaim too loudly the merits of a gesture I still don't fully understand.

See? Not die!

2009-09-04T08:33:00.000-07:00

Tonight will be my third night at Tiger Muay Thai training camp, and as I'm sitting here on my meager mattress in my 10'x10' sauna of a room, I'm finally starting to get a realistic picture of what the next few months will be like.

The day that I arrived I spent settling in, trying to get the lay of the complex and figuring out some of the administrative concerns. At the reccommendation of the front office, I didn't train during the afternoon training session, so that I could start a whole day on the morrow. Overall, I suppose my accommodations could be worse, as I have a television, a large wardrobe, and a small refrigerator all to myself, but my bed would be more appropriately termed a cot, with a mattress not wider than my index finger is long. Also, what I was led to believe was an air-conditioned room has turned out to in fact be a small room with three windows and a wall-mounted fan; the air circulates well, but it's just as hot outside, so little is gained. While I admit I was unimpressed by the room when I walked in, I've done what I can to forget my expectations, and I think I'm adapting well. My sleep schedule is a bit tangled with a twelve-hour time difference, but there's no shortage of fatigue, so it's been easier to adjust than perhaps it would be otherwise.

I'll skim over the second day of my stay, as I really wasn't able to accomplish much due to lack of sleep and the vague cold that I seem to get every time I change continents. I tried to go to a conditioning class that morning before the real workout began, but I was thoroughly murdered after even that first hour, so apart from a feeble attempt at jogging in the afternoon, I spent the rest of the day just trying to recover.

Today was the third day that I've been in Thailand, and for the first time I really felt the full force of Tiger Muay Thai training. Opting out of the supplemental conditioning class, I went straight to the regular morning training session, which, it turns out, is four hours long. I can say with certainty that I worked more in those four hours than in any other full day of my life. We jogged, we shadow-boxed, we did burnout drills on the pads, we sparred at 50% speed and power, we did more jogging, we did more shadow-boxing, we did more drills on the pads, and then we did 300 sit-ups and 100 push-ups, after which the trainer made us lie on our backs while he slammed a 15-pound medicine ball into our stomachs between 20 and 60 times depending on the person (I was assigned a gentleman's 40). Needless to say, I didn't manage to stagger out of my room for the afternoon session, which, I'm told, is the hard part.

All that said, I have to say that the most remarkable thing about the training here is the trainers themselves. With perhaps three or four exceptions, the instructors are all native Thais, and they speak a broken but fervent brand of English which makes up in intensity and volume what it lacks in grammar and syntax. It is important for me to point out, however, that these men are not drill sergeants, or even any close approximation to them. They yell constantly, but in more of a playful, even joyous way. They grin at us encouragingly from behind their wrapped fists, and they give visceral cries of "uuaaahhh!" and "eeeeeaaayyyy!" when we deliver a solid blow. Needless to say, they make it clear that our limbs are simply incapable of doing them any damage, but they regularly offer words of dubious encouragement, clapping us on the back with arms made of iron and knotted rope and delightedly crying "See? Not die!"

Right now I am more sore than I can ever remember being before. My knuckles are bruised and split despite the handwraps and 16oz. gloves, but somehow I'm still looking forward to seeing these jolly little boxing gnomes tomorrow, as they show me other things which, despite my previous expectations, will leave me 'not dead' again.

Watching From Above

2009-09-02T01:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve just arrived in Hong Kong, and I think that the adventure has begun. I slept fitfully throughout the 18 hours that was last night, and during each period of wakefulness I was struck by the utter darkness that surrounded the plane. When I looked out the window, there were some moments when I could make out the surface of clouds below us, and thereby differentiate between the ocean and the sky, but for the most part, there was just darkness. About an hour outside of Hong Kong, however, I started to see shapes of light down below, and I don’t think that I can quite describe the experience that followed.

I mentioned in previous posts that I am very conscious of a feeling of isolation when in other countries, caused by the constant knowledge that I am a foreigner. Until today, my only real experience with being in a foreign country was my stay in Western Europe, which, I realized this morning, really doesn’t measure up on the “You Ain’t From ‘Round Here” scale.

As the plane got closer to the city, I saw small groups of lights from below, and I still have no idea what they could have possibly been. I recognized boats here and there, but there were also giant circles and lines made of lights strung together with nothing within them, like a luminous connect-the-dots picture that no one had bothered to color in. Once we got over the harbor itself, however, I could at least make out, in a general sense, what was below me, but I was still awestruck. Just before the sky started to turn blue-gray in the east, there were hundreds of ships moving out from the ports. They seemed, from above, to be in a rough sort of grid, though with a lot of space between them, like a mismatched armada in an unenthusiastic traffic-jam.

I remember distinctly that all of the lights on the water, recognizable or not, gave me such a strong sense of foreignness, seemed so quintessentially alien to my own experience, that it really hit me how far I was from home. I should also note that this was not at all an unpleasant feeling, but rather just a concrete manifestation of the otherness that I suppose pervades all international travel, and which is also the cause for great excitement.

We landed at sunrise. As we flew over the city itself, I could see so many lights from unimaginable numbers of people, with large blots of darkness oozing through them in the shapes of small harbors and coves. It wasn’t until the sun finally started shedding direct light, however (which actually wasn’t until we had just begun our taxi to the airport), that I realized that there are mountains all around the city, and that the clouds really do cling to the tops of them much like I’ve seen in every Chinese martial arts movie. Flying over Hong Kong, it is impossible to ignore that this is one of the great cities of the world. Skyscrapers stretch across the horizon for as far as the eye can see; shipyards load and unload massive freighters carrying hundreds of boxes, each bigger than three American houses put together. There is a constant coming and going which is evident even from miles above; the very atmosphere shudders with the life force of the place, and above it all loom the majestic sillhouettes of the mountains cloaked in mist.

Granted, after we landed, some of the romance was broken up by the series of tests and checks for H1N1 symptoms to which we were all subjected, combined with (it seemed to me) a rather poorly organized security checkpoint through which we were all slowly herded, but those details are better saved for amusing anecdotes to be told in person. Right now, sitting at the gate, waiting for my final flight which will at last take me to Phuket, I’m still thinking about the view from the sky.

Proverbial Twilight, Literal Midnight

2009-09-02T01:13:00.001-07:00

[The following two posts are published late; I wrote them in places without free internet, and I wasn't willing to pay for it. Now I'm at the gym, and these were some of my thoughts on the trip.]

It’s cold in the airport.

I’m sitting at the end of the east wing of the international terminal in San Francisco, and I have come down enough escalators and flights of stairs that I’m thoroughly convinced that I’m underground, and I mistrust the dim silhouettes of aircraft which drone through the darkness past the window at the end of the hall.

I’ve never been in a terminal quite like this; I’m used to having windows on all the walls, but here at the end of the pier one has only the comparatively narrow perspective of just one wall of glass. I think a menopausal woman may have gotten ahold of the air conditioning, and the metal arms of the chairs at the gate are distractingly cold, burrowing through the sleeves of my shirt to clutch at my forearms.

From my place amongst the rigid rows of black pleather-covered seating, I can see the base of the escalator which deposited me unceremoniously on the semi-reflective stone floor in the middle of this long chamber, and I’m watching other people glide down one by one, each glancing around expressionlessly for a moment before moving in the direction of their gate.
It’s pretty quiet here at the end of the terminal. My flight for Hong Kong doesn’t leave for another two hours or so, and as it’s already rather late there is little other activity. Those who are already seated at gates are mostly either sleeping or overgrown by headphone wires, their private soundtracks sprouting out of their ears and covering their whole bodies like ivy on old brick buildings. No one is talking, and I can hear the murmurs of passing crowds from the level above, and the jarring and intrusive voice of an airport administrator who chimes in every few minutes to tell us how likely we all are to die if we accept candy from strangers.

As of about ten minutes ago, my phone finally stopped functioning, and I just had time to send my parents a brief message, and tell a beautiful woman that I loved her, before my service was deactivated in preparation for my stay abroad. For some reason, it was this final goodbye which made this trip as real as it has yet been, and as I sit here now it seems wrong that I still have two hours to wait until I cross the ocean. For some reason, it always seems that one’s departure should immediately follow the most poignant goodbyes, and as a well-trained American movie-goer I find myself unable to occupy myself through the proverbial twilight, having spoken my last lines in the late afternoon and expected an immediate sunset into which I might ride. Instead, I’m sitting in a cold airport, unable to stop picturing a camera panning back and forth between myself and sleeping faces of family and friends, an acoustic guitar playing in the background.

Forgive my sentimentality; it’s late, my body thinks it’s even later, and I am beset by that intolerable restlessness for which the only cure is to quote Tennyson.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail;
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me,--
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads,-- you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are,--
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Moment of Truth

2009-08-30T21:50:00.000-07:00

So it's almost midnight on the night before I leave.

Right now I'm sitting on my bed, surrounded by the bags and clothes that I have come to associate with change. I'm waiting for a last small load of laundry to come out of the washer, and so I'm not wearing a shirt or socks, and I keep eyeing myself askance in the mirror across the room. The trouble is, when I see my reflection, I realize that I'm still not used to seeing someone with a few more muscles and a lot less hair than the guy who always hung around the glass in college. I know that I look different than I have before, but I can't help but feel that right now I'm living a moment that I will look back on many times in both the near and distant future as the last clear incarnation of a certain part of my life. Already I can sense the changes beginning, and I'm inexplicably sure that the image I see on the wall across the room will remain in my mind, but that, as I think is common for many people, I will appear in hindsight somewhat shorter, paler, and more sharply-elbowed due to the comparative inexperience and naiveté which will dominate the picture.

In looking back at myself before other major experiences in my life, I find that I can't help but think of myself with some measure of condescending endearment. Surely, I think, I couldn't have been that different before I went to France, but nonetheless I see myself on the morning of my departure bright-eyed and practically barking, scrambling to collect all the wrong things for my travels in the manner of someone waiting to inspire a series of ill-advised teen action movies.

I suppose, by implication, these several chubby-cheeked self-portraits exist in contrast to some gaunt and battle-scarred visage of gritty wisdom that should be narrating, but if nothing else, tonight shows me that such an avatar of experience has never arrived. It's ironic, now that I think of it, that I can continually think of how far I've come without ever losing the swaddling clothes between ventures, but perhaps it's better that I don't ever think myself already the master of my future challenges.

It is still amusing though, that I can sit here tonight, thinking about all that is to come with tomorrow, and know that among all of the strange and wondrous experiences I'll have will be a moment in which I look back at my current self fondly, as one smiles at a cat that sniffs the dormant garden hose before a startling twist of fate. Ah well, I guess no one ever looks cool before the water comes; the jokes are only funny after you dry off.

That's just something I've learned over the years.
Ha ha.

It's Getting Real

2009-08-23T19:32:00.000-07:00

So today it really began to hit me.

Tomorrow will be exactly one week before I get on that plane for Thailand, and how different that will be is really starting to sink in. I've been telling myself that I've done the international travel thing before, and that I shouldn't be worried, but just the same, I have a healthy amount of trepidation about the trip.

In particular, I can't decide whether or not I want something else to do, so that I could at least feel like I'm taking substantive steps to prepare for this voyage. I've learned a bare minimum amount of Thai from Rosetta Stone, I've been working out (though not nearly as much as I could be, honestly), and I've been trying to wean myself from unsustainable hobbies, such as playing video games or watching TV. In fact, it strikes me as I write this that due to the nature of my project, all the important preparations come in the form of altercations to myself.

I don't actually plan to travel with very much, as one of my goals is to try to simplify my life for the next few months, and so there's not much to pack or to buy, no more equipment or travel-aids to acquire, no more bureaucracy or paperwork to trudge through, and I have only my own abilities to work on. On some level, this strikes me as rather beautiful; I've always appreciated tasks that require ability over equipment, but at the same time, it's really quite a responsibility.

As I sit here tonight at my parents' kitchen table, drinking filtered water in a large, air-conditioned room, I notice my distinct lack of bruises or soreness, my confidence and comfort with my surroundings, and perhaps most of all, my certainty that I am able to communicate with everyone around me. I know that at this moment, were I hungry, I could walk out my door, and without even troubling myself for a car I could walk to several places that would receive me without effort or comment on my part or theirs. In theory, I will be able to do the same thing eight days from now, but I know from previous experience that when in Rome, it's a different city if you aren't a Roman.

I think that what really makes the difference is the language barrier, which is only problematic because it rather debilitatingly undermines one's confidence. If I were to fly to San Fransico tomorrow, I wouldn't know the city any better than I'll know Phuket, but I know that I can ask whatever questions are necessary in a manner that won't cause any feeling of estrangement between myself and the person I'm asking. Perhaps this is just a personal impression, but in most American cities that I have visited, being from out of town, particularly from the Mid-West, is received most often as a charming bit of color to my situation or mannerisms. Even for those less inclined to appreciate the flyover country, it is certainly not awkward or problematic, just noteworthy and perhaps amusing that I come from those miniature cities for damaged people.

In foreign countries, however, this seems to be different. While I have no real fear that I will alienate the Thai by being from America, the lack of a shared language, and the fact of my undeniable foreignness, has proven in the past to be something of a stumbling block. This slight level of awkwardness amplifies my reluctance to go down to the grocery store, or to eat out in a restaurant. It makes it seem slightly fearful to go for a walk, lest I be asked for directions, or even hailed by a friendly passerby in an attempt to start a conversation.

In the past, as I'm sure everyone reading this can assume, the greatest rewards were of course gained from immersing myself in those slightly awkward social situations, and no doubt it is the first major struggle of living abroad to just jump in. I'm sure that when the time comes, necessity will step in where courage falters, but for now I'm just sitting in a comfortable room, rather savoring the notion that I speak a language that these walls are used to hearing.

Ah well, to bed now; ambition is for the morning.

Martial Arts vs. Soldiering

2009-08-21T15:02:00.001-07:00

So I leave for Thailand in about a week. For any number of reasons, this is more than a little intimidating, but the growing proximity of departure has made the whole project more real to me than it has been since I found out it was going to happen. As I've been thinking more and more seriously about the theoretical nature of the project itself (not in small part to distract myself from the distinctly non-theoretical reality of getting kicked in the face), I have come across perhaps my first major stumbling block in my conception of what it means to be a martial artist.

In the past few months, due to the generally elevated testosterone levels of many of my friends, I have watched more than my share of movies which contain high occurrences of explosions, breasts and biceps. I don't really object to these movies on principle, generally thinking that everyone sometimes needs to experience a world in which gunshots and genitalia bounce and fly with equal ferocity, except that it led me to compare my own studies to the combat taking place on the screen. Fortunately, I have no real notion that my study of martial arts has much to do with Hollywood, but as many of these films feature soldiers in various forms, I began to wonder in what ways soldiering (in its more realistic manifestations) differs from the practice of martial arts.

I should say that before considering this, there has been (and still is) a vague and generally unexplained notion that as a martial artist, I am certainly not a soldier. As I reflected, this seemed a bit strange, as certainly we both employ martial force and act as protectors to a certain way of life, but at least viscerally, I felt that there was some great distinction, if only I could put my finger on what it is.

It is a central tenet of my project that martial arts are representative of the cultures from which they spring. Indeed, the whole reason that I feel it necessary to go to an art's native country is that I feel that in order to understand the art, one must also experience the culture which gave birth to it. At first, it seems to me that this is perhaps a difference between martial artists and soldiers, in that soldiering is created solely by and for purposes of war. In other words, to understand what it means to be a soldier, one must experience war, but not necessarily any specific war. Admittedly, however, this idea is a bit reductive. Surely there are differences between Thai and Brazilian soldiers, just as there are certainly differences between Muay Thai and Capoeira, though those differences are not necessarily the same.

Perhaps it is not then fair to say that militaries are products of war, while martial arts are products of cultures, because certainly soldiers are influenced by their native cultures, and martial arts are demonstrably linked to the early styles of warfare for the people who created them. It seems to me, however, that at the end of the day, each group has fundamentally different objectives, and at this point these objectives are the only difference that I can intelligibly isolate.

Though both soldiers and martial artists practice combat, and though both use styles of combat shaped by the environment and culture from which they came, I think that it is the focus on utility vs. the focus on expression which in the end is the primary distinction. Soldiers fight to win, martial artists fight to fight, which is to say to use the techniques. Even in my own narrow experience, the reasons that martial artists practice their styles vary greatly; some consider aesthetics, some power, some speed, some history, etc., but whatever the case, the objective of learning a martial art is to express what one has personally chosen as worth expressing. For soldiers, by contrast, the objective of being a good soldier is the preservation of an institution, or perhaps the destruction of another, but whatever the case, the objective of soldiering is externally imposed.

Anyway, this is the beginning of what I imagine will be a continuing line of thought, and Dr. Dorian Stuber has recently recommended a book called Imagined Communities by Benedict Anderson, which (from the little that I've read so far) promises to shed some light on this as well. More to follow.

Preparing to Prepare

2009-07-21T13:24:00.000-07:00

This is the first test drive of a system of which I am already dubious. I should say from the outset that I've never actually begun, much less maintained, a blog or anything of the sort, and in fact even my facebook account is pagewith perhaps less diligence than customary for my generation. At the heart of the matter is, I suppose, my general feeling that if one is going to write, particularly in a public forum, one should be saying something informative or worthwhile, and generally the tedious particularlities of my daily life don't strike me as worth communicating. That said, I am more than a little bit excited about my upcoming travels, so perhaps I can project that excitement onto the faceless avatar of My Reader and muster up some enthusiasm for this business. Here's hoping. Sort of.

Right now, as the title of this post implies, I am preparing to prepare for my stay abroad. A select few of my activities are actually directly applicable to my travels, such as visa applications and such, but for the most part I've just been training when and where possible, and taking small trips to visit friends, so that I can figure out exactly what I really NEED to carry with me when I go abroad. As I've mentioned to several people, it is my ambition to spend my Fellowship time without any more than I can fit into my backpack and one duffel bag. So far, I'm pretty optimistic about that goal, and at this rate, I expect success.

One of the major things that I've been doing to train is bicycling. Here in Kansas City (where I've been for a little over a week), I have a regular route that I take sometimes at night, and which, all told, is around 25 miles. It's a decent cardio workout, but I admit that I'm really dodging doing less pleasant things (plain old running, as a primary example) under the guise of alternative exercise, and because whatever the benefits or shortcomings of cycling, I just plain enjoy it. In addition, after an incident two nights ago in which two young men attempted to steal my bike (and were very nearly successful), I have returned to my old habit of carrying a japanese sword on my back to deter troublemakers and miscreants, and I suppose for some nonsense about getting into a fighter's mindset.

More to follow.