Injured

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.