Muay Thai

16th Feb

Krabi. For the last few days there has been an onslaught of loud speaker vans crawling up and down the beach front. It’s an innovative form of Thai advertising for just about every product from bespoke suits to authentic cuisine. It’s also a pain in the arse. But one of them, promising in Hollywood traileresque tones the biggest fight of the year with the Bangkok defending champion taking on a Aunang upstart, has taken our attention. Generally, I am against violence of all sorts and have never felt the slightest urge to see a Boxing match, but out here it is the generals that I am reassessing.

We arrive to a throng of excited locals, peppered with the odd bearded, string-vest Farangue. The price is 1000 bhats (25 pounds) for arena seats and 1500 for ringside leather sofas. You have to suspect the signs announcing this may be speciality Farangue prices. Inside the bare lego-style arena the leather sofas are entirely lobster-tanned Farangue heavy, creating a striking economic divide. The first match is between kids, one of whom is 11 and fairly ripped for his age, and he towers over the other who cannot be `more than 9. He stands strikingly still in his competition electric blue shorts, feet slightly splayed like a penguin yet to lose it’s puppy fluff. I’m impressed by his solemnity in the face of his hulking opponent, and so accept a 60bhat bet with Vincent, unwisely letting sentiment and a love of the underdog drive my decisions. The match starts, our penguin hero paddles a couple of punches and then cowers under a veritable deluge of blows. The crowd are hooting in unison with every strike, the young lad’s pinned brutally against the ropes and then, just 45 seconds after it began, the match is stopped. The glistening, oiled up victor bounces over to honour his opponent, but he’s turned his back on the proceedings, face crumpled in muffled sobs. It’s horrific. He’s lifted over the ringside to his grinning father’s arms for what I can only hope is a consolatory hug amidst promises he’ll never have to endure this again.

The next five matches begun a slightly dull blur as enthusiastic but clearly petrified teenagers hug each other as long as possible to avoid the blows. But kick-boxing doesn’t really offer this man-embrace sanctuary as it’s accompanied by knees to the ribs and stomach. We’ve been there nearly 2 hours with 6 fights left to go and I’m on the verge of a resolutely disgusted nap. This is not helped by the local dirge that can perhaps be closest described as the Tetris theme tune with considerably less accuracy and even variation (if that were possible) from our increasingly drunk aged Oboe player.

Then it’s time for the adult section and suddenly the patchy arena fills. The renewed ripples of excitement nudge my slumber. The fighters resemble a lean organic version of those cumbersome Men’s Health models. They emerge wearing feathered arm bands, rope-bound wreaths and neon shorts. The gong sounds and round one and they explode in such a ferocious blur of precision blows that my moral qualms are thrown to the wind, to be replaced by some kind of dormant primitive awe. They are, quite simply, unstoppable and seemingly unbreakable. I have no discernment over who is edging ahead, but the intricacies are clearly not lost on the baying local crowd rocking in one ring-side Farnangue-free corner, exchanging numerous Bhats with the flurries of the bookie’s hands. It is intoxicating in its savagery and I cannot quite believe the gong so acutely stops each bout, leaving the contenders to smile and tap gloves. Each round alternates between languid taunts and indistinguishable torrents of fury. The winners and losers seem known long before the referee’s decision as the as the victim leaves head-bowed before the victor’s arm is raised to hoots and catcalls.

Each fight is proceeded by a balletesque dance as the fighters circle the rings, apparently consumed by an ancient trance. And now the purpose of the Tetris Quartet becomes clear; the repetitive dirge has the quality of a snake charmer, with the fighters swaying deeper into it’s beat, and I begin to notice they only seem to strike in perfect time. There is some odd combination happening here I feel, where the primitive and the divine become as one. The distinctions become obsolete and I am liberated by the sense that the fight truly is a spiritual conquest.

Match 9, to everyone’s great anticipation, involves a Farangue called Damian from Bangkok and a local contender. The Thais next to us laugh as we point at our representative, eagerly gesturing that his fate will not be a pretty one. But Damian, shaven head, spiked hair, glistening stream-lined body, is far from a push-over. He would not be out of place in Birmingham street brawl. Surprisingly he completes the pre-match dance with a focused rhythm that suggests a complete lack of self-consiousness. In round 1 though, his cultural heritage becomes more apparent; he clearly trained as a boxer. The punch is considered the weakest of all Thai boxing blows and it seems generally to tap and paw rivals into place before kicks are unleashed. But Damian lumbers forwards with a cascade of punches and a wall-like face defence that leaves his adversary a little dazed. We begin holler our man along, much to local amusement, but Damian needs to such encouragement. His morbid lunges are taking a slow toll. Round 2 and the other guy’s totally on the ropes. And then Damian seems to remember his Thai infusion as he ends one folly with what I believe is called a roundhouse kick. Unexpected, the shin pad connects clean and true with the side of the other fighter’s head, the crack ringing out around the stadium. It’s an exquisitely brutal blow that elicits 5000 strong simultaneous gasp. A second later and the opponent’s wobbling. And Damian’s already turned his back on the proceedings as he collapses in a heap, out for the count. An uproar ensues as the delighted Farnagues spring to their feet and the wild-eyed Damian revels in his victory. God save Birmingham if he ever returns… I’m a little concerned the Thai crowd may not take kindly to this local defeat, but to their great credit our jibing is greeted with resolute nods, shamed grins and much thumbs-upping. The winning and losing doesn’t really matter it appears; it’s all about the sport of the thing. And what a graceful sport it is. The terraces of Old Trafford should be ashamed.