Travel Diaries #27 - Muay Thai
I return to Chiang Mai and find transcendence, not in the freedom of travel, but in the centuries-old exhibition of culture and civilisation of Thailand's national sport
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In a gloriously dingy hall near the Thephae Gate leading into Chiang Mai’s Old Town, I found exactly what I was looking for, that which I never knew I needed nor even existed.
The murmurs settle and the crowds hush. All rituals over and ceremonies concluded, we wait with breaths baited by spicy rice and warm Chang for the scrapping to get going. Last minute preparations as the teams file back to their corners. Only two remain, their fates now left in their own hands, their feet, their knees, their elbows and shins. The half foreign half Thai crowds casually chomping at the bit, they sense it’s time, they want the halls to fill with blood, though for now only the slick waft of Tiger Balm floats through the dusty air. The punters have spoken and all bets are in, the middle-aged heavy-weight matriarch in the crowd taking totes from the gang of French tourists with a customary local smile, one that suggests the house never loses. The crowd roars as a bell goes ding ding ding, the snake charmers fade quickly into the background.
We’re about to see some Muay Thai.
Martial arts are deeply embedded in the way of life of this fine smiling nation; and a niche draw for many travellers who come to participate in bootcamps and bouts, or are drawn in on a touristic escapade to while away an evening by gawking and salivating over the mushing of flesh pounding flesh. They say that prostitution is the oldest profession, maybe war then is the oldest way of earning a living. The simplest war is fought between two men, with no weapons or tools or blunt implements, simply fists and the odd kick (wars against oneself are much more complex).
Maybe then the oldest pastime is to settle in for the evening and watch two men engage in the action of beating the living shit out of each other.
Not just an exhibition in the universal thirst for fighting-as-entertainment, Muay Thai is a martial art, and as intrinsic a part of Thai culture as, say, karate is to Japan, but also as football is to Ireland or anywhere else. In Ireland we throw a ball into the mix to try to add some arbitrary dignity to our national pastimes of hitting each other with sticks, or running into someone side on at full speed and flattening them to the ground with the full weight of our shoulders; here, as in many other places, they’re much more honest and direct about their intentions and desires, and no ball is necessary.
There’s a full roster of fights scheduled, starting with lightweights barely 100 pounds in weight, and barely 18 years old, and running up ages and weight classes with a series of fights between all-Thai athletes, interspersed with ‘special’ bouts on the card between locals and foreigners who’ve been training at Muay Thai camps for a month or so and get to take part in a proper contest against a local fighter, cheered on by a crowd full of punters – surely the ultimate test in humility and relaxing your ego, given the likelihood that your opponent, who has been doing this since he was 8 and probably sleeps here, will kick the living shit out of you.
From the get-go there’s a distinct reverence for and display of tradition. The fights begin with the ritual introduction of fighters, who quickly parade the ring in traditional headdress, which you could crudely describe as a homemade tennis racquet. Slathered in Vaseline from head to toe so they’re positively glistening, you can almost see your reflection as they inch past you through the crowd to get to the ring. Later contestants would take it in turns to commence a combination of pre-fight warming up, stretching, meditating and movement practice, and flexing their muscles and their moves to the crowd in pleasing and natural displays of calm synchronicity, hinting at the rhythmic nature of the brawls to come, before proceeding to beat the absolute shit out of each other.
This is what we all want, this is what we paid 400 hard-earned baht (€10) to see – people getting their heads beaten off themselves, two units going at it and beating the living crap out of each other. Viciousness. Blood, if possible. Everyone cheers.
Each fight invites us closer and closer into tradition. After the prayers and warm-ups the guy stands in the middle with an instrument: an oboe, a flute, or some other colloquially named musical object. ‘Snake-charmer music’ is the only thing I have the capacity to call it; I don’t know if that’s a tradition here but why be a slave to political or cultural correctness when that phrase will evoke perfectly in your mind right now the exact buzz-flute sound of the music. He retreats to the elevated booth in the corner to my right, the bell goes and the musicians settle into their rhythm, a modest three-piece ensemble: a tom drum palmed on both sides; the guy with the recorder playing his tune; a gentleman with a tambourine or a bell. Not just elevator muzak, I soon come to see it serves a vital purpose: a critical facilitator of the rhythm and pace of the fight. The fighters lock into a bobbing, weaving rhythm, fists in front of faces, a crane-like stance, ready to jab or pounce or leap, for this is not only the most vicious of martial arts but the most elegant too. The Art of Eight Limbs as it’s known, strikes with fists and knees, elbows and shins. Spidery assassins. Movements so perfectly synchronised to the opponent and in time to the music as to look like the simple 16-bit animations of Street Fighters.
Is it a dance or a fight or training exercise or a display of art or a prayer – so tightly integrated it’s impossible to tell, to separate the elements from one another.
The holy trinity – the father, the son and the holy spirit.
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The fight prowls on, the music speeds up, and so do the weaves, the bobs and the jabs. Not only does it soundtrack, the band drives the match-ups, and when a resolution is not forthcoming, the tempo picks up to encourage a climax. The whole visual and aural effect adds an element of intrigue and fleetingly evokes the mystique of a 16th century fighting tourney at a rural palace for the enjoyment of a royal entourage.
Loosely guarding fists, knees cocked to one side, foot pumping to the floor. Feints left and right, avoiding blows or warming up, all in time to the music, an expression of an ancient and venerated martial art, a holy ritual.
Sacrifices must be made. There must be a winner.
The fights go on, the night speeds up.
Depleted stamina, gasping lungs. Marks on reddened backs like they’d got an opportunistic slap in the school showers. Knees to the back to break the grapple of an exhausted foe.
High and up and into the ribs.
G’wan up ta fuck.
Tiger Uppercut. Admit it – you’d love to see it.
Man gets knocked out by a series of ferocious elbows to the face.
The crowd goes wild.
Incredible scenes.
No grudges held though. No lasting trauma. No flinching. They seem to feel no pain – it would be unbecoming.
Ireland is known as the Land of a Thousand Welcomes, but Thailand is the Land of a Thousand Smiles. They say there are thirteen different kinds, in fact. Like real-life cultural emojis, there’s a Thai smile that means “I’m so happy I’m crying”; there’s a polite smile for a stranger; there’s an “I told you so” smile; a smile in the face of adversity; and a smile that masks evil intent. After tonight I’m certain there must also be a smile that means “smile while you’re getting the absolute shit kicked out of you”. These fine men and women, boys and girls, they just take it on the chin, the abdomen, the head, the back, the chest, the legs – everywhere they can – and not a bother on them: no flinching, no wincing, no nothing.
It's all part of the flow.
True artists.
So graceful. Much finesse. Exquisite beauty. Languid brutality. Dripping in the smooth hardened glow of the sublime.
Something for everyone.
Credit where it’s due, this British camp trainee shows zero mercy as she goes at her native opponent from the off like a dog out to prove a point that you shouldn’t have let her off her leash. A sneaky late kick to the back following a close kerfuffle causes the Thai girl’s legs to buckle in the delayed reaction of a Portuguese Europa League footballer, resulting in a TKO as she’s not fit to continue.
Bets get paid out, bets get taken.
The night speeds up under a blurry fluorescence.
Everything in sync, everything in its right place. Nowhere else to be.
The final fight an intriguing contest: French bulldog versus Thai tiger; raging muscle versus feline grace. The French woman looks like she’s a point to prove, every one of her efforts looking like an attempt to destroy her opponent, each one with a jarring force behind it.
But no match.
The Thai girl, all cat-like beauty and grace and height is simply too quick at every turn, a masterclass in agility that at times is difficult to believe. We’re talking Mayweather levels of casual avoidance, at times looking like she’s not even moving from her feet as she ducks and dodges this way and that, so quick she almost looks slow. Leaping off elongated legs that put her a foot above her opposite. She dodges, slender non-movements. She kicks and punches like all the others. She cannot be touched. She is divine in her motion, beautiful in her poise and flow and features. The mother of dragons. Despite the best efforts of her opponent – and her efforts are frighteningly potent – she remains untouched.
She wins.
I have loved every minute of this. Fed up and bored by the faux-peace-and-love of the tourist backpackers of Pai; instead I found the most meaningful part of the trip in the unglamorous surroundings of a city centre boxing hall, watching dozens of locals and tourists alike beating the absolute shit out off each other, a transcendent display of culture and primal physicality. Naïve notions of peace and compassion as the only forces that strive towards goodness go far wide of the mark; in order for there to be peace on earth there must be strength and assertiveness too, and tonight we are humbled to witness a truly integrated worship of God.
Up next an afterthought, fuel for tourists. The equivalent of men in leprechaun hats coming out to whack each other with shillelaghs. Or so I thought. Unexpected wonder. Two men, with physiques and demeanours that put them a league or two ahead of anyone on tonight’s card, enter the ring with long, thick, curved blades.
Gently curved machetes or araks with ornate white handles. Two of them, even – the ultimate action movie fantasy indulgence. Blades clash in sparring style, their movements in time to the music as ever, instinctive. The crowd settling in for some gentle ritual sparring when a sudden clash of steel produces a hypnotic, slow-motion, hyper-real cascade of sparks, the dribbling of a lava-looking substance from a void they seem to have torn in the space between them. The crowd jolted to attention by what seems to be a dangerous deviation from the script.
A dance of dragons, a perfected masquerade of chaos and unpredictability and danger, the whole thing unfolding just a little too quickly for it to be rehearsed, we clearly know no craft so well that this could be anything other than an honest and dangerous fight to the death.
The music speeds up, the fight quickens.
A sense of unchecked abandon as the white-pantalooned and glistening-chested opponents swing and cut and thrust and clash steel on steel with such speed and powerful intent that it couldn’t be pre-rehearsed, avoiding injury, death, mutilation and disfigurement by inches one collision of blades at a time, fire raining down in suspended animation from a void in the middle of the ring.
Mutual understanding and pristine instincts saving each at every turn from getting hacked brutally in the neck by a two-foot sword.
The fight speeds up, as it always does.
A crescendo. The battle must end, as all battles must. The pantomime takes over, the story must be told. One man falters, by chance or design. There must be a scapegoat. His blade spins out of his hand and into a corner as he parries a blow. His foe baits him to pick it up, a gladiator toying with his kill, before knocking away the other blade. He’s on his knees, waiting for the inevitability of death. A figurative thumbs up from the crowd as he draws both blades back overhead to administer the fatality. Too much hubris, the gladiator flies too close to the sun – a moment of opportunity, the unarmed prey leaps to his feet and delivers a devastating dropkick to the chest which flattens him dramatically on his back, turning the tables on their head, before acrobatically applying a flying coup de grace to his fallen would-be executor.
Muay Thai wins.
A pantomime ‘doink’ to the head, a cartoon playing of unconsciousness, the two rise to the feet and bow to the audience.
We are truly and utterly and genuinely amused. Incredible scenes.
Six men enter the ring. A royal rumble. A pantomime ceremony as the referee puts a blindfold on each one. They all wear oversized gloves. The referee stands away to let them have at it. They swing wildly. A comedy ensues. Six blindfolded men swinging as hard as they can and heaven hopes they land a blow for our amusement. Tears of laughter. Raucous applause. We love it. The sort of thing that sounds fun but in person is more wonderful a sight than you could ever imagine. A grand mix of fun and wild amazement and something that we rationally see before us to be bizarre, worthy of telling to the folks back at home, but in reality is so much more than the sum of its parts or its on-paper details. Words will never do it justice, but it’s as close to the thrill of a primary-school water fight as you will ever get from a spectator sport. Unbridled joy. Fantasy. Thrill. Energy. Life. At one stage the referee gets clobbered by a swinging contender. It’s all laughed off, as every other blow is over the night, serious fights and light entertainment alike.
This is what we came here to see, what we never knew we were looking for. An intersection of culture and brutality and fun the likes of which you’d forgotten existed. The oldest pastime in history: coming together as one baying crowd to watch two – or six or more – people beating the absolute shit out of each other.
The music speeds up. The fight speeds up. The crowd cheers.
I found what I was looking for without ever knowing what it was.
This is what I came here to see.
Crafted over centuries and honed through painful trial and error with unavoidable honour.
The collective will of culture transcending earth and raising a path to heaven, that which no-one ever really thought they needed, breathing into life things which they never even knew existed, but which manifested themselves through those actions which have proven to be timeless, in ways in we are often too blinded to see, much less to truly believe in.
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