Muay Thaired
My quick-dry underwear didn’t stand a chance.
Let me back up. The majority of my Thailand experience consisted of the seeing the inside of hostpial and hostel rooms in Bangkok. To remedy this, my last day in Bangkok and fully recovered from dengue, I decided to do something uniquely Thai. Though the options were vast, from a Thai cooking class to visiting the Tiger Temple, I settled on going to a Muay Thai training class that I say advertised in my hostel. When I told my friends who worked at the hospital that I was going to go, one of the young boys said he would do with me. Excited I said, “Oh you want to learn how to box?” He replied, “No, just watch.”
That should have been my first clue.
I thought this boxing class would consist of maybe learning some jabs – maybe getting in a ring to take pictures with a bunch of other white people and maybe seeing an actual Muay Thai boxer just for kicks. I quickly learned this was not the experience I was in for.
As we walked into the compound I probably asked my friend five or six times if we were really in the right location. He assured me yes. So, let me take you through…
The first thing you see when you walking down the dirt driveway under a large gateway with something scribbled in Thai is multiple roosters running around and more in cages.
This should have been my second clue.
As you walk further, you pass an unkempt graveyard with old headstones.
This should have been my third clue.
As you keep walking you see a number of fierce Chihuahuas and placid Pit-Bulls.
This should have been my fourth clue.
It is worth noting that you hear and smell the boxing area before you see it. The smell of sweat and the sounds a grunting and yelling at that point probably should have sent me running but I tenaciously walked ahead.
It is then that I saw the cage. A large cage with two floors, a boxing ring, and various types of equipment meant for punching and kicking. There is another rage adjacent to the larger cage that has a weight-lifting set that I’m sure was procured from a prison garage sale.
As the grunts grew louder I got flashbacks to freshman year of high-school when I signed up for the all-male powerlifting course and was instantly hated by all the football players when the lifting teacher informed them that chivalry was not dead and they were no longer allowed to curse while lifting.
As I walked in, I couldn’t help but notice that I was NOT the only female, however, I was the only person without six-pack abs and tattoos. I won’t walk you through the various parts of torture I endured during the next few hours but here are the highlights.
I began with 20 minutes of bare-foot jump rope which blistered the bottom of my big toes – something I didn’t even think was possible.
I remember realizing about half way through a one-on-one session with my teacher, (an older, very intense Thai boxer who didn’t speak more English that “Jab” “Kick” and “Power”) that if I did not pay attention, this man could very well hurt me.
Another second spark of brilliance came when I realized that this same teacher did not appreciate when I, 1) giggled or 2) apologized. He would purse his lips and squint his eyes and then instead of saying “Jab” he would say “Jab 20.” Any joviality ended right there.
But, I think I made him most angry was when he pointed at the edge of the boxing ring and said “Sit” and I thankfully sat on the edge and crossed my legs, thankful for a break. He screamed “NO! UP!” So I quickly stood and looked at him. He pointed to the edge of the ring and again said “SIT!!” So, I hesitantly sat down and before my butt even touched the side he yelled, “NO! Up! UP!” We went through this cycle twice more before a heavily tattooed Austrian guy turned around and said, “He wants you to do sit-ups.” My punishment for this misunderstanding? My teacher didn’t tell me how many to do, he just said “go.”
After three hours, I hobbled home bruised, cut and soaking wet and was very grateful when my smiling Thai friend bought be an iced coffee with condensed milk. It is no surprise that even on the crowded afternoon subway ride home, there wasn’t anyone interested in sitting next to me.
Let me back up. The majority of my Thailand experience consisted of the seeing the inside of hostpial and hostel rooms in Bangkok. To remedy this, my last day in Bangkok and fully recovered from dengue, I decided to do something uniquely Thai. Though the options were vast, from a Thai cooking class to visiting the Tiger Temple, I settled on going to a Muay Thai training class that I say advertised in my hostel. When I told my friends who worked at the hospital that I was going to go, one of the young boys said he would do with me. Excited I said, “Oh you want to learn how to box?” He replied, “No, just watch.”
That should have been my first clue.
I thought this boxing class would consist of maybe learning some jabs – maybe getting in a ring to take pictures with a bunch of other white people and maybe seeing an actual Muay Thai boxer just for kicks. I quickly learned this was not the experience I was in for.
As we walked into the compound I probably asked my friend five or six times if we were really in the right location. He assured me yes. So, let me take you through…
The first thing you see when you walking down the dirt driveway under a large gateway with something scribbled in Thai is multiple roosters running around and more in cages.
This should have been my second clue.
As you walk further, you pass an unkempt graveyard with old headstones.
This should have been my third clue.
As you keep walking you see a number of fierce Chihuahuas and placid Pit-Bulls.
This should have been my fourth clue.
It is worth noting that you hear and smell the boxing area before you see it. The smell of sweat and the sounds a grunting and yelling at that point probably should have sent me running but I tenaciously walked ahead.
It is then that I saw the cage. A large cage with two floors, a boxing ring, and various types of equipment meant for punching and kicking. There is another rage adjacent to the larger cage that has a weight-lifting set that I’m sure was procured from a prison garage sale.
As the grunts grew louder I got flashbacks to freshman year of high-school when I signed up for the all-male powerlifting course and was instantly hated by all the football players when the lifting teacher informed them that chivalry was not dead and they were no longer allowed to curse while lifting.
As I walked in, I couldn’t help but notice that I was NOT the only female, however, I was the only person without six-pack abs and tattoos. I won’t walk you through the various parts of torture I endured during the next few hours but here are the highlights.
I began with 20 minutes of bare-foot jump rope which blistered the bottom of my big toes – something I didn’t even think was possible.
I remember realizing about half way through a one-on-one session with my teacher, (an older, very intense Thai boxer who didn’t speak more English that “Jab” “Kick” and “Power”) that if I did not pay attention, this man could very well hurt me.
Another second spark of brilliance came when I realized that this same teacher did not appreciate when I, 1) giggled or 2) apologized. He would purse his lips and squint his eyes and then instead of saying “Jab” he would say “Jab 20.” Any joviality ended right there.
But, I think I made him most angry was when he pointed at the edge of the boxing ring and said “Sit” and I thankfully sat on the edge and crossed my legs, thankful for a break. He screamed “NO! UP!” So I quickly stood and looked at him. He pointed to the edge of the ring and again said “SIT!!” So, I hesitantly sat down and before my butt even touched the side he yelled, “NO! Up! UP!” We went through this cycle twice more before a heavily tattooed Austrian guy turned around and said, “He wants you to do sit-ups.” My punishment for this misunderstanding? My teacher didn’t tell me how many to do, he just said “go.”
After three hours, I hobbled home bruised, cut and soaking wet and was very grateful when my smiling Thai friend bought be an iced coffee with condensed milk. It is no surprise that even on the crowded afternoon subway ride home, there wasn’t anyone interested in sitting next to me.
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