My routine in paradise is now fairly well established and I am getting to know people here.
The guys at the Rasta Bar are now used to me walking or running past their bar/workshop/ganja joint. 2 older men sit out near the roadside by a thatch hut and make leather boots for sale. The younger men have been busy putting up a sign “Black Moon Party Saturday Night”. One of them has a large curved knife he is using to notch the coconut palm trunk so that the rope will sit there and hold up the sign. He sees me, and in mock anger runs at me brandishing the thing above his head giving some kind of Thai war cry. I play along and take up a martial arts fighting stance to defend myself. We have a bit of a standoff then fall about laughing as the traffic is stopping to watch, curious that this farang might be about to be butchered.
Tim and I have developed a platonic friendship of sorts. She is usually in the water when I get there around dusk at 6, and we chat in a 2 language way, and I go off and do some swimming. She usually gives me a ride back on her motorbike and a couple of times she has taken me to Rawai Beach to eat seafood on the water where the fishing boats tie up. It is busier there than Nai Harn, and it’s the other side of the island even though it’s only a 10 minute ride. There’s some bars and restaurants, mechanical workshops and travel agents. It faces the mainland and mangroves are dotted around the bay. The fish comes big and steamed or deep fried with whatever spices and sauces you wish. There are banana prawns as big as a small child’s arm and strange, small conical shellfish that are new to me. The water laps beneath a bamboo matted platform, and sends small waves beneath the floor when boats cruise past. Siamese cats brush against me, purring enthusiastically but aren’t interested in the scraps I offer.
Saturday comes and I am invited to the Muay Thai fight night on the island in the lake. I arrive to find that farang tickets cost 1,000 baht whilst a Thai pays only 200. I question this and am told “farang have more munnee”.
The ring is set up inside a circle of chairs, and a makeshift wooden stand is already full of local Thai men. I see the Rasta Bar owner, his dreadlocks tied up so they don’t trail on the ground, and some other locals I know from the beach or the running track. There is barbecued chicken and satays and phad thai noodles to be washed down with cold Chang beer taken from the big plastic tubs full of ice. It’s a warm night, and most Thai’s are showing some perspiration, but they still wear jeans and shoes and dress themselves up for the occasion. Local dignitaries, police, businessmen and government representatives are given a podium seat next to the ring. Groups of Australians and British who have come to Phuket to train in this kickboxing fighting art sit together in groups to yell support for their fighting gym. I sit with Thai’s who, when they are not smoking , argue the merits of each fighter on the program. Betting is the main reason they have come, the fighting is secondary.
The fights begin with small boys, who look like they should be home in bed, climbing into the ring with the help of their handlers. They glisten in the hot lights, their brown skin oiled to make gripping them difficult. There is the blue corner and the red corner. They do their strange dance within the ring, rocking to the music played by wooden flutes and drums in an ancient modal improvisation, and jog to each corner where they bow their wai to the corner and the crowd, and then wai to the trainers and the judges. Their discipline reeks of tradition and respect.
There are 3 or 4 of these fights, with the larger boy having the strength advantage winning the fight.
Then come the young men.
They look like warriors must have looked, when the Kings of Thailand sent their armies against the Kampuchean, Burmese, and Chinese invaders, riding war elephants into battle, centuries before Christ walked the earth. They wear traditional braided headbands, and battle each other with kicks to thighs, and knees into the ribs as they grapple and are pushed apart by the referee and tap their dominant leg to the rhythm of the music before the next assault on their opponent.
The crowd around the ring are buoyed and ebullient with excitement. Every knee or elbow that connects is greeted with a large “oi,oi” from the supporters of the blue or the red. It is the knee and elbow that is scored the highest in Muay Thai boxing, rather than a punch or a takedown. Men stand and shake fistfuls of baht notes above their heads calling out “blue, blue” or “red, red” looking for someone to take the other side of their wager. A woman in front of me bets aggressively with the men on every fight and I count only one win out of eight. She leaves without much to show for her night. There is one fight that the farangs have come to see, a Danish woman fighting an Australian woman. The Dane has her blonde hair plaited as is the way in that country. She is stocky, heavily muscled in the thighs and calves and looks to be fitter and more confident. The Australian has red hair cropped short in the fashion of a man, she looks softer, and less defined than the Dane, but is big and solid just the same. I think the Dane has the edge here, and I’m right for the first two rounds, the Aussie just keeps taking punishment but won’t go down. Then, in the last round the Dane runs out of puff. She takes a hit on the nose and the blood runs freely. The Australians in the crowd are urging the red head on to finish it, but she can’t, and when the bell sounds the Thai judges make it a diplomatic draw.
The last bets are settled and the children are sleeping on their mother’s laps. A fight between two rival gyms breaks out, but it is brief. Everyone slowly walks back across the bridge.
A girl I met at the beach offers me a lift on her motorbike. We leave the lake for the Rasta Bar, which is full of drunk, stoned farangs with back moon t-shirts; some dancing to the trance music blaring from the speakers, and others crashed out on couches and the floor. An American yells political slogans into my ear and looks agitated and reeks of ganja and wants me to go to a party somewhere and discuss world issues. I go home, this place seems too far away from the rest of the world to have those conversations tonight.
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