“No fight tonight”

An unusual and disappointing greeting for visitors to a boxing stadium on fight night, but this is Thailand. There is a solution around every corner. Despite the obvious absence of fans, lights, food stalls or any other indicators of an event, I stick around. Noticing that I am not budging, the greeter comes back to repeat the night’s mantra.

“No fight.”
“Where is the fight?” I ask stubbornly.
As in many other areas of life, asking the right question in broken English often yields results.
“C.E.C.”

I have no idea what this is, but before I can get directions to hoof it there, a man on a scooter buzzes over and tells me to get on. Offering up a ride free of charge, it seems as if he has been waiting specifically to zip me off to the alternative stadium. A few words are exchanged in Thai, I hop on the back and we speed off toward the puttering sounds of Thai streets at night.

In a short 15 minutes we arrive. This venue is more touristy than Kawila, the original stadium, and falangs (foreigners) are thick on the ground. Still, I have from a good source that any of the fights that charge the usual 400 baht (around 10 USD) are not show fights, so I hand it over and go inside.

About 45 minutes before the fights begin the ring seems almost like an afterthought: a second “ring”, this one consisting of bars, surrounds it. The regular chorus of attractive young ladies, bar owners and lady-boys crank out the well-worn refrain, “Hello! Welcome!”, imploring people to sit down and have a drink or two. Or more. Amid the clinking billiard balls and beer glasses the falangs, myself included, wander in wondering whether or not to have a beer, often succumbing to the first invitation. The Thai contingent, however, has already picked out prime seats around the ring, oblivious to the perpetual distractions of alcohol and hostesses. Some gamblers-in-waiting hang around a punching bag taking turns giving it a beating.

Most fight nights present around eight to ten fights, starting with the lowest weight classes. In this case the lowest is 32 kilograms – little boys of around twelve years old. This is not the WWF, and the fighters walk uneventfully up to the ring in varied costumes. Some wear combinations of robes, sashes or arm bands while others show up in only their shorts. Almost all, however, don rope-like headgear, called mongkon, tightly wrapped around their foreheads and bound in the back, which is removed before the fight.

It isn’t until slipping between the ropes that the audience has a good chance to see the fighters. As the music intensifies, gyrating with increasing speed, the fighters engage in what could be called ritualized stretching, called Ram Muay. This serves to honor their teachers. The fighters crisscross the ring kneeling, bowing, stretching their arms outward and raising their heads and gloves to the sky. The music slowly winds up into a frenzy over the course of these moments. Finally, the announcer’s voice booms to a close and the fighters go to their corners, remove their head gear and pray with their managers. Read More...