How Not to Learn Muay Thai

It's day one at Bangtao and Ollie is still suffering from a bad case of Bangkok Belly that he picked up from overindulging in a chilli-chicken concoction that caught his attention in Chinatown. It left him bedridden over New Years and now, five days later, he’s still barely on the mend, meaning I’m a lone survivor for the first few training sessions. But that’s okay, I did two weeks of Muay Thai back home. That should be enough, right?

I wrap my hands seated on the couch of our two-bedroom poolside villa nestled behind the gym, only because I judge this the safest place to watch the step-by-step ‘How to Wrap Your Hands for Boxing’ YouTube tutorial that I need to rewind 16 times. So far so good.

I make a short commute to the gym in my knockoff Birkenstocks that I bartered down to 20 Aussie dollars from a Bangkok pop-up shop and run through my basic stretching routine before introducing myself to the five Thai coaches who all stand about a head shorter than me.

The clock ticks over 4pm and a surplus of 50 fighters perch up in unison ready for battle all with the same weapon of choice: a skipping rope. I search frantically for one myself, but without any luck, I follow the lead of what seems like a fellow first timer with the same dazed and confused look on his face and begin hopping on the spot with an imaginary rope that somehow still manages to whip my toes every few jumps.

The coaches have set up three stations. I start on the bags. I repeat one of three combinations that I learnt in my two weeks of training in Australia: left jab, right cross, left hook, right kick. Muay Thai is a piece of piss when your opponent can’t hit you back. I could get used to this.

I stride valiantly to the second station: pads. I’m acting swiftly on the coach’s commands. ‘Jab.’ My left-hand soars forward. ‘Cross.’ My right-hand rips across my body. ‘Elbow.’ My brain – still on holiday mode – takes longer to register this one. ‘Elbow!’ coach shouts again with his right pad waving at my absent gaze. ‘Hello, are you there? Any lights on?’

I get in position – not the right one – and cop a left pad to my right cheek before I can even lift my elbow. This is what I signed up for.

‘Kick.’ I regather myself and lunge forward, my right leg striking both pads with an intensity that is quickly escaping me in the 35-degree heat.

The impact is near perfect, I think to myself for a split second before I feel the coach’s foot hooking my back leg out from underneath me, sending me flat on my back in a pool of communal sweat and bleach residue that the cleaners use in abundance every morning to keep these mats squeaky clean.

I look up at the coach amid desperate gasps for the air that fled my chest on impact. He’s no older than my 20-year-old self, with bleached yellow hair and Sak Yant tattoos decorating his upper arms and back and a cheeky grin that says, ‘Gotcha.’

He’s a lot taller than me now.

‘Change,’ another coach yells. Last station. This can’t be too bad.

I walk up three stairs to one of two boxing rings. In the other ring stands eight friendly-sized men, each exchanging names with welcoming smiles.

The ring I mistakenly stepped into stands seven not-so-friendly-sized men, sizing up their prey with very unwelcoming frowns. And then there’s me, the prey.

The first round of sparring begins. I have no mouthguard, so I keep my gloves glued to my head to protect my pearly whites, leaving my torso exposed to the pounding fists that are connected to the bulging arms that are connected to the 6’4 110kg frame of my first contestant. Here goes nothing.

The session concludes and I stumble back to the villa with a deflated ego and an alarmingly nauseous stomach. I’m not sure what sorcery my giant of a sparring partner performed on me in the ring, but it feels like my small and large intestines have been spun into some sort of braided ponytail.

I barely make it to the bathroom before the one-and-a-half litre orange electrolyte drink from the local Easy Mart and the mango and banana protein smoothie that I naively drank before the class projectile from my mouth, making enough ruckus to wake Ollie from his beauty sleep. Sorry for all the detail. 

‘You alright, mate?’ Ollie asks with the sincerity you only get from an older sibling or mother; except I know behind his concern he’s pleased to have me down in the trenches with him.

‘Yeah, I’m fine, just took a few shots to the gut, that’s all.’

I'm not fine. This goes on for 48 hours.