KHAO LAK // Darkness has fallen by the time I arrive at Rawai Muay Thai, my home for the next five weeks. I chose this particular camp after reading a series of unanimously positive reviews. The camp was based in Phuket for many years, but forced to relocate in 2012 after the landlord of the gym got greedy. The founder used the opportunity to take his project north, away from the distractions that had sprouted up near to the gym.
Khao Lak, a quiet coastal town, is recognised mostly as Thailand's worst-hit area by the Indian Ocean tsunami of 2004. More than 8,000 people died as the village was flooded and flattened, yet the spirit of recovery is strong and Khao Lak has reinvented itself as a retreat for those who want to detox, get fit or train in muay Thai, MMA or Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Of course, with its picture-perfect beaches, it also caters to tourists keen to enjoy the country free from the sleaze and salaciousness of the bigger cities.
I am walked through a small garden towards my bungalow by a smiling elder, who speaks no English. The apartment is large and clean and, with a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living area, far better than you would expect for 15,000 Baht ($450) per month. Financially, this is the middle option of the three Rawai offer: dormitory, private-with-fan or private-with-AC.
I'd been hoping a staff member would be around to brief me before I went to sleep, but the reception is closed. Whether it is a fortunate oversight or a clever way to force you to speak to other people, the result is I get chatting to Michael and Robbie, two guys who have been training here for the past few weeks. They are sharing a beer -- and swatting bugs -- at the side of the communal pool.
As well as a general overview of what time to wake, where to go and what to expect, the advice that stands out most proves to be this: Never hit a punchbag without checking it first -- some are filled with what feels like concrete.
I am up at 7am and waiting by the shop when it opens at 7.15am. Inside, I purchase gloves, wraps, shinguards and a large bottle of water. Total bill: 2,750 Baht. There's a lovely crispness in the air as the first class starts with skipping, which is not as easy as I remember it being. I feel like a prize tit as the plastic rope continually hits my toes and I wince in pain. Hopefully they toughen up as the month progresses.
After a rigorous stretch, I'm paired up with a trainer called Loon, who is looking after all the beginners. As I am the only one, essentially it's a one-on-one session. Ideal. After showing me how to wrap my hands, he runs me through some of the moves: jab, punch, hook, uppercut, elbow, knee, kick and tat mala, which is a kind of upswinging-elbow that has the intention, to paraphrase Mobb Deep, of stabbing your brain with your nose bone.
Worryingly, I find myself dropping my guard more often as the session runs on, but I feel like I'm doing OK. I'm not particularly flexible and struggle to get my legs up in a balanced way. I also can't kick with my left without looking like a geriatric trying to climb into a high bed.
By the end, there is not a single dry patch on my grey t-shirt. Perhaps that's why I am the only one wearing a top from the 20 or so guys training here: Two sessions a day, six days a week means a lot of sweaty t-shirts. There are also more six-packs than a well-stocked off-licence and I'm seemingly the only guy who doesn't shave his entire body. My t-shirt will be staying on for the foreseeable future.
In the afternoon session, Loon teaches me a few defensive moves and also has me kicking his mitts full force before sending me to a bag to practise. "No worry too much about power," he says. "Focus technique."
The bag he sends me to is rock hard. Not quite concrete, but not far off it -- maybe setting concrete. I give it a few punches (with gloves on) and a couple of gentle kicks and conclude I couldn't hit it powerfully even if I wanted to. My feet feel bruised already, despite my kicks being about as vicious as the frogs that hop pleasantly in the grass outside.
Next to me is a little guy of maybe eight or nine years old. He is pummelling his bag, which is presumably a lot softer than mine. The kid, wearing nothing but a shiny pair of red muay Thai shorts and some gloves, has an enviable eight-pack -- not like a skinny kid with a flat stomach, but a properly toned, sculpted midriff. He stands, straight-faced, focusing quietly only on his bag before erupting with an almighty, ferocious kick. He does this over and over and over. I have no doubt he could pulverise me let alone my 13-year-old cousin with whom I immediately compare him.
At one point, as the kid is stepping back to position himself for a left kick, I am stepping back for a right "kick" and we lightly touch. He turns around and smiles for the first time. It is a smile so innocent and genuine that it could light up the whole gym at midnight. Suddenly he is just a little boy again; the kind of kid who might wave at you as you drive past him on your moped. A second later, he is back aggressively thrashing his bag.
When the two hours are up my hands are wrinkled from the moisture in the afternoon air mixed with the heat of the gloves. I feel shattered, my knees and feet are swollen red and I need my third shower of the day. I'm instructed to do a few press-ups, which I just about manage, and we do another rigorous warm-down before lining up to thank the trainers in Thai ("kob khun krap").
On my way out, my curiosity gets the better of me. I give the kid's bag a gentle prod with my fingers to see just how much softer his is. It feels like a brick. His concrete has set. ISWAS