Lumpinee Stadium is a round tin shed off Rama IV Road in Bangkok, and the most prestigious Muay Thai venue in the world. The pamphlet they give to farang(foreigners) has pictures of Steven Seagal, Nicholas Cage and Jean-Claude Van Damme sitting ringside, looking like sex tourists. Ringside is expensive; it's for Thai bigwigs and farang like me. I got sat behind some wooden benches with signs saying 'reserved for press', occupied by reptilian old men who turn around at intervals to signal back to the third class stands behind them where the gambling takes place. Every signal ignites a flurry of yelling and signaling from the gamblers. It looks like the Dow trading floor, and what goes on there is equally incomprehensible. Nothing is written down, no money comes out until the bout is over, and yet everything seems to run smoothly and nobody gets stabbed. A bigwig:
The form guide:
The betting floor:
The fighters enter the ring in a rope head-dress, a garland of flowers, and a cape emblazoned with the name of their stable. The trainer takes their cape off and hangs it beside the ring. Some of the fighters look as young as 12. Their polyester shorts balloon around them, and the trainers roll up the elastic waistband so they don't fall down during the fight. The fighters do a ceremonial dance, then walk slowly around the ring, holding their foreheads to each corner post in turn, closing their eyes and whispering a prayer.
The fight starts slowly, with the fighters circling each other, swaying back forth, cocking their knees to test the reflexes of the other. Hits start landing. At first blood the referee stops the fight, and someone from the wounded fighter's corner jumps into the ring to ineffectually dab at the wound with a towel before the fight resumes. The referee is more physically involved than in UFC or boxing, jumping in to physically grapple the fighters apart from their clinches, emerging with his face smeared with their blood and sweat. Art shot:
By the third round, the pattern of the fight is usually established. The losing fighter keeps going in for the clinch, the dominant fighter keeps pushing back, trying to make space to land a punch or a knee to the ribs. One 14-year-old kid, his face cut in a half-dozen places, keeps trying to kick and every time his foot is caught by his opponent who throws him down on his back and tries to land a kick to his face before the referee can jump in and stand over him. Every hit draws an appreciative roar from the crowd, especially from the fighter's crew:
When the final bell goes, there never seems to be a need to consult the three silent judges in their boxes around the ring. The referee raises the winning fighter's arm and places both fighters' garlands around his neck. He is photographed, fists up, and then whisked back to the dressing room, to be feted by his team and to pose for pictures with idiot farang:
More pictures. The view from 3rd class:
The judge's box:
The guy who checks the gloves:
The timekeeper's station:
In the corner:
Team Victory:
Next post: Redshirts.
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