Old Nak Muay Never Die

 Old nak muay never die, they just fade away. 

Case in point, one of my old coaches from Rompo Gym, who recently passed away last December in Bangkok at the age of 72 (or thereabouts). His name was Tua, Ajarn Tua, to give him his rightful title, and he was one of the first chaps to school me in the Bangkok game of Muay Thai boxing from 2003 to 2006. He was a tough old coot who made life hell on the pads. And he had lots of nicknames for yours truly. "Whiskey" (because I liked a drink back then) and "Pompooey" (because I was carrying a little weight round the midsection. Nak Muay, you see, are worse than supermodels when it comes to maintaining body shape, and I know this because I double checked this relative fact with a couple of supermodel chums back home in London, so there). 

 

Tua died in a car crash. A familiar cause of death in Bangkok for natives and foreigners alike. But who was Tua, exactly? Like most Thais, he was inscrutable, a complete and utter mystery to the nak muay farang (foreign kickboxers) whom he coached and bullied on a daily basis in Klong Toey, Bangkok. I should know. I was one of them. And I have many tales, both tall and short. Like most of the guys holding pads for the Thais, Japanese and farangs down at Rompo Gym, he was an out-to-pasture, eight-limbed pug with a textbook knowledge of the sporting art and its application to the big league ring game.

 

Moreover, Tua taught me. He was my teacher. He was also an uncontested hard nut and a complete and utter cunt (CAUC for short). But he taught me nonetheless. He taught tricks and spells that I remember every time I go and train by my lonesome at the local gym in Atlanta. Tricks that I use on a daily basis. Tricks that I try not to forget. Tricks that I seek to apply, in and out of the ring, with or without gloves, to the world beyond my practice. No one ever forgets a good teacher. And no one should ever forget a good lesson in the school of hard knocks or the university of the hood.

 

Tua was a playful Thai who liked to shock. Take the time a foxy blonde Dutch kickboxer showed up at the gym on a busman's holiday. A cockroach was scurrying round the dirty concrete floor of Rompo Gym. Tua picked it up and stuck it in his gob, saying "aroi maak maak" (very delicious). The Dutch lady thought that he was the most disgusting man who had ever breathed Bangkok smog but she didn't know Tua, who had obviously done this for effect. And what the fair ring maiden did not know was that it wasn't a mean feat for our man. Tua was from Issan Province in the North of the Kingdom, and people from Issan don't have a hang up about eating insects live or dead.

 

One time, back in the hot season of 2008, Tua was holding the pads and he leathered me in the mush with a big-assed right hand. Sweating fish oil, I went nuts and steamed in with a pick-hammer elbow that drew the gasps of those in attendance. However, I wasn't the only pug to lose the plot on the pads with our man Tua. One old boy, Alain Sylvestre, a Canadian world champ, knocked him out with a round kick for making him do way too many round kicks on the pads (ironic, huh?) Did Tua learn his lesson from his fed up charges? No. The old soi dog would never stop being a CAUC. Which brings to mind an earlier episode in 2005. I was on the pads, doing five four-minute rounds (an extra minute on the clock gives you more gas on the stage), when Tua smashed me in the eye socket with a beautiful right hand. The eye swelled up and blackened. Bummer: I had to fly to England the next day to attend a swish wedding in Windsor. The looks I got from those in attendance I shall never forget.

 

Tua was a man that I knew from October 2003 - August 2012. And Tua was a man that I didn't know from October 2003- August 2012. Isn't that the same for anyone and everyone that we think we know? It's all relative but I guess it's so. Larger than life, twice as ugly, gone but not forgotten, R.I.P. Ajarn Tua, my tutor and mysterious Thai friend. May your wisdom and example continue to inform and influence from beyond the next place, even if it does come with the occasional black eye that never seems to fade away.     

 

 

 

 

Until next time...

 

 

The Male Trailing Spouse.