The Renaissance Man Project is an original non-fiction novel by Nathaniel Kostar, occasionally known as Nate Lost.
Read Intro, Part 1
Read Intro, Part 2
Read Intro, Part 3
Read Intro, Part 4
Read Chapter 1, Part 1
I wish I could say that before coming to Thailand I spent months pouring over ancient manuscripts and worldmaps to determine the style of martial art that was right for me, but the truth is, I discovered Muay Thai and Tiger Muay Thai training camp in Phuket—a mountainous island in the Andaman Sea covered with rainforests and known for fancy resorts, ladyboys, and a wild nightlife—the way most of us find most things these days, on Google.
I chose Muay Thai mostly because of Thailand. Not because of the beaches, famous massages, or pineapple rice, but because the country is full of camps that provide students with opportunities to train intensely and become completely immersed in the art of Muay Thai, to train alongside and under the tutelage of professional fighters, and to train (hypothetically) just as hard as them, whereas most martial art schools I found in other parts of the world (with some exceptions) were unwilling to offer anything this serious for dilettantes.
Plus, the fighter camps are affordable. I can train, eat, and sleep for a month in Thailand and it will cost me around $1,000. The flight wasn’t cheap, but I budget the whole month will run me less than two grand, about the same price as one undergraduate course at an American university.
Also, I’m attracted to the fighting style of Muay Thai. It seems like it could be useful if I’m ever forced to defend myself, or to kick the shit out of a banana tree. Flying elbows and rib-shattering knees—sign me up. If I’m going to become a “warrior,” I want to be able to kick ass by the time it’s all said and done, and Muay Thai fighters look like they know how to do just that.
Tiger Muay Thai is one of largest training facilities in Thailand, resting on three acres surrounded by tropical forest, boasting six professional training rings, a matted MMA (mixed martial arts) training area with an official MMA cage, an indoor weight room, a restaurant, and a myriad of basic “fighter rooms” and dormitories.
According to the camp’s website in 2010, there are “36 workout stations situated around the Muay Thai and MMA training areas,” including: “TWINS heavy, medium, and long (banana) bags, uppercut and hook bags, agility balls, a small weight room with a squat rack, 3 Olympic bench stations, 3 full racks of dumbbells, 4 sets of kettlebells, stationary bikes and a leg press, as well as pull-down and butterfly extension machines.” And besides traditional Muay Thai classes, Tiger offers Western Boxing, MMA training, fitness classes, yoga, weight lifting, detox and weight-loss programs, and nutrition counseling.
At any given time, there can be up to 200 people training at Tiger, and its remote location nearly 30 minutes away from Phuket’s beaches and party scene help to eliminate distractions—or so they say.
Also, according to the site, the guests at Tiger range from professional fighters sponsored by the gym, to beginners like myself.
For 9,000 baht (approximately $330) a month, I can attend as many classes as I want.
I arrive in the early evening and follow a girl with long, jet-black hair along a path that circles the camp, past banana trees and the feathered leaves of palms swaying softly in a thick, sultry breeze. Two industrial-size metal fans, massive, like the propellers of 747’s, are positioned along the edges of the blue mats that line the workout area and two fighters are enjoying a respite from training by pouring water over their heads and leaning into the breath of one of the fans. Aside from the trainers, who are almost all Thai, there appears to be people from all over the world.
We walk by the “Fighter Rooms, the cheapest accommodation offered and where I intend to stay until I’m informed they’ve already been booked. These are tiny, motel-style structures, not much bigger than walk-in closets, with front doors that open to the camp. In front of the rooms, yellow and red hand wraps dangle from clotheslines and plastic chairs like ribbons, accompanied by colorful Muay Thai fight shorts (red and blue and black with flashy gold letters—MUAY THAI—embroidered along the waste), regular gym shorts, t-shirts, boxer briefs and socks.
A pair of gloves has been set down beside a doorway and I can make out a fierce-faced orange, black and white tiger head with the words “Tiger Muay Thai” written in bold capital letters beneath the face.
Inside one of the rooms I see the outstretched feet of a fighter poking out from the end of a bed, and an oscillating fan at the not-so-far end of the room, blowing in his direction.
The advantage of staying in the fighter rooms, besides the price, is that getting to training is practically unavoidable. Ten steps from your door in any direction and you’re standing face to face with a heavy bag, MMA cage, a boxing ring or weight room.
Furthermore, the lack of air conditioning combined with the constant sound of people pounding bags and grunting outside your room, and there’s no reason not to take your ass outside and get some training done. As one would expect, the people who stay in the fighter rooms tend to be serious about their training. Many of them are fighters already, here to fight professionally in Thailand, and learn the skills of Muay Thai directly from the source.
“Don’t worry. We have other options,” the girl says.
“There is apartment down the road. More expensive. A little. But air conditioning.”
My home for the month is simple. White walls, a queen-sized bed, small bathroom, television, and most importantly, air conditioning. I turn the AC on low and sit down on the bed. My flight to Thailand, all travel time considered, broke 24 hours, and I’m exhausted.
I lean back on my pillow and fall into a dark hole.
I wake up around twilight—Where am I? What am I doing? What time—what day is it?
I wash my face in the tiny bathroom sink, get dressed and return to Tiger, walking along the narrow, hilly road as dusk falls through a soft breeze that smells like rain.
It’s about a half-mile to Tiger, past a forest of tall, thin rubber trees with slits carved into their bark, grooves spiraling down to meet small wooden bowls fastened near the base of the trees like protruding lips. Directly across the street a block-shaped building boasts a sign that reads “Rubber Factory” over the picture of a happy-faced condom. I doubt the trees, or the factory will be of any use to me here. To my left is a large, cream-colored souvenir shop with two garage-style doors opened wide and a young elephant tethered to a post is napping in the twilight.
I pass Tony’s Restaurant tucked off the road on a grassy hill, where twenty or so fighters gather on two large picnic tables and talk loudly under an awning as they watch an MMA fight on a large flat-screen TV. In front of Tony’s, like a mailbox at the end of a driveway, is a miniature pagoda-shaped shrine mounted on a pillar that oozes the sweet smell of incense, a spirit house to provide shelter and nourishment to the souls of loved ones and ancestors who might cause a nuisance if they had nowhere to rest and nothing to eat, drink, or smell.
There’s another restaurant that advertises “Laundry,” and at least two massage and spa parlors before I reach the camp, but no customers. Within 50 meters of Tiger is Dragon Muay Thai, a smaller training camp with one ring and a dozen or so bags. The gym looks rawer than Tiger, dirt floors and a few hard fighters.
As I approach Tiger, I notice a row of rudimentary accommodations where the whites of eyes flash through rusty tin walls that have been positioned like cubicles along the side of the road; tired Cambodian workers hanging laundry and cooking on a small flame that flicks orange specks of light onto the dirt floor inside their shack, and thin silver lines shine through the cracks in the wall and take shape on the shaded road.
Scooters pass, sometimes two, three, four people per scooter with a cat or dog chilling on the back like it’s nothing. And the foreign fighters who’ve come to train at Tiger zip past shirtless on motorbikes, peddle barefoot on bicycles, or jog along the side of the road.
When I arrive at the camp, I sit down on a wooden bar seat in the modest restaurant area and browse the menu. Two Thai girls in their twenties are preparing food and flirting with a couple of fighters near the end of the bar. They seem to know each other, and one of the foreign fighters is attempting to speak Thai. The girls are impressed, and giggle at his mistakes.
There are no group classes scheduled for this time of night, but people are working out on their own or with personal trainers. In the rings, trainers hold up pads and throw half-speed blows as fighters shuffle, bob, duck, raise their hands to their ears to block punches, then swiftly lift one knee high to the chest to deflect a kick with their calloused shins.
Other trainers stand on the blue rubber mats that stretch between the rings and shout directions at the gloved silhouettes who float and dance around heavy bags, sweat-soaked-skin and orange gloves fading gray in the softening light, reverberations of kicks and elbows, upper cuts and jabs, blending with the distant cricket-like noises from the jungle and the zip zoom of cars, motorcycles and scooters passing on the narrow street out front. Fighters and trainers alike heaving and grunting with each fresh exertion of energy, and every few seconds a powerful kick ringing out from the hum of punches—BOP!— like a firework exploding in the night.
A few stools down from me the shirtless fighters are still talking. They are sweat-glazed and tired but their muscles and veins bulge and their faces flush red with vitality.
The show-off has given up Thai and the group speaks English now. One of them talks with a thick accent. I am not certain, but he sounds Italian. The girls have stopped laughing and have refocused themselves on preparing the food. One of them brings me my plate. As I eat alone, a delicious first-meal of sweet and sour chicken and pineapple over white rice for just under $5 (which I will later find out is expensive by Thai standards), I listen.
In a matter of days, the conversation has completely changed. Strophes and stanza breaks have turned into flying elbows, strikes, and shattered jaws.
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Muchisimas gracias for reading and supporting independent art.
MAD Love.
Read Intro, Part 1
Read Intro, Part 2
Read Intro, Part 3
Read Intro, Part 4
Read Chapter 1, Part 1