Someday I will get to say "I learned to fight in the Peace Corps."
My ajaan’s (teacher’s) name is Jao Pa-Yu --Hurricane. He has another name. But in the ring, he was called Hurricane, and that’s what I call him, too. When he first approached me, eyebrows furrowed, mouth unsmiling, I didn’t know what the small-framed, intense man was saying to me. But it was something along the lines of of “What are you doing?” He exaggerated my clumsy motions and waved his hand in a way that said “don’t,” while the tall teenage fighter next to him (his daughter, as I found out later), doubled over with laughter.
It was only my second day at the muay thai gym. I’d driven past several days before with one of my neighbors, Meh S. She pointed out the facility, and said, in English, “Fighting muay thai here! Also this is where we dance aerobic. Every day. You come too.” I agreed to I’d come with her to aerobics, but as I fixated on the line of well-used heavy bags, I couldn’t hide my ulterior motive. After the obligatory awkward pause, gathering my thoughts and trying to find the right words in Thai, I asked her: “Can women play too? Is it...appropriate?” She laughed and said yes. The next day I found myself in my Paw Aw’s (school director’s) office. He chuckled delightedly, his hand over his mouth, as he said something to me in his fast Korat dialect, then picked up the phone and made a call to one of the trainers. That evening, I went to the gym with Meh S.
I was shown some basic movements by one of the teachers, Kru N. Meh S. was kind enough to act as interpreter. It was was unfamiliar, but thrilling. Throwing knees, elbows, low kicks, and punches with Kru N., was fun; he was friendly and encouraging as he smilingly held the strike pads for me, subtly moving them toward me with each strike to make me feel stronger than I actually was. I came around the next day, and we repeated the routine. After a few short bouts, which left me breathless and drenched in sweat, I got the feeling Kru N. didn’t quite know what to do with me anymore. He directed me to the bag.
I stared at it for a while. As strange as it was hurling clumsy punches at a man I’d just met, I felt far more intimidated by this inanimate cylinder of canvas and--I don’t know, sand? After a few minutes of sizing up its bulky mass, I started attempting to jab and kick it with the same trepidation as a child poking at an unfamiliar food. I definitely had the feeling that everything I was doing was wrong; I felt unsteady, and while I tried to throw power into my motions, I knew that nothing was landing right. That’s when Ajaan approached me. I wasn’t sure how to react to his rapid, exasperated Thai--I was more than aware that I had no clue what to do, and tried to be good-natured, but nonetheless my ego felt more bruised than my untrained hands. I heard Meh S. explain to him that it was my first time ever trying something like this.
I’m flattered that he looked surprised. His demeanor calmed, and he (still intensely) began going through the motions for me, slowly demonstrating a more correct technique. “You don’t need power right now. Don’t try anything complicated. Yang mai bpen (you can’t yet).”
It’s been a little over a month. I have gloves now--good ones, straight from America, as a matter of fact. Kru N. picked them up for me when he went for a fight in Bangkok. He asked if I liked the color, and showed me how to wrap my hands. I walked over, beaming, to show Ajaan. He glared at me, then said (smiling with his eyes, but not his mouth).
“You have those fancy, pretty gloves now,” said Ajaan, pointing at my hands. “Now you have to practice every day. EVERY. DAY.”
And I do. It’s bpiit term (semester break) and I can afford to go almost every night when I don’t teach my Community English classes. I stuff my gloves and wraps into my tiny REI bag and pedal off to the gym, about 7km away, promising to return before it gets dark and usually barely making it. I enjoy the fighting, but I enjoy it more because I know I will see Kru N. and my Ajaan, along with Pak Bung (Morning Glory) his positively lethal teenage daughter, and Wun Sen (vermicelli), her adorable younger sister, who keeps time for us (“8000! 9000! 30 seconds! BREAK!) and likes to ride my bicycle when her duties are complete. Some days I ride down to find out that none of the other teachers or athletes are practicing, but Ajaan, Pak Bung, and Wun Sen are always there. If I come back after missing a day unexpectedly, Ajaan likes to glare at me and ask “What’s your name? I don’t recognize you!” I laugh and remind him it’s Nam-Taan. He turns up his nose. “Sugar. That’s too sweet. Nam-Taan should be kom kom (bitter).”
Ajaan works for the woman who owns the gym (I call her the Cassava Baroness, but that's another post), so they come each evening to maintain the property, even if Pak Bung isn't practicing. And on those days, when I come pedaling up to an empty gym, they teach me anyway. One evening, during Songkran Festival, I came to the gym to practice on my own. A truck full of fighters piloted by Kry N. pulled up, excited to go "play water." Pak Bung hopped out of the truck, looked at me with concern, and said "teacher!! We didn't know you were coming! Father is asleep...do you want me to call him and ask him to come here?" I laughed and told her it was okay, but in reality I was deeply touched by the offer and eternally grateful for what they've invested in me. He did show up to do his evening watch, smiling when he saw me. I stopped practicing and we sat and talked for an hour. I still didn't understand a lot of what he said, but I feel like we understood each other as people.
Ajaan still yells at me, and Pak Bung still laughs at me when I come at the bag wrong (sometimes literally rolling on the floor with laughter), but now I know it’s in a familial way. Why this family of champions makes time for me, a clumsy foreigner, too old to be starting something like this in earnest, I don’t quite understand. But they do it every evening. They can laugh as much as they want. I’ll laugh right along with them.
One thing that’s changed, is that he no longer says yang mai bpen (you can’t yet). Between the exasperated sighs, he says other things. When I land a hard kick, he smirks, looks at Pak Bung, and says “Oo-aay! Bpen nak muay leeo (she’s a boxer already!)” As good as the positive reinforcement feels, most important are the times when I come hard at the bag with a skill I’ve just learned, and he reminds me “Mai dtong geng” (you don’t have to be good yet). Slow down, think about what I’m doing, and know that the skill will come with time and practice. But even so, no matter what strike I throw, no matter how unfamiliar, he shouts “raeng!” (strong).
As the start of the semester draws closer, I’m afraid I won’t get to box as much. Teaching needs to be my priority. But I don’t want to stop training or trying, both for myself and the family and sport that’s already given me so much. Meanwhile, my anxieties around my job grow too. Despite Peace Corps’s intensive training, I don’t feel like I’m a teacher yet. I don’t know how it will be working with co-teachers. I don’t know if I’ll be useful to my school and community. I want to be good at my job. I want to feel like I can accomplish something.
And that’s where the obvious parallels come in. Yang mai bpen teacher. But I have a community that cares about me and will help me become one, as long as I put the work in. Mai dtong geng. Raeng. I don’t have to be good yet. I just have to be strong.