Thai boxing in the red light district

I sleep through the afternoon. Then I’m hungry again. There are lots of tourist hotels on Silom Road. Food is more expensive, but still cheap. There are not just 1000 different Thai dishes. There is everything. Worldwide. I go to a Lebanese restaurant. Four huge courses, endlessly delicious plus drinks for eight euros. How much does heaven cost?

Red light is just round the corner, ticked off under “as expected”. Beautiful yellow women, ugly white men. On to the Lumpini Stadium. Tuesday night is Thai boxing night. The prices are steep, doubled since last year. I arrive at half-time and see three more fights. Tough but fair. The most interesting thing: the bookies with their hectic sign language. Black Tuesday in Bangkok.

The last fight is between children. Children are cruel. Not a championship, but much meaner and tougher. Can there be more? Yes. Back to the red light. A go-go club is advertising Thai boxing. I’m expecting an exhibition fight. What I get to see is the bloodiest, most dogged and meanest fight of street fools and flails I’ve ever seen.

I recently read a book about a Vietnam veteran. In it, a Vietnamese man describes his people as having “no time to think, too busy fighting to survive”. This also applies to the two Thais in the Pink Panther. I sit right next to the ring and scare away the swarms of mosquito-like entertainment girls. Drink a beer, smoke a cigarette.

Suddenly the sweat of a fighter splashes on my face. Hit, down and up again immediately. Now he’s angry. A flying knee, full in the ribs. The opponent doesn’t flinch. I do. The crowd cheers and applauds. I just keep saying “Uhh…” and “Ouch…”.

One of them is hanging on the ropes, the street dog is beating the back of his skull. Falls over the ropes out of the ring. The referee intervenes and catches one too. Flying knees, kicks to the heads. Unbelievable what the two lads take for maybe 50 euros. Each of them goes down several times, their faces glowing with rage. Nobody pays attention to the rules. An infinitely mean, bloody and dirty fight.

Fortunately, both are still alive at the end of the fight. The ring is gone and Gogos are on the bars. They have mini miniskirts and bikinis, white with the red cross on them. Dancing sankers, pretty mean after this fight. Good night. I slip the two boxers a drink and wonder at the same time whether I’m making them even meaner. Home after midnight in the tuk-tuk. Dead tired, but I can’t sleep.