“Come.”
“Sorry?”
“Come.”
“Ok.”
I had been playing with him and his kids in the streets for a few hours, and I was curious what he wanted to show me. He led me down a side alley behind his house, where the dirt and plants took over from the concrete, and a tight space between the road and his house was sheltered by a stained and torn mattress. We passed a group of men playing cards, who, presumably, asked what was going on. They laughed at the response and gave me a knowing smile.
Behind his house, alongside the polluted canal, was his boxing gym. He was very proud of the two ancient punching bags, one small for speed punching, one large for full body attacking. He told me he was a teacher of Thai Martial Arts, and proceded to train me. He spoke very little English, except for “bad bad no,” and perhaps “good you got it” but I can’t attest to that. Demonstrating the positions himself, then moving me into them when I failed to imitate, he eventually taught me the basic Thai fighting stance and how to throw a punch. I think. We stayed back there for a while, until my knuckles were raw and my fists were legally deadly weapons.
