The next few weeks following the last entry have become a bit of a blur. I stopped writing diary notes on my days, so the story will go as I remember it.
During my time at the gym, I made friends with some fantastic characters who I mentioned in my earlier post. The most notable of which I describe in no particular order. Britt, an American from Connecticut, who is deadly beyond words despite his unassuming character. A Krav Maga instructor and martial arts teacher, was also a professional guitarist in a former life. Top notch guy. Emilie, studying environmental sciences, hails from the Reunion Islands; a far flung French outpost that lies close to Madagascar. I have never personally known a person from these lands, so it was a great privilege. Cammie, another American, this time from Florida, is a JAG officer in the making. Just before she heads off to join the US military early next year, she has decided to take some time off and travel around. Hopefully if I ever get myself in trouble in some far flung middle eastern country, I can call her to my aid. Tom, the idealistic peace loving Belgian. A social worker by trade. A person who has devoted himself to living the nomad’s life. A man who enjoys the company of fellow travellers and loves to learn about new cultures and new ways of thinking.
These few people really made my trip, and I don’t think an entry into this journal would be complete without giving them some background info. I spent my days and nights with these people, chatting about a huge range of subjects, including politics, religion, culture, geography, philosophy, and of course, the ever-important and all encompassing love of music. Between Tom and I, I reckon we solved the world’s problems several times over with our many conversations on the deck of our dwellings.
Anyway, to get into some of the activities that I did while I was in Chiang Mai, firstly must come the gun range. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a love of weapons; especially things that make a loud bang. I went there twice. The first time was with Emilie. It was her first time shooting, so she was very happy to have a veteran shooter at her side as she pulled her first trigger. The gun range was run by the third battalion, a part of the army devoted to making the army more accessible and understandable not only to civilians, but to foreigners as well. Ammunition is not cheap. For 30 rounds of .38, 30 of 9 milli, 50 of .22, and 30 of .45 ammo will cost you about 400 Malaysian Ringgit, but as a shared cost, it’s not too bad, I suppose. Still, coming from New Zealand where ammunition is relatively cheap, I balked at these costs, thinking how cheap it was to buy this ammo over the counter, or how much cheaper it would be to reload all this ammo on my own die press at home in my garage. Ah well, when in Rome, I suppose.
I have to say, both times I was not impressed with the staff at the range. They are a bunch of overzealous teachers who seem to think everyone is a complete beginner, and will needlessly instruct the gun-savvy to the point of irritation. That is, until you give them an angry scowl and shoot the target three times from twenty feet on the bull’s eye within an inch grouping. That shuts them up, so I found. The first time I went, we also used a .22 M4; a ridiculous contraption that fired semi and full auto. As ridiculous as it was, I must admit it was quite a bit of fun spraying steel man-sized targets on full auto. Quite satisfactory, I must say.
The girls loved the shoots. It was interesting to see the array of weapons they had available for the general public, and it was more interesting to note the absence of correct gun-range protocol that exists in most, if not all developed countries. For instance, loaded or unloaded, you never point a firearm, whether intentionally or unintentionally, at a person. These rules seem not to apply in Thailand. At any New Zealand range, you would literally find a boot planted so far up your ass that you’d be tasting boot polish for the next month if you so much as thought of doing the unthinkable. The range officers also had the most sophisticated of hearing protection. They used .45 calibre shell casings and inserted them, hollow end inwards, into the ears. The stuff of hard men, for sure. Interesting. The range of weapons they had was varied. There were 12 gauge shotguns, .38 revolvers (the Smith and Wesson with the Hogue grip was the best), A LOT of 9 millis, including Beretta, Glock, Taurus etc, .22 cal rugers, as well as a lone 1911 .45 ACP Browning; one of my all time favourites. I’m still surprised that they only had one .45, but oh well. The problem with common sense is that it’s not all that common. A fantastic calibre that is accurate and fun to shoot, with a truckload of stopping power.
Anyway, I could rave on for ages and ages about guns, but for those non-initiated among you, I will spare you all the tech details. It was fun. It was a chance to smell the cordite and imitate the famous Ed Harris quote of “I love the smell of gunpowder in the morning” from Apocalypse now. I relish the days where I have the heavy smell of gunpowder reeking from my hands. I truly do.
With the guys, I also visited a few music joints, as well as a few night markets. These were always fun affairs. We’d drive there in convoy on our motorbikes and jump out to sample the local food, walk, talk, joke and eat. There was a place favoured by the guys at the gym; a reggae spot called Roots Rock Reggae, that boasted high quality live bands. The place was popularised by one of the trainers at the camp, a fellow by the name of Tay Win. Now for the ladies that are reading this that may possibly go to Kiat Busaba Muay Thai camp in the future, beware of this man. He is the consummate wannabe manwhore that was the ridicule of all at the camp.
A bald, short man sporting a goatee and ridiculous tattoos, Tay Win considers himself quite the ladies’ man, and will only very reluctantly train guys over girls. It’s usually when there are no girls present during training that he will do so, much to his chagrin. Anyway, he told many of us that he was a bouncer at this club, but it turns out that he is merely a waiter there. One with obviously a reputation to upkeep, as his image is adorned on one of the murals on the walls of the club; an image of him with hand extended, presenting a white girl with flowers. There’s also a rather cheesy large photo of him with his best “blue steel” look, daringly enticing stupid white girls into his nonexistent lair. Yes, I may be harsh, but I call it as I see it. This was the only one of the staff at the camp that I truly disliked. There’s always at least one, right?
Regardless, we had many good nights there bopping our heads to the wholesome Reggae music belted out by local musicians. My favourite band there also happened to play my favourite Thai reggae song quite often; a song sung by the Thai band Job2Do, a song called “Doo Der Tam” which, I daresay, most visitors to Thai islands would be familiar with. As I was doing my best to stay away from the devil drink, I didn’t go out that much, but when I did, it was fun and entertaining, and a good chance to talk shit and make fun of idiots like Tay Win.
Training carried on as usual throughout this time. I saw many people come and go from the camp. There were some nice people there, but there were also the usual dickheads that seem to inundate the fighting scene. As a tattooed person, I genuinely felt bad on behalf of all the other tattooed people that there were some real assholes with tattoos. It seems that to a lot of people in the fighting world, having a tattoo seems to give you the license to be an arsehole. They strut in with their lame ass tattoos and proclaim dominance over others for the simple fact that they think they’re bad. What a joke. In fact, I quite often felt that many people, upon seeing my abundance of ink, shied away from me on suspicion I was just another asshole.
Training carried on as normal in between our outdoor excursions, and our days in the gym were always hot, sweaty, and tiring. The trainers were all interesting people in their own right. Some had been in the circuit for years, with many fights under their belts. Some were juniors who had been with the club for a while, and helped train people like me under the watchful eyes of their seniors.
I had fun while I was there, and certainly learned a lot about myself during that time. I may just go back one of these days to do some advanced training. But until then, I’ll remember to keep my fists high and clenched, and my weight on the balls of my feet.
To Kiat Busaba Muay Thai Gym,
Thanks.
For everything.
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