Sangmorakot Gym

The last normal days.

If you’re new here, start with the first story in this series: Barbed Wire And Red Shirts

What started out as one Red Shirt in late-February turned into five, then ten, then, eventually, dozens.

The once mostly empty Green Hotel was now full of them. Their presence, though, hadn’t yet altered life around the neighborhood. Locals came and went as usual, coffee stands continued to serve coffee, the 7-ELEVEN remained open. Friends from New Jersey had plans to visit in a few weeks’ time. As for myself, I started to ramp up training at Sangmorakot.

The Muay Thai gym shared the same plot of land as Wat Sitaram. Tourists often visited the temple for its golden Buddhas. They would quickly turn their attention to the gym when the sound of shotgun blasts rang through the air – echoes of the fighters’ kicks careening shin-first into leather bags filled with sand.

To understand why Sangmorakot became my sanctuary, I first need to tell you about its owner, Jartui. I met him at the arrival terminal of Suvarnabhumi Airport. He, along with his wife, son, and driver, Dtorn, were there to pick me up and bring me to the gym.

While he and his family went into the back of the SUV, Jartui insisted I ride shotgun next to Dtorn. “My son,” Jartui said, pointing to his kid. He held up five fingers on one hand and one thumb on the other. “Six,” he added. Strangely, his kid looked no where near six years old. Then I realized he was referring to how many kids he had. “All boys,” he proudly noted.

He began to rattle off each of their names, but after traveling across twelve time zones I remembered only two things – each name was one-syllable long and each began with a T.

Jartui was a former high-ranking member of the Royal Thai Air Force and promoter at Rajadamnern Stadium. He had a thing for designer jeans and polo shirts, which he’d wear with the collar popped up to his ears. As for shoes, he never wore anything other than animal skin. His wife, although dressed more casually, owned a designer bag. They reminded me not so much of old money but new money, as they lacked the air of snobbery that sometimes comes with the former.

Forty minutes later, we pulled into the parking lot of the temple and, off in the distance, I could see a Muay Thai gym glowing under long fluorescent bulbs. As Dtorn turned the SUV toward the gym, the headlights further illuminated the area. We rumbled across the gravel and came to a stop, which caused everyone at the gym to jump to their feet and hurry toward us.

A dozen fighters crawled out from behind staircases and underneath the boxing ring. One man dropped his cigarette, ran to Jartui, and straightened his back the way an airman stands before a general. They all began paying respect to Jartui, and he responded to the group with, “Wadee, wadee.”

Jartui stood a hair above five feet tall, but he presided over Sangmorakot like a statue over a town square. Everything about the man suggested that time was of the essence. He moved fast. He talked faster. He spoke with his hands, but only the one holding his phone.

When prompted, he responded with uhs and ehs and ahs, which, depending on the context, could mean either yes or no, hello or goodbye, great or awful. The grunts came not from his mouth but his nose. On his Adam’s apple, Jartui had a small tattoo – sak yant I presumed. Time had transformed the symbol into a blemish of blue ink.

Jartui wielded a certain kind of power that no one tested – at least not publicly. But he repaid everyone’s respect with kindness. During one unlucky streak, his former Thailand Champion, Petchasawin, lost four of his last six fights. “As long as you have heart,” Jartui told him, “you are always welcome here.”

Another time, his fighters performed exceptionally well at Lumpinee Stadium. Later that night a man showed up at his gym with baskets full of steaming crabs. Within seconds, the gym floor was covered in fighters, each cracking open orange claws with their teeth, each grinning with mouthfuls of white meat.

Jartui never broke bread with any of his fighters or coaches, but he did get his hands dirty when needed. During one training session, he slid out of his leather shoes and peeled off his polo shirt. Wearing just jeans and a gold chain, he started kneeing the pads. He jumped backward, held his hands out to his sides, and invited the fighter to mimic him. Uuuuuuuhhhhhh, he said through his nose when the fighter finally landed a satisfactory knee.

Jartui was as proud of his gym as he was his six sons. During my first weeks there, after an intense afternoon training session, I lay drip-drying on the concrete floor. “Twenty-five champions,” he told me as he pointed his phone at a wall of photos; his fighters from different eras.

I didn't know it then, but by mid-March these would be the last normal days at Sangmorakot. Soon, the red tide rising outside would wash over the entire area.

Read the next story in this series: Sidewalk Democracy