Sprained Ankle and Patience

It’s a shame that the capacity of mental will sometimes doesn’t match the threshold of our physical will. I felt this, more-so from a physical standpoint, last Monday when I woke up to go to school and my ankles were swollen and my toes nearly unable to move. As thrilling as it was to have fought valiantly through 3 hours of kickboxing the previous Saturday, waking up 2 days later with aching joints was chilling. Not because it was painful, no, it was something I could tolerate, but because of the barrier it was sure to put between me and my new love, Muay Thai.

I hobbled through Monday, limped through Tuesday and cringed through Wednesday until finally one of the Thai teachers in my office inquired about my slow moving. Reluctantly, I told them the story of perhaps my overzealous 3 hours of kickboxing, and before I could shuffle to my desk, they had pulled a student from her class and were mumbling instructions to her in Thai. I will never grow immune to the compassionate and care-taking nature of these kind people. They had made me an appointment for that very evening with an English speaking orthopedic doctor in the city.  Knowing full well that my problem was overuse, ill preparation and a probable sprain, I didn’t really feel the need for an appointment, but the ladies insisted.

Sitting in the “waiting room” of the doctor’s office, which was a hole in the wall exposed to the swarming traffic nearby, I couldn’t help but feel two opposing thoughts. One was appreciation. That I was (and will for the duration of my stay) be taken care of and gratefully, I would be on my way to recovery with a little rest. The other feeling was that of complete frustration with myself. At that very moment, I knew Kelsey was working her ass off in that ring, and I sat waiting to the prognosis of what inherently was my own stupidity. I stay motionless as the Doctor prodded around on my left ankle and made a quick diagnoses of “sprain,” saying that Muay Thai was definitely not for women. Little did he know, this prescription for quitting has only spurred me forward.

My lovely teacher, Kru Kanika, then took me to the Hospital pharmacy for a brace and topical pain reliever. I sheepishly rode around in a wheelchair upon her insistence, gathered my recovery necessities and was out the door in no time. 

“It’s my pleasure. I am glad to make you convenient and happy, Jade,” were the words from dear Kanika as she sat and waited with me. Nothing warmed my frustrated heart more.

Back at the apartment that night, my ankle in a brace and propped on a pillow, I couldn’t hide my disappointment any longer. I broke down in tears to Kelsey, telling her how I’d obsessively canvased the internet over the past several days for my prognosis, how I’d worried our trainer would think me weak, how I was stupid for not preparing myself for such traumatic exercise, how I felt I would lose the ground I’d gained. Sympathy was what I thought I needed, but she new better, quickly rebuking me for blaming myself and saying that I needed to hush. So with renewed motivation and a different plan of attack, I am resting for 3 weeks.

We worked an English camp at a Technical College this past weekend, and although I moved around and was active much more than I should’ve been, the weekend was worth it. Playing intense versions of Red Rover with 20 year old boys is no easy task. But, as if God-sent, my school is testing this week (my 2nd week of no activity) and they are allowing me to sit out for the duration since only the Thai teachers can administer tests.

I have a much more positive outlook than I did the day I was Googling torn tendons and sitting in a rudimentary doctor’s office. At least on the weekends we are able to watch local Muay Thai fighting so I can get my fix. We’ve been such faithful followers of the local fights that the announcers announce our arrival, and we are graciously ushered ringside, or the splash zone as I like to call it, where one is at risk of being sprinkled with water, sweat and blood. Better than high definition television any day! 

I’m most often a patient person with everyone besides myself, but when it comes to exercising personal patience, I am my harshest critic. But I’m determined to prove myself wrong.

Thai Boxing and Benevolence

“Haa-sip,” our trainer said.

“Wait, is that the number 15 or 50?” I shrugged.

He motioned the number five and then zero with his hands.

“Ohhhh,” both Kelsey and I sighed in exhausted unison. Then, after already an hour and a half of constant (and unexpected) kickboxing, we proceeded to round-house kick the swinging bag of sand fifty times.

I didn’t know what to expect that first day visiting the Muy Thai training camp. Picturing a gym or at least a building of some sort, I had at least resigned myself to the probable absence of air condition. But when we turned onto a winding dirt road and pulled up at a boxing ring in the middle of a densely wooded area, I was speechless. Several sweaty boys in silky boxing shorts were wrestling in the ring, stray dogs wandered around the premises and several flags and old Thai banner hung from the rafters of a crude awning which shaded the ring. One older man in particular, padded around his waist and holding tight to pads in his hands, shouted directions in Thai to the young adult fighters who swung their powerful legs and elbows against the trainers steady grip. They shouted a word or yell of release with each swing, a practice we later learned was used to let loose tension or an “evil spirit.”

Though I would’ve been content enough to watch the power and prowess of the practicing boxers, the older trainer approached us, breaking the trance and beckoned us onto the ring. We looked at one another with a “what the hell” glance, and Kelsey and I climbed the stairs, wriggling awkwardly under the ropes. Nearly two hours later, we stood drenched with sweat having been thrown in the ring, literally, without a clue or an effective means of communication. The older gentleman, we were told, is a retired Muy Thai champion. Having fought in Bangkok and apparently been rather popular in his prime, the trainer now devotes his time to training aspiring young boxers. Their respect for the sport and their trainer is a wonderful thing to watch. How privileged and honored I was to know that such a legend would take time to entertain two foreign girls’ wish to pursue the same.

Muy Thai is a discipline rooted in rich cultural tradition. Last weekend we were able to watch several matches at a location on the outskirts of the city. Several food stands, games and rides were set up in a field, resembling a small fair. Mesmerized by over three hours of back to back boxing matches, we were able to see the ritualistic dances, hear native music and watch the most engaging sport I’ve ever witnessed. It is such a contrasting mix of peaceful, smooth movement and brute, barbaric strength. The fighting magic lies in the powerful shins and knees which are thrown into an opponent’s abdominals and sides. It’s no wonder the boxers have the bodies of Greek gods; they have to be able to withstand incredible trauma for 5 rounds. Arms lock around one another in a weird sort of hug around the neck as the boxers dance around, trying to gain control of the other’s torso. Then, with poised force, they hold their victim in a headlock and send their knees and inner thighs pounding into the opponent’s bare side. Though you can count the specific, rehearsed moves on one hand, I can only imagine that it takes years, if not a lifetime, to master the courage.


Truth be told, if I was thrown into a ring, I would be knocked out in a matter of seconds. If not from scrambling to escape the ring itself, tripping over the ropes and plummeting to the ground below, it would be from unpracticed oblivion. Over and over during each lesson, “Golden Bug” (which is our trainer’s ring name) has to pull my gloved hands above my head to remind me to “bock, bock.” Blocking my head is the least of my worries. I’m trying to perfect the angle of my shin when I kick. See? I would be flattened in half a second. Regardless of this fatal forgetfulness, our kind trainer somehow expressed to us with numbers and a thumbs up that, after only 4 lessons, we are doing well. That, or he is saying there is no hope for us after 4 lessons. Hoping it wasn't the latter, we thanked him profusely. In some way, his confidence and invested time makes me want to work harder. Almost as if to prove I can keep up with the exercises he throws our way.


And can you believe that the lessons are the US equivalent of only 3 dollars per hour? Believe me when I say, I will be out there until either my legs are too bruised to continue or the mosquitoes carry me away. I’m in no way saying I will ever approach a match, God help me, but the fulfillment and strength of mind it give to train in Muy Thai is unlike any other.

I can’t describe the exact feeling during our lesson. The sour smell of sweaty gloves, the rough ring floor rubbing my toes raw, the sweat seeping into my eyes, the stinging slap of my legs on the pad, my quavering muscles after hundreds of kicks, the swarming mosquitoes at sundown, the stage fright of being watched by the smiling faces and sculpted bodies of the young Thai fighters outside the ring, Golden Bug’s grin (whether it is of humor or benevolence) as we give every ounce of ourselves to his commands, interpreting movements and steps with a language barrier. . . I think the best of them all though is driving off on our motorbike, the hot Thai air somehow feeling cool on our sweaty backs, having given the whole of our energy toward bettering our bodies in a boot-camp atmosphere and learning through trial and error the value of discipline, strength and common ground, no matter the culture.