Surprise Monsoon in Chiang Mai

My destination from Mumbai was Chiang Mai in northern Thailand, with a connection in Bangkok. The flights on Thai Airways set new records for COVID theater, with flight attendants asking a passenger to remove his mask so they could inspect it, repeatedly sanitizing their disposable gloves, and handing us snacks after arrival so we wouldn’t eat on the plane. The airport in Bangkok was thankfully much quicker than in Mumbai, and after a sleepless night I found myself in the quaint Chiang Mai terminal.

My happiness after breathing in the first lungful of fresh air in a week was short-lived, as we had touched down in a solid wall of rain. While in Mumbai, we had checked the weather forecast, and it was not looking good. We checked into a hotel and got a few hours of sleep, but it was still raining when we woke up. After some good Thai noodles, we finally caught a break and were able to explore the old town. Everything seemed to be closed, except some restaurants, and of course the Buddhist temples.

Chiang Mai is deeply Buddhist, and the temples are woven into the urban fabric in a way that is very alien to Western eyes. You’ll find a temple or wat every few blocks, many of them are completely unstaffed, and are used by nearby residents, workers, and students for prayers and mediation during the day. At the center of the old town was the Three Kings Monument, and behind it was Wat Chedi Luang, a beautiful brick pyramid at the center of a major Buddhist complex, with shaved-headed monks in orange robes busy preparing for a festival the following week. This was already what I had had in mind when I thought “Thailand”. We met a man who introduced himself as Bumh, an artist for the temple who was there to catch a break from his wife. He was very impressed with my beard and recommended that we visit a tailor and recommended one to us. In the brief walk to the tailor shop, we had a pair of interactions with two other middle-aged Thai men that followed the exact same lines. The latter was with a policeman who told us his job was to teach the “girl police” and “boy police” to shoot.

In the evening, we tried to visit the night market just outside the old town. The place was completely deserted, to the point where it was downright spooky. We walked down some wet and quiet streets until we came to a smaller and more local market that was open, selling unfamiliar fruit and cooked insects by the kilogram. We settled for some more familiar dumplings and grilled chicken, and made our dejected way back. Not all hope was lost, though, as one of the bars was open and full of rainy tourists. The music was good, the beer was cold, and my socks weren’t ever going to get dry.

The next day was supposed to be the first of our motorcycle loop around the northern part of the country, but the forecast was showing a 98% chance of rain all day. We were starting to have serious doubts about the viability of the trip, as it turned out that the monsoon season had arrived a few weeks earlier than usual. The entirety of Southeast Asia was showing heavy and consistent rain – from the east coast of India to the Philippines. Thai monsoon rains typically only last a few hours a day, but the rain was nearly constant for the first 36 hours we were in town.

If we were to stay in the region, then, it was clear that we were going to need some better rain gear, motorcycle or not. We rented a scooter for the day and got a recommendation for a shop not too far away. It turned out to be a military and police surplus store, which was loudly playing Schubert as we found matching sets of bright orange coats and pants (intriguingly named USA RAINCOAT 2040). We looked like a couple of sanitation workers, but we would hopefully be dry. Perhaps not entirely, though – since despite getting the largest size, the zipper only reached my waist. When I sat on the scooter, then, the bottom of my torso was exposed and I ended up with a giant wet spot on my stomach.

Muay Thai Immersion

We got some delicious Burmese food for lunch, entertained by the names of the dishes – chad jam was a rice salad with sprouts and peanuts, and pbla oop was a steamed fish and tomato stew. After a dip in the hotel pool in the pouring rain, we rode over to a Muay Thai gym for a practice lesson. Our coach was Dang, a 5’6” man in his late forties who looked like a solid ball of muscles. He gave us some intense exercises to do, practicing our punches while hopping on and off a tire, and we went through the different moves of the martial art. After an hour, we strapped on boxing gloves and practiced on punching bags, before he and his assistant strapped on pads and sparred with us. The gym was open-air, and in the 30º air completely saturated with moisture, it was absolutely punishing. Neither of us could remember the last time we had sweat so much.

In the two hours we had spent at the gym, the rain had miraculously stopped. Continuing with the martial arts theme, we had purchased tickets to watch the first Muay Thai fight in Chiang Mai since early 2020. Our tickets were standard, but we somehow got seated in the first row, directly behind the referees. A bell rang, and “We Will Rock You” started playing. Then the PA rang out: “In the red corner, at 56 kilograms, from Lamphun Province, Daomai Sanitpun!” The crowd cheered as two skinny and shockingly young boys wearing ceremonial headdresses entered the ring – perhaps 12-14 years old. The first match was over in a brutal knockout in the first round. Watching a teenager collapse after too many punches to the head was the probably most viscerally violent thing I have ever watched up close, but the next four matches were somehow less brutal.

The second matchup was between two slightly older girls, who performed an elaborate ritual dance before their fight, presumably to intimidate their opponents. The remaining fights all went to five rounds, between which the fighters’ limbs were washed with ice water and massaged. The fighters’ names were unusual and strangely similar, and I have no idea whether they were real. The kid who got knocked out in the first round was Numsuk Boonlanna, and the winner of the fourth round was presumably his brother or teammate, Numchock Boonlanna. We were all looking forward to the final round, in which a local was going to take on a French boxer by the unforgettable name of Yummyboy Wildcat (he had it monogrammed on his shorts lest anyone think it was a joke). Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), Yummyboy’s opponent landed an elbow that drew blood from his cheek, and the fight was declared over in under a minute.

Without a doubt, the highlight of the evening was the halftime show, so to speak. Six heavyweight boxers entered the ring, five in boxing gear and one in normal clothing. The former donned eye masks and started a five-way blind brawl, landing punches on anyone and anything within reach, to include the four posts. The sixth boxer was smaller and less skilled, and received a beating anytime they happened to find him. When this happened, though, he would roll away and dropkick his assailant, sending him crashing to the floor. One landed on the ropes just above the referees not 5 feet away from us with such force that I thought they were going to land on us. It was an event so ridiculous I couldn’t have possibly come up with it if I tried.

We left the ring near midnight and searched for some food. The only place open also doubled as a touristy club, and converted from restaurant to club as soon as we ordered. The metal shutters all dropped, and we sat eating our fried chicken as the partygoers shuffled past us. The scene in the club was an utter disaster. I counted at least half a dozen men old enough to be my fathers, often accompanied by much younger Thai women. Several people asked Richard and me if we were a couple, and one Thai woman told us, “if you don’t have girlfriend, I find you someone to have fun.”