Phnom Penh

Back in the city, I headed for a little place called New Lodge, on the Boeng Kak lakeside. It had been recommended by my new friends and I wasn’t surprised to find Phil and Jane there when I arrived. Phil was due to head back home (I’d already given him a load of Christmas cards for posting) and he and Jane had had to leave the beach before the others if he was to have any chance of seeing Angkor before his flight out of Bangkok. One of the benefits of being there with these favoured previous customers was the preferential service I got from the staff. As soon as I’d checked in, the resident wideboy, Jay, was asking if I’d like to go and see the Khmer Traditional Boxing. Phil had previously told me that this was like a crazy, hardcore version of Mutay (think extreme Thai kick-boxing!) so I immediately signed up.
I wondered down the road to check my e-mail and found that Mark and Mel were staying just round the corner for this, the last two days of their trip. We met up and, as I suspected, Mark was well up for a little blood-sport. We had also heard that there was to be cockroach racing at a bar in town and decided to make Friday night ‘Sportsnight’. With the boxing between 5 and 7 and the roach races due to start at 9, there would even be time for dinner. Fleur had also decided to join us (Kirsty and Jo didn’t appear to be as bloodthirsty as the rest of us) so there was a veritable motorcade as we headed off to the Olympic Stadium for the boxing.
The boxing certainly didn’t disappoint. It’s not just about two guys knocking the crap out of each other – much as in Mutay, there is a strong spiritual and ritualistic element. There is also – strangely at first – an accompanying band consisting of several percussion instruments and the kind of flute/pipe you’d expect to find in the hands of a snake-charmer. Prior to the bout, this pipe starts up a slow skirl and a slow steady rhythm is pounded out on one of the hand drums. The boxers sway and glide around the ring, performing intricate pre-fight rituals. There are slow-motion kicks and punches, ritualistic offerings to the gods and plenty of good old-fashioned prostrated praying. All of this conducted in time to the hypnotic accompaniment and with the utmost respect for their fellow competitor. It certainly beats the shadow-boxing, prancing and hard-staring common at the start of your average Queensberry Rules fight. When the fight starts the music continues and after a short while you begin to understand its importance. The two protagonists close and begin to shuffle and sway in time to the music. Their blows and kicks come not from a sudden swift alteration of stance, but rather seem to flow as part of an intricate and deadly dance. As the tempo of the fight increases, so does the music – at times it’s hard to tell whether the fighters are conducting the musicians or vice-versa – but the result is a heady, intoxicating mixture of visual brutality and mesmerizing sounds. Elbows, knees, gloved fists and taped feet rain in blows from all angles and of such intensity that you feel both fighters must surely collapse any second. It thrashes the pants off all the combat sports I’ve ever seen on television – with the possible exception of Ultimate Fighting, which being somewhat of a freak-show, lacks the dignity of Khmer Boxing. The dignity and respect shown by these boys was something to behold…each well-landed blow acknowledged with a nod of the head; often breaking up a clinch by mutual assent before the referee’s intervention is required; grace in both defeat and victory. I can’t imagine any of these boys biting someone’s ear off when they thought they were going to lose (á la Mike Tyson). Suffice to say we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves and worked up a healthy appetite with all the excitement and shouting. Mark, Mel, Fleur and I went to look for somewhere to eat near the Ginger Monkey (venue for the roach racing), while Jane and Phil agreed to meet us there after a bite to eat back on the lakeside. As the four of us got stuck into some good tucker, I reflected on how pleasant it was to be hanging out with the same friends I’d met nearly three weeks and 3000km before.
After the excitement of the boxing, the roach racing was a total anticlimax. The only pulse-quickening moment being when the ‘trainer’ dropped one of his competitors, who tried to make a speedy exit up a lady’s skirt: ten seconds of squealing and frantic tottering around was as good as it got. I stuck around to watch the first race, which was a runaway victory for the only competitor that even left its trap. It got me thinking that they should maybe fix up a ‘hare’ made from rotting fruit to give the idle, over-fed insects some reason for moving their fat, carapaced arses. Rather than waste my time trying to sell this idea to the owners, I chose to ride a bike home and go to bed. Mark, Mel and I had made plans to visit Tol Sleung and the Killing Fields the following day and I knew I would need a good night’s rest in preparation.