2013: The Turning Point – Part 2: Ubon Ratchathani
There wasn’t much time to prepare for my departure. I had just over a month, and between working at school with primary school and kindergarten children and preparing the girls’ end-of-year gymnastics performance, I barely had time to think. And yet, even those few moments were enough to hurt.
Since the plan was to go to Thailand to train Muay Thai and practically train myself to death, the first thing I thought of doing was cutting my hair. And I mean really cutting it! Super short, almost like a boy’s. Purely for practical reasons, nothing more.
I know a lot of people change their hairstyle to symbolically mark a new beginning, but in my case, it had nothing to do with that. I was only thinking about the at least two showers a day waiting for me and how much time I would save by not having to comb and dry my hair every single time. Still, it ended up changing my appearance too.
With my new haircut, I arrived in Bangkok. Alone.
My brother Luca had taken me to Venice Airport. I think he understood better than many others what was going through my mind. A few tears fell during the flight. I kept thinking that this time I wouldn’t be able to go and see my Beppe. Or rather, that my Beppe wasn’t mine anymore.
From Bangkok Airport, I took the Airport Rail Link to Phaya Thai, then the BTS to Mo Chit. From there, I needed to take a taxi to the northern bus terminal, Mo Chit 2. There was no way I could walk there with my suitcase. That was where the bus to Ubon Ratchathani departed from, in northeastern Thailand, in the Isaan region.
The terminal was very basic, chaotic, and almost everything was written in Thai. I had to ask for directions several times. Partly because the Thai people’s English wasn’t always great, and partly because mine still sucked back then!
Today, that bus terminal is much better organized and definitely more farang friendly, but in 2013 it felt like another world to me. I remember all those Thai people stretched out across the seats at the station, sleeping while they waited for their buses. I was surrounded entirely by Thai people. Not another foreigner in sight.
It made me a little nervous, but at the same time, it reassured me. It was exactly what I was looking for. I was convinced I had made the right choice, and I couldn’t wait for the adventure to begin.
When I got on the bus, I was given a seat right at the front, just behind the windshield. I had plenty of legroom and a perfect view of the road. There weren’t many passengers. I had eleven very comfortable hours on the bus ahead of me. Luckily, overnight!
One important thing to remember: back in 2013, I didn’t have internet on my phone. No Google Maps, no translation apps, no way to look things up on the spot. All I had was a map and the address of the hotel I had booked for the first few nights, right next to the gym where I had decided to train: K.R.S. Gym.
The gym was exactly what I wanted. Small, basic, no frills. A ring with uncovered ropes, a couple of heavy bags, although only one was actually usable: hard as concrete and half broken. No modern facilities, no classes packed with tourists. Just Muay Thai.
The manager at the time was Sasaki, a very kind and friendly Japanese man. There was only one Thai trainer, whose name I unfortunately can’t remember. And then there were the other students. Apart from me, they were all kids. A couple of teenagers and some younger children, both boys and girls. Three of them were from Laos, and their father brought them to the gym every day. One of the girls, the one with the shortest hair, was incredibly good.
We didn’t talk much. At that time, I wasn’t particularly in the mood for conversation anyway, and the language barrier made everything more complicated. But we trained together, and in the end, we didn’t really need to talk much.
My days revolved entirely around Muay Thai. I trained a lot, and every morning I also went running in the nearby park. It was during one of those runs that I discovered another peculiarity of Thailand: at a certain time, the national anthem would start playing over the loudspeakers, and everyone would stop and stand still as a sign of respect. The first time, I was a little surprised, but I quickly learned to do the same.
Another morning, though, I had to give up my run for a decidedly less solemn reason. A dog had decided I wasn’t going to get past him on his street. And when I saw his little buddies coming too, I figured I’d better change my route before ending up as canned meat!
One evening, after I had been there for a few weeks, the father of the Lao kids invited me to watch his children fight. I immediately accepted.
We met at the gym around six in the evening, more or less at sunset. They had me climb into a pretty beat-up pickup truck. Some other kids who were going to fight that night climbed into the back too. I knew practically nothing. I didn’t know where we were going, how long it would take, or even exactly who was going to fight.
After we’d been driving for quite a while, by then in complete darkness, a thought suddenly crossed my mind. These people could easily knock me over the head, rob me, and leave me here, in the middle of the fields of Isaan. And who would ever find me!?
But my sixth sense had never let me down. They were good people. Simple, friendly, genuine. They wouldn’t even let me pay to get into the fights.
When I got out of the pickup truck, though, I also understood why. We were practically in the middle of nowhere. In front of us was one of those large, typical Thai open-sided sheds, with dirt and sand all around. Inside, of course, was a ring.
I followed one of the girls, who was carrying one of those mats Thai people often use to sit or eat on the floor, tucked under her arm. Without saying a word, she laid it out in a corner, not too far from the ring. There, together with her older brother, she began getting ready. The trainer wrapped their hands, massaged them, and got them ready for their fights.
Then, one after another, they stepped into the ring. The strongest girl fought first, against a boy. Her older brother fought later. I don’t remember the results, but I remember they were incredibly good.
That night, I saw a different side of Muay Thai from the one I had known until then. There were none of the comforts or organization of the events I had attended before. People were crowded around the ring. Gamblers were everywhere. There was a particular atmosphere in the air. Everything seemed to revolve around those fights.
Meanwhile, my trainer and the father of the Lao kids were going around telling everyone that an Italian farang who wanted to fight was training at their gym, but she couldn’t find an opponent. And that was exactly the situation. I was in the heartland of Muay Thai, training every day, but I couldn’t find anyone to step into the ring with.
That evening, they introduced me to several girls. They would greet me and smile, but as soon as someone suggested they fight me, the answer was always the same: no, thanks.
I think they were more intimidated by my super-short hair and well-defined deltoids than by the possibility that I might actually be dangerous in the ring! Between the period of depression and the grueling training sessions, I was down to around 56 kilos.
At one point, right in the middle of the evening, someone called me into the ring. I didn’t really understand what was going on. Everyone was speaking Thai. I found myself standing in the middle of the ring as they introduced this farang from Italy who wanted to fight. I felt a bit like a circus freak!
They had me bow and greet everyone. I still remember a guy shouting “I love you!” from a distance. It was probably the only English phrase he knew, along with “Good morning, teacher!”
I was incredibly embarrassed, but I would have done anything to find a fight.
When I left Italy, I didn’t even know if I would fight. I just wanted to train. A lot. As much as possible. It was the only way I knew to feel a little better, even if only temporarily.
But after weeks of training without a specific goal, I was starting to feel frustrated. I had so much anger inside me, and training wasn’t enough anymore. I needed to step into that ring. Because at least there, for those few minutes, I didn’t think about Beppe. I didn’t think about what I had lost or what would become of my life.
In the ring, I was still me.
The blows I might take in a fight were nothing compared to what had broken inside me. To the pain I had already felt. And maybe I needed to fight precisely to prove to myself that, somewhere, that part of me still existed.
Meanwhile, Beppe had found out where I was. He had managed to access my email account and found the hotel booking confirmations. He said he was worried about me. Stupid me for not changing my password.
That’s how he managed to track me down, and we started communicating again by text message. One late morning, I was walking around Ubon, looking for something to eat, when a message from him arrived. He finally wrote what he hadn’t been able to tell me until then.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
Can a heart break more than once? Apparently, yes.
Disbelief and anger were the first things I felt. All those promises, all those years together. The idea that we would always fight for each other. Where had it all gone? How could someone stop loving you after promising they never would?
I couldn’t accept it. And that anger needed a way out. I trained every day, ran, kicked that damn bag that was as hard as concrete. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted to fight.
And after about a month in Ubon Ratchathani, I still hadn’t managed to find an opponent. I was starting to get restless. It was time to look for another gym.
But where?
Phuket was already a very touristy destination back then. I had looked at several gyms online, and many of them seemed too commercial. I had absolutely no desire to find myself surrounded by other farang. I liked what I had found in Ubon: a simple, authentic gym where Muay Thai was part of everyday life.
I wanted something similar. An old-school gym where I could train seriously and, hopefully, finally get a fight. And of course, without spending a fortune.
Among the various options, one gym in Phuket caught my eye: Suwit Muay Thai. It welcomed foreigners too, of course, but from the photos it still had that slightly run-down look that, for some reason, made me trust it.
The prices were reasonable, much more affordable than those at already famous gyms like Tiger Muay Thai, which even back then was known for its classes with dozens of people. That wasn’t what I was looking for. I wanted to keep focusing solely on Muay Thai.
In Ubon, I had already had to make a small compromise when it came to accommodation. At first, I had thought about moving into one of the rooms at the gym, but when I asked Sasaki to show me one and saw the mattress and the toilet, I decided I could quite happily treat myself to the luxury of the little budget hotel where I’d been staying until then! After all, where I stayed mattered too.
So I decided that my next destination would be Phuket. But Ubon Ratchathani still had one last experience in store for me.
Before I left, my Thai trainer invited me to go with him to watch some fights at a local stadium. Could I really pass up another chance to experience Muay Thai in its purest form? Of course not.
We arrived at the stadium around five or five thirty in the afternoon. It was huge, packed with people. I felt a rush of excitement as soon as I walked in. We sat down in the stands and, shortly afterwards, my trainer said, “Sorry, I have to go!” And he disappeared into the crowd gathered around the ring, busy betting on their favourites.
It was exactly as I had imagined it. Maybe even better.
A few years earlier, I had been to the old Lumpinee Stadium in Bangkok, which sadly no longer exists. And there, in Ubon Ratchathani, I found something very similar.
It’s hard to explain what it feels like to walk into a traditional Muay Thai stadium. Words can’t convey the smells, the noise, the atmosphere. The respect, the suffering, the joy. Everything that is concentrated in those few square metres of ring and all around it.
It’s much more than just a sporting event. Both at Lumpinee and at that stadium in Ubon, there was something about it that, to me, felt almost spiritual.
I sat in the stands watching young talents fight, both men and women. The shouts of the gamblers turned into deafening roars, especially during the third and fourth rounds. Their hands moved frantically, making gestures that meant absolutely nothing to me. But to them, clearly, they meant a great deal!
I took it all in. The fights, the gamblers, the people shouting, those cheering on the fighters. This was the Muay Thai I had always wanted to experience. The real thing, far removed from the shows put on for tourists.
After a few hours, and a couple of beers, I started to feel tired. We stayed at the stadium until almost two in the morning. I’d had just about all the Muay Thai I could take!
During the evening, my trainer came back a couple of times to check that I was okay. And each time, he also picked up any empty cans he found lying around. He would take them to be recycled to earn a little extra money. A small detail, but one I still remember to this day.
When we finally left the stadium, we got on the motorbike and headed home. Along the way, we stopped for some soup. It was the last thing I did in Ubon Ratchathani.
To get to Phuket, this time I decided to spare no expense. No more eleven-hour bus rides. I took a plane!
I had already arranged my transfer from the airport too: the gym’s pick-up service would take me straight to the room where I’d be staying.
I was leaving Ubon Ratchathani without having managed to get a fight, but with a month of training behind me and an experience I would never forget. I had discovered a simpler side of Muay Thai, far removed from the tourist scene. I had shared training sessions and evenings with people I could barely exchange a few words with, but who had given me so much.
And above all, I had realised that I couldn’t stop there. I still needed to train, to fight, to find myself again.
I didn’t know what was waiting for me on the other side of Thailand. And I’m not even sure what ultimately drew me to Phuket.
But the time I would spend there, between July and August 2013, would turn out to be one of the best periods of my life.
Continued in Part 3 – Phuket.
