There’s a black bear in the road up ahead.
This being Alaska, I shouldn’t be all that surprised. But it’s his sartorial choice that’s thrown me. Firmly perched over his head sits an antique ten pound tin of Folger’s coffee, raided from some old trapper’s cabin.
Any points the bear gets for style and originality come at the expense of maneuverability. The can sits tightly over his neck with an ear poking out of one hole, and he’s blundering blindly across the highway, into a tree, then plowing into a parked RV full of plaid-wearing, camcorder-wielding geriatric tourists before wandering back into the woods.
You could follow his unsteady progress through forest by the faint sound of “bonk...bonk...bonk” as he tacked through the woods.
I drove up the road to make a quick call to Fish and Game, and by the time I got back the bear was surrounded by would-be helpers. A Michigan pensioner climbs down from his RV to kick the can off the poor bear’s head. I know he’s trying to help, but I wouldn’t want to be there if he succeeds. In about two days you’d be finding bits of hearing aid and orthopedic shoes in piles of bear shit.
A Texas air force major grabs his lasso to try and rope the can, succeeding only in adding a slipknot around the unfortunate bear’s head.
The bear, dazed from lack of fresh air and no small measure of uninvited attention, charged into the woods and scrambled up a tree. Two hours later, after the crowd has scattered to review their videos but with no ranger in sight, I hear the bear tumble out of the tree and land with a thud.
Mustering my meager courage and a swiss army knife, I walk 30 yards into the woods and find the bear collapsed in a heap, panting into the can and fading fast.
I looked at my knife, looked at the dying bear and can only marvel at the folly of human endeavor. I didn’t pay much attention during my checkered career in the Boy Scouts, so I don’t remember anything about bear rescue merit badges. I’m feeling ill-equipped for what must be done.
I open the can opener blade and reach warily over to punch a series of breathing holes. I actually get about half the lid before the bear even stirs. I grab a carabiner and some rope, punch another hole to run the clip. I wrap the rope around a tree and reach over to hook it all together when the bear wakes right the hell up.
He’s not at all pleased. Snout and teeth poking out of the ragged, rusty tin can, he seems in no mood for gentle, can’t-we-all-just-get-along persuasion. I retreat at a brisk pace, and the bear wanders off into the woods looking none too amused.
If you happen to come across a black bear wearing a half-opened coffee can, lasso, purple webbing and pink carabiner shuffling through the woods, could you tell him that I meant well?
Three hours of mayhem later, shirt soaked with sweat, I walked out into the tropical night, nerves still jangling. I'm not at all sure to make of the evening's events. There is something undeniably pure and very nearly beautiful about competition reduced to its essentials. Yet at the same time, the whole scene reminded me of a cock fight I witnessed in the Philippines, where local villagers howled frenzied encouragement and wagered a week's salary on competition just as pure, just as brutal.
I'm a long way from home and different rules apply. Or perhaps it's the same rules everywhere. Only here, the stakes are higher.
The audience swells to more than a thousand people and the overhead fan barely stirs the fetid night air. The crowd is almost all male, predominantly Thai. Only ringside do you find many western men, and a few women as well. There are a couple of beery Aussies sitting up in the second tier bleachers with only the resident broken-tailed cats for company. The hard-core locals cram together in a standing-room-only mass on the far side of the ring, seething like a single screaming, sweating mob.
Rounds last about three minutes, and in between fighters seek whatever comfort and rest they can as coaches yell instruction and encouragement. As trainers perform the ritual ministrations of wiping sweat, dumping buckets of ice, forcing down water and flapping towels, coaches pantomime various lethal punch-kick combinations. The corner men work up as much of a sweat as the fighters.
During the fight, all hell breaks loose as trainers, coaches, gym-mates and even one mom in a fire-engine red, skin-tight dress screams their support. A chorus of "OH!"'s go up with a cleanly delivered combination. Silent, flinching grimaces when their boy's on the receiving end.
One stony faced cop stands by, idly checking the line-up card and eyeing the throng. With his impenetrable black shades, ancient leather face and tribal tattoos covering wrists, neck and what I suspect to be the balance of his torso, he's the meanest looking bandito in the joint. The loosely holstered, pearl-handled 9 mm semi-automatic doesn't hurt.
But in all this mayhem there is almost no anger. Brutal combinations of sucker punches, low blows, kicks and elbows are delivered without malice. At the end of each fight, boxers embrace, receive the blessing of opposition trainers and adjourn to a common locker room. Which also happens to be the men's john, I discover. So as you relieve yourself of your third Singha beer of the night, you can eye fighters warming up for upcoming bouts. And once you're done, you can wander over and have your snapshot made with the sweaty victor. Try that at the next Tyson-Holyfield fight.
But all the responsible adults were busy placing bets in the surrounding bleachers. A dozen pudgy Thai men, heavily ballasted with gold jewelry and each with a sweat-soaked towel around his neck, yelled into cell phones and offered odds on the outcome. Those making the wagers were a hungrier, poorer crowd, betting the food money and hoping, sometimes praying for a big score.
Each fight began with the same ritualized offerings of prayer as boxers worked themselves into a trance-like state, swaying and bobbing with the music. A motley four-man band barely rested through three hours, as what sounded like a snake charmer's horn joined two drummers and a guy with hand chimes, playing a monotonous, mesmerizing song that rose and fell in tempo with the action inside the ring.
Fighters prayed in the center of the mat, then in each of the four corners, then finally with their trainer. They met in the middle of the ring, touched their thin, hard gloves together once, then set at it. Rules are few. You can punch, elbow, kick or knee your opponent anywhere. Head butting is out, but a swift kick to the groin isn't. When fighters clench, they swing knees up and into opponent's ribs. If you're tripped or knocked to the mat, expect a merciless kick to the kidneys or skull before the referee steps in.
The audience swells to more than a thousand people and the overhead fan barely stirs the fetid night air. The crowd is almost all male, predominantly Thai. Only ringside do you find many western men, and a few women as well. There are a couple of beery Aussies sitting up in the second tier bleachers with only the resident broken-tailed cats for company. The hard-core locals cram together in a standing-room-only mass on the far side of the ring, seething like a single screaming, sweating mob.
The two young men were draped in flower garlands and swayed like cranes, lost in the hypnotic music that filled the steamy Thai night. Each dropped to his knees in prayer, touching his forehead to the ground then raising face and arms toward the bright lights above in a silent reverie. They went to their masters and received a last minute blessing. Then they proceeded to beat the living shit out of each other.
It's fight night in Bangkok, and Thai kick boxing is not for the faint of heart.
I ventured down to Lumpinee Boxing Stadium with no small measure of trepidation. Blood sports are not really my scene. But after a hour-long, three mile taxi ride through rush hour traffic, I paid my 880 baht ($22 even at the current devalued exchange) for a ringside seat. I wandered in just in time for what looked like a school yard brawl. Two boys, who looked no older than 12, were hard at it punching and kicking in disciplined fury. Any responsible adult would send the pair of them down to the principal's office.
