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Fight night
By James Fuller
The night's venue is in Lampang, one hundred kilometres south-east of Chiang Mai, Northern Thailand. Typical of most venues away from the stadiums of Bangkok, the ring stands in a field adjacent to a temple.
Tarpaulins erected to form a wall encourage spectators to pay a nominal entrance fee. Vendors sell local whisky, beer, Chiang Mai sour fermented sausage, pancakes and noodle soup. Some simply operate from a grill set-up on an adapted side-car of a moped.
Our entourage of boxers and trainers is waved through the gate.
The grass underfoot is plush from the recent weeks of rain; its sheen catches the incandescent light of the bare high-watt light bulbs, strung corner-to-corner across the ring.
The crowd is already enjoying a fight between novice boxers. Children cling to the structure of the ring to see in. Those too young to stand are cradled in their parents' arms. An old woman puffs on a huge hand-rolled cigarette. A man already drunk at the evenings start is deterred from climbing into the ring to the crowds amusement.
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