Arjan Surat: The Unbreakable Breaker of Bangkok (Patreon Article) (Patreon)

Among Thai nakmuay, Arjan Surat is one of the most feared men in Thailand. And right now he’s drinking from a straw that sticks out from a pink My Little Pony thermal cup. He has a back brace the color of Band-Aids wrapped around his waist underneath his bellypad, which looks like it’s been chewed on by a Rottweiler and dragged behind a truck. He’s wearing a beige tanktop, that may or may not have been white at some point, and dark colored sport shorts that go down to his knees. Every part of his body that sticks out from his clothing looks like a man his age should: weathered, he has a bit of a barrel shaped torso, but he’s incredibly strong. Like, “farmer strong.” And his face is stern, always looking at what’s going on with a kind of focus and intensity that seems like it would be exhausting, but he’s just quietly taking it in. His eyes have a kind of “bird of prey”-like quality, a hawk or eagle; scouting. When he speaks, his voice is gravely and deep  - like a 2 pack per day smoker for 40 years kind of gravely, although I have no idea if he smokes or not - and he kind of pushes his chin up all the time. Something like 70% of what he says throughout training is cursing, like “motherfucker” (yet mae) or “fuck” (hia), but that percentage is skewed by the fact that he’s not a big talker. So, that’s 70% out of whatever talking he does do, which isn’t a lot. And he doesn’t want a lot of talking from his disciples either. I choose the word “disciples” consciously, as you are either disciplined or you get the fuck out of his gym. It’s one of the reasons many the Thais who train there, for instance the Thai National Team, go for only short bursts. Training 1 month prior to the international competitions they attend, as it’s so intense that longer than that, many of them can’t hack it. These are some of the best fighters in Thailand, with hundreds of fights, and for a lot of them they’ve gotten to a point where they can win fights without the hardcore grind in training of their more formative days. But here, at Dejrat, with Arjan, you just go hard; there’s no “light day” here.

Standing in front of Arjan, his pads angled above his bellypad and his eyes fixed on me, I have this feeling in my chest that’s like a very soft panic. “Kiiiick,” he calls out, making it a long word that resonates over the other loud thudding sounds in the gym. I throw my left kick into his pads, trying to remember to keep my left arm out straight - with my glove almost in his face - like he’s instructed me before, something that might be called the Pinsinchai style though many old school gyms teach it. My kick lands and I come back down to starting position. In almost the same tone as his call for the kick, just slightly quieter but with the same intonation, Arjan tells me in Thai that I should kick harder, mai glua, he says (“no fear”). I laugh and nod, but I’m laughing because I am afraid of Arjan. Not of kicking him too hard, that’s foolish, but because when someone invites you to a quick-draw gun fight, he’s probably pretty fast… like, definitely faster than he thinks you are. That’s what it’s like standing in front of Arjan and having him tell you to kick harder; it’s not an invitation to make you look or feel good, but to commit despite the risks. “Kiiiiiick,” he calls out again and I throw my shin into his pads, harder, and instead of a “good,” or some kind of affirmation for having followed his instructions, Arjan uses the opportunity to uppercut me in the face with his pad, under my right arm that should definitely be in a tighter guard than what I just did. This is how Arjan tells you your guard isn’t right. Bang.

I land off of the kick a little wobbly, but more or less solidly, and take a moment to wipe the taste of his leather pad off of my lips on the sleeve of my shirt. Arjan is looking at me with those eyes, not disappointed or entertained, just watching. I laugh, nod to acknowledge that I understand what just happened, and prepare for the next strike. Arjan isn’t sure how he feels about the way I laugh or smile or nod during his grueling pad sessions. Nobody else at the gym does this, but he can read my heart. He’s looking straight into me to see whether I’m registering the lessons, crumpling under the weight or pushing back on it. My laugh floats on the surface but he’s glaring into whatever is underneath that I’m trying to override. Our pads continue, a few punches, a teep, then time to kick again. “Kiiiiick,” he yells and I remember my hand in his face and the elbow on my other arm coming in to guard. I hit his bellypad because his arm has looped over my kick before I reach his pads and he’s caught my kick, which he then uses to trip me onto my back with a very loud thud as the wooden planks under the canvas of the ring break my fall. Arjan looks at Kevin, sitting on a polished wooden bench on the side of the ring. Arjan puts his hands up in the air in a kind of shrug and in a voice no louder than if he were talking to someone right next to him, in his gravely voice, he says, “easy.” Kevin laughs, Arjan doesn’t, and I try to get up off the floor as fast as possible.It’s important to rise fast in this gym. Back to position, remember the long arm, the guard arm, and the hopping on a caught kick for defense… and then whatever the next lesson is also.

Sitting on the corner of the ring, on the outside of the ropes, I’m pinching the points behind my ankle on my right foot. I broke it in a fight a few years ago and the ligaments at these points have flared up a few times since then, which makes the stability in that ankle pretty bad at times. Usually it’s on the stairs, when I’ve just poured myself off of my motorbike and am shuffling through the front halls of our apartment building. The bottom hem of my shirt would drip cold sweat onto the floor as I go, leaving a little trail behind me. It’s never the first stair, but by the third or fourth that ankle just stops doing its job and I have to pull myself up the bannister on the side of the staircase. I suspect that this flare up is due to the way I’ve been pivoting hard and teeping the bag sideways in a way that Karuhat was teaching me. I had stood in front of these huge heavybags and lopsidedly tried to pivot and push with the weight of the bag crashing into my foot, as I tried to match the rhythm of its swing. On the edge of the ring now, I can feel the sweat from my shirt and shorts soaking into the canvas, like how dry desert soil drinks up water the very instant it touches the surface. I pinch harder, then move my fingers a tiny bit and pinch again, feeling the intensity of pain at a variety of angles and points on my heel, trying to find its edges. It sends a shock of pain up my right leg when I hit the bag with the bottom of the foot, but what concerns me is that when I use it as a standing leg and kick with the left (an obvious solution to the fact that the right one hurts), my stability gives out entirely and I actually fell down a minute ago when I shadowed a kick. Kevin is watching me pinch the heel, although not closely. His eyes are focused on the foot but he’s reclined into the wooden bench like it’s a sofa, leaning into the corner so he can get a scope at the entire gym. He scrunches his eyebrows together when there’s an issue with soft tissue, like a ligament or tendon, so he’s kind of scowling at me right now as Arjan approaches and has to walk between us to get to the room behind the ring. 

Arjan doesn’t break pace until he’s on the other side of us, but then he faces me and puts his strong, square fist on the corner of the ring and leans into it. “You hurt?” he asks me, almost like a statement more than a question. Mai mee pan-haa, I reply, “there’s no problem.” Arjan stands upright again, pushing off the pole at the edge of the ring and, almost to himself says, keng reng (“strong”) and then continues walking to the room behind the ring. His dog, a redish Cocker Spaniel that’s been shaved except on top of his head, so he’s got like a rocker haircut, shoots the gap between me and Kevin to follow behind Arjan. He’s always right behind Arjan; unless he’s under the ring, which is the version of “behind” that he can be when Arjan is holding pads.

I stand up and try to hide my limp as I stumble over some weights on the floor in a narrow channel between the ring and a front wall of the gym. The cement is warmer the very instant I step out of the shade and onto a patch of sun that’s streaming into the open front of the gym, which has a foot-wide strip of colored cement before the carpet under the bags starts. All the bags are occupied, including the one I was just hitting, but I figure it’s better to just shadow at this point anyway. So I’m stepping and shifting my weight with each strike, trying to feel the pain and the weakness at each angle. There’s a lot of both, but I can move around pretty easily. There are two boys, probably 15 and 17 years old, just smashing the shit out of pads in the ring with two of the other trainers. The bigger of the two trainers is calling for endless right kicks and the older of the two trainers seems to be trying to knock his student over with a left hook every time the fighter kicks. There’s a steady beat from fists and shins on the surrounding heavybags and one taller fighter in green shorts is doing slow curls out in the driveway, his arms and chest swaying over his lower body like the wagging finger of a metronome. 

Arjan strolls out, his arms strangely stiff and relaxed at the same time by his sides, and takes a spot on the carpet between the bags, next to the elevated ring. The heavy bags, and the fighters hitting them, almost form a circle around him, like he’s at the center of a parking lot fight. A 15 or 16 year old kid with the figure of a Muay Thai fighter tattooed on the lower left quarter of his very narrow back is standing in front of Arjan now, with his back to the ring. He’s very tall and long-limbed, and he just beat the shit out of me in boxing sparring at the start of the session. But he’s got that familiar look of intimidation as he stands in front of Arjan now, like a Fun House mirror distorting the confidence he had against me in the ring so that now he looks like this long, wilting willow. And Arjan is ruthless. His holding now shouting for kicks and knees, catching them, then pushing the fighter backwards (who hops on one leg to try to stay upright, and does so pretty well) until his legs hit the edge of the ring and he collapses onto his ass and into the ropes. The whole gym stops to watch the start of their rounds, which are equal parts Arjan cussing and railing on this kid verbally and then punishing him for hesitating with his strikes. After what was about 4 rounds of being thrown onto the edge of the ring every minute or so, the young man sitting on the edge of the ring and calling time signals the end of the round and Arjan looks up, away from the fighter who he’s been crumpling for now the past 20 minutes, and says almost to the whole space at once, “Fuck, all you do is sit down.” It’s pretty funny, actually, it breaks the tension. It’s a similar joke to one I do with my own trainer Pi Nu, where I force him backwards to the benches at the periphery of the weight room and when he trips on them, forcing him to sit for a second, I chide him with “have a seat.” I’m teasing Pi Nu with this; Arjan is turning this kid into a fucking wrecking machine with his version. At the start of the next round the kid has to fold his long body between the ropes as he climbs up into the ring with another trainer, who is verbally just shouting for strikes but is physically punishing him every second. And the kid is fucking relentless. He wouldn’t dare be as aggressive with Arjan, but against this other teacher he’s… amazing. The older trainer waits for a knee and then shoves the fighter’s locked arms up and out, so he goes flying backwards into the ropes. The fighter basically bounces off of the ropes, finds his balance mid-ricochet and launches himself back at the trainer with a knee into the bellypad, like a slingshot.  And he’s only getting started; give him a year more. Holy shit.

The sky has gone dark and there are dogs barking from behind a fence as I step out of the pale, fuzzy lighting of the gym and onto the driveway. My shoes are in my hand and I feel the texture change from the smooth cement of the inner lip below the ring to the pocketed asphalt of the street under my feet. I throw my flip flops down onto the ground and step into them, shifting the weight of my gym bag from one arm to the other as I try to angle my right foot in such a way that it doesn’t hurt when I walk. The car is running with Jaidee and Kevin inside it, waiting for me. The dogs want to tear me apart from behind that fence, but even they get a little quieter as Arjan begins his walk back to his house a few doors down. “You come tomorrow?” he asks and I turn from where I’m trying to find a spot in the trunk of the car for my disgustingly soggy gloves and look at him. I’ve been at his gym for 3 days in a row. “No, I go back to Pattaya tonight,” I tell him, “but I come back next month for sure.” Arjan nods, one single nod of his head that’s almost not even discernable in how shallow of a gesture it was. But then he stops and turns toward me, almost like he had done over by the ring before. “Arjan,” he said, pointing to himself, “like you,” he said, in English. Then again in Thai, chawp keng reng, meaning that he likes me because I’m strong. He looked over at the gym, “if not keng reng,” he said, then made this wave of his hand like he’s shooing a fly, “go,” he grumbles. I smiled, a genuine smile of joy at hearing this kind of praise from someone who I can guarantee isn’t generous with it, but I also felt that panic in my heart because, even in praise Arjan is terrifying. “Thank you,” I said, “for you, I will always be stronger.” This made him smile, but kind of a laugh, like a be-careful-what-you-say kind of chuckle and he lifted his hand in a kind of goodbye and continued toward his house. I open the passenger door, the blast of aircon freezing my wet skin on contact. I told Kevin what had just happened. “Holy shit,” he said as I slumped, exhausted and suddenly very aware of how sore I was, into the seat. “Holy shit,” I repeated. And then we just sat there in that realization for a minute. Jaidee panted into my ear, blowing my thoughts around like dry leaves caught in a gust of wind and Kevin started backing out, our headlights fuzzing out against the cinder block wall in front of us. A few of the boys from the gym pull a long roll of carpet up from behind our car, which they use as a kind of extension to the gym so they can lift weights or shadowbox out on the street, at the end of the culdesac. A few of the other boys are working in pairs to lift the heavybags off of their chains and lay them to the side, as the gym becomes the garage that it is when the fighters aren’t training. The red light of our brake lights on their bodies disappears as Kevin lets off the brake pedal and our tailights flash in the three mirrors that face out from the back of the gym. And then we’re gone, into the bends and curves of the neighborhood, a map in the palm of my hand to bring us home.

If you enjoyed this article you can read my other Patreon Magazine articles:

• Patron Only Articles - These articles are written specially for my patrons and are my attempts to expand as a writer. They are full of richer descriptions, and take on themes not always talked about in the experience of being a fighter. At least one is published a month, if not two.

When I First Met Dieselnoi: A Giant in my Soul | The powerful impression the legendary Dieselnoi made on me right from the start, a resonating impact that has made on me as a person. read it here  

The Perfection of Festival Fights in Thailand | A trip to the clinic to receive a boosting IV leaves me drifting through thoughts of belonging, as I listen to my kru talk about me to the nurse. read it here 

Cheet Yaa - "if there were no cuts it wouldn't be Sylvie" | A trip to the clinic to receive a boosting IV leaves me drifting through thoughts of belonging, as I listen to my kru talk about me to the nurse. read it here 

The Hurting Game - The Psychology of Hurt | Even though I've fought over 200 times being the one who hurts others, that the game is hurting, is still a psychology I need to embrace. read it here 

A Girl and Her Bag - the Intimacy of Work | Every fighter who has spent a long amount of time in the gym has to fall in love with their bag - how bagwork contains its own beauty. read it here 

Jai Rohn - My Story of Blood, My Pride and Stitches | My heart was racing, I was upset at my performance, and then there was the pain of stitches, more painful than any stitches I've had before. read it here 

You can browse all the non-Library content for patrons here: TABLE of CONTENTS