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‘The Thais give to the poor to make merit for the next life, but you hear horror stories … like heavily drugged children being hired out to the beggar to boost their takings, and beggars being delivered in taxis to their pitch and handing over their earnings to their protectors. Same as with the bar girls, it’s always the big guys who control the cash flow.’
    They walked up Sukhumvit Road, past glittering office buildings and banks, world class hotels and shopping malls, all dedicated to the farang and the upper end of the tourist industry. This was the place to shop for curios, carvings and handicrafts, for silks and designer labels, fake watches and flick knives, for leather and live skin. It was just an anonymous tourist trap and Ben did not much like it.
    He and Maca followed Chuck to an open-air bar down one of the sois where the Thai boxing had already started. The clientele were mainly older farang males of all shapes and sizes, in singlet or tee shirt, shapeless shorts and trainers. As always there were bar girls sitting waiting at empty tables or draped over the men whose wallets they hoped to infiltrate. Next to the bar through screens set up to deter freeloaders, Ben could just see a floodlit boxing ring.
    â€˜Come inside sir … only 300 baht,’ droned the tout. In the enclosure there were twenty or thirty tables with a mixture of Thai and foreign spectators watching the boxing. They paid to go in, took a table and ordered beers and food from a waitress in a very short skirt.
    The fighting was brutal, the boxers wiry and thin, their sinewy bodies glistening in the heat and glare of the tropical night. They were barefooted, their ankles strapped up with white bindings and wore loose shiny shorts and boxing gloves. Heads down in combat, their gumshields gave them a ghastly grimace. They moved fast, showering blows on each other with their fists and more damagingly with their feet, knees and elbows. The feet were brought up in a scything action, belting the opponent in the kidneys. Often the fighters came together in a clinch, hammering each other with their knees before the referee broke them apart again. As a round ended, steel trays were brought into each corner to catch the water that was poured over their sweating bodies, the coaches screaming advice as they massaged bruised legs and arms. Soon another round began. It was rough stuff.
    Ben wondered how the fighters could take such a pasting. They already looked exhausted and had a haunted look in their piggy little eyes. One of them was grotesquely ugly, battered beyond belief from a long career in the ring. His shorts were too big for him and in the middle of the fight he was making pathetic attempts to pull them up with his gloved hands. When at last both men went the distance, the referee held up the arm of the victor. There was little applause from the floor and nobody took much notice as the boxers came round the tables begging for tips.
    â€˜I hate this bit,’ said Ben. ‘These blokes do it for our benefit but they’re hardly getting given anything. Do they fight only for tips?’
    Chuck claimed to know how the sport operated in Thailand.
    â€˜No man, they’re usually paid for each bout,’ he said. ‘The guys who fight on telly or at Lumpini and Ratchadamnoen have real money and status. But down the bottom end it’s shit, and this is the bottom end … fighting outside a bar. At least if they know who’s gonna win, they can fix it and not belt each other too hard.’
    Ben could see two fit young boxers ready for the next bout.
    â€˜These guys always do the ceremonial bit before the fight,’ said Chuck. ‘See their headbands. They’ll dance around in the ring to honour the spirits of muay Thai before getting stuck in.’
    Studiously ignoring each other, the men began a slow ritual dance to the wailing oboe music and strident drumming, strutting like fighting cocks and