Bangkok Delight: Two Ways

Jonathan Richman has a song called "I was Dancing at the Lesbian Bar." The narrator ends up somewhere he didn't plan, and finds it's fine. Better than fine.

Here’s my Lesbian Bar analog/Bangkok story.

First: Rajadamnern

I made the booking after a friend came back from Bangkok and said the Muay Thai show was worth it. That's it. Parth and Eshita would be in Bangkok at the same time, so I thought: what could be more Thai than Muay Thai? A friend went, liked it, end of diligence.

It was a travel intersection that could produce a good story. We agreed to meet at Rajadamnern. 

I arrived from Sukhothai: took the metro to Sukhumvit, checked in, showered, and caught a motorcycle taxi at Terminal Twenty-one and hurtled across town. 

At the gate, security stopped me: the GoPro stick and mini Maglite were available upon exit. Fair enough — herding farangs into a Muay Thai arena is a pretty challenging proposition.

What I had imagined was something akin to the UFC Muay Thai channel. The Thai version with less production.

Vegas in Bangkok

Rajadamnern is a slice of Vegas. Purpose-built for the western gaze, lit accordingly. 

The ring sits inside a full LED broadcast rig. There is a jumbotron. The MC works the crowd in English, flinging t-shirts at the audience and leading something that can only be described as ocho-ocho dancing — a call-and-response chant-shimmy that the crowd, to its credit, commits to completely.

Roaming camera crews troll the stands for honkies willing to mug for the big screen. Most oblige.

The fights are real. Kicks land hard. The corner work between rounds — trainers working cuts, talking into fighters' ears, the second holding the bucket. That’s serious shit. 

Muay Thai as a fighting system developed through centuries of warfare — Thai kingdoms against the Khmer Empire, against Burma, the body as a weapon when everything else was gone. 

Rajadamnern, opened in 1945. The signage outside calls it the world's first Muay Thai stadium, which is probably true. The art form is older than the building. This place gave it a roof, a ticketing system, and eventually a merch wall.

On departure, we see the merch (also serious shit). It includes a floor-to-ceiling wall of Muay Thai shorts in every color of satin — crimson, gold, teal, silver — all bearing the Rajadamnern name and the founding year 1945. Hugely overpriced. 

The satin catches the LED light, turning the whole display into something between a cultural archive and a duty-free counter.

Then: Buddha & Pals (Lesbian Bar)

Parth and Eshita had done recon: at some point, they got a recommendation from locals: Buddha & Pals.

Boy howdy!

Buddha & Pals lives in an old shophouse. The plaster peels from the brickwork in layers. Crystal chandeliers hang from exposed ceiling beams. The bar shelves behind the counter are stacked with bottles and mismatched glassware. It’s got a distinctive New Orleans vibe. The entrance, from the street: red neon script, two chairs, a round table, nothing else.

On the window, written in chalk: Tere... Soul Mama. The Jazz Rebel.

No camera crew. No ocho-ocho. No t-shirts.

The pizza was good. The beer was cold. The music was American soul, played by Thai musicians and sung by “Tere Soul Mama/Jazz Rebel” (I want that on my business card).

There’s a whole meditation on rebellion, jazz, and so forth. Anyway, we stayed until they stopped playing.

Two stops, one night. 

Spectacle first — real fighting wrapped in Vegas production, the history of a martial art packaged. Something quieter after — a crumbling shophouse, good pizza, cold beer, music that was a balm and damned entertaining in equal measure. 

Perfect nights are rare. Perfect nights with new friends: rarer still.