I came for a workout and met Kru Dum—a former Lumpinee champion, lunch-cooking coach, and master of quiet authority—who showed how Muay Thai isn’t just about kicks and punches, but a window into the soul of Thailand. 

I stepped into the gym with hesitation. I wasn’t a fighter, and I wasn’t dreaming of a career in the ring. I was just an ordinary guy who wanted to learn something new on holiday—about Muay Thai, and through it, Thai culture. The trip to felt incomplete if I didn’t at least try the national sport. 

The gym was hot, humid, and bare-bones. No walls, just a roof held up by metal poles. On the padded floor, a mixed group of travelers trained: some seasoned, others clearly new to the sport. Among them moved a short, muscular man giving instructions. When he saw me standing hesitantly at the edge, he walked over and greeted me. His stocky build had caught my attention, but it was his smile that disarmed me. 

His name was Kru Dum, the gym’s head coach. He invited me to join the session—and just like that, I was in. We ran, did bodyweight drills, shadowboxed, and practiced one-on-one techniques, hitting and kicking pads he held up with a calm intensity. 

After the morning training, Kru Dum would cook lunch for us in a small kitchen at the back of the gym. In the evenings, we trained again. With every session I learned something new, but more than that, I began to sense that each move and technique came from a lineage strecthing back generations. Dum wasn’t just teaching punches and kicks–he was passing on a piece of Thai identity. 

Between rounds, I asked about his life. Dum told me he fell in love with Muay Thai at the age of eight, when his father took him to see his first fight. “Before that, I played football,” he said. “But when I saw that fight, something changed. It was love at first sight.” 

He joined a gym immediately, and his first fight came just months after—he lost, but earned 200 baht. “I gave it to my parents,” he said. Even as a child, he understood that fighting could help support his family in the countryside. 

He had talent, but more importantly, perseverance. By twelve, he was invited to train at a better gym in a bigger city. He left home, and the rice sacks hanging from trees that had served as punching bags were replaced with proper gear. 

The way of Muay Thai in Thailand isn’t easy. For Dum, it was a love that demanded everything—and often drove him to tears. “I was always tired. When my friends went out to play, I went to the gym,” he said. 

But he endured. The fights kept coming—over 300 in total, including dozens at Bangkok’s legendary Lumpinee and Ratchadamnoen stadiums. His most memorable bout? His debut at Lumpinee. He was so nervous that he charged forward the moment the bell rang and knocked out his opponent in the first round—with just a few kicks. 

“Bangkok isn’t an easy place,” he told me. “Training was hard. We ran 15 kilometers every morning—and sometimes again in the afternoon.” 

Eventually, age caught up with him. He tried different path, working in the kitchen of a top restaurant. But the pull of the gym was strong. He came back—not as a fighter, but as a teacher. 

What does Muay Thai meant to him? “Everything,” he said. “It’s my life. I’ve given it everything, and it has given me everything. I could help my family. I built my own. Now I want to give others the chance to learn muay thai.” 

Sometimes, he still misses the ring. But these days, it’s his students who feed that hunger. Many come for just a couple of weeks and end up staying for months. One of them—a tall, fast Dutchman—stepped into a local fight night during my final days and won. 

“Tonight we celebrate!” Kru Dum beamed, grinning like it was his own victory. And in a way, it was. Sweat, effort, and training form fast bonds. In places like this, strangers become family. 

Across Thailand, there are Muay Thai gyms you can walk into as a total beginner. Some are simple backyard setups like Dum’s. Others are sleek, air-conditioned fitness centers. 

Just walk in. Try one class. Then another. Sweat. Stumble. Try again. Listen. Learn.  

Every gym has its own Kru—a teacher, coach, former fighter, often a father figure. Each one has a story. But they all share the same essence: a quiet authority, a calm presence forged through endless hours of training and the fires of the ring. 

They are not trying to be anything. They don’t have to. They have already found their place in the world. 

Text and photo: Antti Helin