Having previously watched the Saphan Phra Ram VIII bridge building documentary, naturally I gravitated toward the towering spire to see the Bangkok Superbridge in all it’s suspended glory.

Shortly after finishing my blood soup, I took a left off Th. Samsen and headed east down a small street neatly lined with Tuk Tuks. If the homing pigeon in me was correct (figuratively speaking, that is – although I never did figure what the meaty bits were in that soup), this would take me out to the main river, the Mae Nam Chao Phraya. From there, I hoped to catch a good view of the new bridge.

Despite wandering for less 2 minutes down this quiet side road, it felt like I’d just walked right out of the heart of Bangkok and into a sleepy suburb. Gone were the fume belching busses, the ubiquitous horn honkers and the pavements more akin to an urban obstacle course than a pedestrian thoroughfare. No longer did I need that spare pair of eyes up my behind watching out for speeding mopeds, potholes and lastminute.com telegraph poles; instead, I could now fully appreciate the unfolding scenery as I sauntered along.

Bordering the street were high, whitewashed walls. I had little choice but to continue along the street and hope that it spat me out on the riverbank. Rising up behind the wall, I noticed a cluster of ornate orange roofs denoting another of the many temples in the area. Further along, four young monks appeared, spanners and screwdrivers in hand, and busily set about righting one of the many rusted flagpoles bolted to the wall. Fighting the urge to whip out my camera and get a photo that I would later imaginatively title ‘Monks fixing Flagpole’, I continued along the backstreet, sweating in the midday sun like a hippy at a job interview and darting like a vampire from pavement to pavement wherever the patchy shade seemed thickest. 

I heard the end of the street before I saw it. Dogs barking, kids yelling and excitable shouts peppered with sporadic hoots of laughter. I became curious as to the commotion. The retaining walls gave way to various low level buildings and narrow offshoots. Predictably, shop fronts and eateries appeared as if by magic, taking full advantage of these few square feet of ever precious Bangkok real estate. Beyond the shop fronts, the street terminated in a full blanket of shade afforded by a canopy of broad leafed trees. Beneath the trees lay the source off all the commotion.

Just ahead, to the right, I spotted a large white marquee - of which the contents remained obscured. Clearly visible, though, were a collection of tables and chairs on its periphery, mostly occupied with Thais who, on the whole, were stripped to the waist and gathered round several bottles of liquor in varying stages of completion.

I seriously considered turning around at that point and casually wandering back from whence I came. In any other situation I probably would have, since there’s nothing quite as unpredictable as a drunk, or worse, a group of drunks. This time, however, I was reluctant to do an about turn. Although I could have really done  without any hassle, I really, really did want to see what was that tent – and check out the bridge.

I decided to continue onward, my reason being twofold:  for one, on such an empty street I must have stood out like a turd in a punchbowl and, despite the drunken fervour, I’m sure that I’d already been noticed (to turn around now probably wouldn’t have done me any favours) and, secondly, I really did want to see what was in that tent.

The open side of the tent didn’t come into view until I’d walked among the tables and the partying Thais. Much to my delight, many of the guys were too busy with the whisky to even acknowledge the arrival of a nosy foreigner – and those that did glance over didn’t seem in the least bit offended that I’d wandered into the party zone. So long as the shouting and laughing continued, I’d feel comfortable about making my way to the water’s edge to see the bridge, although now I had a more pressing engagement with a tent.

The tent, as it turned out, was a rudimentary Muay Thai Boxing Academy. To the far right hung row upon row of tatty, taped up gloves – I must have counted at least 50 pairs – below which lay a small changing area. The middle section formed the gym. Around a makeshift weights bench (knocked up from what looked like several scraps of angle iron) lay dumbbells and barbells – some of which took the form of steel bars set in buckets of concrete. I paused for a moment to salute such ingenuity and thrift. The remainder of the garden party-sized marquee housed the main Thai boxing ring, sitting proudly on a 3ft platform and bound with adequate rope to stop the loser from escaping too early. I don’t know if the ring happened to be full size or not, but it did looked pretty big - even from my current, relatively safe distance.

With curiosity now satisfied, I chose to linger no longer. Concerned that some bright spark might have the brilliant, drunken idea of chivvying me into the ring with his mate called ‘Wan the Destroyer ‘ (who instead of being born had more likely been cast out of the same concrete as the barbells), I casually drifted further from the tent and more toward the riverbank.

There was no point in turning around now. Having come this far, I felt I owed it to The Big Kahuna to check out his new bridge.