- Antonio Graceffo
- Mar 18
- 6 min read
For years, Cambodia occupied a spot on my bucket list of countries in which I wanted to learn martial arts. Once there, however, I was saddened to learn that Khmer kung fu had nearly been lost. I tried training at the only club I could find in Phnom Penh but was disappointed.
I stuck with it awhile, learning patterns and stances, but I periodically go through phases in which traditional classes seem pointless, and one was beginning to hit me. I concluded that the students were practicing strikes and blocks they could never use in a real fight. My mood wound up driving me back to professional fighting, which fortunately is well-established in Cambodia.
The physical pursuit that captured my attention was bradal serey, aka Khmer kickboxing. I arranged to begin training on a Monday, so on Sunday, I went to a local TV studio to watch some matches. That’s when I discovered that most fighters in Cambodia are under contract to a TV studio.
Locals told me the studios normally provide a salary of $20 a month so the fighters can train. They’re paid $20 to $25 per bout, and they fight whomever and whenever the studio orders them to.
I quickly learned of the oddities that exist in Khmer kickboxing. For example, just before a match, I watched two fighters walk out and do an abbreviated version of wai khru, the symbolic dance that’s performed before muay Thai bouts. “That’s just like in Thailand,” I said to a friend.
“Absolutely not,” shouted several Khmers who happened to overhear. They were offended that I’d suggested that their national sport even slightly resembled a Thai sport.
After noting that the fighters were stripped to the waist, barefoot, and gloved, I said to my friend, “They’re wearing muay Thai shorts.”
“No, they aren’t,” the bystanders argued. “They’re wearing Khmer-boxing shorts.”
A bell signaled the beginning of the round, and the men began feeling each other out with kicks, punches, elbows, and knees. It looked exactly like muay Thai. The structure also was the same: five rounds with two-minute breaks.
Even the rhythm mirrors muay Thai.
The only way to win in the first two rounds is by knockout. The judges, as a rule, don’t record points scored in those rounds. So the first two rounds are slower, almost a warm-up. Rounds three and four are when the bulk of the action takes place.
Whoever wins those rounds will most likely win the fight — unless he gets knocked out.
Now, round five can be problematic. If the man in blue wins rounds three and four, the man in red will have no chance of winning, so he'll take it easy. Blue will also go easy, not wanting to take any chances that can upset his victory.
In such cases, the fifth round is often boring. If, however, red wins round three and blue wins round four, round five is make or break. The men will pound each other, and the spectators will be on their feet the whole time, calling out their bets.
I later learned that there are, in fact, no differences between the way pro kickboxing is done in Cambodia and the way muay Thai is done in Thailand. The Khmers claim they invented the art, which is why they get touchy when people refer to it as muay Thai.
A local friend cited another possible reason for those occasional sleepy rounds: Because the martial artists are allowed to fight only other athletes who are under contract with the same TV station, they often wind up battling a teammate, a guy they train with every day. One national champion I spoke with said that because he's at the high end of the weight continuum, he'd fought a few opponents five or six times each.
The first thing you notice when you walk into a kickboxing gym in Phnom Penh is that every Khmer man, almost without exception, can kick. You notice that because no one, not the young boys and not the middle-aged businessmen, can resist the urge to uncork a few deadly roundhouse kicks whenever they walk past a heavy bag.
At first, it was intimidating. “They all can kick better than I can,” I said to myself.
But then I noticed that most don't know how to train. Yes, they can throw leg-shattering kicks at the bag, but they seldom practice combinations. They just stand in front of the heavy bag, execute a few hellacious kicks, and then wander off to drink some water or chat with friends.
That’s not to say Khmer kickboxing has no value. In fact, the combat sport has many fascinating facets. One of the more interesting is the way fighters often win with a head kick. It's not a conventional knockout in which the shin strikes the temple. Rather, it happens when the top of the foot hits the back of the opponent's neck.
The punch that Khmer kickboxers do best is the roundhouse to the side of the head. They'd have more luck with it if they incorporated it into their combinations. Because the punch is usually initiated from too far away for it to have the knockout power of a disciplined hook, it needs to be linked to leg techniques to become a bout-ender.
Clearly, the strength of Khmer kickboxing lies in its kicks, which most fighters can throw with pinpoint precision. Training to develop that kicking ability is probably why they can withstand body shots that would waste a Westerner.
After a short time in Cambodia, I found myself comparing life as a foreign fighter there with life as a foreign fighter in Thailand. Both nations offer advantages.
When it comes to fighting in Asia, training in Cambodia is cheaper than in Thailand. A whole month of training with a Khmer instructor costs $20. In Thailand, I paid $10 a day, and there were other programs that cost much more.
The skill level of the kickboxers in the two countries is roughly the same.
The difference, of course, is that there are more foreigners fighting in Thailand, which boosts the level of Thai bouts. As a result, the Thais are beginning to alter their training and techniques. In contrast, most Khmers have never fought a foreigner.
Many don't have a television, and even if they did, it wouldn't matter because there aren't any broadcasts of foreign kickboxing or MMA shows to help educate them.
In both countries, you can find plenty of sparring partners. If, however, you're a heavyweight, you might have trouble finding people your own size in both nations. I weigh 190 pounds, and I've never had a training partner anywhere close to my size.
If you want to fight professionally, Thailand is hands down the better choice. In Phnom Penh, you pretty much have to be on contract with a TV studio, which will pay you $20 to $25 per fight. In Thailand, however, there are so many venues with weekly events that you can fight every day of the week if you want to.
As a foreigner in Thailand, you can walk into a stadium the day before a show and not only get a match but also get a shot at a purse of about $120. The Thais love to watch big Westerners in the ring. Obviously, they prefer if we lose, but that’s to be expected.
Worth noting is a strange phenomenon that exists in Thailand but hasn’t reached Cambodia yet. It’s called bar boxing. It was created because Thailand has areas with drinking establishments that resemble food courts in Western malls. Most have a boxing ring in the middle, and that means fighters are needed.
Every night, fake fights take place in those rings, solely for entertainment purposes. Afterward, the fighters stroll among the onlookers and collect tips. Foreign fighters in Asia always do well when it comes to tips. If you want to live in Thailand and train long-term, bar boxing is a good way to supplement your income without getting injured.
Choosing between Cambodia and Thailand ultimately depends on what you're looking for.
If you want to have a unique cultural experience and meet the Khmers, a group of people most Westerners know nothing about, Cambodia is the way to go. If you're out to improve your kickboxing and make some money, Thailand may be the better choice.
