Asia > Thailand > The North > Chiang Saen > Articles > Jumbo Fun in Thailand

If the first rule of any sport is to size up the opposition, then I think we’re in deep dung. Our opponents are mountains of men – ex-New Zealand All Black rugby players, in fact, human bears that could devour us in one gulp. They’ve already subjected us to the haka in an attempt to psyche us out. And to make matters worse, they are now sitting astride massive 2.5 tonne beasts holding very big sticks. To say it’s an intimidating sight is the ultimate understatement.

But in the gentlemanly sport of elephant polo, size isn’t everything. In fact, the smaller the elephant the more nimble, and the closer the rider is to the ground and the coveted little white ball. The fact that I have the smallest jumbo on the pitch should be an advantage. At least that’s what I keep telling myself as the action slowly makes its way down to my line of defence.

I have taken on the role of goalie in the Media team, pitted against the far more experienced and physically superior PriceWaterhouse Coopers-All Blacks in the 2006 King’s Cup Elephant Polo tournament in Thailand. This annual event, held for the past five years in the Royal seaside resort of Hua Hin, this year headed for the hills to the lush northern outpost of Chiang Saen, an ancient village on the Laos/Burma border in the infamous Golden Triangle region.

There are twelve official teams this year, a curious mix of professional horse polo players, loopy English aristocrats, enthusiastic amateurs and the odd celebrity. And while it all seems like ridiculous self-indulgence for people with too much time and money on their hands, it’s all for a good cause – raising money for the National Elephant Institute, a charity that rescues and rehabilitates many of Thailand’s sad city-bound elephants and their mahout trainers.

The game is officiated by referee John Roberts, resident elephant expert at the host Anantara Resort, who expertly dodges stampeding beasts and flailing two-metre long bamboo poles as he keeps an eye on the action. Other key personnel include ‘stick chicks’ who dash onto the field with replacement mallets every time one snaps, which is often; and ‘pooper scoopers’, who dash onto the field with cane baskets and big shovels every time an over-excited elephant marks its territory, which is often.

Then, of course, there is the rag-tag international media contingent, ever keen to get a piece of the pachyderm-action. The organisers are kindly calling our game an ‘exhibition match’, but it soon becomes apparent we are the half-time entertainment, the novelty act. It’s Brains versus Brawn in a seven-minute chukka, and the Brains are clearly and utterly out of their league.

Undeterred, I scream at my mahout, the bemused local man who’s actually controlling my elephant, in the only Thai words I know – “pai, pai – go, go! No, bok bok – back!” There’s a resulting scrum of lumpy grey flesh, and somewhere down amongst the forest of trunks and legs is the ball, hacked at hockey-style, clumps of mud flying, mallets clashing. We turn, thump, stumble and plod, getting nowhere fast. For the small crowd of onlookers braving the rain and knee-deep mud, it’s hardly riveting, edge-of-the-seat stuff.

For me, it’s the most fun I’ve had in years. The game of elephant polo was invented, not surprisingly, in a bar in St Moritz 25 years ago, the cocktail-fuelled brainchild of two British horse polo enthusiasts, Scottish luge champion James Manclark, and tiger hunter turned tiger conservationist, Jim Edwards, the pioneer of modern tourism in Nepal. After discovering that Jim had a string of elephants at his Himalayan camp, James jokingly suggested they play polo on the beasts. Six months later, Jim received a telegram from his drinking buddy: “Arriving Kathmandu April 1. Have long sticks. Get elephants ready!”

The rest, as they say, is elephant polo history – though the small blow-up soccer balls that Manclark also brought with him were soon discarded when the elephants discovered that stomping on them made them explode. James and Jim subsequently founded the World Elephant Polo Association, and there are now three international tournaments per year – one at Jim’s Tiger Tops Jungle Lodge in the Royal Chitwan Park in Nepal, one in Sri Lanka, and the other in Thailand, where it is now the 6th largest event on the Thai tourism calendar.

The rules of the game - based on horse polo and devised through trial and error - are simple. There are three elephants a side, playing on a marked pitch of 100 metres by 60 metres. There are two seven-minute chukkas per game, with time out for slipping saddles, buried balls and broken sticks. Only one elephant from each side is allowed in the D, the scoring area of each half.

If an elephant lies down in front of the goal, it constitutes a foul. An elephant may not pick up the ball with its truck during play; it can, however, pick up a dropped polo mallet and hand it back to its mahout. Gentlemen may only use one hand to whack the ball; ladies, as I was grateful to discover, may use both hands. I’m not sure what rule ladyboys abide by (there is a Thai gender-bending team which usually makes an appearance at this event – sadly a no-show this year.)

The main point of difference with horse polo, apart from the speed, energy and size of the mounts, is that each elephant carries a player, velcroed onto a cloth saddle with rope stirrups, and a mahout who sits behind the head, steering with his knees, feet and voice. These long-suffering locals are the real stars of the show, enduring shouts, tugs and cussing by the often-frustrated colonials. What the mahouts really think about these rich, crazy farangs (foreigners) is anyone’s guess – but while they appear to be enduring the whole shebang with quiet grace, rumours abound of an underground mahout betting racket which may or may not be influencing the results. That, at least, was one disgruntled losing team’s excuse…

According to Jim Edwards, however, the game is totally controlled by the elephants. “You can’t negotiate with an elephant,” he laughs. “If an elephant chooses to stand still, there’s absolutely nothing you can do. They’re clever buggars!”

However, as I can testify, absolutely anyone can play elephant polo. All that’s required is a head for heights, elastic thigh muscles and nerves of steel. A bit of spare change doesn’t go astray either – with an entry fee of US$12,000 per team, this is not a sport for paupers.

It also helps if you can hit the ball – which is where horse polo skills come in handy. Throughout the week-long competition, it becomes apparent that the real contenders are those who play polo professionally. With a solid whack of the ball, the action opens up and the elephants actually charge down the pitch, trotting along with trucks and tails held high, sometimes trumpeting with glee. When the game is played properly, it’s a sight to behold, verging on the exciting. Almost.

Meanwhile, I’ve discovered a competitive edge in me I didn’t know existed. Dogged and determined, I hammer and prod at the ball, bracing against the brute strength of the All-Black’s attack. After a series of pathetic croquet-style taps, I finally make decent contact, and the ball bounces a good two metres, our team’s most impressive shot to date. The crowd goes wild; and the commentator shouts my praise effusively over the PA: “Brilliant play by Julie from Australia, definitely the most improved media player”. Chuffed, I do a little elephant-back victory dance, showing off to my legion of fans and begging a photo opportunity. Then… thwack …

Lesson Number 1; Never take your eye off the ball. Especially if your opponent is a professional sportsman with dirty big arm muscles. Despite my newfound skills, I’d been thwarted by my own ego, not to mention a damn fine hit by former star All Black loose head prop, Steve McDowell.

And so the Media team concedes defeat to the All Blacks 1-0, a pretty impressive result for a bunch of virgin players, methinks. And despite my one embarrassing lapse of concentration, I am awarded the ‘Player of the Match’ award, constituting a pat on the back. It’s the only thing I’ve ever won in my life. I don’t shut up about it for days.

Having discovered a sport I’m good at, I can now sit back in the VIP tent with a G & T and watch how the experts do it. But as the competition progresses, so does the foul weather front, torrential rain turning the already slippery pitch into a quagmire. In one horrible, breathtaking moment an elephant slips and falls, squashing a long German leg beneath its bulk. Fortunately the ground is so soft there’s no damage done; but the decision is made to postpone the finals, and recommence the following day with a penalty shoot-out.

Before a capacity crowd of curious locals, champagne-quaffing tourists and the poker-faced representative of the King of Thailand, it’s down to the wire with the Germans versus the Scots for the championship. It’s an epic battle – each one of these players knows how to hit the ball, and the little flag-man is kept busy waving his red sticks in the air. In the end, there’s literally just centimetres in it, a German goal attempt, slowed by the heavy conditions, stopping within a whisker of the chalk.

Victory to the Duke’s men! As a droll, be-kilted Scottish journalist proudly tells me, it’s the only sport the Scots have ever excelled at. I know just how they feel – and share in their proud moment. If it takes a made-up sport, bucketloads of money and an elevated sense of the absurd to be world champions, then all kudos to them. But look out for the underdog Aussie team I’ll be bringing along next year…

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