The eyes of the two young men narrowed like those of hateful tomcats. The men's arms cocked, and their fists challenged each other to advance. Bare feet danced nervously over straw-covered earth. The light from a bulb hanging from an overhead tree limb made the thick sweat on the men's dark, farm-hardened bodies shine like grease. Their chests heaved, and their heads moved from side to side with wariness. They seemed totally oblivious to the deafening shrill of the cicadas in the jungle surrounding the crude boxing ring's ropes and fence-post corners. The cumulus of moths and bats around the bulb exploded. A roar erupted from the crowd around the little battlefield. Raw muscle charged, collided, pounded. Guttural cries burst from bruised lips. In the background, tom-toms and a raspy java flute tried frantically to mimic the battle's tempo. Feet slapped against ribs, elbows thudded against skulls, knees pushed into stomachs. It was Thai boxing, where every limb and joint is a part of the fighter's arsenal. -- Worldwalk book, pg. 424