Wushu students practice their moves at a gym near Dagon Center last week.

I BLAME my brothers. It is thanks to them that “play” fighting is one of the defining memories of my childhood, alongside the very real bruises and the enforced games of Worldwide Wrestling Federation that earned 10-year old Becky the entirely unsuitable nom de guerre, “The Black Widow”.

My adult fascination with learning the “art of fighting” – and some deep psychological scars – can no doubt be traced back to these experiences.

It’s a shame I hadn’t researched wushu philosophy before I began attending classes at the Myanmar Wushu Federation’s headquarters, near Dagon Center, three months ago, because wushu, in my experience, is not designed to turn lay-about journalists into mean, kick-ass killing machines.

Instead, this particular strain of kung fu preaches self control and discipline and, so far at least, involves almost no physical contact. Rather, wushu is made up of a string of precise moves that must be memorised and practised until they are perfect and can then be performed as routines.

But perhaps it just takes many more years of training – and some natural talent – to actually be allowed to fight another person.

Wushu is not for everyone. The sessions usually involve scrabbling around in a puddle of your own sweat, while a teacher shouts commands at you in a language you don’t understand. Invariably, you slip and slide your way through various routines that seem designed solely to make you look silly, while ensuring that your muscles ache for a minimum of 48 hours after the event.

Although you never actually touch an opponent, visualising an invisible partner that you can aim your kicks, punches and knifings at, is helpful and hugely therapeutic. Just between us, it’s one of the best things about this “sport”.

The first obstacle to becoming a wushu master is overcoming the utterly ridiculous picture of a handful of foreigners pacing in a steamy, mosquito-filled gym. I liken the contortionist walks to Nazi goose-stepping – a fantastic exercise for perfecting the famous kung fu kick, apparently.

The friend who introduced me to wushu in Myanmar had forewarned me about the goose-stepping, as well as the three-year-olds who hang around in the gym, practising their truly phenomenal wushu moves as you struggle to cajole your hands to touch your toes.

But as time goes by it starts to feel less ridiculous – and certainly less painful. There are still moments when my friend and I collapse into giggles but our sensei has developed a very effective technique for silencing sniggers. This generally involves making the offender do the entire routine again double pace, or singling out the giggler for a horribly accurate imitation of their lousy wushu moves.

However, after three months I feel we’ve reached a turning point. It came one night after the usual 45 minutes of stretching and embarrassing monty python-esque walks.

We were rewarded with a weapon – a sword. Or, more accurately, a piece of plastic in the shape of a shiny cutlass. It doesn’t have the heavy, satisfying weight of the swords I remember being shown in Welsh castles but then those Welsh soldiers never knew the art of wushu.

Being handed a weapon, even a completely harmless one, was a momentous occasion: Instantly the months of training fell away and we regressed to being kids, playing pirates with our plastic swords. Of course, our sensei scolded us and then decided our lack of wushu discipline on this occasion meant that no, in fact, we weren’t ready to wield a weapon of any kind. We have not been offered the chance again.

The sum of my wushu experience? You are more likely to learn patience and perseverance than how to Chinese-burn your ex-boyfriend from 15 feet. As for beating up my brothers, well, the jury is still out on that one.

Wushu is taught everyday after 6pm in a gym on Bar Ga Yar Street, Sanchaung township, Yangon.