VIENTIANE, Laos -- While tourists settle at the outdoor eateries along the levee beside the Mekong River to catch another stirring Vientiane sunset, a handful of Laotians nearby gawk equally intently at a middle-aged Caucasian man punching a local youth.

Romero Ruiz Ponciano paces relentlessly after Thanovanh, parrying a volley of punches before delivering one of his own -- a playful slap to Tanovanh's face with the palm of a sparring gloved hand that sends the 17-year-old staggering a couple of steps backward.

"Keep your gloves up!" he growls.

The dull clatter of spoon on metal bucket signals the end of the round. Tanovanh props his tiring arms on the ropes of the makeshift boxing ring, set up in a shady space near the river. His gloved hands move to wipe the sweat dripping down his face, then to cover the tears of frustration welling up in his eyes.

Ponciano, 51, quickly shifts his attention to the remaining dozen or so Laotians shadow-boxing in the 26 C shade at ringside. Three of them will be selected to compete at the Olympics Games in Sydney this summer.

"When I came here, they were at level zero," says the brawny Ponciano, fearless eyes glancing over the sparse facilities at his disposal -- a rickety ring and two punch bags strapped to a climbing frame. "Now, I'll give them a two . . . maybe a three," he adds with an apologetic smile, and turns back to Tanovanh, the youngest and perhaps most malleable of his disciples, who is now nursing a bloodied nose.

Tanovanh and company will likely spill a lot more blood on the canvas before they get to Sydney. But who better to install the necessary pride and passion than Ponciano, a former amateur champion from Cuba.

Ponciano's briefing to train Laos' young fighters comes right from Cuba's top brass, said Khiene Phomma, vice president of the Lao Amateur Boxing Association. Responding to a request made by Lao officials, Fidel Castro's government sent Ponciano over to help out Cuba's less-developed comrade -- a kind of fraternal socialism with a punch.

"Boxing is the sport of the people," said former national soccer player Phomma, a schoolteacher who trained in Leningrad and whose authoritative air and attire -- khaki pants and shirt -- seemed more in keeping with military.

World Boxing Council president Jose Sulaiman Chagnon took this a step further when he visited Nepal last year to promote boxing in Asia: "Boxing is the sport of the poor, and boxers are born in the humblest of beds," he said.

If so, Ponciano has a nation brimming with potential Muhammad Ali's at his disposal.

On an international scale, Laos is one of the world's 10 poorest countries, ranking alongside Rwanda and Bangladesh.

According to Phomma, many of Ponciano's fighters hail from "poor" countryside farming families -- the kind of people who would probably give an arm for a jab at the nation's annual per capita income of $390.

There is, however, no red carpet treatment for the young stars, even after they've been drafted into the national squad. Since starting intensive training with Ponciano last November, their home has been a small back room of a restaurant neighboring the training area.

Their day starts with a 5 a.m. training session and finishes with another in the late afternoon. In between, Ponciano delivers, and then collects them from school or college. They eat with him. In short, they live and breathe the Ponciano doctrine.

"It's hard," admits Vilasak Khouanoy, 21, standing at ringside while a handful of locals stood watching the shorter, but stockier Ponciano giving Tanovanh another roasting inside the ring. "But we must fight."

While the likes of Khouanoy are training to spill blood for the love of their country, still other Laotian boxers are doing so for the love of money.

After the 1975 revolution in Laos, professional sports were banned and amateur federations established for a number of sports. At the same time, the Lao People's Revolutionary Democratic Party placed a ban on anything Thai -- including books on Buddhism.

The government's jintanakan mai ("new thinking") reforms of the 1980s, however, helped bring the nations closer, and Thai culture, along with extensive investments by Thai businesses, gradually made its mark.

One of the most conspicuous examples of this is "muay Thai," or Thai kick boxing, which packs a big punch in Laos. Fans of the sport -- and there are many -- can be found glued to TV sets and radios whenever bouts from Bangkok's Ratchadamnoen Stadium are aired.

One fan, a student in Vientiane, said Thai boxing was more exciting than regular amateur boxing, and that the extra incentive represented by the handsome prize money in Bangkok's stadiums -- which can amount to hundreds of dollars -- had lured some Lao kick-boxers across the Mekong. (Laos has its own version of kick boxing, "muay Lao").

Phomma insists that the officially sanctioned, federation-backed version of the sport might be down, but it is certainly not out for the count.

Khouanoy, he brags, was crowned Asia champion in his weight class at a contest in Tashkent last year. Other boxers, such as 25-year-old Phon Thone, have fought in Japan and South Korea, among other countries, he adds.

For nations like Laos and Cuba denied any real influence on the international arena, sport can provide an invaluable outlet.

Since the revolution in the 1960s, Cuba has become a serious heavyweight in the international sporting arena, placing eighth at the 1996 Atlanta Olympics, one place below Australia and 28 above Britain. Its boxers played a major part, taking three gold and four silver medals.

The reach of Laos' boxers is still comparatively short, and qualification for this year's Olympics is certainly not assured.

But in comrade Ponciano, they at least have a fighting chance, says Phomma.

"Maybe we won't get gold, but with his help, who knows?"