Massage To My Girl

In my experience when people come to Thailand there are three things which are high on the list of things to do. People want to ride a motorbike without a helmet, they want to learn Muay Thai and they want to get a Thai massage.

I do not do these things. I do not want to be on a motorbike at the best of times, let alone without adequate safety precautions in cities congested by drivers who don't adhere to basic road rules. I do not want to be making a travel insurance claim which includes the words "before I slid down the asphalt." I have no interest in learning how to punch people or watch others do so, be it in a Thai manner or any other. And I certainly do not not feel at all inclined to have a stranger rub their hands over my bare flesh with or without oils in the baking heat of a Thai August day, wondering the whole time whether the next move will pull one of my arms out of its socket.

I will not do it.

Not one bit.

The first lady to massage me was a lot gentler than I expected. Sure, there was the lifting of my leg to the ceiling, the pulling of my fingers like a warm up for a Chinese bamboo finger torture, the requisite shoulder pinches and the slapping of my head like it was a meat carcass and she was Rocky Balboa. But it wasn't as horrific and enduring as I had expected.

The massage school was housed under a building in the main temple in Phitsanulok. We entered through a back entrance to the temple compound, passing by the aromatherapy sauna on the way.

But don't be fooled, this was no high-end day spa with sheets of bamboo covering the walls and air conditioned rooms separated by silk curtains. This was a bunch of shirtless Thai men walking around a concrete courtyard at the back of the temple - I thought you had to dress conservatively around a temple - with steam wafting off of their bare backs.

It was already humid and in the mid-thirties outside, so the idea of going into a sauna where the only cool respite would be coming outside to humid, mid-thirties conditions was not my idea of a good time.

Some from my hostel said they were going for the massage, half the price of what you'd get at the cheapest place anywhere else in Thailand, so I said I'd come for the walk. Just the walk.

We entered the massage room and I, displaying all my confidence and my strong will to make my own decisions, lay down on the mat at the far end of the room under the air conditioner the moment we walked in. I earlier discovered that the accommodation I had just checked into did not have air conditioning, so I was happy to just lay in the cool air for an hour.

But that was not accepted. The massage was very much an important part of being in the massage parlour. You didn't sit on the rollercoaster if you weren't prepared to go upside-down.

I lay down facing up and stared at the ceiling. All the rafters and the ceiling itself was painted in a light pink hue with flecks of the blue paint that had coloured the ceiling previously still peeking through. I noted that if I went home and one day got a Thai massage, I would only consider it an authentic experience if the painters of the massage parlour had avoided applying an undercoat to the ceiling.

The first woman began massaging my feet, pushing them down as if she was confused that they were sitting perpendicular to my legs. No, this was in fact the start of the massage. She started working on my left foot and left leg with a mixture of rubs, pulls and presses. I felt like a steak being prepared for grilling.

After a few minutes she made an action to indicate that she had somewhere better to be (and who could blame her) so she left and another lady took her place, beginning work on my right leg. After less than a minute this woman indicated that she needed to go to the bathroom and did so. I lay in the room, semi-tenderised, hoping she was washing her hands well.

She returned and, obviously feeling lighter on her feet post-toilet break, decided it was now time to pull my legs apart. I felt like a puppet competing in an Olympic gymnastics event. Limbs were outstretched and turned and rearranged. Had you not been able to see the woman doing all the work for me I think it would have looked quite impressive.

She pinched her way up and down my back, pressing her fingers in to me as if she was searching for lost treasure beneath the surface. My neck was perpetually prodded at, up and down. I started having flashbacks to being pulled out of the womb with forceps.

My head and upper back were seen to and before I knew it, it was over. I left, vowing to never return to this torture house or anything of the like. I had suffered through someone else's idea of relaxation and now could reject the idea in the future on account of my 'lived experience'. I would never get a massage again.

I returned the next day.

Photographs are from Phitsanulok, Sukhothai and surrounds.