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Prodded and Pummeled
Into Paradise at a Thai Spa - Ko Samui, Thailand
I studied the menu of massage packages
at the Tamarind Springs spa: "Traditional Thai," "Sheer Indulgence,"
"Divine decadence." They looked good, but none was just what
I craved. I decided to order off the menu.
The receptionist
took notes as I described my ultimate spa fantasy. I'd start
with an herbal steam sauna, follow that with a two-hour traditional
Thai full-body massage, continue with a half-hour facial and
polish the day off with a half-hour wild mint foot massage.
The only problem was that my "package" didn't have a cute
little name.
"What
do you call this?" I asked. "Extreme," the receptionist said.
But if you're going to be a bear, might as well be a grizzly.
The setting
for my massage marathon was Ko Samui, an island in the Gulf
of Thailand, about 275 miles south of Bangkok. After three
weeks in China, Andrea and I had returned to Thailand, the
crossroads of Southeast Asia.
Thai
massage, a blend of acupressure and manipulation, is a cottage
industry here. Masseuses work on the beach, in studios and
in resorts like Tamarind Springs.
My spa
visit was more or less a medical emergency. My body had been
ravaged by the rigors of globe-trotting. The day before, I
had dragged a beach chair into the sea and sat in the warm,
clear water. I couldn't survive another day of such strenuous
activity without serious rejuvenation.
I'm not
really a spa guy. My few previous massages have induced, rather
than reduced, stress; I lay there the whole time fretting
about the cost. But massage in Thailand is cheaper than a
meal in a budget restaurant. The freelancers on the beach
charge a bout $5 per hour. Even the obscene swath I planned
to cut through Tamarind Springs would set me back less than
$50.
Unlike
most resorts on this cramped, touristy island, Tamarind Springs
sits far from the beach. The airy, thatched structures dot
the side of a mountain thick with coconut palms. Joining me
there was Andrea, who chose a mere 90-minute session.
I traded
my clothes for a plaid sarong and climbed the path to the
herbal steam sauna, built between two giant boulders, the
rocks serving as walls. Shafts of sunlight pierced the steam
through translucent glass tiles in the ceiling. Under a rocky
overhang outside the door is a cold plunge pool. Padding from
sauna to pool to refrigerator stocked with mineral water and
iced ginger tea, I nearly melted into the mountainside.
After
showering and changing into a fresh sarong, I met Toey, my
masseuse. She was slight woman, yet she had forearms like
howitzers. I would be under their power for the next three
hours.
Toey
led me up the hill to a thatched platform where other masseuses
in blue surgeon's pants and floral blouses labored over tourists
stretched out on elevated mats. Lying on my back, I closed
my eyes and listened to the whir of overhead fans, the strains
of New Age music and the flutter of palm fronds - punctuated
by frequent sighs of bliss from my neighbors.
Toey
had worked 30 minutes on my right leg when it dawned on me
just how long three hours is. My massage would last longer
than a movie, longer than a baseball game, even longer than
some of history's pivotal battles. Maybe I had crossed the
line between indulgence and overindulgence. I felt a twinge
of guilt, which vanished when Toey began kneading my left
calf.
Traditional
Thai massage involves 68 positions, few of which I'd have
thought I could be folded into. Toey used her hands, elbows,
knees, legs and feet to pull, twist, stretch, jab, stomp,
poke, pound and pummel me. Some of her maneuvers reminded
me of wrestling holds, and if I opened my eyes, I thought
I might see a referee slapping the mat three times. Yes, I
may have been pinned, but never had defeat felt so good.
After
that, the facial was a bit of a letdown, The brochure mentioned
masks of Khamin (turmeric) and prai herbs, but it all felt
like mud to me, and after Toey washed it off, I still had
the same face. The one plus was that this procedure let me
recline in a chair and observe my neighbors. One guy was having
a foot massage. When I saw his eyes roll back in ecstasy,
I knew Toey had saved the best for last.
She started
working the wild mint lotion into my feet, and tingles shot
up to my ears. When she ran a thumbnail around each of my
toes, my body convulsed with pleasure. Did I deserve such
delight? Of course not. But my long-neglected feet did, and
I suspected they'd be thanking me for weeks.
I emerged
a new man. The path back down the mountain felt different
beneath my feet. All the bumps had been rubbed away.
Mike
McIntyre |
