A massage for you Rudee

As I mentioned in our previous blog, John and I each had an appointment with a masseur. I found the experience strange but thought you might prefer John’s forthright account.  I agree with a lot of the points he makes particularly about it being cold, and I have to admit I giggled to myself at different parts in the massage thinking of what was also happening to John!  Sorry but in the interest of modesty there are no photos.

John’s  Account

I’ve never been very keen on the idea of a massage and my previous experience in Thailand ended in disaster when I threatened to sort out the masseuse if she inflicted any more pain on me.  So I wasn’t as excited as Lucy was to experience the ancient Indian Ayurvedic massage although I reluctantly agreed to accompany her. We opted for the full wazoo and although we were to be treated at the same time, we would be in separate rooms and on reflection this was my only crumb of comfort.

At the appointed hour I met my masseur (let’s call him Al) who was small, wiry and tough looking with large hands and a firm handshake.  This was reassuring and I was pleased that he favoured the glare of the bright light bulb to the moody tea lights and Peruvian pan pipe CDs.  And so down to business in a cold small room. 

“All off?” I asked

“All off”

Not my Alan Whickers surely? I thought but when I saw Al holding up a skimpy loincloth I shrank at the knees and other places.  Al tied the cloth around my waist leaving a flap dangling in front of me, then tapped me on the shoulder and indicated that I should remove my trollies.  Once I had complied Al reached between my legs and secured the flap at the back in a thong arrangement which made me resemble a sumo wrestler.

The massage began with me standing in nothing but a piece of cloth the width and thickness of a toilet roll.  Al asks me to sit on a chair – it’s freezing as my largely bare bum and back weld to the plastic.  He gets a small drop of oil in his hands, says a short prayer (he wasn’t the only one) and anoints me.  I brace myself resolving to divulge only my name, rank and Tartan Army serial number.

We start with a short and vigorous head massage before Al asks me to climb up on the table and lie on my tummy.  I feel the knot on my loin cloth being undone and I hope Al’s not using his teeth. This is quickly followed by a splash of hot liquid on my back which I pray is massage oil.  So begins the rhythmic Abhyangam massage with the application of a viscous oil and some firm laying on of hands.  Al is very thorough as he works up and down my back from my head to the tip of my toes kneading and rubbing as he goes. 

I turn over and we continue.  He pours oil into my belly button – I guess almost half a pint disappears into this reservoir.  I’m lying on the bed with only my flimsy loin cloth to protect my modesty as Al goes to fetch more oil.  I can tell he’s left the door open by the breeze which sweeps up into the Trossachs.

Eventually there’s more oil on me than on the birds caught up in the Exxon Valdiz disaster.  The medicinal oil smells rank but Al says it will improve circulation and improve skin tone – He could be using Spry Crisp and Dry for all I know as I continue to grin and bear the manipulation.

We move on to the Kizhi, a full body massage applied via hot and heavy rice pads, cloth bags filled with hard rice and dipped in hot oil.  Supposedly restoring energy and vigour the massage starts by patting the hot bag onto my skin – as the bag cools, a hot replacement is substituted and the force of the application intensifies.  By now I’m so cold the application of burning oil to my bare skin is almost pleasurable.  Every forceful dab of the bag sends me sliding along the bed on my frictionless oily body and rather than relax I’m having to cling on by my finger nails to avoid sliding onto the cold stone floor.

And so we move on to the third and final torture, the Sirodhara.  This pouring of a continuous stream of oil onto the forehead and scalp is to eliminate toxins and mental exhaustion.  During the massage my eyes are covered with cotton wool and I lie back cold and bare awaiting my ordeal.  Apparently, the result is a fantastic sense of deep relaxation and inner peace.  For me, relying on sound it’s as if I’m lying naked in a chip shop with hot oil bubbling and spitting as it heats up, the strong smell of oil hanging in the air and the clattering and banging of pans as the hot liquid is transferred to the pot which will dribble the oil onto my head.  As the oil hits my head I imagine a warm golden shower cascading down – it isn’t a pleasant thought.

Lucy had told me that as you relax you can drift off – by now I am so cold that I am losing the feeling in my fingers and toes and other bits have shrivelled long before.  And yes, I could feel myself floating, generally drifting off………. into a hypothermic induced coma. Al was gently massaging my hair and scalp with the hot oil and I’m sure I heard a voice telling me to stay away from the light.

At last Al tapped me to get up and literally slide off the bed.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror – staring back at me was a slick (oil slick) Christopher Walken from Sleepy Hollow with hair standing on end.  I quickly towelled off as much of the oil as I could before heading back to our room for a hot shower and hoping not to alarm any guests on the way.

The funny thing was that on my way back I had to admit that I felt much fitter and more relaxed but wait ‘til I see Lucy!

Relax guys when John got back to the room he stunk and he knew that I knew the humiliation he had endured.  After a hot shower and lots of soap to remove the oil we both had a good laugh and vowed not to repeat the process.