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By Nancy Wigston
It must be fifteen years ago that I first tried a "Traditional Thai Massage"
while waiting to rendezvous with friends in the city of Chiang Mai, on the
edge of the Golden Triangle. A bicycle-taxi deposited me at what looked like
a night club/restaurant that was closed in the afternoon, and I was lead to
a private room. Here I undressed, somewhat nervously. I lay down on the mat,
following the sign-language instructions of the masseuse. I spoke no Thai;
she spoke no English. No worries. She vigorously pulled and cracked my
fingers and toes, expertly pressed her weight on every vertebrae and at one
astonishing point - I could have sworn - was kneeling on my back while
stretching my arms out full-length.
When another bicycle-taxi picked me up and took me, all loosened and
relaxed, back to my guest house, the conversation went something along the
lines of: "What? You paid that much? I could have gotten you a much better
price." I paid about CDN$10. Welcome to Thailand, Land of Smiles and Great
Massage. Prices may vary. These days I would not visit Thailand without
sampling a massage or two or three. Traveling vast distances in cramped
airline seats, jolting your bones in jeeps on the way to remote hill
villages, the tedious luggage-laden schlep through airports the size of
small towns: there are more than enough reasons for your sore body to
receive a healing massage anywhere in Asia.
Or, you might, like my husband, have a chronic disc problem. The acupressure
method practiced in traditional Thai massage makes a perfect antidote for
disc protrusion pain. At Moon Muang Samoonprai Traditional Thai Massage in
Chiang Mai, just around the corner from our room at Gap's Antique Guest
House, a photo-gallery in the window shows each step in the massage
procedure. My physician-husband studies it closely before entering.
Intimately familiar with his troublesome disc, he knows what needs to be
done to relieve his sciatic pain. I am already upstairs in a room painted a
soothing blue, surrounded by young western backpackers on the customary
floor mats. A child sleeps under the whirring ceiling fan as his mother
works on the tourists and their kinks. I must admit that my 6'2" husband
does not obtain complete relief, as hard as the tiny masseuse tries. "She
packed a punch," he admitted with admiration. We pay our $10 (for two,
including tip) and depart, measurably more relaxed than when we arrived.
At the plush Regent Chiang Mai Resort, about a thirty-minute drive from the
city of Chiang Mai, in Mae Rim, visitors and guests can indulge in the Lanna
Spa, named for the style of swooping roofs and dark teak floors that earmark
the Lanna period of Thai civilization. The rooms run to the expensive -
Hilary Clinton stayed here during her husband's presidency - and are done in
the best of taste, using traditional Thai crafts wherever possible. You
needn't be a hotel guest to enjoy a lunch over looking the hotel's lush
gardens and its own rice paddy (rice crops are given to local villagers) or
to partake of their traditional massage treatment in the Lanna Spa. Warming
ginger tea is offered on arrival; fresh flowers float in bowls; towels are
plentiful; there are bathrobes and lovely showers. No neighbours distract
from an atmosphere of pampered privacy. Is the massage itself better than
others? Slightly perhaps, depending on the skill of your masseuse. The
towels are certainly fluffier, as they should be, where prices compare to
those at home.
As famous as Thailand for its traditional massage, and world-renowned for a
whole body of ancient medicine, is the south-western Indian State of Kerala,
which also boasts of a one hundred per cent literacy rate. In Kerala,
medical students choose from three kinds of medicine: Ayurvedic, modern
(Western), or homeopathic. The Ayurvedic course lasts five and a half years,
followed by three years of postgraduate study. This I learned from Dr.
Manoj, resident doctor at an Ayurvedic Health Centre in the resort town of
Kovalam. Dr. Manoj does not condone the mushrooming of dubious 'rejuvenation
' and other health centres in Kovalam. He is working with the Tourist Board
to maintain standards; so far a mere dozen are officially licensed -
probably not including one called The House of Occultism. He adds that
Ayurveda works best if combined with yoga practice.
Before my massage in his clinic (about $30), he explains not only Ayurveda's
rigorous medical requirements, but also its roots. "Ayurveda goes back to
200 bc, when Dhanwanthiri, the god of medicine in the Hindu epics (the
Vedas) gave it to the people of the earth." Due to the special contribution
of eight families of expert practitioners, known as the Ashtavaidyas, who
reinterpreted the classical works, Kerala is considered the centre for the
purest form of Ayurveda. "Kerala styles cannot be found in northern India,
but traditional medicine can, since the ingredients remain the same."
When massage time arrives, I am ushered into a chamber where two smiling
females await (the sexes are never mixed). Stripping down to the ghost of a
g-string, I climb onto a table where I am anointed with oil containing
numerous herbs. Working in long synchronized strokes, the women move along
my body like dancers awakening the deepest tissues. When they start rubbing
circles on my breasts, I suppress a giggle at the thought that Medicare
might decide to cover this treatment. Opening my eyes, I see my two angels
smiling down. When at last they finish, I am noodle-limp. Depositing me on a
stool, they massage my scalp before allowing a warm oil-removing shower.
Heading to my hotel room, I go straight to sleep.
I hadn't planned on getting a massage in China, but my recent trip to the
southern end of Hainan Island was plagued with incident. We found that the
new highway to Sanya, where the beaches are, was closed for repairs. We
detoured. Regaining the highway, we blew a tire. My neck began to hurt.
After getting the tire fixed ("American tire, no good" was the mechanic's
verdict), we finally reached the Gloria Resort, where Beijing-based
Americans fly in for weekends of golf. Our drive, a grueling eight hours,
left my neck complaining, my whole body stiff. On the beach next morning,
nobody but me was wearing a bathing suit; the Chinese stroll the tar-free
sands in business attire. But under some nearby umbrellas I discovered an
island treasure: Mr. Huang.
Mr. Huang turned out to be a skilled masseur, who informed me through my
friend and translator, that he works on the vice-president of the Peoples
Republic when he visits Sanya. Good enough for me. I climb onto his low cot
and let him go to work. In my experience, a beach massage is a languorous
affair. Huang hasn't heard, obviously. Working in a combination of
acupressure and shiatsu, he gives me the most determined hour I've ever
experienced. The price is high (about $40) for China, but not out of scale
for this planned island resort. Huang also provides advice on how to
sleep-with my pillow under my back, not my neck-and says good-bye as if he
expects to see me again, soon. I only wish I could.
Nancy Wigston is an Ontario-based travel writer, photographer and reviewer,
a frequent contributor to The Toronto Star, National Post and The Globe and
Mail.
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