And then more of the jiggling and slapping and vigorous rubbing ensue, and then you're to sit up while she gives you a once-over down your arms, back, head, and neck. And an hour's up and the pathways to and from your feet are suddenly tingly clear.
Cost: 'bout $5.
Just, don't mind that you're sitting in the middle of what amounts to the entry hall where a rather extended family of ladies is bringing up adolescent kids: at least three moms, maybe more; never fewer than 18 pairs of shoes outside, but in continual circulation.
And if your feet are all swollen, so much the more exciting, you get to become the focal point of much interest and engagement.
So I'm walking down the street in Penang, my pack heavy with the Lonely Planet Thailand and an annotated copy of the Quaran.
And I've got to throw in a plug for the HS Sam Bookstore here in Penang. Sam is a wiry old man in traditional cotton clothing who sits crosslegged on a stool while chatting with whomever strikes his fancy. He has the complete lineup of LP books, plus some Footprint and outdated editions, and a fantastic array of general reading—fiction, nonfic, bio, travel, sci fi, fantasy, mystery, and not much romance. The arrangement is a little wonky in places, but he has a great selection and extremely reasonable prices. He also has silk, batik, rents scooters and mountain bikes, arranges bus and visa considerations, and is, bottom-line, a wonderful human bean well worth patronizing.
Anyway, I'm walking along with some (more) happy reading, and there's a sign next to 7-11: reflexology, head and shoulder massage, traditional massage. For about half of what the other places were charging.
Bingo.
Up a narrow, scum-coated stairway, there are about a dozen pairs of sandals; mine are the only farang set, which I take to be a good sign. Or maybe not, as the family passing through the Thai foot massage place was a little disconcerting.
But I guess that's me wanting to believe that a massage is something of a ritual involving—necessitating--some separate, sacred space.
Inside, there's a plain wooden desk with an aging Chinese man behind it—he's maybe 50, maybe 70, mainly bald with gray bits left, could use a shave, and is dressed for easy, Malaysian comfort.
He's up and around the desk, walking at me.
“Do I need an appointment?”
“No, come in, come in, you want full body, right?”
“Actually, I was just after the reflexology with head and shoulders.”
“For you, I think you get full body.”
“But see, I've been having problems with my feet—they get swollen in the afternoon.”
“Well, you want, I give to you, but I think you better want full body. Reflexology is pressure for balance insides. Massage is for make whole body work better.”
“Great, then, I'll of course take your recommendation.”
So he leads me down this narrow, dark hallway where there are two beds squeezed in long-ways and separated by a thin, cotton, hospital-like curtain. He waves me to the second, tells me to take off my clothes, and points at a towel to, I assume, protect my Western sensibilities.
We'll get there.
I explain that I was pretty sick over the winter, lost a lot of weight, and I'm working on putting it back on. He's prodding my history as easily and gently as he begins work on my back, and pretty soon I'm drooling. He works energy lines, and instead of the Western sort of deal where he isolates a loosened-up knot and pressures it gently, he just twangs up and down the whole strip, then just sort of scoops them all away. Accompanied by a mixture of potions and oils and tinctures from his bag of tricks.
Way cool.
As soon as he starts on my legs, he latches onto my butt. Little weird, not used to having fingers in the hairy nether crevices, especially masculine ones, but as he's kneading on my butt, my foot is getting a glowing tingle. Well worth it.
And so it goes on down the leg—he kneads, pokes, prods, eventually says, “you have much, much pain here. Not pain like cut, but like when you bite sour lemon. Not good.”
He had the touch—when he got to a sore spot, he backed off immediately, then bore down when he moved on. He did very little with the muscle tissue, instead poking points along the flow lines and saying, “see, hurts here, and here, and here, and here, and swollen all the way up here. You go doctor?”
“Yes, went to the doctor. Much nicer in Thailand than America. Cheaper, too.”
“And?”
“Doctor tested liver, kidneys, heart, blood. Organs all look fine, but I need more protein. Doctor said eat more egg whites.”
Grunt. Dig.
Ahhhh.
He had me flip over, started with my legs, again dug into the furry nether crannys, and again I did not mind a whit. He went all through the energy lines and pressure points and what have you, cracked and popped and flexed and stretched limbs in bizarre ways that ultimately made me feel like he'd disconnected each body part, scrubbed it up, and reconnected it, but right-side-up this time.
It was supposed to be an hour session, but he'd spent so long on my legs it stretched to an hour and a half.
At the end, he said, “You muscles good, you body good, but weak. No blood, no strength. I can tell you muscles strong, you tough like snake, but you body weak, weak, weak. Eat egg. Eat lotta egg white. Egg white like nothing. You need beef. Beef and ox. Liver. Heart. Brain. You need strong. Eat lotta strong food and you be happy.” And then he punched me, an open heel of the hand to the solar plexus, and it let out all the gunk he had been sweeping up. It was like standing on spring loaded shoes.
Really, really, cool.
Cost, with exorbitant tip: $15.
No comments:
Post a Comment