Tiger Tales

FUNNY BONE

(Don’t) lay your hands on me

The ubiquitous Thai massage has Sarah Warwick all bent out of shape

ILLUSTRATION PAOLO LIM

Tourists arriving in Thailand generally can’t wait to do one of three things: tuck into a spicy Thai meal, hit the beach or get the kinks out with a traditional massage. Well, not me. I have nothing against the food – I’m as happy as the next chick to gobble down some pad Thai or gaeng keow – and the beaches are out of this world, but I have come to realise that, alas, Thai massage and I will never be best friends.

I understand how unorthodox my position is. Believe me, I feel ashamed. Out on a limb. Very alone. Such confessions are not made lightly – I have admitted this to a couple of other travellers and received looks of horror, confusion, doubt and pity in return. To them, there is something wrong with me.

Maybe there is. I just don’t get it. For one thing, it’s painful to have a Thai massage. For another, it’s boring. And third, it goes on far too long. I could tolerate, say, 15 minutes of poking and prodding for the sake of my neck knots if that’s where it ended. But volunteer for a massage here and the options tend to be an hour or an hour and a half. An hour and a half?! That’s 90 minutes of working out how to flinch in such a way that the masseuse knows she is hurting you but isn’t offended.

I have tried. Really, I have. On a number of occasions. I have tried thinking of nothing. Doing yoga breathing and meditation: clearing “ze mind” etc. But clearing my mind only left it emptier and more receptive to one repeated thought: “I’m bored now. Please stop touching me”.

But beware, my fellow “massagephobes” (if there are others out there): you can’t escape. In Thailand, opportunities for massages come at you from all directions. Women in the street in even the smallest towns will press you with offers. Thais you meet in karaoke bars usually have a sister or a cousin whose hands they’ll recommend, and she can be at your side in seconds. Even hairstylists are at it. They’re now out of bounds for me after the indignity of a 25-minute massage under the guise of a hair wash. The woman massaged my eye sockets for heaven’s sake! And my boyfriend had his earlobes shaved.

Well, I’m wise to it now. I am thinking of starting a support group for massagephobes. I’ll call it Grumpy Relaxaphobics Against Massage (GRAM). We’ll have T-shirts, bumper stickers, a slogan: “Don’t Rub It In”. I can see it now. Storming the Thai Parliament: “What do we want?” “Stiffer necks for tourists.” “When do we want them?” “NOW!”

Sarah Warwick is on a year-long backpacking adventure in South-East Asia.