January 28, 2009

Kerala, India

(For Sue Scotnicki and Natasha Leclair)

I have to say I was thinking of both of you over the past few days.  After having agonized through ten days of a pinched nerve in Tanzania, I was counting down the days til I could have my daily ayurvedic massage here in Kerala.  Well, that day arrived. 

And there I was, stark naked, facing an old woman in a sari who was holding up a loin cloth and gesturing at me to put it on.  Have you ever tried to put on a loin cloth?  Okay, so it isn’t rocket science, but it isn’t obvious either.  Nor is it particularly comfortable, unless you’re in to thongs.  A few minutes later, mission (gracelessly) accomplished, she sat me down hard on a short, wooden stool.  Bending, she touched my knees, closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.  Then she poured about a half cup of warm oil in her hands (warm because it’s about a billion degrees here) and massaged it through my hair which I’m sure she thought was appalling.  Do you have any idea how hard coconut oil is to wash out?  

She gestured again for me to crawl up on her table, and I lay down somewhat trepidatiously, wishing for towels and sheets.  I felt like I do when I go to Bikram’s hot yoga, trying hard not to let the gross-out image of bodies dripping in sweat overwhelm me.  And forget about a headrest – I got the feeling that this massage was not supposed to be about comfort.  I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. 

 

She reached over to the stove and grabbed a pot of hot oil, which she poured into a metal urn and placed indelicately between my legs. With  the loin cloth riding up, and hot oil threatening, I could feel every muscle in my body begin to tense.

 

And then she got down to business, which was essentially to rub about five cups of oil up and down my body.  She went first for my feet, poking and rubbing, and I swear it is some sort of secret Indian tickling technique; but when I burst out laughing, trying to pull them away, she looked at me astonished and gave me a slap.  At one point she poked my bum and gestured at me to roll over, and then worked more oil into my face and hair.  Her hands and fingers worked fast covering just about every inch of my body, but I can tell you I wasn’t moaning with delight. I was aching for her to stop rubbing, and to dig her hands into my poor back.  And when I lifted my head up and glanced down the length of my body, I looked like a greased pig, as far from sexy as you can imagine.    

About 15 minutes later, she stopped abruptly and guided me over to the strangest looking machine I’ve ever seen.  Picture a cylindrical steel vault about four feet high, three feet in diametre, with two doors that swing out wide, and with a hole in the top.  The whole contraption was hooked up to a couple of short hoses which lead to a small pressure cooker sitting on a tiny, lit gas burner.  Those doors swung open to reveal a stool, towards which she pushed me, closing the door behind me.  Clearly this steam bath was meant for taller beings — can you see me sitting there with just my eyes and forehead sticking out the top?  For fifteen minutes? 

Just as I was starting to get really uncomfortable (the sweat was literally streaming off my body and I was thankful for the glass of green sour juice she’d made me drink minutes earlier), she unceremoniously yanked opened the doors and marched me into the shower room.  Another stool, more awkward gesturing, and there I was sitting as she dumped buckets of brown water all over me.

 

Limp with relief more than from the steambath and massage, I waddled out of the room and into my clothes.  A few minutes later, I climbed back in the tiny wooden boat poled by the world’s grungiest looking boatsman, and headed back to my holiday hut, my greasy hair not blowing in the gentle Keralan backwater breeze.  

 

I missed you both terribly, but ahhhh India.  Ya gotta love it!