“Hey there, I was just wondering how much a back massage is?”
“Uhh…. *silence*… umm…. We don’t do those.”
“What?”
“Umm… we don’t do umm… butt massages, sorry.”
This was definitely going to be a good time.
The other night, The BestFriend and I trotted to the "Happy Feet Traditional Asian Massage Parlour". I hate the word parlour. It makes me think of herpes, crabs and bad smells.
The BestFriend shoved her car in what can only be described as a parking for a small, rusty red wheelbarrow. And we bolted to the entrance after being being eye-balled by some dude with a gangster limp, hovering in-between a glass window and an overflowing rubbish bin.
We were escorted to the massage room for our 30 minute foot- and 30 minute back, neck and shoulder massages. A Small Asian Woman (SAW) brought me a cup of tea and a wooden bucket filled with liquid to put my feet into. The BestFriend gazed at my bucket jealously, until the door opened once again and a Large Asian Man (LAM) entered and set one down by her feet. He left the room and she looked at the door longingly for her own Asian Massage God. The SAW indicated that we, “Lie down fo mas-sage” and that we should “take off towp”.
All of a sudden the LAM walked back into the room and set himself down to massage The BestFriend. The look of shock on her face, tinted with a hint of panic as he cracked his knuckles, is a sight I'll never forget.
I lay on the massage bed, put my face in the hole and waited. The SAW had small, ferrety hands that pummeled violently at my back, neck and shoulders. I felt like she took each tendon in my neck, pulled it out to inspect it, and beat it with a mallet before stretching it out far beyond its capabilities. She then began punching the back of my arms as if she were picturing the face of an old lover who left her for his yoga instructor. This, coupled with the fact that my eyes were tearing up and my nose was now beginning to run meant it wasn’t as tranquil as I had anticipated.
To get through this experience my brain went into imagination mode. Not just any imagination mode, but extreme mode. I suddenly wondered if this was all a con. I imagined that British show on DSTV,"The Real Hustle”, and I envisioned that pretty con woman sneaking into the room and stealing our money, our identities and our livelihoods, whilst our faces were firmly planted in the face-holes.
Then I wondered how it was possible that The Small/Large Asian Woman/Man could only speak 5 words of English (Sore? Ticklish? Mas-age nice?) even after having lived in South Africa for over a year. Maybe they were the con artists, maybe they were going to hold us hostage. I had the sudden thought that I once saw The LAM at Tiger Tiger. I could be wrong though.
I thought it couldn’t get any more painful, but I was wrong. The SAW began punching my palms, slapping my lower back and elbowing my shoulders. It had reached a point where I finally felt brave enough to wimpishly gurgle, “sore”, but all of a sudden it was over. She gestured that I rolled over and began on my feet.
I was terrified to open my eyes and I thought that the pain was about to begin again, but actually, the foot part was a lot less aggressive. Let's not pretend here that it wasn’t sore, at one point I thought that she had cut off the top of my big toe, but it was a lot easier to handle. What made it easier was definitely the fact that I could now look over at The BestFriend and see her whimpering at the hand of The LAM.
After an hour and a half at Happy Feet, we left feeling dazed and confused. We couldn’t figure out if it had been a pleasant experience, we weren’t sure if it was even fun. We went home, ate custard, watched series and decided to sleep on it and decide if it had been worth it in the morning.
I woke up the following day and felt like I had been involved in a rugby match (or at least what I would imagine rugby players feel). I was battered and bruised, but when I stood up and stretched my arms, I couldn't remember feeling less tense . That SAW had beaten the crap out of each one of my knots, and now that it was all over, I felt good.
You aren't going to Happy Feet to feel spoilt, you go there to feel fixed. I think of it like an injection in the bum: you know it’s going to hurt, it’s going to be horrible and for a while sitting will burn like the fire of a thousand suns, but afterwards it will be all worthwhile.
Afterwards. It’s all about afterwards.
Note to self: Do not drink a fizzy drink prior to massage, its awkward to spend over an hour trying not to burp.
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