Some people just don’t like massages. I’m not one of them. I find them therapeutic when I travel, even if the massage is more relaxing than remedial.
Besides, a little bit of hedonism isn’t a bad thing. Most cultures use touch in their healing practices in some way, whether it’s rituals involving black soap in Morocco or hot oil in India. A Hawaiian Lomi Lomi is a big gentle embrace; Japanese Shiatsu can leave you reeling in pain.
For many travellers, having a massage (or two or three) is so often an essential experience, at every price point, from gentle stretching on a Thai beach to a vigorous pummelling in a Swedish sauna. The good thing about the massage economy is it creates small businesses and often puts money directly into the pockets of the practitioners, especially if you deal with the masseur directly, not through some overpriced cruise or hotel spa. But it’s not all jasmine scented oil in a Balinese garden.
I’ve had my share of massages that have been painful, uncomfortable or just plain awkward. I’ve been scrubbed in Turkey until a few layers of skin came off. I’ve been burned by hot rocks on the Gold Coast.
I’ve fainted from the pressure of a Shiatsu massage in Tokyo. I’ve been shaken and kneaded like a dirty rug by a woman in Budapest. In Hong Kong, a heavy woman walked along my back, almost cracking it.
I’ve had my belly set alight in Thailand. But of all the massages I’ve experienced, one stands out above the rest. It was (two) hands d.
