A Thai Massage

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In the Northern region of Thailand lies the quiet city of Chiang Mai. A square moat and the scant remnants of a long-lost defensive wall encapsulate the city centre. It’s a city without high-rise buildings, surrounded by the comfort of mountains in every which direction. 

Like the rest of Thailand, Chiang Mai is speckled with street food, massage parlours and 7-11s on every corner. There are cracks in the pavement, and spots which never seem to dry. Unlike the rest of Thailand, Chiang Mai is imbued with an unmatched sense of peace and tranquillity. There are always stray cats around the temples, and the temples are meticulously maintained.  

I landed in this city mostly on a whim. With no prior knowledge, no real plans, and only having booked accommodation the morning of my flight. I was there on the back of a recommendation – a Burmese girl I met in Pattaya, a Thai city which hadn’t quite matched my tastes. And since we had similar thoughts on Pattaya, I wanted to believe I could enjoy Chiang Mai as much as she supposed I might. 

So, amongst a plane full of other tourists, I land in Chiang Mai. 

I order a Grab, waiting in the muggy heat of airport frustration. The driver opens the trunk for my luggage, and soon enough we pull up to my accommodation. And I’ve been looking at my Saved Places in Google Maps, figuring out a flash itinerary.  And then the driver opens the trunk for my luggage, and I check-in at the hostel. 

The hostel is an unmissable yellow, paint that looks fresh yet sleepy. The receptionist takes my passport, and I fumble through the cash in my pocket. I have the exact change. And there’s a girl sitting on the benches, who shows me to my room. She has neon green eyeliner and hair flattened by the oppressive heat. She speaks softly, a slight southern drawl. She hands me the key and shows me to a top bunk. There are no bottom bunks available. 

And the sun has just about vanished, and I’m tired from my travel day, so I shower off the sediment and settle in. The curtains don’t fully close, but my eyes do. And soon enough, the sun rises to fill the room with a dusty dimness. 

The other beds have their curtains drawn, so I organise myself as quietly as I can. But my eyes are bleary, and my feet are clumsy. Someone stirs in their blankets. My teeth are brushed and my sunscreen mostly rubbed in. The door clicks shut, as quietly as I could make it.

Hostels in the morning are strange, liminal spaces. The common area is devoid of its evening rancour, with just a few early stragglers. It is courtesy to nod, and politeness to smile. 

My backpack is already damp against me, but I’ve made it to the bookstore. Then I make it to the market. Then I make it to the university. Somewhere along the way, I’ve also had a plate of pad krapow, some grilled skewers, two bottles of Thai milk tea and a bag of chopped fruit. I’ve dropped in and prayed at every temple I’ve passed, and I’ve pet every stray cat that’s let me.

And the sun is now nestled in the mountain curves. My phone has tracked my thirty thousand steps, and evening entices mosquitoes to the heat of my skin. And I’m now walking the five kilometres back to my accommodation when the clouds burst open to cry their sorrows. 

The rain pushes me into a somewhat old, run-down massage parlour. The signage is a colour reminiscent of mauve, and the wooden panels speak of age despite their polish. And my thirty thousand steps are bearing down on me, so I ask for two hours, payment via card. The receptionist calls over a small Thai lady who stands a head below me, and she leads me upstairs.

The thin mattress is soothingly cool against my skin, and the air-conditioning slicks the sweat from my body. Her hands are small, yet strong. They work magic into my back, my shoulders, my arms, my legs, my feet. I sink into the way her fingers trace my scalp, softly and surely. It’s as if she’s undoing the knots my parents left in my head.

This isn’t my first Thai massage, and it won’t be my last. But for some reason, the way her hands move against my body and the drumming of the rain pulls my heart right out of its cage, and I feel a sense of safety and warmth I’ve never quite been able to achieve before.

My head is in her lap, and as she’s rubbing my temples she very gently taps me and very quietly says,

Pretty.

And I’m never quite sure how to respond to compliments, so I laugh a little and shake my head. And I’ve never been touched so tenderly before, so my brief glance at her smile almost brings me to tears.

And we are there, in this bubble of a moment. For what seems to be less than a breath but more than eternity. 

Yet time is fickle, and as I check my watch it has been an extra half hour on top of the two. She has already disappeared, and I pack myself up. The receptionist hands me a cup of warm tea and a biscuit, and I ask if I may withdraw some cash to give a tip. And I’ve already paid before the service, 800baht. I ask her to punch in another 1000. She puts in 200. I shake my head. 1000baht.

She looks at me for a moment, and I imagine what she sees. Young, dishevelled. I’m in Thailand during monsoon season without an umbrella. My glasses are scratched and my shirt is three sizes too big. I have the markings of a stray, and I wonder if she can see the scars behind my eyes. 

1000baht can go a long way.

She hands me the eftpos machine, and I nod. I withdraw the money, and she calls over my massage lady. 

And as I give it to her, she doesn’t seem to understand. The bill is creased, matching the lines of her toughened hands. The receptionist explains to her in Thai, and she bows at me, the bill clasped in her palms. And I bow back, wishing I could have given her more. 

And as I turn away to walk through the door, we both dab at our eyes. 

Perhaps for different reasons, but perhaps for the same.