Thailand

No sex, please. . .

R.J. Barlow

ONE would think that for someone who wanted a Thai massage, a Buddhist temple in Bangkok might provide the genuine, non-tpuristy article. And yet a fleeting peek at the pink and glistening rows of Euro- flesh laid out before me like so many red snapper in the local fish market, convinced me that I was in the wrong place.

The suggestion that I visit the temple at Wat Po had been made by a polite, if incredulous, concierge at the Oriental hotel where I was staying. My request for an authentic Thai massage was understand- ably puzzling. The hotel health spa offered 15 types of hearty rub-down, all of them Thai. However, with a raised eyebrow the concierge suggested that a superlative treatment might be had, oddly enough, at a nearby place of worship. If I would be so good as to hop into the gleaming white Mercedes-Benz over there, then the man in the matching uniform would whisk me off.

Wat Po temple was a jumble of exceeding- ly brightly coloured buildings which reflected ferocious heat and light in all directions, topped by a huge reclining Buddha. The massage school it contained, however, belied its exotic outward appearance. The concierge, despite his display of surprise, had obviously received similar requests as the place was pulsating with other tourists, their exposed flesh sagging unappetisingly in the damp heat. Thai could be heard less than guttural German and Dutch.

I resolved to try somewhere else. But in Bangkok resolving was one thing, doing was another. Means of independent travel are few and far between. The imperfect solution sputtered into view in the form of a `tuk- tuk', the motorised, tricycle-like taxi with which Bangkok makes do for want of a bet- ter alternative. Even the Rough Guide has cautious words on the subject, one of many caveats being a shocking absence of English among the drivers.

This one spoke the language but his vocabulary and choice of subject matter were restricted.

'You like Thai girl, Thai boy?' he offered loudly. 'Some sex show very good?'

'No,' I answered firmly. 'I do not like.' He snorted and off we went. Tuk-tuks are angry little machines which create much noise and odour. They do not stop for pedestrians or for many passengers either. Even so, it was odd that ours was barrelling about at quite so neck-breaking a pace when I had not yet mentioned my pre- ferred destination, but one is not in a strong negotiating position on the back of a tuk-tuk. The bone-rattling din plus the foe- tus-like position that the passenger is obliged to adopt during the journey is not conducive to conversation. It was thus that I was unwillingly pitched into a car-park beside a brick building almost identical to an English supermarket.

But this was no supermarket. My indefati- gable driver waved his hand and announced triumphantly, 'Here, nice Thai girls, very good. Very good Thai girl.' No, no, I protested, it was just a plain, ordinary Thai massage that I wanted, the type that relaxed the muscles and soothed the old grey cells as opposed to exciting the libido. This protest met with the same polite and incredulous look I had received at the hotel.

We nonetheless hurtled back into the maelstrom. In about 15 minutes there loomed ahead a forecourt over which flashed a large neon sign promising 'Screw Boys Bar and Massage'. The tuk-tuk man looked knowing. He let out a conspiratorial chuckle. This was going to be trickier than I had thought. The 'massage' part was straightforward enough. It was the 'screw boys' bit that concerned me, and the appearance of young and scantily clad ori- ental gentlemen confirmed my fears.

In the end I needn't have worried. The 'screw boys' turned out to be excellent lin- guists and translators, explaining to the tuk-tuk driver the real state of affairs — namely, that I didn't want any. Thus, reluc- tantly enlightened, the driver set off again, finally depositing his eccentric and tire- some passenger in a dusty lane alongside a prefabricated bungalow with small, high windows. It was anyone's guess who or what would be served up here. We entered a cool, shadowy room where there ensued a brief conversation between the tuk-tuk man and a receptionist in short white sleeves and a black tie.

'Here have Thai massage, charge for it 800 baht,' the receptionist said. 'No sex.' My relief was such that I would have embraced both the receptionist and the driver were it not for the likelihood of immediate transportation back to the Screw Boys Bar.

This, then, was where the Thais had their massages. Mine took three hours and was performed by a blind man. I was led meek- ly away in the custody of two parchment- faced crones who washed my feet. I was then issued with outsized green-and-white pyjamas and ushered into a long, dark room with curtained cubicles on either side of a central corridor. Each had a mattress on the floor and I sat in a corner and await- ed my fate. How did one introduce oneself to a blind Thai masseur who spoke no English, I wondered, and with what body part? It seemed that Thais bowed to each other and an outstretched hand might receive a shake, but then it might not. The possibilities were endless and unsettling.

In the end, I was summoned out of my corner and told to lie down. I did not have to remove my pyjamas. This was something to be grateful for at least. The technique involved finding a tender spot on the body and pressing it until I cried for mercy. The pressing was performed with the man's fin- ger, knuckle, fist and occasionally his foot. The tender spots themselves were to be found in the back, the armpits and the soles.

It was an experience that left me tingling but exhausted. It would have been a better man than I who could have managed the sex bit afterwards.