Ayurvedic Means What?

I am nearing the end of my two short weeks here in Sri Lanka and today I decide to splurge a little. That is if you don’t consider an elephant safari, snorkeling trip, constantly eating divine food or having peace and quiet in the mountains a splurge. I accept an offer via my hotel to have a full body Ayurvedic massage. My calves ache from climbing steps of temples and tea plantations and my shoulders are rock hard from lugging around my pack. I am up for some physical unwinding although I have no real idea of what I have signed up for.

My tuk tuk driver brings me to a run down local looking place with a paint-peeling sign that I think reads “Spa”. But then again, it might not. A man greets me and takes me directly to a back room to show me pictures of their services: head massage, full body massage, steam bath and herbal bath, all with photos depicting North American-type services and standards. I opt for the two massages and make it painfully clear that I will require a woman.  This was a tip that my newly aquired Tamil friend had given me based on a story I had recounted to him earlier regarding an introductory Ayurvedic massage where I was rather easily persuaded to lose my shirt in a spice forest at the hands of a young male masseur. That, though, is another story.

After taking my 3000 rupees ($30) upfront he leads me into a dingy, windowless room with a fold up chair and slab massage table. The walls appear to have once been a bright turquoise but now are somehow covered in filth and strange stains. It feels gritty but I try not to look too closely. A woman my age welcomes me in a thick accent and immediately tells me, “Out”, while motioning for me to take my clothes off. I start with my top and then look to her for her approval. “Out”, she points at my bra. I shrug, more to myself than anything else, and shed the bra. She is standing watching me and appears to be slightly amused at my reluctance and confusion. “Out!” she says again and points at my skirt. Oh, brother. Off comes the skirt. I quietly commend myself for having worn underwear today though it is only a thong and gives me little security. I have been going without undies often due to meager packing and laziness. I remember back to this morning when I came across the clean pair that I am wearing now thinking at the time, “Ooh, clean undies! Today could be a big day”.

So, there we stand face to face, me pretty much naked, she fully clothed and smug looking (at least in my current state she seems smug). To say I feel awkward is putting it mildly. There is no door to this room, only a curtain that is partially closed. I can easily hear the Bollywood movie playing on the TV in the room down the hall.

My “masseuse” offers me a smallish sheet that I snatch from her and attempt to wrap around me. She motions to me to sit in the chair and so begins the head massage. Oil is poured onto my head and she carelessly works her fingers through my long and unkempt curls. She has very strong and slender fingers that rake at my scalp in interesting ways. I tell her she is strong which she seems to understand and says thanks you. I am asked if I want, “ hard massage?” I say, “yes, hard”, she says, ”yes?”, I say, “yes”. We do this a few more times until we eventually come to understand that I am not here for a gentle pat and tickle. 

Some of her technique is slightly relaxing but much of it is unexpected and intriguing. She slaps my forehead, whips my hair around and taps dots and swirls around my face. I have to admit that I am thinking ahead to the “full body” portion of this experience and trying not to panic at my imaginings.

At some point during the head massage her cell phone rings and she stops to answer. This happens repeatedly during our 45 minutes together, which I find both bizarre and funny but strangely, not out of place.

Then comes the moment of truth. She tells me to get up and lay down on the table. We negotiate that I should be face down on the sheet she has given me, naked body in full splay. Really? Damn. All right, I lie down. Starting at my feet she lubricates me like a rusty chain moving her arms up and down my lower extremities. I am marinating in essential oils. She puts a rolling pin to my calves and makes me squeal. We both laugh. Now I know this woman is some kind of “pro” and that my body, sadly, is her canvas, but when she gets to my upper thighs I am reconsidering this whole idea. She is vigorous and working hard with audible grunts and heavy breathing. She occasionally sighs which I refuse to take personally.  She is fearless in her attack of my groin and backside, gliding her slippery fingers back and forth through my body’s folds. I can’t say that I am relaxed at this point. Plus, my mind naturally has already jumped ahead to, “what is next? Is she going to get me to turn over?” The answer is a matter of fact yes.

Jeez, what is she going to do to me? I am buck naked except for a small triangle of fabric in a strategic spot that ultimately is inconsequential to her. I am slick and shiny and feeling very much as though I would like a big towel and some privacy.

And then, exactly what one might think would happen if you were to consider the entire body the subject of a full body massage, she goes to it. She fills my belly button with oil and dances her hands around and over my abdomen and breasts. I do not know whether to burst out laughing or try to find some bliss in all of this. I am rather paralyzed by the complete foreignness of it all.  

By the time she finishes with me, I am dripping oil from my toes and fingers tips. She brings another sheet and roughly rubs what excess oil that she can off of me. I am instructed not to shower for 2 hours while I dress under supervision as quickly as I can which is, to say, slowly due to the tackiness of my skin. I struggle to make eye contact with her as I tip her then say goodbye. Stepping outside I catch a glimpse of myself in a window reflection. I look…worked over. I leave not feeling relaxed but, in all honesty, satisfied at having suffered such an alien experience and lived to tell the tale.

It should be noted that following the completion of this account, the writer bravely pursued Ayurvedic full body massage yet again. This time, at 5,000 Rs she received an entirely blissful (and entirely naked) experience that redeemed the ancient art.