Tuesday, Jul 8, 2008
In Vietnam, a woman-to-woman massage can be a therapeutic experience -- and then sexual intrigue appears.
Oct 1, 1999 | Haiphong is a port town close to Ha Long Bay, the panoramic setting of the movie "Indochine." Arriving early, I dropped my bags at the hotel and caught the hydrofoil out to Cat Bah Island at the far end of the harbor. The fragrance of bougainvillea trees wafted over the dock, mingling queasily with gasoline fumes from outboard motors. My guide Hu handed me an anti-nausea pill as we settled into the cracked vinyl seats aboard.
After an hour we reached Cat Bah, where we hopped a tiny craft that swooned off into the bay. Almost instantly I found myself in a mystical water-scape of emerald green, studded with limestone islets and otherworldly rock sculptures. Rocking lazily along, Hu and I were served a lunch of "freshly caught seafood," just like the tourist brochure promised. The brochure however made no mention of what transpired next: namely, myself perched over the side of the deck, disgorging both lunch and my previous night's dinner.
Nonetheless, it was mostly very pleasant, and after lilting serenely through the bay a while longer, we moored at a shell-strewn beach, and Hu and I went for a dip. After this we traipsed up a steep dirt path to a cave shrine on top of the hill, where there were some hidden buddhas Hu wanted to show me. "Leave guns and superstition outside," a sign admonished us at the cave mouth.
All in all, it had been an idyllic day, I reflected as we glided back towards Haiphong -- but not without its physical ardors. Back in the hotel, I decided that for the sake of my anthropological research and my screaming muscle fibers, it was time to sample the massage strokes of North Vietnam.
I'd always associated massages with socialites and wrestlers. A serious back injury several years ago, however, had prompted me to seek out this time-honored therapeutic art. Furthermore, my fairly frequent travels had provided me with opportunities to experience a variety of body-pummeling rituals in different cultures. From Budapest to Bangkok, skanky parlors to New Age temples, I've had my share of massages.
Since there were no spa facilities in the building, the massage was to take place in my room. This was a policy I'd often encountered. Minutes before the scheduled hour, I hastily puffed a cigarette in my pristine bathroom, undressed and swathed myself in the hotel bathrobe. I thought it best to spare myself the fuss of stripping in front of the practitioner when she arrived. Dimming the room light a couple of notches, I went over to the bedside TV and turned down the volume on the movie (alas, not "Indochine"). I wanted to approximate the tranquil conditions of a spa without playing up the intimacy of this as my sleeping quarters. It wasn't difficult to neutralize the space, carefully conformed to international standards of anonymity: beige walls, off-white carpeting and pallid watercolors. Cream curtains and air conditioning kept out the sound of rustling palm trees and whirring insects.
Soon there was a knock at the door and in walked the masseuse. She was about my age, wearing a pair of white shorts, a nervous grin and poorly permed shoulder-length hair. After a preliminary exchange (where I determined that her grasp of English was equal to my knowledge of Vietnamese) she disappeared into the bathroom. Walking over to the bed, I disrobed and lay face down on the ironed covers, completely naked. I mused momentarily about sheathing my behind with the robe, but thought better of it. No need for pretence, I concluded. No sooner had the thought passed than the masseuse approached with a starched white towel which she rolled up and placed under my throat. The ad hoc massage table and neck cradle having been arranged, she began operations.
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