By far, one the best experiences I have had here in Ho Chi
Minh City was a massage. According to
Phil, however, it was “god-awful”.
Phil had already received a couple of massages from some of
the other random “spas” around that were “decent”. I received a foot massage at
one of them, and it was not spectacular, but at a cost of a few dollars I
wasn’t going to complain. In fact, it felt
just like being at any California nail salon as they sat us in pedicure-style
stations and proceeded to chat continuously in Vietnamese with occasional
glances and subsequent giggles our direction. In an attempt to try something
different and out of our comfort zone, we used a Lonely Planet recommended
establishment that supposedly provided no-frills massages and was located just
around the corner from our hostel at The Institute for the Blind. At less than
$2.50 for 60 minutes, we had to try it. Have you ever received a massage from a
blind person? I mean, it kind of sounds like the start of a joke, right?
After paying for our massages and receiving braille-encoded
tickets, we are directed to the “gentlemen” and “ladies” areas. I am then
pushed by a blind woman, who turns out to be my masseuse, down a hallway and
into a room with three curtained areas, each containing a massage table and
hard wooden chair. She directs me to one of the empty stalls and says, “Get
undressed.” While she stands there waiting, I quickly disrobe, throw my clothes
onto a stand, and hop onto the table, face planting into an old, tired looking
patchwork pillow. How sanitary? I don’t want to know. My blind masseuse then
tucks a worn, slightly greying towel into my underwear and proceeds to slap
tiger balm oil onto my back with rapid-fire determination. Please don’t hit me
in the head, I think. She doesn’t. She excuses herself for a moment after a
quick, loud conversation through the curtains with a colleague and then returns
pushing a 10,000 Vietnamese dong bill into my face. “Madam.” Shove. “Madam.” I am being partially refunded because
I was placed in a fan room instead of an AC room. “Thank you,” I mumble and then put the
bill in my hand for lack of a better place and hold on to it for dear life
while the massage-on-meth continues.
Fond memories come to mind of my visits to the Korean spas
in Los Angeles, where the exfoliating scrub-downs by black lace underwear-clad
Korean women (Why is this the uniform?) occur on plastic covered tables and
have a similar “I am a piece of meat” vibe. Prior to this experience, I was
mesmerized by the women and men in the street markets who expertly deboned and scraped
fish meat into baggies and butchered their various meats into tenderized
mounds. Now, I have empathy for those poor slabs of meat. I am thoroughly and
without apologies being tenderized by a blind Vietnamese woman who seems to
embrace the motto, “Take no prisoners”. I want to laugh out loud, but I can’t because
I am slowly suffocating with my face smooshed in the not-so-hygienic pillow.
As she moves on to pounding and kneading my legs, I worry
that my tailbone and other more sensitive areas may end up tragically assaulted.
Thankfully, she is somewhat gentle with her bottom-knocking and my cushion-less
tush is spared. My massage ends with a prolonged craniofacial stimulation that,
per Phil, was reminiscent of when his older brother used to give him a noogie
(ie, not pleasant). I found it invigorating, but the quick, repetitive massage
from the inner aspect of my eyes to my eyebrows did make me fear that I, too,
may soon lose my sight. “Done,” she says and turns to leave. “Thank you and
chuc mung nam muoi (happy new year),” I say to her receding backside. “Mm,” she
nods in reply as she walks away.
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