Scattered on the island of Bali are numerous beautiful little boutique hotels and resorts — private getaways for stressed-out executives looking for solace from the devils in Prada, relief from the rigours of the eternal rat race, and a chance to finish that novel that never progresses beyond chapter two.
About a year before we were married, Michelle and I and visited Bali, and found our little hideaway at an upscale resort in its cultural capital, Ubud. The resort is located along Monkey Forest Road. As the name suggests, it is a short ten-minute walk from the Monkey Forest Temple, home to an army of horny primates that take pleasure in relieving unsuspecting tourists of anything from food to money, and cameras or improperly-secured clothing and accessories.
In the resort, we had a private villa to ourselves, with our own salt-water lap pool and deck chairs for sunbathing. The bed sat in the centre of the room, with inviting white sheets and pillows. A mosquito net hung from the ceiling over the bed, and a posy of flowers lay on the sheets, lovingly arranged in the shape of a heart to put us “in the mood”. It was the perfect hideaway, save for the bathroom behind the villa with a bathtub right in the middle of the garden (placed by a designer with obvious nudist tendencies!).
The first two days went by quickly as we adopted the lifestyle of our favourite animal, the koala. We slept most of the time away — waking up just in time for meals, before returning to the villa to relax. For a while, it seemed like the perfect holiday, with nothing to do and no one to bother us. But then the third day arrived, and with it, a spa treatment from hell.
As part of the honeymoon package (OK, so we lied!), we were treated to a two-hour special ‘Kasmaran with Jamu Sari Rapet’ spa and massage. According to the brochure, “the package is suit best for honeymooner, because Jamu Sari Rapet is a traditional Javanese herbal ingredient which enhances female tightness.” Pardon my ignorance and innocence, but at that point, I wasn’t entirely sure what female tightness was supposed to refer to. It seemed odd because if it was what I thought it was, then why was it necessary to be enhanced for a newly-married couple? Unless…
Before the massage began, we were given a brief foot scrub and foot bath, then made to strip down to our swimwear and lie down on a mattress covered with a large sarong. My massage started off harmlessly enough with the usual kneading of the muscles with a lightly-scented massage oil. The masseuse started with my upper back before moving lower, and then down south to within a whisker of a sexual harassment suit. But just as I felt my previously tense body fuse with the mattress, it suddenly occurred to me — if this massage uses herbal ingredients to enhance female tightness (and if female tightness is supposed to mean what I think it means), then what is it going to do to my manhood?!
As I pondered the question in my semi-comatose state, the masseuse stopped for a moment and left the room. This suited me just fine as I visualised myself in front of an oracle, a middle-aged lady with heavy makeup and a headdress, in a room full of burning incense lamps, colourful heavy curtains and a variety of dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling. “Ah, you have come here to find out what female tightness means, yes?”
I nodded vigorously, but just as she was about to speak again, I felt the “splat” of a hot towel on my back and my muscles tightened in shock. The masseuse was back, interrupting my reverie. She proceeded to give me a backrub, which didn’t just remove the massage oil but also a couple of healthy skin cells. Once she was done, the masseuse then pulled the loose ends of the sarong to cover my body and disappeared again, only to reappear wearing a kitchen apron.
She then unwrapped my sarong and I felt the full intensity of the air conditioning blowing directly on my back. As I lay there feeling vulnerable about my near nakedness (and worrying about my manhood!), she applied a layer of wet and sandy green tea paste all over my now shivering body, before rubbing some ginger over my back. Now don’t get me wrong, I am a fan of green tea and all its purported health benefits, but what is it doing all over my body? What a waste of good tea! After she was done, she pulled the sarong around me and tightened it with three knots. I was wrapped up so tightly that there was nowhere for the paste to go but into the pores of my skin. And then in a puff of smoke, she disappeared again.
I didn’t manage to find my way back to the oracle as I lay there for what seemed like an eternity, until I began to feel strange sensations all over my skin and some numbness from the bondage. I had just begun to lose track of time (and my sense of touch) when my masseuse returned to untie the knots. Finally, the worst was over! But oh, how wrong I was… how very, very wrong.
“Sir,” she said, “I now put yoghurt, OK?”
I tried my best not to protest or breathe as she proceeded to pour the foul-smelling dairy product on my body. But it was a losing battle and I sensed myself turning blue from oxygen deprivation. I felt an urge to throw up as the scent permeated my nostrils. I started thinking of the poor cows who gave up their milk for human nutrition, only to find it wastefully splattered on the back of a lactos intolerantus, but the masseuse continued to slap on more yoghurt until every part of my body below the neck was covered in the sticky and maladorous substance. Then after she was done, she bound me up in the sarong and repeated her vanishing act.
Each minute felt like an hour after that. I couldn’t see what Michelle was enduring next to me but I was beginning to feel like we were being prepared as the main course for some Indonesian cannibal tribe. What next? Curry powder, sliced chilli and onions? I was expecting to be further marinated when the masseuses reappeared and unbound us. They motioned for us to get up and led us to the bathroom where a bathtub filled with warm water and flower petals awaited.
That evening, after a mesmerising red and blue sunset, Michelle and I celebrated the first anniversary of our relationship with an elaborate candlelight dinner, complete with floating lilies and little candles around the pool. I didn’t get to find out what exactly female tightness really referred to during that trip, but as I sat on the sofa after dinner with Michelle in my arms and her head on my chest, it really didn’t matter at all…