There comes a point in every girl’s life where she will have her boobs massaged by a foreign masseuse and she won’t know why. The girls that go backpacking and like cheap massages, at least. This is my third confusing boob massage over the years the first two being in Malaysia and Bali respectively. But I’m still never prepared. If you opt for a full body massage, FULL BODY is what you’ll get. During this one, near Palolem beach, she also massages my throat for a while. Is this some sort of asphyxi-sex-massage- I think. What’s happening? Is this ok? Am I being abused? I battle my British sensibilities to just go with it and try and relax whilst she drowns my semi-naked body in oil. At the end I use many superlatives to thank her for her not-that-great massage and slither away like a big, glistening slug.
I bump into a friend I made in Delhi who is staying at a different, nearby beach called Agonda. I go to visit him and drag some friends I made in my hostel along. Agonda is more chilled than Palolem but LUCKILY they still cater for Western idiot booze-hounds. We drink cocktails and I try and persuade everyone to have a late night swim. Eventually one person in the group relents and we swim beneath the moon and it’s magical, and the next day I get a stinking cold as a result.
I move into some Agonda beach digs. My own beach hut!! What a dream!! (My own beach hut that’s only semi-protected from the elements, with no real lights and corners so dark one can only imagine the insect horror going on in them). We celebrate Delhi friend’s birthday that evening with some passable wine and a trip to a swanky cocktail bar/restaurant. When I say swanky I actually mean swanky. Agonda is a place that consists of a beach, one dirt track and sea of tumble-down shacks, shops and restaurants mainly selling fish curries AND YET, at this place, if you want lamb shank with pomegranate jus you can have it! When I return to my hut later, after being snarled at by various terrifying dogs in the dark along the way, I find mouse droppings on my pillow, and I thank god that my fear is slugs and not mice.
One thought on “Of Mice and Massages”
When do we get a post on the love life of a backpacker? I want to know the goss! There must be something to report by now with all these tanned men with nice hair in your photos…and late night swimming in the sea? Come on, we all know this means SKINNY DIPPING (followed by casual sex…or an orgy…) right?