My girlfriend and I were pleased to arrive in Southern India after trekking in Nepal, looking forward to some relaxing time on the beach and watching sunsets from the cliffs above the Arabian Sea. As we walked the near desolate path overlooking the ocean, a few hopeful barkers offered Ayurvedic massages, ever insistent that we would enjoy it very much.

My girlfriend, wary of the Indian men and their roaming hands, was interested in indulging but took us to the local Taj resort for their more trustworthy version. The completely empty hotel had an eerie quality to it, but they manager of the spa seemed friendly enough, quickly setting us up with our masseuses. I followed my girlfriend down a hall only to be cut off from her rather suddenly when a door close in front of me.

My masseur, a large man of some unknown name and little English, led me to a sink where he indicated that I should hold out my cupped palm. He proceeded to pour a small pile of dirt in my hand, then indicating that I should brush my teeth with it. As he offered no brush, I gathered that I should use my finger. As I ground the brown stuff into my gums and teeth, I found it to be cinnamon, the wet gritty unsweetened variety. Having very little success (thought I never actually knew the point of the exercise) in brushing the spice around my mouth, he broke it off by offering a small cup of liquid to rinse my mouth out with. Well, it turns out that garlic oil isn’t the best rinser.

My mouth fully fouled, he then led me back to the large wooden massage table, a massive piece, with upturned corners for some unknown reason. He had me strip bare and sit on the table, where I looked at my naked slumping self in a full length mirror. Fortunately, I had to close my eyes so he could work some kind of ash-oil blend around my eyelids before dumping coconut oil on my head and smearing it through my hair. He didn’t work it in for long; just long enough to assure that it was good and sticky and would probably never come out.

Laying me flat on my stomach, he began the actual massage, working my skin with a slicker, less pungent oil. My efforts at small talk were quickly curtailed when I suspected that his answer to my query as to how long he’d been a masseur was probably (hopefully) not meant to be, “about an hour.” While far from a deep tissue massage, his smooth, rhythmic movements were quite relaxing and almost mind-bendingly hypnotic as he moved over me in long strokes, from shoulders to feet in quick continuous movements, hands often switching sides. I smiled to myself, imagining his arms tied up in knots like a cartoon character.

After flipping onto my back, I realized the purpose of the upturned edges on the table. As he worked my slick body, I slid from side to side, these banks just barely keeping me from slipping off onto the marble floor. Finally, we seemed to be finished and ready for the surely lengthy process of cleaning up. He directed me to rise and follow him to the steam room, where he secured me in the hottest room in all of India. I have no idea what the temperature was in there, but I did know that I couldn’t see my hand inches in front of my face, and if I inhaled too sharply through my nose (mouth breathing painfully out of the question) I could actually feel fire inside my body.

After some ungodly amount of time, I tossed my massage manners to the wind (please wind) stumbled to the door and stuck my head out, wondering if I’d been forgotten for good. My guy came running, easing me out the door, showing no disappointment in my early exit from the wooden hell. As the blood returned to my head, my vision clearing, I realized that I was completely naked and was being toweled off, quite attentively, by a large Indian man. I took the towel away, assuring him that I had it covered, been drying myself off for years in fact. Thankfully, he sent me off to the shower where I cooled off and purged some of the oil from my body and hair. Three passes with soap and shampoo took care of much of the muck, though my hair would still be bound for a few days.

Finally revived, I stepped out of the shower, quick to refuse help this time, and unsure even what he could do to help this time around as I was largely dry already. Eager to return to my clothes, we walked back to the room, the table now more oil-free than I. To my surprise, he laid me down again, apparently a couple more tricks up his sleeve. As he prepared something in his hands, bringing it close to my face, he told me to inhale through my nose. Something wet touched my nose and I figured he had some kind of medicinal balm to ease my scorched nostrils. I sucked hard, firing pepper oil deep into my throat. Gasping and choking, I leaned forward, desperate for air, wondering what torture this was and how I’d offended this man enough to deserve it. Feigning compassion, he sat me up and prepared another potion, something involving fire, smoke and a cone of paper that directed the searing fumes up into my nose.

Was this a remedy to the burning oil? Surely a tradition this ancient must have allowed time to piece together better solutions to such problems. Or was this the day to screw with the tourists? See how much they’ll put up with? You got him to take garlic oil, pepper oil and smoke?! Big winner! Well, while only some small consolation; I did have the pleasure of walking out into the recovery room to see my girlfriend with her raccoon goth-girl oily eyes. Granted, that meant that I had the same look on my face. It seemed almost in apology that they offered me a glass of wine before we departed that place forever, though I should have known by the smirk on my lady’s face that I would soon be guzzling some kind of herbal goop, only slightly thinner and better tasting than the oil in my hair.

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