V for Varkala
Trip Start
Feb 02, 2009
1
10
47
Trip End
Dec 24, 2009
Varkala, Kerala, India
Thursday, March 5, 2009
So, inevitably it would seem, I have fallen victim to the 'Delhi Belly' or whatever you wish to call it. For the last five days I have been pretty much bed ridden and instead of enjoying all Varkala offers; yoga, the wonderful beaches, fantastic restaurants and the company of two very interesting and beautiful ladies from Austria I have been in my hotel room reading my Joseph P. Kennedy biography, sweating and staring at the ceiling fan. It has been frustrating to say the least. The guilty party seems to be a delicious (damn your delicious poisons!) piece of Tandori fish. The little fella has given me crippling stomach pains and (strangely) blinding headaches to boot. Anywhoo, this was bound to happen and hopefully it's the last I'll see of illness for a little while.
As I started to feel a little better I decided a spot of pampering could do the trick. And first up on my list was a save Indian style. This involved a rather bored looking fellow strapping me down and setting about me with a straight razor. I was expecting a Wild West style experience but that never really materialized. Having said that I did get a little concerned near the eyes (should you go that high up?) and throat. My first real distress came when the 'barber' started yawning. Not a good sign from a man with a potentially lethal weapon in his hands. Then I noticed that he hadn't done a sterling job of shaving himself that morning. What hope did I have? They say you should check out your hairdresser's haircut as some sort of indication of his quality but surely that's done by somebody else? As I was to find out, my man had clearly shaved himself that day.
As I was pondering all this in my head during the shave the barber finished what can generously be described as a half-assed job. Many tufts of beard were left for me to neaten up upon my return to the hotel and quite a few red blotches threatened to start bleeding all over his floor. Obviously I paid him the full amount and expressed much gratitude as one would be foolhardy to annoy a man with a straight razor in his hands and me full in the knowledge that he really doesn't know what he's doing with it.
In stark contrast to that rather disappointing bit of self-pampery later that same afternoon I had a massage. To be precise I had my first massage in Ever. I had chosen just the back massage as I have always had the back of a woman in her eighties and it needed straightening out. As the massage man led me to the table he wanted me on it struck me that he was awfully familiar. He was an Indian version of someone famous. But before I could ponder that to any degree he motioned for me to take my shorts off. I said "Oh right, just shimmy them down a bit so you can get to the lower back" (all of this chat was wasted on the poor chap who, as they say, did his talking with his hands). He then shimmied the sorts down a bit, and then a bit further, then swung them clean off with the ease and practice of a trained lothario.
This was all very unusual. I was left as, some would say, 'nature intended it'. But he was a trained professional and I was paying upwards of four pounds for this so he surely knew what he was doing. I let him continue and he did a very thorough and very sturdy job of massaging my back. A bit like getting beaten up by a girl but a girl with no real grudge against you. Then he started massaging my buttock region. Many aspects of this story deserve a Late Night Holyoakesesque version to fully explain the goings on but you will just have to use your imaginations for those parts. This blog is strictly family friendly. For this part of the treatment the poor man had to go where very few other people have ever been. I was dying to make a joke about the Black Hole of Calcutta. He was in select company. The midwife who gave birth to me, my Mother and the captain of the netball team at University but three distinguished members of the non too prestigious club, and all for varied reasons.
Then it came to me, Chris rock! He was the spitting image of an Indian Chris Rock. And this just made things all the weirder. I stifled a laugh. To have Chris Rock with a big bushy mustache giving you a rigorous massage was quite out of the ordinary. He then motioned for me to turn over. "Are you sure?" I asked and he gave me the confused look of one who is happy speaking but one language. He then seemed to get the gist of my concern and handed me a tiny towel to cover my embarrassment (you may input your own gag at this juncture). It did occur to me that this was awfully thorough for a back massage but it was very relaxing so I thought best to just let it go and hope he didn't charge me any extra. As it happened he did not but there must have been some mis-understanding as that was the very definition of a top to toe massage.
Well that brings us up to the present. I am off out now as it's my last evening with the Austrian ladies and I will be restarting my trek north alone again on Monday. Hopefully just for a little bit.
Everybody take care and watch out for suspicious looking fish.
Dan. X.
Comments
Ahaahhahahahaha!
Not that I laugh at others' misfortune or owt.
Caz xx