This is the first week of my second 3-week programme. Before it started I had all sorts of phrases floating around in my mind: "step it up a notch," "turn the screw," "put the pressure on," and from the way things have been the past few days, I was pretty much on the right lines. Each week of each 3-week session focuses on a particular kind of physical therapy, and when the doctor told me that this week would comprise oil massage and powder massage, I thought that sounded fine. Nothing too harsh: just lie back and enjoy being pampered.
Except it doesn't quite work like that.
The two masseurs applied just enough oil to ensure that their hands wouldn't tear the flesh off my bones. They then started pressing and squeezing. They gripped my legs as tightly as they could and then pushed along the length of my calf as if they were trying to squirt the muscle out through the toes. When they reached my feet they started to find the pressure points on the instep, and I started to gasp and howl as their thumbs dug in.
A session lasts 45 minutes, and in that time I tried stretching, tensing, - anything to try and reduce the pain. I was panting, gasping, holding my breath, gritting my teeth, moaning and grunting and muttering all manner of foul insults. But - as the saying goes - it was bliss when they stopped; except that all they did was pause.
When they had finished with me lying on my back on the bench, they had me stretch out face down on the floor, so they could take it in turns to stand astride over me and exert every bit of pressure and force. They alternated, each bout lasting around five minutes before one masseur took an exhausted break and handed over to his colleague. And then, after another 5 minutes, they would change places again.
And so it continued. With their thumbs at the base of my spine they worked up towards my neck in an apparent attempt to disjoint the vertebrae. I squealed. They squeezed the muscles along the length of my fore-arm. I squirmed. They kneaded the flesh of my back and shoulders like a well-skilled baker knocking down the dough for a traditional family-size farmhouse loaf.
I turned over and lay on my back with my arms stretched out, in an appropriate pose of imminent crucifixion. The masseur straddled my chest and used his full weight as he pressed down on my chest and shoulders.
Aaargh! - did I say "pampered?"
But of course not! The "powder" was ground-up leaves and roots of medicinal herbs, with the consistency of fine sawdust, and the objective was to administer the medicinal properties by grinding the powder harshly over the skin, exfoliating the surface and letting the treatment soak into the newly-exposed under-surface. I was so relieved that in this treatment, they didn't work the pressure-points, and I have to admit that after a few days of this process, my skin is now amazingly baby-soft.
The uncomfortable part of this process, of course, is that the herbal sawdust gets everywhere. I have to keep my eyes and mouth clamped shut, and when I finally slide off the bench my whole body is covered in this gritty substance.
However, I cannot just leap into the shower. There has to be a rest of at least 30 minutes to allow the body to cool and the medication to soak in. It is now mid-morning, so I either miss breakfast or, alternatively, sit at the breakfast table looking like a refugee from a flour mill.
Then I do silly things like write this blog while I watch the clock and decide whether I have absorbed enough herbal remedy and can finally stand under the bliss of my en-suite rain-forest downpour.
Ah . . . if only they could medicate the shower I could happily stand under it all day.
Except it doesn't quite work like that.
The two masseurs applied just enough oil to ensure that their hands wouldn't tear the flesh off my bones. They then started pressing and squeezing. They gripped my legs as tightly as they could and then pushed along the length of my calf as if they were trying to squirt the muscle out through the toes. When they reached my feet they started to find the pressure points on the instep, and I started to gasp and howl as their thumbs dug in.
A session lasts 45 minutes, and in that time I tried stretching, tensing, - anything to try and reduce the pain. I was panting, gasping, holding my breath, gritting my teeth, moaning and grunting and muttering all manner of foul insults. But - as the saying goes - it was bliss when they stopped; except that all they did was pause.
When they had finished with me lying on my back on the bench, they had me stretch out face down on the floor, so they could take it in turns to stand astride over me and exert every bit of pressure and force. They alternated, each bout lasting around five minutes before one masseur took an exhausted break and handed over to his colleague. And then, after another 5 minutes, they would change places again.
And so it continued. With their thumbs at the base of my spine they worked up towards my neck in an apparent attempt to disjoint the vertebrae. I squealed. They squeezed the muscles along the length of my fore-arm. I squirmed. They kneaded the flesh of my back and shoulders like a well-skilled baker knocking down the dough for a traditional family-size farmhouse loaf.
I turned over and lay on my back with my arms stretched out, in an appropriate pose of imminent crucifixion. The masseur straddled my chest and used his full weight as he pressed down on my chest and shoulders.
Aaargh! - did I say "pampered?"
Powder massage.
Ah! - a gentle dusting with Johnson's Baby Powder and a soft relaxing caress..... - this, surely, I could enjoy!But of course not! The "powder" was ground-up leaves and roots of medicinal herbs, with the consistency of fine sawdust, and the objective was to administer the medicinal properties by grinding the powder harshly over the skin, exfoliating the surface and letting the treatment soak into the newly-exposed under-surface. I was so relieved that in this treatment, they didn't work the pressure-points, and I have to admit that after a few days of this process, my skin is now amazingly baby-soft.
The uncomfortable part of this process, of course, is that the herbal sawdust gets everywhere. I have to keep my eyes and mouth clamped shut, and when I finally slide off the bench my whole body is covered in this gritty substance.
However, I cannot just leap into the shower. There has to be a rest of at least 30 minutes to allow the body to cool and the medication to soak in. It is now mid-morning, so I either miss breakfast or, alternatively, sit at the breakfast table looking like a refugee from a flour mill.
Then I do silly things like write this blog while I watch the clock and decide whether I have absorbed enough herbal remedy and can finally stand under the bliss of my en-suite rain-forest downpour.
Ah . . . if only they could medicate the shower I could happily stand under it all day.
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