Khmer Massage

The Kazna is only a ten minute or so walk from Bar Street and, eventually,  we became familiar with the route. We only had one minor mishap on the second or third day where we trudged an extra five miles to get 500 feet to the hotel. I admit to being moderately challenged when it comes to directions, but I think this is the first time that I have actually unknowingly walked to the doorstep of my destination, only to circle back completely mystified.

During a less eventful walk, we decided to stop into one of the many massage parlors for an authentic Khmer massage. It is impossible return from a walk around Siem Reap without a half dozen half page fliers touting cheap massages.

We chose the place pictured at left because it was the closest to our hotel, and since it was a bit removed from the hustle and bustle, we reasoned it received fewer patrons. Why not throw them a bone?

We were handed a menu and decided upon the $6 full body.

Full disclosure: Although I've started to come around, I have never really been into massages because I am embarrassingly ticklish, especially my feet. Also, only a few days prior to arriving in Cambodia I had finished a leg workout complete with squats, sissy squats, leg curls and lunges. My recovering leg muscles felt like they had been mauled by a bear. A little bit of research and I would have been keen to the fact that a Khmer "full body" massage is 55 minutes of the masseuse working your legs and feet like eggs and breadcrumbs into a raw meatloaf. The last 5 minutes she throws a couple of karate chops into your back.

While we were still in the waiting area, the girls brought out bowls of warm water and washed our feet. I clenched my jaw and closed my eyes to keep from screaming like a girl, but still couldn't hold back a snort of a laugh accompanied by a quick, uninvited fart.

Rightfully embarrassed, we were politely guided up a set of stairs to the room where we were to receive our tickle torture. We were given a set of comfy cotton pajama pants and shirt to change into. Sami's pants had a drawstring. Mine, while big enough to fit Ron from "The Biggest Loser: Couples," did not. I improvised and tied a knot with the excess material. All I could do was cross my fingers and pray that my doodle would remain hidden during this ordeal.

The girls started out on our feet, and having relaxed after ridding myself of that pesky little gas bubble, I found that I enjoyed it. That is, until she worked her way up to inside my knee. The lightest touch to areas sore from lifting weights had the effect of a stabbing. I must have made some sort of noise as she dug in deeper because she asked:

"Does it hurt?"

"No!" I lied.

So she dug in deeper.

Hoping for relief as she moved her way northward, I was stunned when her hard forearm dropped down millimeters away from the most sensitive of areas. I could feel my femoral artery pump blood louder and louder as she continued the downward pressure. The blood was directed to the one place I prayed it wouldn't.

I turned and looked at my wife, looking serene with eyes closed. What would she say if she knew? Would she laugh? Would she be angry? Would she be as embarrassed as she was when I bumped that squeeker in the lobby?

Lukily, I was saved by Sami's masseuse who let fly a barrage of phlegmmy hacks. When she left the room, the unsexy sound of wet coughing and bubbly nose blowing brought me down.

Finally, after a couple of karate chops, we were finished. We were led downstairs and served tea barefoot. They even charged us $10 instead of $12. A few days later, my legs had recuperated and Sami came down with an horrendous cold.