The Worst Massage Ever in Chiang Mai

‘Hello! Massage?’ the lady offers with a warm smile. Something about her makes Aurora and me promptly agree to it. Perhaps it’s her positive demeanor that rings honest and natural and the fact she cut to the chase, rather than bombard us with the questions that often precede a sales pitch: “what your name?”, “where you from?”, “how long you in Thailand?”

From the street, through the glass façade, we can see the parlor in its entirety: a small, well-lit cube with a couple of massage tables in the corner and two armchairs beside them, a selection of massage oils and candles carefully aligned atop two tables and a small fridge, and several floral posters and wind chimes draping the bright walls.

The handshake was the best part of this experience.

My friend and I interrupt our walk around a sweltering Chiang Mai in March and step into the unassuming—but air-conditioned—massage parlor with low expectations. Permanently rooting for the underdog, we’re moved more by a mutual interest in supporting this small local business than the hope for a life-changing massage.

The masseuses close the curtains on the windows and invite us both to remove our shirts and lie face down on the massage tables.

‘Only my back, please,’ I request. I don’t enjoy having my legs or arms massaged, and the less time the masseuse spends on my limbs, the less time I’ll have to spend having imaginary arguments with high school classmates to keep myself busy. She nods

I’ve gotten better massages from laundromat washing machines.

I feel the warmth of the massage oil being drizzled along my back, and my masseuse gets started. Something immediately feels off. I’m not in pain yet, but the massage is entirely different from any back massage I’ve got in the past, and not in a pleasant, groundbreaking way. After a few minutes of trying to get into it, I realize what’s missing: symmetry. There’s no rhyme or reason to this lady’s movements. Her hands move up and down my back haphazardly, as if I were being massaged by two distracted people at the same time. She presses down on my shoulder with her right hand while she draws lines across my lower back with her fingertips. Then switches to hacking random spots on my back with the edges of both hands, but the rhythm, the force, and the distance between her hands keep changing, as if she were playing whack-a-mole.

I open my eyes to check how Aurora’s masseuse is faring, and her technique (or lack thereof) looks similar to mine’s. Aurora opens her eyes and looks at me for a few seconds, then closes them again, inscrutable. Is this a cry for help? Is she too afraid to so much as signal discomfort?

My masseuse is now digging her fingers into my stiff neck, presumably to remind me how great I had it before I agreed to pay for this.

How does one disassociate from a massage?

Alas, nothing is ever so bad that it can’t get worse. Her hands slide up my neck and to my scalp and she starts pressing my skull in arbitrary spots. I’m in agony. I absolutely hate to feel my hair rubbing against my scalp, which gives me extreme goosebumps, and she is triggering that sensation more and more. Even as I write this and relive the experience in my mind, my arm hair stands up and my body writhes in discomfort.

The prideful smile on my masseuse’s face tells me head massages are her specialty, or so she thinks. I’m trying to be polite, but can’t help wince and shudder. She notices it and adjusts her technique, but the improvement is minimal.

I risk a glance at the clock. How much longer is this shit supposed to last? More goosebumps.

I’m debating asking my masseuse whether she knows Kill Bill’s 5 point palm exploding heart technique and how much that would cost me when her moves finally slow down.

‘Tea?’ they offer as we put out clothes back on. We agree out of politeness and sit down in the arm chairs.

As we sip in awkward silence, I notice the sign on the fridge, which reads: “No happy ending massage. Please be polite to me.” I feel a pang for these women, who have surely been objectified repeatedly by tourists who see in Thailand nothing more than an amusement park for the masses and in its women mere vessels of sexual release.

My head aches and the discomfort will stay with me until I pop an Ibuprofen, but I don’t regret my decision to give this place a shot. It was a $5 massage, after all. My discomfort paid half the daily minimum wage in Thailand.

But maybe next time I’ll just slip a fiver under the door when they’re closed.

Have you ever had a memorable massage experience? Tell me your story!

ACCOMMODATION
I stayed at Counting Sheeps At CNX (misspelling included!) for over two weeks and it was the most amazing hostel experience I’ve had anywhere! It’s not a party hostel, but it has an awesome family feel to it where everyone knows everyone else. It’s impossible not to make friends here, and years later I’m still close with several travelers I met here! I paid $9/night for a bed in a 3-bed dorm with private bath.