Prodded and Pummeled Into Paradise at a Thai Spa

I studied the menu of massage packages at the Tamarind Springs spa: “Traditional Thai,” “Sheer Indulgence,” “Divine Decadence.” They looked good, but none was just what I craved. I decided to order off the menu.

The receptionist took notes as I described my ultimate spa fantasy. I’d start with an herbal steam sauna, follow that with a two-hour traditional Thai full-body massage, continue with a half-hour facial and polish the day off with a half-hour wild mint foot massage. The only problem was that my “package” didn’t have a cute little name. “What do you call this?” I asked.

“Extreme,” the receptionist said. But if you’re going to be a bear, might as well be a grizzly.

The setting for my massage marathon was Ko Samui, an island in the Gulf of Thailand, about 275 miles south of Bangkok. After three weeks in China, Andrea and I had returned to Thailand, the crossroads of Southeast Asia.

Thai massage, a blend of acupressure and manipulation, is a cottage industry here. Masseuses work on the beach, in studios and in resorts like Tamarind Springs.

My spa visit was more or less a medical emergency. My body had been ravaged by the rigors of globe-trotting. The day before, I had dragged a beach chair into the sea and sat in the warm, clear water. I couldn’t survive another day of such strenuous activity without serious rejuvenation.

I’m not really a spa guy. My few previous massages have induced, rather than reduced, stress; I lay there the whole time fretting about the cost. But massage in Thailand is cheaper than a meal in a budget restaurant. The freelancers on the beach charge about $5 per hour. Even the obscene swath I planned to cut through Tamarind Springs would set me back less than $50.

Unlike most resorts on this cramped, touristy island, Tamarind Springs sits far from the beach. The airy, thatched structures dot the side of a mountain thick with coconut palms. Joining me there was Andrea, who chose a mere 90-minute session.

I traded my clothes for a plaid sarong and climbed the path to the herbal steam sauna, built between two giant boulders, the rocks serving as walls. Shafts of sunlight pierced the steam through translucent glass tiles in the ceiling. Under a rocky overhang outside the door is a cold plunge pool. Padding from sauna to pool to refrigerator stocked with mineral water and iced ginger tea, I nearly melted into the mountainside.

After showering and changing into a fresh sarong, I met Toey, my masseuse. She was a slight woman, yet she had forearms like howitzers. I would be under their power for the next three hours.

Toey led me up the hill to a thatched platform where other masseuses in blue surgeon’s pants and floral blouses labored over tourists stretched out on elevated mats. Lying on my back, I closed my eyes and listened to the whir of overhead fans, the strains of New Age music and the flutter of palm fronds--punctuated by frequent sighs of bliss from my neighbors.

Toey had worked 30 minutes on my right leg when it dawned on me just how long three hours is. My massage would last longer than a movie, longer than a baseball game, even longer than some of history’s pivotal battles. Maybe I had crossed the line between indulgence and overindulgence. I felt a twinge of guilt, which vanished when Toey began kneading my left calf.

Traditional Thai massage involves 68 positions, few of which I’d have thought I could be folded into. Toey used her hands, elbows, knees, legs and feet to pull, twist, stretch, jab, stomp, poke, pound and pummel me. Some of her maneuvers reminded me of wrestling holds, and if I opened my eyes, I thought I might see a referee slapping the mat three times. Yes, I may have been pinned, but never had defeat felt so good.

After that, the facial was a bit of a letdown. The brochure mentioned masks of khamin (turmeric) and prai herbs, but it all felt like mud to me, and after Toey washed it off, I still had the same face. The one plus was that this procedure let me recline in a chair and observe my neighbors. One guy was having a foot massage. When I saw his eyes roll back in ecstasy, I knew Toey had saved the best for last.

She started working the wild mint lotion into my feet, and tingles shot up to my ears. When she ran a thumbnail around each of my toes, my body convulsed with pleasure. Did I deserve such delight? Of course not. But my long-neglected feet did, and I suspected they’d be thanking me for weeks.

I emerged a new man. The path back down the mountain felt different beneath my feet. All the bumps had been rubbed away.

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NEXT WEEK: Marking our 500th meal on the road.

Did you miss a Wander Year installment? The entire series since it began in January can be found on The Times’ Web site at https://www.latimes.com/travel/wander.