The Dolphin Massage Parlour: The Hunt for Foot Messages

by Anne Falasco Norton (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Cambodia

What could be better than a guilt-free, non-budget-blowing treat of massages at the end of hot and humid days while touring Cambodia and Laos? The first step was to convince my travel partner and husband that massages were the closest thing to Nirvana. Chuck’s reluctant initiation was a couples’ pampering at the reputable and lovely Boda Spa in Siem Reap. I was inwardly proud how, in stride, he donned his disposable bikini panties and settled in for a momentous hour of jellifying our muscles. Mission: Accomplished. It became part of the fun to not rely on the comforts of posh spas but to venture into the unknown and seek out more “local- color” (aka cheaper) parlours as we progressed through both countries. Due to the ease of not undressing and being taken to “rooms unknown”, we elected to concentrate on relieving our aching feet through wondrous foot/reflexology messages. Our feet remained happy at locations usually recommended by guides and hotel employees. “Dare we try here?” feelings occasionally crept into our thoughts but, hey, it was part of the adventure. That is, until the day in the eastern Cambodian town of Kratie. After a successful search of the elusive and endangered Irrawaddy river dolphins, we returned to town for a refreshing lunch. The bistro’s young expat owner suggested we visit the Dolphin Massage Parlor down the street. We set off in the recommended direction, retraced our steps several times, shrugged our shoulders, figured The Dolphin was not in business anymore and settled on another local establishment that we had passed along the way. We entered finding a withered woman gustily sweeping the floors of a cavernous front room with a motorcycle parked inside. English was not in her repertoire so we demonstrated with elaborate hand movements our wishes. We were taken up steep stairs, down a narrow hallway with tiny rooms separated by frosted glass sliding doors. She opened a door. A lonely mattress lay on the tiled floor. Why would anyone want to give us foot massages on a mattress especially on the floor? Past the doors we came across women lying on mattresses in an exposed area. Well, it was siesta time... Even though you know better, sometimes when you are in a situation where you do not speak the language and your message is not getting across, you start to raise your voice as if that will break the language barrier. Chuck’s words got louder and his gesticulations became more exaggerated as he tried to explain we only wanted a foot massage as we made our way back down the stairway and into the large main hall which now housed three parked motorcycles. Chuck continued to pantomime our needs while hefting a stool made from a tree stump and placing it in front of me as I sat on the plastic couch. Then he demonstrated a mock foot massage. While he was in the middle of this charade, a well-dressed woman emerged from the stairs and hovered over Chuck and the old woman. Ah, this woman might understand. Next, a woman who was in the middle of dying her black hair to bright red, showed up. As more well-dressed women sauntered down the stairs, they, too, joined in what became our “project”. Laughs, giggles and flirting ensued as they limply fussed with our feet. By now we each had three women working on us and chattering away and it became blatantly obvious they knew nothing about massaging feet. During all the commotion the motorcycle men, one by one, emerged from the stairs and departed. Confusion came when Ms. Elder worked her painful way up my arms and then tried to involve my tummy. What was going on? Then the Ah-Ha Moment: we were in "that" kind of massage parlour with a bunch of well-dressed prostitutes, one dying her hair red! Miraculously, our guide reappeared. For unexplainable reasons they did not want our money though Ms. Elder was over-the-top giddy when we tipped her. Nothing like two clueless turistas adding humor to local lives.