Even if there was things to do in Dalat when it's pissing
rain, we weren't interested. I had sold Uma on the idea of visiting Dalat
solely on the steam room, sauna and hot tub at a certain 'Dreams Hotel'. They
seemed like easy dreams to satisfy but thanks to everyone else using the same
guide book as me, the hotel was booked out. Although a full hotel was an
unheard of precedent, an empty and half the price one was found a few doors up
the road.
Hotel 171 was intelligently named after it's street address
to ensure there were no copy-cat hotels stealing customers. Such behaviour is a
common occurrence in Vietnam
when you request to be taken to a particular hotel, you often get shunted off
to a dodgier version nearby. So now, places add 'The original' to their title,
something the copycat places also did about a week later.
Hotel 171 was new enough not to have any copies, or
customers. It was the third such place in a row that we had stayed in.
Impeccably new and well appointed yet ridiculously cheap. We currently have 3
double beds in our room, a fan (Dalat is too cold to require air conditioning),
a T.V., hot water and a balcony for $10 a night. How such places are initially
paid for, and continue to make a profit does not warrant thinking about lest a
quick check of the craftsmanship reveals concerning corners cut in its
construction.
Wandering out into rains that had continued to fall since
the moment we got out of bed, our mood was anything but upbeat. Like an oasis
in the desert, or the complete opposite really, a neon sign appeared
advertising 'massage, sauna, steam bath'. Ignoring the absence of functioning
neon, and better judgement when it comes to such offers being made in Asia, we went inside. The foyer was spartan, possibly
allowing for minimal loss if a quick get away from a police raid was needed.
It's biggest appeal was that it wasn't raining indoors, and the $5 price tag
alluded to nothing seedier than genetically modified oil being used.
It was an hour massage we paid for, but the use of the steam
room afterwards was what we really wanted. No one turns down a massage any way,
and I thought nothing of the fact my masseuse was actually rather attractive.
Separate rooms meant little either, although being asked if Uma was my
girlfriend straight away started to wake me up to my own naivety. Most massages
require stripping down to your smalls, and doing so while the lady watched, I
easily overlooked as merely a cultural difference in relation to privacy, ie.
there isn't any in third world countries.
She quickly got stuck into my back with aplomb, my groans
illiciting concern that she was being too rough. Believing there is no such
thing, I encouraged her to continue. She had exhausted her polite English
vocabulary with a feigned interest in my birthplace, duration in Vietnam and
feelings about Dalat, somewhat tarnished as it was by the weather. She utilised
her knees, feet, elbows and basically any part of her body that could rearrange
my own.
After 15 minutes, I was asked to roll over, Knowing that
backs get the lions share of attention when it comes to massage, I thought I
was just going to get short changed on the duration. A quick tummy rub required
my undies being pulled down below my pubic line and something stirred inside my
head. I overlooked it as she quickly moved onto working my quads.
The leg closer to her presented no challenges, but the far
leg would have been a logistical nightmare for someone shy, or more concerned
with proper protocol. She may have been focusing on what her hands were doing,
but my mind was alerted to what her forearms were inadvertently massaging as
they extended across my body. I quickly realised it was my conscience stirring
in my head, and not the devil horned 'Id' of Freudian theory that had being
running the show like a dictator for the last few years.
Apparently, the moral ambiguity of what I feared was
unfolding had awoken the saintly side of my conscience, my 'super-ego'. He had
appeared dishevelled from near abandonment, harp strings frayed, and halo
slipping but his voice sang loud and clear about the moral consequences of what
was quickly turning into prostitution. I wasn't asked for any money, but a few
quick pats of Harry Jnr. and some pointing at her own mouth didn't leave much
room for misunderstanding. If only charades in the hospital was that clear cut.
Having enjoyed the massage up to that point, and realising
the lady was probably hoping that a 'happy ending' would result in a much
bigger tip, I didn't just walk out, like I think I should have done in
retrospect. I made it quite clear that my 'girlfriend' would be less than
impressed if she wasn't at least there to watch. Index finger to the lips is a
pretty universal sign as well and her English vocabulary suddenly grew
exponentially with the change in circumstances. “Your girlfriend is with my
friend. She not know. Our little secret!” Incredulous at such a blatant offer
of adultery, I wondered how many men before me had seen that as acceptable
behaviour.
At such times, I am embarrassed by my maleness and its
dictates on my response. Her blatant disregard for emotional commitment,
whether I was lying or not, my body overlooked as the crime it is. Not out of
free will, but as a slave to conditioning where any degree of arousal
contradicts my verbal opposition. Pitching a tent made my pleas for a 'normal'
massage seem even more of a feigned sense of indignation.
Shame is pretty universal too, and thankfully she spared me
the prolonged sales pitch that every
other opportunist had put me through over the last week. Realising that the
rest of the hour had to consist of legitimate massage, I pretty much got the
same treatment all over again. And to my dismay, a similar offer that involved
the same degree of fondling that would result in serious jail time were our
genders reversed.
This time her English was more ambiguous and may have
included the word 'baby'. That particular word was quickly followed by others
in my mind such as 'alimony', 'commitment', and 'terror'. 'No' was obviously
not part of her vocabulary, and discretion not part of her repertoire.
Overlooking my steadily increasing objections, she thought she deserved a
consolation prize of a not so sneaky look at what I had going on. It's all
pretty normal by my understanding of what's supposed to be going on, but her
surprised look has me asking questions now. Not about something I felt
completely comfortable with up till that point, but what exactly it was she was
expecting, or had been confronted with in the past?
Either way, it was about the point I realised $5 was too
much unless this lady was a doctor working hard to pay her way through med
school. I had been polite enough for either of us to avoid losing face, but my
goods only go on show when I am drunk enough to think its appropriate to the
situation. Neither was I drunk, nor did I think this was the situation that I
came to Asia to experience.
I got up off the table and was escorted to the steam room by
the still smiling and giggling groper. When Uma joined me soon after she could
tell straight away that her massage was somewhat different from mine. We
sweated our way through laughter and incredulity in the steam room amazed that
such offers could be made so blatantly. We were hit up for a tip upon leaving
but both Uma and I have trouble doing so when such gratuities are expected
rather than just appreciated. Miss 'Mockery of monogamy' was lucky I didn't ask
her for a tip as making her the recipient of my 'hands of licentious intent'
would have cost me far more than my sense of decency.