Pour mes amis francophones

THE UBIQUITOUS EASTERN TOILET

When nature called, I listened. I'd been having some bladder problems and as many women in their 50s know, we don't turn a deaf ear when Mother Nature bellows. Logic told me I should wait to use my hotel toilet, but with thoughts of the tuk-tuk ride still vivid in my mind, I chose the store bathroom.

I spotted the universal unisex sign for "toilet" and peeked inside. I was overcome with the urge to turn and flee. I gagged. Think Kansas City Stock Yard meets Los Angeles County Landfill. I held my breath until I felt faint. I thought about trying to breathe through my mouth but decided it was better to smell than to taste.

There it sat, the ubiquitous Eastern squat toilet, waiting for the next feeble foreigner. I swore I could hear voices calling for help, possibly ghosts of tourists who'd fallen in.

The inside was porcelain, trying hard to resemble a Western toilet, but that's where the similarity ended. The hole was about two feet in circumference cut into the tile—its depth I would leave to the ghosts. The hole was encircled by a porcelain ring with tiny foot indentations on either side.

I later learned that the Eastern squat toilet is sometimes just a hole cut in a dirt floor—it depends on whether you're in a nice department store or a little shack on a country road. The opening was dirty and disgusting, foul smelling, and slimy, and when I graduate from my Toastmaster class, I'll be able to describe it more effectively.

Now, how was I going to use this thing? It just didn't equate. I mean, why does it have to be so difficult for women? It's a cakewalk for men. They have it way too easy. In my years of wandering the globe I'd learned an undeniable fact: the world is a man's toilet. Well, for some men. They seem to be comfortable anywhere the urge to purge hits them—behind a car, on the golf course, in an alley—wherever.

The disadvantage of indoor plumbing is that we females are forced to find a sit-down area for release. However, all toilets are not created equal and herein lies the rub: the Eastern squat toilet is discriminatory against females. For my lady friends who've never traveled to a foreign country that offers these contortion contraptions, let my story serve as a high-level travel alert.

I studied this enigma and tried to decide where the best point of entry might be. I walked up, faced it and forced myself not to look down. I stepped up to the beast and panicked. How is a woman supposed to squat on this thing? If you're wearing slacks, they need to be pulled down, along with your undies. To where do you pull them? If you just pull them down a little, you'll pee on them. So, you have to pull them down just over your butt, squat, then, while still squatting, pull them down a little more and tuck them under your knees hoping that they stay put. And what if you have on a full skirt or muumuu? You must pull the front of the skirt up and wad it under your chin. Then, take the back of the skirt, lift it up, wrap it around your waist and pray it stays there. While you're trying to maneuver yourself into position to mount this abomination, you realize you can't see what your feet are doing, what with all the clothes piled up under your chin and around your waist.

You scan quickly for toilet paper, which is noticeably absent—yet another example of the westerner's wastefulness. Here, as in all Asian countries, water is the cleanser of choice and therefore surrounds the hole; and porcelain can be quite slippery when wet, adding to the problem of balancing.

You must now do what you came to do. You're hoping for an Olympic score of 10 on your mount as you make the leap and hit the target. The porcelain, floor, and now your butt are all wet and there is no paper. You start to pray. You're squatting, wondering if you can keep your balance long enough to do the job. Your back hurts, your thighs are screaming and your hamstrings are losing ground. You try to hold your purse in your teeth while you dig out your tissue; hopefully it's in the little side pocket where you last saw it. You're searching very slowly, trying to keep from losing your footing. One wrong move, one slight error and you could do a pratfall onto the filthy, wet floor, or, the unthinkable, the hole.

You're finished now but how do you dismount? You realize you have to get up before the store closes. There's nothing to hang on to. Your arms are flailing about trying to keep your balance, your purse is between your teeth and your clothes are tucked into your wrinkles. You must now prepare for your Olympic 10 dismount by giving a giant heave. You fling yourself up and out of the crouched position and hope your feet hit a dry spot on the floor.

Recovering from the squatting position is the true test of your mettle and you'll have no help from your atrophied thigh muscles. There is no chrome bar thoughtfully placed nearby to aid in pulling you to a standing position. Nope. Just you and Mother Nature.

After you've landed your dismount, don't think you're home free because you're not done yet. These babies don't flush. Next to this thingamabob is a small spigot with a hose attached, along with a pitcher and scoop to accessorize the ensemble. You must fill the scoop with water, pour it into the hole and hope gravity helps everything go down. It may not. The person before you may have been in a hurry, over-parked, had to catch a bus. Whatever! Now you must take care of his and yours, so the person coming in next doesn't think you left that awful mess.

The Eastern squat toilet is, without a doubt, a great idea when it comes to the physiology of elimination. That is, if you're twenty years old and practice yoga every day. I missed these criteria by about thirty years. Suffice it to say I wouldn't want to be caught with my knickers around my ankles when Alan Funt and his Candid Camera crew were hovering in the wings.

Dick had been standing outside the restroom waiting for me. He said that he—and everyone in the store—knew I'd successfully landed my dismount when they heard me yell, "Thank you, Jayzus!"

THE MASSAGE OF MADAM OW-OW

My pain was gradually abating with the meds, but Dick was not a happy camper being kept from his three-nights-a-week action. He walked around with a black cloud over his head, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before a huge fight ensued. The problem was, when these fights ensued they were always followed by chest pains. I tried to be away when he was home, and vice versa, until I was completely recovered. The thing about cystitis is that when it returns after a bout, it does so with a vengeance. I had to make sure I was over it before I let Dick near me. He watched me like a cat watches a grasshopper with a broken leg, waiting for his chance to pounce.

Then I was introduced to a real stress-reliever. A most amazing practice I found while in Thailand, and one that all new expats come to love, was the wonderful Thai massage. It is usually performed by strong young girls, however I did notice a few males in the trade. One hour of this relaxing massage and most women would be able to negotiate with a terrorist. What a warm and muscle-stimulating practice it is—for most people. I have a problem with pain. I admit it. I have no tolerance for pain and don’t try to hide it. After a few trips to the massage parlors around town, I’d earned a reputation as Madame Ow-Ow. The tiny massage girls all seemed to be amazed that I could be so sensitive. As soon as I appeared in the waiting room, I’d hear the giggles start. Fine, giggle all you want—just don’t hurt my body. Like it or not, they had to use a little less muscle with me. One of the little power-houses literally left her fingerprints on my arms and legs in the form of purple circles. I warned her about my condition before she started on me; in fact, I showed her some old bruises that the last girl had left on my rump. She obviously had no clue why I was pointing to four round dots on my butt, but as was the norm in this land of smiles, she giggled and began leaving her own marks. Giggling I later learned, can also be the Thai way of hiding embarrassment. Bruises or no, I kept going back—possibly because it felt so good when they stopped.

Okay, I admit it, I’m a masochist. Seeing all the massage parlors in town brought back memories of an earlier visit to Thailand. I had to laugh as I remembered being introduced to the words: “Physical Massage.” It was in the 70s and we were expats living in Iran. My husband, feeling we had earned this treat just by living in that hotbed, had surprised us with a week of R&R at Pattaya Beach. On our first day there we decided to let the kids enjoy the pool while we read and soaked up the sun. We were half asleep when my youngest son, about ten years old at the time, came running up to us. “Dad! Can I have ten bucks?”
“Whaa for?” my half-asleep husband asked.
“That lady over there said to bring ten bucks and she’d give me a good massage.”

At these not so soft-spoken words, we both sat up—as well as most of the people around the pool—and looked in the direction my son pointed. And there she was, a beautiful Thai girl who looked to be no more than sixteen, standing in her shimmering red gown, leaning seductively against the massage parlor door, smiling the sweet Thai smile and motioning for my son to come to her.
“Uh, I think not, son,” I said.
“But, why?” he whined in his usual “you love her more than me” voice while pointing to his sister. “You give her money all the time. Can’t I just have ten bucks?”
“Honey,” I whispered, “she’s not a nice lady. She’ll take your money and God knows what she’ll do to you. Besides, massages are for grown-ups. Wait until you’re older, then you can pay for it.” “Paaaleeez,” he cried plaintively.
By now the male population around the pool was sitting upright, awaiting our decision.
“No! And that’s final,” said my husband in a not-so-final voice.
This was not the answer my son wanted to hear. He was the kind of kid who never would accept the word “No” and could argue you to the ground until you cried “Uncle!”
“She said it was good for me,” he yelled in his outdoor voice. “How could she hurt me, Mom? Dad could go along with me to make sure I got my ten bucks’ worth.”
“No.” I said, this time in my outdoor voice. “No more talk of massages.” I turned to my husband for reinforcement, but he was busy putting a bookmark in his novel. “Go back to sleep,” I said, “you’re not going anywhere either.”

Now, two decades later, I was happy to see so many massage parlors in Pattaya; the kind of massage my body needed. A friend called me one day to tell me about a new parlor just outside of town. “If you like ambiance, honey, you must try it.” Instead of just the ordinary plain trappings, she said, this place was very high class. On a whim, I invited Dick to join me for a massage. I felt that it might ease the sexual tension that seemed to be weighing him down.

The massage parlor was very upscale, softly aglow with candlelight, mirrors, and statues of Buddha on gold-gilded altars surrounded by bouquets of fragrant flowers. We were put in cubicles across from each other while we waited for our masseuse to come for us. The cubicle was enveloped in wondrous aromas of lilac and lavender and other mystifying, but marvelous scents. I felt an immediate release of tension. The whole experience was warm and seductive.

I looked up in time to see a miniscule young nymph, who appeared as though she didn’t have the strength to blow a kiss, glide by me with tiny delicate steps to match her under-developed size-two bare feet. Dick’s eyes lit up like two keg lights as she approached. He definitely lost the battle as he tried to hide his excitement. I wanted to reach out and slap the sappy look off his face. When he’d wiped the drool from his chin he turned my way. His face became swathed in nonchalance as he shrugged his shoulders as if to say: Geez, what’s a guy to do? then got up and stumbled behind her to the massage room.

Men!

I wasn’t as lucky as Dick. I think I got a cross-dresser. She could not have weighed more than sixty-five pounds but she looked a tad masculine, not at all like the typical Thai girls I’d seen. I even detected some fine black fuzz on her upper lip, and her eyebrows were definitely unisex. Great! He gets the Geisha, I get the transvestite. She opened the door to the massage room and motioned for me to disrobe to my underwear. She handed me a towel to cover with, then busied herself with her mysterious oils as I undressed and crawled up on the table. When she had her potions mixed, she pulled a small stool to the edge of the table, nimbly hopped up on it and within seconds was literally sitting on top of me. She positioned her body over my upper torso—with her knees on the table—and began to knead.

Oh, my, what a wonderful feeling. I was prepared to give my customary “Not too hard, please,” but she was so light-handed I assumed I’d been given a trainee. I didn’t know this was her warm-up phase. After she’d kneaded for about five minutes, she began to pummel—well it felt like pummeling; push, pull, twist, shove, bat, smack; all sorts of noises. My skin felt twisted in twelve different directions. I craned my neck around and stopped her mid pummel: “Ow!” I yelped. She stopped and looked around, as though she had no idea where that noise came from. “Ow,” I repeated, a little softer this time. “Kao jai kha?—Do you understand me?” I asked, a bit too harsh. I softened my voice when I saw her look of confusion. “Please, please, not so hard.” I forced a smile. Sweet thing that she was, she smiled back, giggled softly, and went back to her pummeling. I’d hoped for a miracle, to get the only Thai in the place who might understand me.
Again with the pummeling. “OW!” It jumped out of me again.
“Mai kâo jai kha?” She still didn’t understand me.

I sat up to illustrate my problem. I took her arm and squeezed my fingers around her minuscule wrist, overlapping them with my thumb. Sheesh, how does one stay so tiny? I put some pressure on her wrist to emphasize the meaning of pain, hence “Ow!” She didn’t flinch.

Okay, now she must think I’m nuts. “No jep —pain, Kao jai kha?”

She smiled again. No! Please, not with the smiles again. That’s the thing about these people. They giggle when they’re amused, and giggle when they’re embarrassed. It’s hard to know which is which. If I ever wanted to get this over with I thought I’d better just shut up. That is until such time as I saw blood on the sheet, then I’d have to buck her off, grab my clothes and run.

She continued. Now I felt some chiropractic moves. I assumed after she’d dislocated my body she thought it best to put it back together, stretching and kneading. I felt like a ball of dough being readied for the oven. She finally slacked off a bit—I assumed out of exhaustion— and just when I was starting to enjoy it, the timer went off.

Dick stood by the car with a scowl on his face. Limping up to him I asked what was wrong. He couldn’t possibly be unhappy with Ms. Glides on Water. I’d had Ms. Masked Marvel and I had a limp to prove it.
“What? You didn’t like your girl? Your skin is tough as cow hide. Don’t tell me she hurt you.”
“No, she was just a bit over-zealous, is all.”
“Really! What happened?”
“Well,” he said, feigning indignation. “She nearly pinched off my gonads.”
I looked at him in utter amazement. “Your gonads? What were they doing flapping about? You were supposed to keep your underwear on.”
“Oh!” A look of innocence. “I thought I was supposed to strip all the way.”
Sure you did, Dick.

What is it with men, anyway? They can’t get their skivvies off fast enough. Yet every woman’s prayer in the doctor’s office is: Please don’t make me take off my undies. Please, please, please. Men can parade through Times Square with everything jangling about—and with a smile on their face to boot. I don’t get it. They have more to hide than we do, what with all the outdoor plumbing and all. I’m beginning to realize that ole’ Eve in her Garden really screwed things up for us gals. Why the shame, the modesty, the embarrassment? Why the worry about getting naked? Why can’t we just flop around like men do? What’s the big deal, after all? Babies can parade around without a stitch, totally unaware of their bodies, yet the minute they can understand English we have to push our insecurities and modesty off on them. Something’s not right here.

One of the best massages I found was in an old run-down home outside of town. The Hilton Hotel Spa it was not, but you soon overlooked the lack of fluff for the wonderful treatment you received. The house was over 100 years old, with cracked windows, torn curtains, sagging sills, patches of linoleum missing here and there, and a musty smell that permeated the whole environment. The interior walls in the center of the house had been removed and the space had been converted to a large dormitory-type room, with mats laid out side-by-side on the floor. Much to my discomfort, air conditioning (or air-con as the Thais say) was sadly absent in this old house. The AC phenomenon was introduced to Thailand with the advent of the farangs invading their land. The Thais don’t seem to feel the heat as the farangs do. When the temperature drops to eighty-five degrees, it might move them to put on a sweater.

Now, I could handle everything else in this place, but when the weather was at its worst, the massage room became one huge sauna and bordered on feral. I tried to get there early before it became too warm. Warm, as in 100 degrees F. The place lacked the niceties of Muzak and ambiance, but it was home to some wonderful girls. The Blind Student Massage School, appropriately named, was home to young girls who were clinically blind, but who gave wonderful massages. The girls were mainly from poor villages where their parents were unable to get help for them. They were brought to Bangkok by Good Samaritans and schooled in the art of Thai massage. Once trained, they were sent to Pattaya and other towns to live with their benefactors, working to earn their keep. The Thai couple who owned this establishment gave the girls a home to live in, in exchange for their massage work and a small salary. They did very well on their tips and always thanked us profusely. We did wonder how they knew how much we tipped.

The routine went something like this: After check-in, you were given a towel and a pair of cotton PJs—designed to fit a ten-year-old—then escorted to individual vapor steam rooms the size of a small shower, with a bench seat for snoozing. After disrobing, you’d be saturated in wonderful mystical aromas of incense, eucalyptus steam and various other herbal delights. It took me five minutes of this heaven before I would doze off and dream I was Eve, lolling about the Garden in my birthday suit. When you’d yell “Uncle” they’d scoop you out of the shower, help you on with your PJs, and lead you to the massage room and the assigned mat on the floor. What joy! You were clean, warm, snuggly, and then the fun began.

The girls would first try to identify you—a game they all played with giggles and excitement. They’d begin by running their sensitive little fingers over your face and downward. By the time they reached your legs they could identify you. Of course, with me, as soon as I uttered “Ow-Ow” I was caught, and had to listen to a chorus of giggles wafting through the room. I still think it was unfair; when they couldn’t immediately identify me, they’d give a pinch to hear my Ow-Ow.

After one hour of this heaven you were escorted to the co-ed shower room where you’d find the usual male opportunists—showering, changing clothes, urinating, or sitting and watching you do thr same. At first it was difficult, but over time I would envision myself as Raquel Welch—loin cloth and all—and didn’t feel quite as modest.

At this same establishment they offered haircuts, facials, manicures and pedicures—I asked for the sighted girls for these jobs—all for less than ten dollars. If you came in for a wash, you were put on what looked like a hospital gurney and rolled to the shampoo bowl. The first time I experienced this I was a tad apprehensive. Okay, where’s the operating room? But it turned out to be another treat for the pampered farang. They had a very inventive way of preparing you for the shampoo by slipping one end of a rubber tray under your neck, while the other end drained into the shampoo bowl. Why don’t we have this technique stateside? What a simple concept: the water doesn’t drain down your neck, leaving a soggy blouse; no wet towels to deal with, and no concrete slab for your arthritic neck to balance on. You’re in a lying position and soon you’re fast asleep.

Along with these wonderful shampoos would come a head massage, neck and scalp massage, and anything else you wanted massaged. The shampoo was something all the expat ladies looked forward to; three washes, three rinses, and a twenty-minute head and neck massage.

Other pleasures to the senses were the trips that many of the ladies took to Bangkok for beauty treatments. The salon offered massages, hair and nail services, and pedicures. It was heaven to spend the day being pampered. If you were in a hurry it was the best place to go. To gain entrance you had to ring a buzzer, wherein the manager would greet you at the door and ask you three questions: (1) Are you in a hurry? (2) What services do you want? And (3) Whom would you like to have work on you? If the answer to number one was in the affirmative, the manager would assign as many girls to you as you had appendages; one girl for each hand for manicures, one girl for each foot for pedicures, one girl for cutting, curling and blow drying your hair. Watching all these girls working on me, I felt I was being prepared for a Thai barbecue.

It was marvelous if you needed to be in and out quickly, but made it quite difficult to read a book.

Want more? See also:  The Exotic Streets Of Bangkok at articlesbase.com.