Hello, my name is Amanda, and I'm a massageaholic. In four months of travel around Asia, I'd gotten hooked on cheap bodywork, those two-hour Bangkok massages that rarely cost more than $6 and left me with a Buddha-like tranquility. So, when I reached Luang Prabang, the tiny but elegant Laotian hill town, I dropped my backpack at a guesthouse and made my way through the dusty streets in search of the local Red Cross, which I'd heard offered discount rubdowns.
It was closed, but nearby I spotted a flyer: "Massage by blind boy. Walk in. 2 block down. Blue house left." I was saved.
The sun was slowly dipping behind emerald hills as the blue-gray sky darkened and acquired streaks of pink and purple. I found the house with a yard and white picket fence, not your average household in one of the poorest nations in the world. Soft, thick rose petals dotted the sidewalk leading to the front door like ripe, fallen fruit. A slice of Middle America in the middle of Laos with an invitation above the door:
"Blind massage. Come be welcome inside."
I peeled back the screen door, and when it slammed quietly against the frame behind me, I felt like a 10-year-old on summer vacation.
"Hello?” My voice echoed across the barren wood floors. A woman scurried in from a room off to the right. Laotians were notorious for sleeping on the job, people said. In fact most Asians, I had come to learn, spent the hot hours of the day napping. A good idea.
"Hello. Please come. You want massage?” She waved her hand toward the room where she'd been resting.
"Yes, can I have a two-hour massage?" From experience, I knew that any massage worth its coconut oil required at least two hours.
"Of course!” she said, as if I were her first customer of the day.
The woman called out upstairs, and footsteps shuffled swiftly above our heads, then worked their way down the hollow staircase. A young man in pressed white shirt and brown polyester slacks stood smiling from ear to ear. He didn't use a cane; his hands led him along the walls to greet us. Large, black sunglasses (like Tom Cruise's in Risky Business)covered his eyes.
"Welcome! Can I have your name?” He made his way toward me, reaching out his hand in order to find mine.
"My name is Amanda. What is yours?"
The woman rattled off some more Lao words. He turned toward her smiling.
"My name is David."
A strand of his shiny black hair hung over his forehead, and he had wet it back to make it look clean. Pockmarks dotted his cheeks from earlier years of acne, and when he removed his sunglasses, closed slits were in the place of his eyes.
"Okay. You lie down here.”
He motioned toward a kind of thin mattress that I recognized from sleeping in beachfront bungalows. I was starting to prefer them to the opulent mattresses back home. White sheets covered the bed, and I fell onto them face first. The silence of the house and heaviness of the heat immediately enveloped me. David knelt down next to me and placed his hands first on my lower back, next on my thigh, and then even lower on my calf. The thin pants and light shirt stuck to my sweaty body; a ceiling fan was spinning above, barely. Kneading slowly and deeply, David used his hands to feel what his eyes couldn't see, inspecting where my body needed it the most. His hands were soft yet firm. Not so large, but quite strong. I could tell with each touch that he knew what he was doing.
As he pushed down along my lower spine, I sighed gently. He twisted and pulled and yanked and prodded. With each deep knead of his magical fingers came the release of dirt-road, no-shocks bus rides. With each simple twist came moments of clarity. And it occurred to me that after all of these months in Asia, I had just stumbled across paradise.
Slipping into ecstasy, I swear I heard him smile. Apparently my ears were becoming as trained as his. As we neared the end of the first hour, he said, "I can massage you all the time.” A wide grin spread across my face.
It was half massage and half interview. He told me about the woman, Noi, his supervisor, and about how he'd trained at a massage school through an NGO and how because he'd lost his sight, he used his hands as eyes, which made for good massage. Then he asked the questions I'd gotten used to answering. I told him I was from San Francisco and single; that I was traveling alone and was happy; that the people in Laos made me smile because they seemed even happier than I.
While focusing on the deepest knot just above my bottom, he also chose to focus on the part about my being single, and offered his advice, "But you beautiful girl, why not a husband? You move too quick. Must slow down.”
He wasn't all that off, but I still went into my little speech about how much I cherished my independence and that later there would be time for love. I explained that as much as Western men were good friends, I wanted to make friends with men of the East, but only if they could see past my needing a boyfriend. Then I could praise them on their sensitivity, curiosity, and hope for a brighter future, which was what I too was looking for in my travels. I told David that as much as our lives were different, I knew we could find common ground as friends.
"Very good,” he responded. As I came down off my soapbox with a sigh, he lifted his hands from my body.
As I thought about how I could have turned our two-hour friendship into four, my stomach began to grumble. David rose, putting his hands together at his chest as his thank-you gesture. I lay there for a bit and then slowly rose.
I saw him standing there in all of his delight, smiling so happily. It was hard to walk away from my newfound friend.
"What do you go now?” he asked. I had come to appreciate his light prodding.
"Well, now I think I'll go to dinner. Thank you so much, David." I gave him 30,000 kipa about $5 and turned to walk away.
"Do you want to have a new friend at dinner?” he asked. Noi had overheard; she walked in with round eyes of anticipation.
"Sure, would you like to be my date?” Just when I thought his smile couldn't get any larger, beams shone from behind his dark glasses.
"Oh, not necessary,” Noi whispered politely.
"Oh, but I would like to,” I responded softly.
"I don't think he ever has date with Western woman,” she whispered again.
There was a first for everything.
"I go get my things!" And off he went. I've never seen a blind boy move up a spiral staircase so fast.
We shuffled out the front door and onto the dirt road, where kids were playing and riding bikes. Some doubled up with friends, who sat side-saddle on a rack above the back tire. Others ran around, chasing toys made from sticks and scraps of wood. David put his right arm under my left and held a cane in his other hand. He walked tall and proud, and was silent. Then, after some time, he spoke:
"Amanda, I think everyone looks here? Yes?”
Although he was probably in his twenties, David had the awkwardness of a teenager.
"Oh, no. No one even notices." As we passed the kids, they covered their mouths to giggle or stared bug-eyed at us. My little white lie was worth its weight in gold.
We finally made our way into the open-air restaurant and I chose a table smack in the middle, so that all Luang Prabang could see.
"David, what would you like?" I said, wondering what someone from Laos would eat in a backpacker restaurant.
"French fries and Sprite. I always want to try."
"Great. I think I'll order something Laotian.”
And for the first time in Luang Prabang's centuries-old history, a beautiful Western woman dined on sticky rice and riverweed while her Lao blind date ate French fries and sipped Sprite.
There really was a first for everything.
Illustration by Ann Bennett
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