The Kyrgyz Massage

Bishkek, sometime in late July 2001


Dear Friends,

I spent all last Saturday working on a client report, and by 17:00 I was fed up with repeating myself on paper, so I hopped into a taxi and navigated my way by hand signals to the Hyatt. Once in this veritable oasis of charm in an otherwise Central Asian capital, I quickly ascertained that for only $ 25, I could have full use of the gym, which included a weight room, sauna and jacuzzi.

Given that this was my first workout in about a month, I quickly changed and started running off a few excess kilos of lamb sashlik, followed by a quick spin in the sauna. It was fantastic! All my cares fell away, and I imagined myself carefree and young once more, brimming with energy, vigour and well-being.

And that was where hubris winked. For a mere $ 10 supplement, the attendant informed me, I could have a 30 minute massage, sure to restore me to perfect health after a stressful 16 days in Central Asia. How could I say no?

The first indication that something might be wrong was when Gulmira, started pounding my back with fists like hammers. As jolts of pain ran up and down my spine, I began to think that this was not the kind of soothing massage I was accustomed to in the decadent capitals of Europe. No no no, this was the Kyrgyz version, guaranteed to make men strong enough to ride from Bishkek to Ulan Bator in a single week. This was the real secret to Genghis Khan's success.

Following the tenderising, she started to push outwards on each rib right at the point where it joins the spine, as if to snap it like a stale breadstick. "You have problem here!" she crowed helpfully."I didn't before I got here, honey" I thought to myself. Discretion is, after all, the better part of valour. "This is medical massage!" she said proudly, pausing in her labours."Medical is what I'm going to need after this, darling" I thought.

The head "massage" felt like she was trying to remove the hair from my head with sandpaper. Maybe it was at that point that she started naming her tortures: "This is the Ladder of Pain. This is the Symphony of Agony and Repentance". (Or maybe it was my imagination).

But the best, as usual, was saved for last. This was when she bent my elbows backwards at right angles, and ground on some itty bitty nerve running over the shoulder blade. If you've ever seen a fish flopping in the bottom of a boat in its death agonies, this is what I was doing, only louder.

At the end of it, my back felt as it someone had driven over it - repeatedly - on a Range Rover, then punched holes in it with an ice pick. But you know something? It worked! This 30 minutes did restore me to perfect health. I was so happy to be alive, I practically flew out of that gym. So happy, in fact that I went upstairs to the lobby lounge and had a gin and tonic while the Hyatt's chamber music quartet massacred - but really massacred - Mozart's "Eine kleine Nachtmusik". It was the end of another happy day in Central Asia.

Cheers everyone,

Philip