THE MASSAGE THAT WASN’T ON THE MENU
By Day Three, my body felt like it had been assembled by a committee. The mattress in Room 207 had done something terrible to my spine, the humidity had fused my thighs to my shorts, and the FIFO King’s late‑night balcony parties had robbed me of sleep, sanity, and any remaining affection for humanity.
I needed relief.
Not that kind of relief — just a massage. A normal, respectable, therapeutic massage. The kind with essential oils and calming music, not the kind whispered about by taxi drivers and men named Ketut who wink too much.
So I set off down the street, dodging scooters, stray dogs, and the occasional tourist who looked like they’d been lost since 2014.
The First Offer
I hadn’t walked ten metres before a woman stepped out of a doorway like a ninja in flip‑flops.
“You want massage, Mister?”
Her tone suggested she already knew the answer.
“Yes,” I said. “But just a normal one.”
She smiled. “Of course, Mister. Very normal.”
This should have been my first warning.
Inside the Spa of Mild Concern
The spa was dimly lit, which I assumed was to create ambience but may also have been to hide the peeling paint. A small fountain burbled in the corner, sounding like someone gargling marbles.
A woman handed me a laminated menu of services. It listed things like:
- Balinese Massage
- Hot Stone Massage
- Aromatherapy Massage
- Special Massage
The last one had no description. Just a price. A suspiciously high price.
“I’ll take the Balinese massage,” I said firmly.
She nodded. “Very good, Mister. You want special?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You very stressed. Special help.”
“No.”
She shrugged, disappointed in my lack of ambition.
The Massage Begins
I was led to a small room with a massage table that looked like it had seen things. The masseur entered — a young man with arms like tree trunks and a smile that could melt glaciers.
“Relax, Mister,” he said.
I tried.
He began working on my shoulders, and for a moment, everything was perfect. The tension melted. My spine sighed. My brain floated away on a cloud of eucalyptus oil.
Then his hands drifted lower.
Too low.
I tensed like a cat hearing a vacuum cleaner.
“Relax, Mister,” he repeated.
“I’m relaxed,” I lied, sounding like a man being interrogated.
His hands drifted lower still.
I cleared my throat. “Just the normal massage, thanks.”
He paused. “You no want special?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He sighed, as if I’d ruined his artistic vision.
The FIFO King’s Entrance
Just as I was settling back into something resembling comfort, I heard a familiar voice in the hallway.
“G’day, ladies! Who’s free to sort out these shoulders?”
The FIFO King.
Of course he was here.
Of course he was.
He was escorted into the room next to mine, where he immediately began narrating his life story at full volume.
“Yeah, I work FIFO. Two weeks on, one week off. Bali’s my second home! Had a big night last night — met some lovely ladies. You know how it is!”
The masseuses giggled.
My masseur rolled his eyes.
I considered suffocating myself with the towel.
The Offer Returns
Halfway through the massage, my masseur leaned down and whispered:
“You very tense, Mister. You want special now?”
“No.”
“You think about it?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He sighed again, deeply disappointed.
Next: To be continued… Watch this space!
Steve Does Bali... and Survives! 
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