Bali by Foot
by Kevin Moloney
I don't deserve foot pain; no one does. Since the age of about 20, every step I take reminds me that there is something wrong with my feet.
It's not as though I've punished my feet with a life of sporting pursuits and I've never (repeat never) even worn high heels (although there was an era roughly between ‘74 and ‘79 when the fashion of the day dictated that we wear footwear that might have come from Herman Munster's wardrobe), but every day, my feet ache. It's true; these feet were not made for walking.
I've been through several rounds of surgery, had bits removed, altered, shortened and straightened -- all to no avail. My feet now resemble two rolled roasts. I've resigned myself to a life of pain, and have often commented that I'd happily have my feet removed but, I'm afraid my legs would fray.
What might be considered a normal stroll or afternoon's gardening for some, for me usually ends with my lying prostrate on the couch, my poor throbbing feet suspended off the end, after a few painkillers have been washed down with a healthy single malt (the latter "medical additive" has proven most effective).
I've watched TV in disbelief as beautiful women saunter down red carpets at galas around the world wearing shoes with heels like inverted Eiffel Towers. I have never understood how they can keep their balance, let alone cope with the undoubtedly excruciating pain. For me, a pair of springy runners duly furnished with heavy-duty orthotics, cushioned insteps, and thick woollen socks is the only way to travel (save for a wheelchair, but that may be a bit extreme at this stage).
Holidays can be a challenge with dodgy feet. Everyone tells me that the best way to see a new city is "by foot." Well, all I can say to that is: "Walk a mile in my shoes, fella, and with my feet!"
They're right, of course, and although it pains me, I have bitten the bullet and marched up and down New York's sidewalks; paraded around the monopoly board of London, hot-footed it between every shop in Hong Kong; and trekked the Inca trail in Peru. Ouch! Voltaren and Celebrex can become a foot-sore traveller's best friends.
Some destinations are more foot-friendly than others, but their friendliness does not depend on terrain, the quality of footpaths, or distances between attractions. It depends solely on access to a good foot massage. Nothing creates a temporary pain-free zone like a solid bone crunch. That's why I love Bali.
On the beaches of Sanur, in the hills of Ubud, and in the hotel spas of Jimbaran, a good foot massage is easy to come by. For the footsore, every step on the island can actually be a pleasure. Massage therapists (though I use the term loosely) line the beaches and streets, no more than five or six steps apart. This is what the travel brochures are referring to when they say that Bali is paradise, I'm sure. The therapists all want my business and I want all of their foot massages. How egalitarian!
While being punished as the bag carrier on one of my wife's holiday shopping sprees in Bali, I notice a little hut on the side of the road in Nusa Dua. Two tiny young women jump out at me, touting their services. "Massase, Massase?" they ask. Normally, I would shoo off touts in holiday locations with the skill of an Outback stockman shooing flies, but when their product is a foot massage, I'm an easy target.
Before the woman has completed her sales schpiel, I have reached into my pocket for a couple of billion rupiah (I think that equates to about six dollars) and am heading straight to the operating table.
The room is hot and balmy and the air is sweet, heavy with the scent of frangipani and sandalwood. The nice young lady ushers me in and points to a rolled up pair of disposable paper underpants resting on the massage table. "You change here," she says, pointing to the tiny little rolled up thing on the table.
Having been in Bali for several days now, I had experienced the embarrassment of these offending paper underpants before. They're obviously made locally, and the house model they must've used for their creation was clearly a local. Size-wise, they're perfect if you're a little Balinese bloke or perhaps a visiting jockey, but for the average Australian tourist they provide no modesty at all. Getting them past your ankles is a feat in itself. Getting them past your knees without ripping every panel is a minor miracle. By the time they reach their intended destination, they look like Great Auntie Lil's raffia light shade with strips of shredded paper hanging from a thin piece of elastic that's strangling your groin. They are irrefutable proof there is no such thing as "one size fits all." The opportunistic foot-massage seeker in Bali comes prepared. They know they must keep their Speedos on at all times!
Now lying face down on the table (in my dignity-preserving Speedos) I'm staring at a bowl of floating flower petals. My therapist starts the CPR on my feet and within minutes I'm on another plane. She squeezes, rubs, slaps, crunches, stretches and pounds. I don't want the session to end. I don't want to move. Slightly confused as to where my foot ends and my leg begins; she extends the massage and begins to work on my calf muscles and thighs. I was wondering why she wanted me to wear those Ken-doll paper undies, and now I know.
A 30-minute session of life-saving therapy completes the re-virgin-ification of my feet. I'm relaxed, pain-free and ready to walk back down the street towards the beach where another army of foot doctors await.
©2008 by Authors/Owners Kevin Moloney, All rights reserved |
