August 18, 2025
Every time I lead a writing retreat or a travel writing trip, I keep a running list of things that could be improved or tweaked the next time I offer it. It might have to do with a problem that occurred, a day that didn’t work as well as it might have, something I want to add or omit from the itinerary, and so on.
After my last trip to Bali, one of the things on my short list of improvements was to add a free day with no planned group activities midway through our journey. I realized that people could really benefit from a day when they weren’t tied to an itinerary, when they didn’t have to move through time and space with a group. They needed a open-ended day to move at their own pace, choose their own activities, rest, get a massage, do laundry, or simply meet the day with no plans, following their own thread as it unfolded.
Yesterday, I realized how much I needed this, too.
When you run a group trip, you’re always working. When I’m sitting in the back of a van, driving to see a healer or to meet a master shadow puppeteer or to visit a sacred mask carver, I’ve got my phone in my hand and I’m negotiating myriad things through that small rectangular portal: checking in with the group member who stayed back sick, fielding questions and responding to requests from group members, communicating with my tour leaders:
- “Can we get tickets for another dance performance tomorrow night?”
- “We’re running late. Let’s push back the time of X.”
- “What time do we have to leave for Munduk on Monday?”
- “What should we do about this issue/problem that’s come up?”
- “Are you sure there will be chairs in our writing group room?”
That comes with the job of being a tour leader.
I’m also thinking about the next writing class, what prompts one of my writing students might be needing, the poem I might want to share in our next session.
And I’m working on this blog—editing photos on my phone, composing the next post. I’m modeling being a working writer for my students.
And of course, I’m also participating in our activities—enjoying them myself and delighting in the joy of group members as they discover Bali.
I keep coming back here because I love it.
But I’m exhausted. I haven’t been sleeping well—sometimes just four or five hours a night. And my managerial mind is running all the time.
I really needed a day off. And today is the day!
In anticipation of our free day, Joanie and I decided to prime the relaxation pump by booking massages at 7:00 pm last night. We walked over to the hotel down the street where our group stayed last year because I remember liking their spa.
When we got there, we were handed a list of potential spa services, which included: Rejuvenating Massage, Balinese Massage, Reflexology Foot Spa, Ear Candle Treatment, Javanese Luxor Scrub, Meurut Spice Scrub, Melted Chocolate Scrub, Tuity Fruity, Sun Burn Body Wrap, Absolute Bliss, Hot Touch, Green Lover, Wind of Peace, and Sweet Honeymoon (couple). There were even kids packages: Pampered Princess, Spoiled Princess, Prince Spa, Mommy and Me Spa, Daddy and Me Spa. The list of possibilities went on and on.
We asked the receptionist if we could get a Balinese massage (pretty much like a Swedish massage) and a body scrub. She told us to sign up for the Stress Release package, a ninety-minute treatment. So that’s what we did.
The cost for the hour and a half massage would be 450,000 rupiah with a 40% discount (the same sign advertising this 40% permanent discount was up last summer) plus a 21% government tax and service charge. Basically, what this boils down to is that our ninety minute treatments would cost 326,700 rupiah each, approximately $20.22.
Now here’s the thing about cheap massages in Asia—you never know what you’re going to get. I’ve had sublime massages from skilled bodyworkers and terrible massages done by rote where I really should have just gotten off the table.
In Bali, it’s best to go in with a recommended practitioner so you can get a great massage.
I brought Joanie to the Ahara Spa because I’d had a couple of excellent massages there last year. We arrived at 6:45 for our 7:00 pm appointments and they were able to take us right away.
We were led to two big cushy chairs and brought a cup of tea and two small chocolate cookies which did not taste like chocolate at all, more like a distant third cousin of chocolate.
Our massage therapists brought over a tray of oils and painted four samples on our arms so we could smell them and decide which oil we wanted for our massage. The choices were frangipani, ylang ylang, jasmine, and lavender. My masseuse, Sari, painted them on my arm. I tried to sniff them, knowing it would be in vain. I lost my sense of smell to Covid three years ago.
I chose lavender because it sounded relaxing.
Then they asked us what kind of body scrub we wanted: coconut or green tea. I chose green tea. So did Joanie.
The next step was having our feet washed in a large wooden bowl with hot water and flower petals. Our feet were briefly rubbed with salt and lime. Why? I’m not sure. This isn’t a foot massage. Joanie and I speculated that this universal step in Balinese spa treatments is primarily to get the client’s feet clean. And it generally feels good, even though it’s perfunctory.
The thing is, in Balinese culture, the feet are consider the “low” part of a person. It’s considered very rude to point the bottom of your feet at a Balinese person. And you never touch the head of a Balinese person either—that’s considered the most sacred or “high” part of the body. So Balinese massage therapists are going against their own cultural norms every time they massage someone.
I think there must be one place that Balinese massage therapists get trained because there’s usually one rote set of moves for every massage—unless you get a masseuse who’s had additional training or is a natural healer.
After our foot baths, our massage therapists led us into a room with three massage tables side by side. They instructed us to disrobe and to put on the underwear they handed us. This is ubiquitous in my experience of Asian massages. You’re handed a little plastic packet with a stretchable throwaway pair of black undies that don’t have a clear back or front. You take all your clothes off and put those on.
That’s usually when I start laughing.
What are they made of? Who knows? They don’t feel like any fiber known to man. Joanie swears they’re some kind of plastic.
One more thing about the Balinese and their relationship to their bodies. They don’t consider women’s breasts to be an erotic zone. Or butts. The only thing a Balinese person will hide when they’re bathing is their genitals. So when you’re being massaged, breasts and butts are usually freely included.
Oh, before I go on, I need to say something about the massage tables where these massages take place. The massage tables in Balinese spas are not the padded, comfortable massage tables I’m familiar with back home. Rather than a soft adjustable face cradle, there’s a hard wooden extension with a hole in the center, usually with some kind of inadequate cushioning on top. I find them extremely uncomfortable and always ask for a small towel that I can roll up under my clavicle to make lying facedown possible.
At the Ahara spa, the massage tables were covered with a light patterned cotton sheet folded in a complex origami pattern. We were instructed to get under the sheet face down.
Then our dual side-by-side massages began. My massage was pretty good. Sari had a solid, steady touch. “Madam,” she said, “is this pressure all right?” I asked her to go a little harder.
Despite her touch, I was finding it hard to relax. My mind was still spinning with my responsibilities and I was struggling to unwind.
One thing that was making it more challenging was the music. It was generic massage music and it was way too loud. But I didn’t say ask Sari to turn it down because I thought maybe Joanie was enjoying the music at that volume. So I didn’t say anything. When we compared notes later, she said she’d been thinking the same thing—that the music was too loud for her, too, but she thought maybe I was enjoying all those decibels. Neither of us said anything, so the massage music kept blaring.
But eventually, despite the impediments, my body started to let go just as we reached the end of the massage. My mind started to drift. Mission accomplished!
Then it was time for the body scrub.
Basically this is a hard rubbing of your body with a semi-abrasive substance, kind of like a dry rub with mulch. It’s exfoliating and refreshing and actually feels really good, both during the treatment and afterwards. But as Sari started briskly rubbing my arms, legs, back, chest and feet with this stimulating, messy paste, I couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t do this first, and then have the relaxing massage. The sequence didn’t make any sense to me or my body.
After she finished the body scrub, Sari bent over and asked, “Hot yogurt, Madam?” I was pretty sure I heard her properly. I said, “Sure,” because I like to say yes to new experiences. And it was hot yogurt indeed. She began slopping it on me and smearing it all over me, body part by body part, on top of the rough exfoliating green tea paste. It actually felt amazing—sensual, erotic, comforting. The yogurt was the perfect temperature. I loved the heat. I liked the weight of it on my skin. I sighed with pleasure. Let out a restrained moan. It felt great.
That is until it started to cool off. Then I started getting cold. And there are no space heaters or extra blankets at a Balinese spa. I did my best to enjoy the creamy coldness.
Once Sari finished applying the yogurt, she and Joanie’s masseuse left the room, leaving the two of us alone.
We lay there in silence for a couple of minutes, cooling. Then Joanie said in a plaintive voice, “What just happened?”
And we both started cracking up. Joanie had no idea what had just been smeared on her body. Her massage therapist hadn’t said a word to her about what was coming next. “I can tell it’s sloppy and white,” she said, “but I have no idea what it is.”
“It’s hot yogurt,” I said. “And it’s rapidly cooling.”
“I feel like I’m being marinated and prepared to go in the oven,” Joanie said. Then she reconsidered. “Actually, it’s more being basted—I feel like a cream custard.”
I couldn’t stop laughing and maybe that was the very best part of the treatment. I needed to laugh hard, and I did.
A couple more minutes went by. Our massage therapists did not come back. We were still alone with the loud massage music and sticky cold yogurt all over us.
“Where did they go?” I asked in bewilderment. “Are they just going to leave us here like this?”
“They’ll have to come back and turn the spit,” Joanie replied.
Both of us were thinking back to an experience we’d had in 2015 in Hanoi. The two of us arrived early, before the start of a group trip I was leading in Vietnam. We found a random spa and went in for a treatment. The massage tables were lined up with only an inch or two between them, so you were right on top of the other customers. And to prepare for our massage, we had to put outfits like this on:
“Do you think this experience matches the one we had in Vietnam?” I asked.
“Yes, it definitely goes on the list.”
We roared with laughter again. How were we possibly going to get dressed after this? How would they ever clean the room? There were sticky, tacky white blobs of green tea paste everywhere: all over the massage table, the sheet, the floor.
Finally, after at least ten minutes, our massage therapists came back and told us it was time to shower.
They pointed us toward a big shower room with one uncurtained showerhead in the center. Thankfully, Joanie and I are close friends and have no need for modesty. But, I thought, what if it had been one of my new students who’d come in for a massage at the same time? That could have been quite awkward.
It ends up that the stuff covering our bodies had hardened and it was really hard to wash off. Thankfully the shower was hot and there were pump bottles of soap and shampoo provided. But it took a long time and effort to wash the evidence of our treatment away.
Finally, still laughing, we dressed and returned to the reception area. We were given the most delicious cup of ginger tea I’ve ever had. We paid our bills and I tipped Sari 50,000 rupiah. It definitely wasn’t her fault that someone had come up with all these weird spa treatments they think tourists will like. And I have to say, I did like it. I left the spa feeling rejuvenated and in good spirits.
But I couldn’t stop wondering what a hot chocolate massage would be like.
