|
How far would you travel for an afternoon of magic? From a typical Canadian snow-bound winter, Koh Samui is the other side of the world. Off the southern coast of Thailand, Samui, like many of the Thai islands, is gorgeous and idyllic, a place of tropical sun, sand and fun. But this island is different. It is the island of spas. Spas - the least of our thoughts as we step off the plane onto the tarmac and from there to buildings made of thick wood beams that flow one into the other; departure lounge, customs, check in. Everything is open, a wall here or there but the outside is always there, accessible without a door or window. Flowers bloom on immaculate, brilliant green lawns. The customs officer smiles before ushering us through, stamping our passport - arrived. We suck in the flower scented tropical air and our busy North American souls take a step back, relax. Spas - who needs them? Within two days of our arrival the main street seems busy with its numerous pedestrians and motor scooter transport. Now even life toned down a notch has an edge. On the island of spas there is, of course, only one solution: Go to a spa. And we do. Within cloistered walls, Ban Sabai is removed from the dusty street where commerce continues unhindered by scented herbs and oils. A haven, an ancient fortress hiding immaculate gardens behind weathered stone. Stones so old and timeworn that it is easy to picture the ancients walking these same paths, behind these same walls. Immediate peace descends as we step within the entrance arch. Incense wafts lightly on the air. Chimes tinkle so subtly that they are only shimmers in the background. Our steps are slow, we are awed by Ban Sabai's ability to transport us from one world to another. The scents become richer and combine with herbal smells that mix into a warm and inviting ambience. Bells lift the faint sound of the chimes so that even the distant traffic is layered and lost in the sounds of tranquility. Enclosed yet open. Dense foliage gives the illusion of privacy. Cocooned, warm, safe amidst the soothing scents, we are motioned inside the reception area. Framed in burnt red wood, it is elegant but still open to nature. Few words are spoken. In the tranquility, the two women who meet us in traditional long dresses are silent and their silence encourages ours. One woman offers a list of what is offered. She smiles and silently waits. We agree on a massage. In comfortable rattan chairs we are left alone to scan the long glass tubes of oils on a revolving tray. Our nostrils are filled with the clean, sweet scents of jasmine and rose, tantalized with the fresh scent of lemon, and cleansed with the spicy fragrance of cinnamon and cloves. The choice is endless as we pull out tube after tube. Finally we choose. Immediately, two steaming cups of ginger tea are provided. The sweet smiles of our hosts never waver as they flit about almost unnoticeably, yet nothing is missed. Damp cloths are provided to wipe the residue of the tropical heat and busy street from our skin. That is the last thing we are allowed to do for ourselves. We are passed off to another woman who silently leads us upstairs where we change from our own clothes to a sarong. Our footwear is removed and our feet soaked in water with rose petals floating on the surface. After a few minutes in the soothing warm water, our feet are briskly towel dried. Flip flops are put on our feet and the rubber click of the simple sandals accompanies us down the stairs, into the garden and to a gazebo. The gazebo is hidden beneath a drape of tropical foliage that shades the sun's intensity, muting the rays to a warm balm. Two women gesture to sheet covered bed pads that lay on the floor of the gazebo. On our backs we look up to see multi-hued flowers blooming on trailing vines and single stems. They poke into every opening in a glorious display. Butterflies flit overhead. A small lizard skims across a broad leave and then perches motionless before disappearing. Peace drapes the gazebo settling among the wispy sound of butterfly wings as they delicately settle on nearby flowers. The sweet scent of nature combines with the scent of the oils - ambrosia. Nimble, yet strong fingers rub the soothing oil into our skin. Every limb is massaged. The women whisper incomprehensible yet somehow soothing words to each other as they work. But reality is still just outside these walls and we are briefly reminded of that as we languish in our temporary decadence. Reminded when our masseuse giggles when limbs don't perform to her expectations. Who thought a leg could bend at that angle? But as is the Thai way, when they think you will be embarrassed they giggle but always the humor is tempered by a caring look, and followed by even more diligent massage of the offending limb. The interlude ends as gently as it begins. Over an hour later we are led away to change back to shorts and sandals like chameleons changing from royalty back to ordinary. We are escorted back to the entrance where only a few feet away at those magical gates, we can again hear the muted sound of traffic. Except now we flow rather than move, our limbs languid, our pace more in tune with the nuances of the Thai way of life. The bright sun is intense as it reflects off the motor scooter. The noise of real life is harsh as we leave tranquility in a scented trail of pine and flowers. I don't know if there is a place called paradise but if there is, for a brief moment on the island of Samui, we were there. Ryshia is a freelance travel writer based in Canada. This is her first contribution to The Traveler. Back to TheTraveler.
|
