It had been a hard day on the Penang sightseeing trail for our intrepid group. Our senses were reeling from an overdose of temple incense, our bellies were feeling uncomfortably stretched from dinner and our feet were aching after trudging from sight to sight.
The solution, we were assured, was a foot massage. They said our feet would feel blissfully pain-free after an hour of dedicated rubbing and kneading. They said the principles of reflexology would mean our entire bodies would feel the benefits. They said we'd float away as if on air.They said a lot of things.
Malaysia is full of massage parlours. Not the seedy ones (well, I'm sure there are plenty of those too, but I wasn't really keeping an eye out to be honest), but the therapeutic sort. Reflexology foot treatments are very much de rigueur in Malaysia and many places specialise in treatments of the tootsies, as denoted by the foot-shaped signs outside their establishments.
At the sign of the giant neon green foot, therefore, we halted. The price list on the window promised us an hour of bliss for only RM50 (about NZ$25). In we crowded and were passed into the hands of an army of Chinese ladies, who led us to the waiting rows of comfy Lazy-boy armchairs.
Ah yes, this is the life, we thought as we reclined, our feet soaking in little tubs of hot water. We began making plans to take our freshly-revived selves out dancing after the treatment.
After a few minutes soaking time was up and the foot soldiers were back to towel us off, slather on the lotion and get down to business.
I lay back as the soothing strokes began. My attendant was a short, squat, smiling woman who asked me where I was from and if the pressure was okay. Yes, yes, wonderful, I murmured, while all around me my companions made similar noises of content.
Suddenly my inner calm was shattered as the woman began unleashing some kind of blitzkrieg upon my foot.
Where before she was kneading, now she was out-and-out punching my sole with a fist. I thought about asking her to tone it down a little, but vanity stopped me - I didn't want to be a pathetic white girl who couldn't handle a foot rub. So I gritted my teeth and shut my eyes.
Every time I got used to one form of punishment she began another. When the punching stopped, she began digging her thumbs into the sensitive arch of my foot. I could feel tiny bones crunching as she rhythmically worked it over.
Next she began squeezing and pulling at my toes, squishing the ends as hard as she could before letting go with a flourish that produced a very unsettling 'click'. I started to wish I had something to confess that would make her stop.
But I didn't, so she moved on to my lower leg. Again it started off quite pleasurably - and then the pummelling commenced. Why was I paying this woman to assault me?
I began to realise what I had mistaken for a kindly twinkle in my assailant's eyes was actually an evil glint. Not that she kept her eyes on my feet - sometimes they were trained on the Chinese soap opera on the TV behind her, sometimes peering round the corner to keep an eye on who was entering the shop. But always her hands were moving, inflicting her special brand of torture.
When she'd finished bruising my calf and shin there was a pause. I cautiously unfroze from my rictus and began to relax as she once more added lotion and wrapped my mutilated limb in a warm towel to convalesce.
And then? She started on the other foot.
The idea of reflexology is that every part of your foot somehow corresponds to another part of your body - for example, your big toe is linked to your head, so rubbing that toe can fix headaches. (Cue one member of our group bluntly enquiring, "What part of your foot's your foot?")
I knew all this, but I was still a little surprised at the reaction when I winced after a particularly painful jab into my right arch. "That hurt?" asked the lady. I thought better of the sarcastic reply forming in my head and merely nodded.
"Aha. You eating too much! That's your liver," she crowed.
I wanted to point out it was equally likely that my foot was just bloody sore from all this 'treatment' but figured it was no use arguing - and who knew what she might do in retaliation? And after all, I was doing my very best to eat my weight in Malaysian delicacies at every meal.
At last the hour was up, and with a final punch to the heel, my foot bully left me.
Gingerly we slipped our shoes back on, all exclaiming how delightful the experience had been and how beneficial such a 'firm, vigorous' massage must be. To be fair, as soon as the massage ended, so did the pain.
But we didn't go dancing that night.
Amy Williams travelled to Malaysia courtesy of Malaysia Airlines and Tourism Malaysia.
Find out more about Malaysia.
Read more Yahoo!Xtra Adventures.
