Colombia Part III: Massage

My body is by far the oldest and whitest on Playa Blanca. Conscious of the bulges that my bathing suit can’t hide, I stretch out on a chaise longue, anxious for the Caribbean sun to turn me an immediate toasty brown. But the heat is overwhelming, and I sit up to consider an ocean dip.

A tanned, wiry woman in a short twirling skirt, a neon orange top, and a blue plastic beach pail in her hand approaches me.

“You look like you need to relax,” she says.

Before I know it, her strong hands begin rubbing my shoulders.

“No, no, gracias,” I say, but to no avail.

“Only twenty pesos for the back. Whole body is sixty.” She flashes a credential hanging on a cord from her neck. “Took a course. Have official approval to work here.”

“No. No,” I repeat, but she keeps on rubbing. Her strong fingers work down my back. It feels heavenly.

“See?” she says.

My friend, who lives nearby in Cartagena, comes up and haggles over the price. They agree on fifty for the whole body. I succumb.

She directs me to lie face down. As I turn my stiff body over, I notice that several sun bathers on chaise longues behind me observe with keen interest. My masseuse then squirts an oily liquid onto my back.

 “Qué es eso? What’s that? I ask.

“Aloe Vera.”

Aloe Vera with what else? I wonder.

She eases my bathing suit straps off my shoulders to better reach every possible surface.

“How old are you?” she asks, her hands nearing my buttocks. No room for vanity here.

            “Seventy-six. And you?”

“Forty-five. Do you have grandchildren?”

"Yes, I tell her. Five. “And you?”

“Fourteen.”

“Oh! You must have been a child bride!”

She laughs. “Had my first experience at twelve.”

I wonder if it was consensual, but say nothing.

She moves on to the backs of my legs, rubbing in her oil along with rebel grains of sand. She devotes special (painful) attention to my sore foot. Then she slips up my suit straps, directs me to turn over and aims the contents of her plastic bottle onto chest, arms and legs.

I can’t believe this! Here I am in the hands of a masseuse on a Caribbean beach. How long will she continue? It must be close to an hour. Who cares? Just enjoy the moment, girl.

She finishes up with my feet.

“Oh, that was wonderful!” I say.

“See. I told you.”

“You’re quite the saleswoman. Sneaky! Laying your hands on my shoulders. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. What’s your name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Come over her in the shade, Elizabeth, and let me get a photo of you.”

She readily agrees and poses for the photo.

    “And one of us together,” I say and we pose with our arms around each other. Beach buddies.

Now, into the water to wash off that mystery oil.