Thursday, November 29, 2007 A measure of Mogambo in the mist By Kristin Aldana-Lerin
THE sudden onset of sweater weather on a beach-bound weekend wicked off my hair like water off a duck’s back.
Another place, another time and my bikini bottoms would’ve been wound around my neck, tighter than a Gordian knot.
But this was here and this was now, and in this place called Mogambo Springs, the only stress that exists begins with “de-”.
But I really wasn’t on a beach, now was I? Out the misted glass window, a ribbon of water wound through white river rocks, its mouth making its way underneath a quaint bamboo bridge, leading to pools and falls beyond. Its tail stopped short of a double-roomed pagoda, which watched over the complex like a serene empress.
Here in this Zen zone, one’s mandatory notions of sun and sand slowly dissipate, along with the steam rising steadily from the hot-water pool, any misgivings sweetly transformed into the spicy scent of sandalwood, wafting lazily through the salty sea air.
***
The spa extension of Plantation Bay’s Mogambo Springs is tucked away at the rear, on the property’s secluded northeastern corner. The absence of the customary lagoon view does not disappoint.
More mountain hideaway than resort retreat, the premises resembles an 18th century Tokugawa Village. Thatched cottages flank the main courtyard. A rivulet gurgles across its length. Bamboo fronds swish in the wind.
Soundtrack to the scene piped in throughout the area, is the lyrical pluck-and-twang of traditional Japanese string instruments, layered over the soothing crash of waterfalls and the bubbling of Jacuzzi jets.
You half expect Takezo Kensei to round the bend. Or cherry blossoms to tumble to the ground. Or the pregnantly overcast clouds to deliver a sprinkling of snow. But now, lithe therapists scurry out of the rain, basketsful of massage oils in one hand, butterfly-patterned umbrellas in the other, graciously leading guests from one treatment room to another.
***
“Is my pressure okay sir?” she lilted in almost a whisper. On a regular day, my roomie of nine years running would have dished back a raunchy retort that would’ve turned the therapist kabuki-red. But lying prone in the quiet treatment room, silence punctuated only by the slick-slick of long oiled strokes and the slap-slap of rapid shiatsu, with the occasional crack of a stubborn joint, all he could muster was a docile “Mmhmm,” clearly putty in these experienced hands.
And experienced they were. Given a couples assignment, the two therapists on duty commenced a synchronized dance involving a touch firm enough to relieve, but gentle not to bruise. In parallel fluid motions, sheets were adeptly shifted over bare limbs, revealing what was needed, concealing what was not. Arms were stretched in tandem, backs aligned on cue. Like Zhang and Yeoh in Geisha, they ended simultaneously in one clean step.
As I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but think that these four decisive hands could easily subdue a room full of 90 angry ronin.
***
The temperature dropped the next day. The wind gusted in hard, causing bamboo chimes to whirl manic. We were thankful for the warm peppermint tea. Even the dry sauna, normally murder on a hot day, was a welcome interlude, as the outdoor thalassic pool had cooled down to match the chilly air.
Contentedly ensconced in the covered Jacuzzi, a discordant scent caused me to lift my heavy lids. A quick whiff, then it was gone, but my companion’s sly smile caught my eye. Apparently, he had discovered the answer to the rhetorical question, would you know it if you passed gas in a pool of bubbly water? Today would not be a good day to ask him if your pressure was okay. Clearly, the revitalizing massage the day before had restored his impish mood.
And it was back with a vengeance.
So the next time you head off to Mogambo Springs, pack your good humor, pray for bad weather and think twice before you answer, “Is my pressure okay sir?”
