Body and sole

Bangkok was&nbspmy man&rsquos idea. I wanted to go to the Middle East, where they serve desserts with every meal, but my man kept talking about Thai massages, which would cure our chikungunya-ravaged feet. A cousin had told us the sex trade was very in your face in Bangkok, and that was probably the clincher. Suddenly we had bookings and had arrived.

Sightseeing was secondary to our massage agenda, and we homed in on the Wat Pho temple the very first afternoon. A pavilion in the temple compound has old etchings on the wall to instruct masseurs in the art of healing. In the mid-19th century, King Rama V democratically declared that the masseurs of the Siamese court could thenceforth teach and heal anyone. The monks at Wat Pho run a massage school that is highly rated.

At the school, the foot massages were done in the open, under a tent. My man was keen to get a full-body and went off into one of the closed pre-fab rooms, but I declined to bare anything other than my feet. I joined a row of women and men in black vinyl recliners who were already sinking into a doze. A muscular young woman swabbed down my feet with snowy towels and whipped out a container intriguingly labelled 'pepper and chilli sauce'. It was empty, however, and she used it to mix a powder with a liquid to get a cream. Fair enough, since I too swear by reduce, reuse, recycle.

It was a meticulous massage, and to watch the same movements being repeated on other feet down the line was hypnotising. A woman came by holding up a pair of sneakers and asked whom they belonged to. They are my husband&rsquos, I called out. For some reason, everyone in the tent laughed, masseuses and massagees, so I decided not to ask about his clothes. Soon I too drifted off to the soothing drone of Vespas rounding the corner outside.

In the event, the sex trade in Bangkok was never in my face. The flower markets, the girls in a schoolyard practising their classical dance, the boat rides, the safety of late-night city walking, were all refreshing. There were things we sidestepped, of course. We didn&rsquot go into why the hotel directory had elaborate rules about &lsquofemale joiners&rsquo in the rooms. And we never found out what the pamphlet meant by hi-speed Internet with &lsquoall kinds of massage&rsquo

But we were also booked to spend two days in Pattaya. Pattaya grew into a town on the strength of its sex trade, according to some of the guidebooks. We didn&rsquot know all that when we signed on for the package, and what we read on the Internet was not reassuring.

The visit seemed to cast its shadow before it. We were woken early by a receptionist who asked what time we were to go to the airport. I said we were going to Pattaya by road, and she said, &ldquoSorry to interrupt you.&rdquo This when we had blamelessly been sleeping.

We planned to spend the time walking on the beach, picking up souvenirs, perhaps getting a haircut. And more foot massages, if we could find a place that looked straightforward. The places advertised in the pamphlets offered masseuses dressed in nurse uniforms or stewardess uniforms, or even real stewardesses in uniform. The odd lesbian dream about an Angolan princess is one thing, but we quailed at the thought of being massaged by a Thai ladyboy. By the time we arrived, I was already feeling like Miss Prism in Sodom and Gomorrah.

The Day-N-Night Hotel was bare and comfortless, not the kind of room in which you could curl up and watch movies on cable. It was a relief to see an elderly family party on our floor, and even a school group, but the only way to spend the time was on the streets. Everyone out there seemed to be coupled. Paunchy, balding, sunburned Europeans and Americans arm in arm with blooming young Thai girls, or vrooming around with them on motorcycles. It made my blood boil, then I calmed down and started strolling. When we peeped into a temple compound we found another monastery-run massage centre with people being pulled about on mattresses in one clean, well-lit room. The masseuses wore simple white coats over their own clothes and two women were cutting out a paper lotus for a festival float. A sanctuary to return to for our evening massage.

We got squeamish about the haircut when we saw the salons also offered to tattoo eyelids and pierce eyebrows, and shave anywhere at all. Instead, we shopped for souvenirs. My man thought one longish instrument, displayed next to stiletto knives and handcuffs, might be a telescope. I guessed it was a cosh. It was a telescoping cosh, explained the seller. He flicked it open and mimed a blow that would send your victim down in a dark alley. We bowed and moved on, past enormous viagra hoardings, a clinic named Dr Secret, and massage houses with opaque windows.

As dusk fell, we wandered into malls packed with DVD shops, restaurants and Russians. When I lagged behind my man to look at a watch, a fellow dressed like a chartered accountant leaned toward him and asked, conversationally, &ldquoLadies, sir P*ssy, sir&rdquo I hastily caught up to my man and we headed back for our massage, firmly arm in arm.

It was our fourth foot massage this holiday, and it set us up for more walking. For a meal, we gingerly stepped into the Baywatch restaurant, but my suspicions were unfounded. There were no posters of pneumatic lifeguards on the walls, only a portrait of King Rama IX. The television was tuned to BBC News. The place was simply named for its location, overlooking the bay.

 
Back on the porn-bright streets, to borrow a phrase from Margaret Drabble, the women and girls looked like they would anywhere, some wholesome and some haggard. There was no way to tell who was selling and who was simply shopping. So when a European peeped under the brim of my baseball cap and smiled an enquiring smile, there didn&rsquot seem to be anything to be offended about. He registered my very Indian, very mid-forties face, and we passed each other with polite touristy nods. I walked on to the beach promenade, to watch the lights wink in the bay.