I've got a couple more Bali stories before I go back to the enjoying of the Japanese life.

After diving, Nancy and I got dropped at Padang Bai, a sleepy little fishing village set in a story book bay. White sand beach, traditional Balinese fishing boats moored to the palm trees, children laughing and swimming in the crystal blue water and an overall lack of tourists made for a peaceful couple of days.

The massage didn't hurt other.

At first we took him for just another hawker with some strange poking and prodding for a massage. We ignored him and headed for the beach. He followed us and non-chalantly handed us a piece of paper, printed off the Internet. It was an article about him, one Mr. I. Waylan. The article was by a couple who have made repeated trips to Bali and, by chance, stumbled upon Mr. Waylan's "special massage". The article was actually a rave review, stating that Mr. Waylan was the Balinese equivalent of a Tai-chi master, and that it was not uncommon to experience visions as he chanelled the evil spirits from your body.

Cheap visions! We decided to give Mr. Waylan a chance.

His massage parlor was actually a bedroom in his home. Blinds were drawn over closed windows, paint was peeling from the walls, his family was watching TV in the living room while chickens cock-a-doodle-dooed in the yard. The massage table was his bed, covered in a clean sarong. The waiting area was another bed in the same room, piled high with clothes and pillows.

The room quickly heated to blast-furnace proportions as Mr. Waylan got busy on the massage. First he gave a rousing butt massage, before working his way up along the spine toward the base of the neck. Then it was the arms and then the back again, before the feet. After that, he asked me to roll over so that he could jam his thumb deep into my stomach. It hurt like crazy, and just as I was about to yell out in pain, he would let go. Wierd. After that he cracked all my toes, and asked me to lean up against his chest. At this point my hands were both asleep, and I could hardly keep my eyes open. Throughout the massage, the sounds of his home lulled me further into relaxation - people singing, children laughing, the TV humming. Finally, he massaged my head for a while before working the sleep out of my hands. Then it was done. I didn't see any visions, but didn't see any need to ask for a refund.

Afterward we sat around and talked for a while, when it became clear that Mr. Waylan may very well have attained enlightenment. He was the mellowest guy I ever met in my life, smooth as silk. Everything was "no problem" and "long time" as far as he was concerned. His character probably made him good at his work, or else his work built his character. Whichever, there's no doubting the power of Mr. Waylan's "special massage".