And the award for least PC masseuse goes to…

Sometimes, life is like a bad sitcom.

My friend Angela left on Monday to head out to Whakatane (ultimate destination: White Island the following day). She decided to take a detour through Rotorua, partly to take in some local flavor (sorry, flavour), but mostly to hit the Polynesian Spa. The spa is ranked as one of the ten best spas in the world by….some group who ranks such things. There is any number of options for thermal pools, mud baths, massages, etc. They take advantage of the local geology to deliver what was promised to be a completely relaxing/self-indulgent/decadent treatment to renew the body and spirit.

Now, before we continue, let me tell you a little about Angela. She is an academic, but lower down on the food chain, which basically means that she’s completely stressed and overworked all the time. Oh, and poor. This entire trip was a huge deal for her, since she’d basically not had a vacation in literally years before heading down under. However, regardless of the expense, she vowed that she’d treat herself to an afternoon at the spa so as to unwind.

I’ll also take this opportunity to remind our readers that Angela is, in fact, black. This information is important for what follows.

Anyway, at about 4-5 in the afternoon (after I knew she’d be done with the spa and in the car on her way to Whakatane) I called Angela to see how it went. Here is, to the best of my recollection, our conversation:

Angela: Hello?
Me: So, feel relaxed?
Angela: I CALL BULLSHIT ON THAT WHOLE THING!
Me: uh, beg pardon?
Angela: I don’t know if it was just coincidence or someone’s idea of a joke, but they gave me a white South African woman for my masseuse.
Me: (chuckling)
Angela: In less than five minutes, she managed to touch on two of my qualities that I’m self-conscious about: my looks and my weight.
Me: what did she say?
Angela: well, as I was there on the table in my towel, trying to relax, she said “wow, you’d be really desirable in Africa”.
Me: (nearly spits drink into phone)
Angela: Yeah, she’s like “oh, you’d be worth about 500 head of cattle with your figure”.

Apparently, the conversation didn’t improve from there. Angela registered her displeasure with the experience by not tipping. That'll show 'em!

Most of the rest of what she did that day (seeing the Rotorua Museum, which apparently is very nice, and going to the agrodome) really sort of pales in comparison.

Later that night, she made it in to Whakatane to stay at Lloyd’s lodge backpackers (it’s the place to be in Whakatane!). The next morning, though, the seas were so rough on the way out to White Island that they turned the boat around (always a possibility, so definitely try for good weather if you plan a trip there). It was pissing down rain that day, so even her detour to see Mount Maunganui (which I’d suggested as a place to go to salvage at least something out of her excursion) was a total bust. That night I tried to cheer her up with our watching “what became of the broken hearted”. From here, I can hear the laughter of those of you who know that movie.

Poor Angela. At least the rest of the trip sucked a lot less.