I did eventually get to sleep at about six last night. I feel ok now, as I had nearly five hours.
I was in bed racked with a big knot at the base of my neck. A good massage is what was needed, but it was in a position that I just couldn't reach, and couldn't put pressure on anyway because of my manky hand not doing what I won't it to do.
I was imagining being back in Africa, and being pummelled to within an inch of my life.
When I used to go to Africa for my pre Christmas holiday, I always spent at least a week at the beach, as well as doing other things like safaris or helping at the clinic.
Just south of the equator, the beaches of East Africa are breathtakingly beautiful. Pure white sands, protected from the Indian Ocean by a reef about a mile off shore, making the bathing fairly safe.
Even in the resorts the beaches are pretty deserted. As soon as you settle down to read a book, someone will appear from the lush undergrowth to say 'Jambo', then try to get you to buy the best carving available, at the very best price in Kenya/Tanzania.
The best bet is to keep moving, as you can politely say you haven't any money on you. As you begin to walk along the beach, you begin to see little signs hidden amongst the tropical vegetation, dotted underneath the palm trees.
'Dr Love' and 'Dr Massage', handpainted onto pieces of bleached driftwood.
I discovered that Dr Love's sign basically offered 'love' with a young girl, for basically the price of a can of coke. Frighteningly I discovered from the fat European men that frequented them that condoms weren't obligatory.
Just further down the beach from where I was saying, camouflaged in the jungle was a whole complex of huts made of thatch with a Dr Massage sign. This guy came rushing out to where I was walking in the surf. He said Jambo, and rattled on and on. He said if I would just come and see their complex he'd give me a half price massage, about twenty five pence.
As we walked over I was thinking what am I doing? No one knows where I am, I'll be mugged, and never heard from again.
My fears were unfounded. The other two people were really friendly, as they proudly showed me round their thatched clinic, which suprisingly even had proper massage tables garnered from somewhere.
Feeling a little more comfortable, I was told to lie face up on the bed. My swimming trunks were rolled up into a modesty pouch, and I nervously tried to relaxed.
An hour later every part of my body felt fantastic. I'd never had a massage before. My skin had been permeated with oil of cloves, and I felt dizzily drunk. From my finger tips to my toes, my body felt wonderfully alive. I sat on a log sharing a cigarette with the guy until I felt steady enough to walk back home.
After that each day it became part of my daily ritual to go and get kneaded like a big lump of dough. One of the best things was that my tan lasted for ages, and I didn't peel once, as the oil of cloves was so deeply ingrained into my skin, that I was as water proof as a duck's bum.
I was in bed last night wondering how much a flight from East Africa, plus the price of a can of coke would cost, and if Jerome did home visits. It's either that or I'll have to try and find the German Amazon in Accrington again, because she looked as if she'd give me a damn good massage.
I was in bed racked with a big knot at the base of my neck. A good massage is what was needed, but it was in a position that I just couldn't reach, and couldn't put pressure on anyway because of my manky hand not doing what I won't it to do.
I was imagining being back in Africa, and being pummelled to within an inch of my life.
When I used to go to Africa for my pre Christmas holiday, I always spent at least a week at the beach, as well as doing other things like safaris or helping at the clinic.
Just south of the equator, the beaches of East Africa are breathtakingly beautiful. Pure white sands, protected from the Indian Ocean by a reef about a mile off shore, making the bathing fairly safe.
Even in the resorts the beaches are pretty deserted. As soon as you settle down to read a book, someone will appear from the lush undergrowth to say 'Jambo', then try to get you to buy the best carving available, at the very best price in Kenya/Tanzania.
The best bet is to keep moving, as you can politely say you haven't any money on you. As you begin to walk along the beach, you begin to see little signs hidden amongst the tropical vegetation, dotted underneath the palm trees.
'Dr Love' and 'Dr Massage', handpainted onto pieces of bleached driftwood.
I discovered that Dr Love's sign basically offered 'love' with a young girl, for basically the price of a can of coke. Frighteningly I discovered from the fat European men that frequented them that condoms weren't obligatory.
Just further down the beach from where I was saying, camouflaged in the jungle was a whole complex of huts made of thatch with a Dr Massage sign. This guy came rushing out to where I was walking in the surf. He said Jambo, and rattled on and on. He said if I would just come and see their complex he'd give me a half price massage, about twenty five pence.
As we walked over I was thinking what am I doing? No one knows where I am, I'll be mugged, and never heard from again.
My fears were unfounded. The other two people were really friendly, as they proudly showed me round their thatched clinic, which suprisingly even had proper massage tables garnered from somewhere.
Feeling a little more comfortable, I was told to lie face up on the bed. My swimming trunks were rolled up into a modesty pouch, and I nervously tried to relaxed.
An hour later every part of my body felt fantastic. I'd never had a massage before. My skin had been permeated with oil of cloves, and I felt dizzily drunk. From my finger tips to my toes, my body felt wonderfully alive. I sat on a log sharing a cigarette with the guy until I felt steady enough to walk back home.
After that each day it became part of my daily ritual to go and get kneaded like a big lump of dough. One of the best things was that my tan lasted for ages, and I didn't peel once, as the oil of cloves was so deeply ingrained into my skin, that I was as water proof as a duck's bum.
I was in bed last night wondering how much a flight from East Africa, plus the price of a can of coke would cost, and if Jerome did home visits. It's either that or I'll have to try and find the German Amazon in Accrington again, because she looked as if she'd give me a damn good massage.
