Boodarai's photos with the keyword: Win Nyunt Traditional Massage

Sign warning you not to shower the day of your massage. I grumpily followed the instructions and spent the day covered in oil and dust,

Part way through the massage her mobile rang. (It was so frustrating - we got a Burmese SIM but it only ever worked in Yangon. Everyone - well,just about everyone, including teenagers and street sweepers - had a mobile and was on it all the time. Except us.) So her mobile rang and she took the call, chatting with her cousin (she told me later) for ages, while tromping and stomping up and down on my thighs, hips and shins. At the other end of the room and young Burmese man was doing the same thing to a man, an middle aged hippy Aussie.

Here she is, tromping on my thighs. She was much nicer than this photo suggests.

After a bone jarring train ride, a bout of something like the flu, and multiple other mini-traumas, I decided to treat myself to a Burmese massage. I figured it would be something like a Thai massage - a bit violent but effective. This was... different. She started off by bashing me on the legs and punching the soles of my feet. Then she stood up and tromped on my thighs, hips and shins. She sat behind me, bent me backwars by pulling on an arm and leg, and then kicked me (really, really hard) repeatedly in the buttocks with both feet. She moved on upwards, smacking me all over my head with her hands, then plunging her fingers deep into my ears and pulling them out abruptly (pop!)... repeatedly, of course. I really didn't know if Burmese massage was an actual therapy, or if this was some sort of Burmese humour (which I would salute for its complexity). At the end she rubbed a not-entirely-pleasant-smelling oil all over my body, then warned me not to wash it off until the next day, or the toxins could not get out. After paying her (K7000) I walked out into the dusty streets and got a fine coating of it all over my body, where it remained until I showered the next morning. I felt no better.