It’s all good
March 28, 2004 | 12:00am
Anyone who has ever had a massage feels proud knowing what a spa and the art of spa-ing are all about. Anyone who has ever had a foot reflexology massage feels like a veteran. Here’s a secret: The pedigree of most spas next to your local sari-sari store is equivalent to the bloodline of a grimalkin.
With day spas popping up like bastard babies of politicians, us city folk are fed with half-truths and misleading claims. The massage is a dissemble of feigned rejuvenation. That facial made you glow a bit mostly because of all the oil poured on your face (Canola, anyone?). You leave with a lighter wallet and a faint memory of the experience two hours later. In all my years of being a true-blue Boracay brat there are two things I never fail to do no matter what: eat seafood rice at Banza, the fly Portugese restaurant owned by formerly Macau-based lawyer now dream-maker Antonio Banza, and escape to Mandala Spa.
I’m a self-confessed spa whore. I have a 20-minute back rub to start the day. A guilty indulgence that I choose over a day’s expenditure on overpriced designer coffee. There’s nothing like hearing those knots in your back pop like popcorn gone wild, it’s redemption by stroke and knead. We all have our ways of saving ourselves from the crimes of our feral nature – I choose the temple of the spa to cure my wayward habits.
I can say with all the credibility left within my sin-riddled self that Mandala puts a scupper to all that loose talk of well-being. Knowing that I was going on a wonderful three-day detox and cleanse program in Mandala Spa, I spent the evening prior to my departure doing what I do best – drinking myself to an embarrassing state. Hung-over and weary from my trip from Grey Goose Oz, I knew that it would not be long for me to feel human again (neurosis, amnesia and all).
As I entered the oasis of Mandala, I was greeted by their battalion of charm school grad employees who spoke with perfectly modulated voices. I immediately felt like a soil mouthed Viking who ate day-old babies. The look of death was certainly obvious on my face despite the movie star shades that I wore to hide my rock n’ roll night. Immediately, along with my friend DJ Montano, I was hoisted to our villa that in itself was a table of good taste and fight sensibility. Designed by spa owners Karen Reina and Dieter Schrottmann (the same people behind the fab Kontiki Floating bar back in the day) and built by Bacchus Zulueta (who is also building the Hey Jude suites, can you just imagine the possibilities), the villa transports you to another dimension of the island. That without shady foreigners picking up pre-teens for a "milkshake" and eye-sore inducing fake Murakamis and Diors, the place is definitely recalcitrant to anything die. It’s fight star! Despite its serene setting, being the shallow urbanite I am, I asked that the TV and DVD sent to my room. Who knew when I needed a hit of my Minghella, Fellini or Godard, right? One city spoil not welcome in the resort is a ringing cellphone, good thing mine is always on perpetual silent.
The bathroom, a perfect study of nature and lux (my fave combo), boasts rainbath shower heads and is duly equipped with the Mandala bath booty that made me say, "What, Kiehls?" After my brush with lush, I surrendered my battered self to the able hands of my masseuse who began the sumptuous Mandala Signature Massage. This method which includes gentle kneading and this awesome rotating action that they do with their fingers on my shoulders is at par with my woolgathering sessions with Jude Law. Smelling like the healing oil that they used (there is exotic and relaxing as well to choose from), I was the happiest squid alive. Gently rousing from my hypnogogic state I sipped my lemon ginger tea which soothed my chin wag strained throat and began feeling guilty.
My daily visits to the chair massage spa were enough to make me choke with shame for its excessive Roman proportions. My feelings of being an indulgent rapscallion were heightened as Frieda Dario (our former sweetheart from Metro magazine who now is the Funny Face of Mandala) gave me the lowdown of the weekend that was to ensue. Facials, endless massages, wraps, Watsus, Shodhana Karma (more on that later), exhale sessions and fight star spa cuisine, I felt like one of those people who were about to be given the best thing that they ever wanted only to be killed and sacrificed later. Or maybe like a death row inmate at the Bronx having his last Peter Luger steak.
Something had to give. However, always being a hedonist, I was spoiled right on.
My distinct animus can only suggest what a shameless carnivore I am. The menu, however, is an opus of healthy and sophisticated vegetarian fare by Jullia Lervic, which instantly appealed to my palate and for that weekend I did a volte-face from my common diet (Tapa King, Cheez wiz and vodka) and realized how wonderful eggplant and mushrooms can be.
The next day, feeling like a newborn baby wrapped in the softest down comforter and laid on the firmest mattress, I was greeted with a sweet breakfast of Muesli and yogurt which is specially prepared at the resort (this flavorful meal should be mass produced for the common good of the gastronomic landscape) and got ready for my Shodhana Karma. The word karma always makes me nervous because God knows what will come back to me tenfold with everything that I have done lately. However, the practice proved to be contrary to the bone-chilling definition that any guilty soul is familiar with.
First, they massaged me with sesame oil and rubbed on some natural grains (sesame oil is absorbed more easily by the body). Drifting in and out of a sort of amative state, my therapist escorted me to the chic sauna room.
As I asked my therapist if it was really necessary to do the sauna (as a child of the air-conditioned nation I fear heat), she looked at me with a calm expression that contrasted my effusive pleas and told me it was a must (to release toxins and purify). I then knew how wrong I could be as I felt every burger I ate, every cigarette I smoked and every lie I’ve ever told dissolve in beads of sweat. Then feeling like a lechon I was scrubbed with an all-natural Ubvartan scrub on top of a banana leaf and then doused under a three-head shower that hung from the ceiling. I was sent back to the sauna (this time with a willing and anticipating heart) and emerged to take another cold shower. I came out and for the first time in my life I felt innocent again.
After a relaxing lunch with Karen, Dieter, Frieda, Bacchus, DJ and the rest of the Mandala gang, I was pondering if I could be The Philippine Star Boracay correspondent as I was getting a bit attached to the lifestyle. It was like this whole happy family with no issues, almost a mythical portrait.
The afternoon was all about relaxation. The legendary Watsu treatment that Karen learned in California is a must for any Mandala virgin. Anyone who has tried it has their own transcendental tales to tell. For me I saw babies, all kinds and all I’m glad to say are not mine, and a silent calm with the murmuring sounds of the water as Karen stretches and sways you in gentle submission as you are half-submerged in the heated pool. The total anti-delilah trip.
As if things couldn’t get any better I indulged in a deep-tissue massage in which every KSP muscle in my body was given the attention it craved. After lapping in luxury with my floral bath infused with floral oils and drizzled with hyacinths, I seriously began questioning why I lived in the city of sin. Being good can be so much fun!
My final treatment was an all-natural facial that felt and smelled so good that I was tempted to lick my face. Papaya was used to exfoliate, cucumber to cool and honey to moisturize – I felt like a shake at Jonah’s, a popular shake place on the island, (despite how it sounds, it is a very good thing).
My friend DJ was able to indulge in an exhale session, which consisted of an hour of breathing exercises moderated by the great Mo-Ching Yip that led you to different dimensions of relaxation. A fellow sinner, DJ agreed that it’s sometimes good to be good.
I left the spa on a Tuesday because YStyle was hosting a party (how us really) for artist Isabel Diaz. It’s true what the oft quoted Neruda said, "Loving is so short.... forgetting so long." After Mandala, my second home Boracay will never be the same again. Yes, it is changing with all the commercial franchises popping up on the island in the most upsetting manner. However, fundamentals are the building blocks of fun. If the soul had a home on the island this would be it – and any kind of soul is welcome just as long as you keep your cellphone on silent mode.
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