I saw this sign outside a massage spa, and it raised so very many questions. “It’s a raid. Any muslims in here?” “I was a Muslim on the sidewalk, but I renounced my faith when I crossed the threshold. I might re-up when we’re done here.” “OK. We good.”

I mean, it’s a matter of faith, right? Your mosque might kick you out for being a bad Muslim if your behavior came to light, but how can you be prosecuted when your faith is basically a personal expression of belief?

Well, it’s not that simple in Malaysia. It turns out that in addition to the civil courts, there’s a parallel Sharia court system that polices religious activity.

Malaysia is a deeply multiethnic society with legally enshrined religious freedom. Sort of. But if you are ethnic Malay you are presumed to be Muslim. In fact, per the Malaysian constitution, to be considered Malay you must be Muslim. If you are born into a Malay family, your religious identity at birth is assigned as Muslim. It’s right there on your national ID card, making it hard to claim otherwise in the event of a raid.

Which matters, because the State Islamic Religious Departments have their own police, and are known to conduct raids either on their own or in coordination with the civil police departments. Punishments for breaking Sharia law include fines, jail, and caning.

The authorities can also fine or shut down establishments that enable Muslims to break Sharia restrictions, co-opting them in the enforcement of the bans. No one wants heat because they carelessly massaged a Muslim or sold him a beer.

Of course, it is technically possible to renounce the faith, but it’s not a voluntary act. It requires the assent of… wait for it… the Sharia court. Which is not known for enabling apostasy. Born a Muslim, die a Muslim. At least in Malaysia. If you don’t like it, emigrating is the only way out.

As a mat salleh I can do as I like. No one’s asking to see paperwork proving my religious affiliation. Until I saw the signs, I was completely unaware that there was anything bubbling below the surface.

Is That All You Learned At Massage Spas?

Sadly, no. My promiscuous consumption of cheap massage practically guaranteed some kind of weirdness. It’s actually a surprise it’s taken this long.

Episode #1

The Lucky Blind Massage Spa was billed as a rehab opportunity for the modestly sighted, offering low-cost massages. What could possibly go wrong? There was actually a similar place in Chiang Mai, but their mission was rehabilitating ex-cons. While I had some morbid curiosity academic interest as to what constitutes a Prison Massage, I never felt comfortable actually finding out. I am weak.

Lucky Blind turned out to be a few doors down from its Google Maps location, so I walked by it twice and didn’t see the sign. Thankfully, it was on an irony-free street. When I finally stumbled on it, I opened the door to… an interesting scene: a dingy room with an auntie and uncle passed out in chairs. I was greeted by a roughly 10-year-old boy. I’d have been unsurprised if he’d been holding a log, but he wasn’t. Ascertaining that I’d come for a massage, he roused the uncle.

Uncle wasn’t ocularly challenged. He was flat-out blind, arms out to make sure he didn’t run into anything. He found the door to the back and the lad instructed me to follow him. I was installed in a small room with a massage table and Uncle left. For so long that I thought perhaps he couldn’t find his way back. Not normally a concern. When he finally returned he started patting the table, and it took me a moment to realize he was looking for me. I was sitting up instead of lying down, so he didn’t find legs where he expected them.

There’s zero reason a blind person can’t give a stellar massage, which was the reason I’d come, but I wasn’t getting stellar massage vibes, so I opted for the half-hour. I mean, he couldn’t have stopped me if I’d just got up and left, but that seemed rude.

Vibe check validated. The massage was the short side of competent, and I’m super glad I didn’t take a full hour. The whole scene had a distinctly Lynchian feel. The massage was 30rm, but I didn’t have exact change and wasn’t interested in watching that poor man try to figure it out. So 40rm, special for me.

But Nothing Else Weird Happened, Right?

At the time, I didn’t know it would be my last massage for a minute, which makes the experience even worse. The very next day I’m walking down the street when my right foot slips on the wet sidewalk. My left leg shoots forward to brace my fall, but my sandal flies off and my unprotected big toe makes first contact.

I stumble, regain my balance, and put my sandal back on. It hurts enough that I really don’t want to look at it. When I finally do I am moderately nauseated to see a hunk of flesh dangling off the side of my toe. I carry an iodine wipe and a bandaid with me for emergencies, and this seems like a qualifying event, so I stop at a bench to apply them. There is no way I’m going to actually clean the wound with the wipe without passing out, so I just drape it over my toe and cinch it with the bandaid. When I gingerly slide my foot back into my sandal, I notice that a pool of blood has puddled on the sidewalk in the course of the brief bandaid interlude. Not good.

I obviously needed to get to a clinic, but Google Maps wasn’t much help. Nothing seemed nearby. I’m also not, to be fair, thinking all that clearly. I’d been heading for a batik shop, which was still a few blocks away, so I limped there and asked the owner if there was a clinic nearby. He pointed me to a clinic on a side street just a half a block away, which I would 100% never have found on my own.

A little bit of intake and a doctor saw me right away. He cleaned the wound, cut off the loose bit of toe, bandaged me up, and sent me home with antibiotics and a bottle of iodine. The total damage, at least financially, was $40, meds included.

But the whole episode rendered me pretty housebound. It’s too painful to wear real shoes yet, so I’m not going on hikes or adventures, I’m not swimming or snorkeling, I’m certainly not letting anyone manipulate me. I’m pretty much taking short walks in my admittedly adorable neighborhood. I’m guessing I’ll be out of commission for about a week.

Tell The Truth. There Was Another Episode.

Yes, fine, there was another episode. It’s not like you’re super clever, since the first one was called Episode #1. Also, this is my blog. Stop interrupting.

I was super paranoid in Bangkok about going into the wrong kind of massage parlor, since that’s a whole industry there. Not that I was concerned about being permanently scarred by a brush with a den of iniquity, just that I actually wanted real massage, and happy-ending massage parlors don’t, as a rule, provide quality massage. They have other specialties, and good for them. God loves all his children.

Through diligent research I was able to visit only legitimate massage spas in Thailand. I wasn’t so worried about Malaysia, it being Muslim and all. I’d have been even less worried If I’d known that the Sharia police were known to raid massage spas looking for Muslims on Spring Break. Foolish, foolish me.

Full disclosure, Episode #2 occurs in Kuala Lumpur, not George Town, but the story fits here, so you Continuity Cops need to stand down.

The rest of my full disclosure is that I’m a credulous boob. The average rock would have realized long before I did what I was walking into, but at this point in KL I had consumed multiple massages without even a whiff of hanky-panky on offer. I was so convinced that Muslim Malaysia only offered legitimate massage that my defenses were completely shut down. And, I’m a credulous boob.

To be fair, I had noticed that the party street featured a few freelance girls, but they weren’t even making a pretense of offering “massage.” That just seemed like a completely different category. So…

Walking down the main street, Bukit Bintang, I was approached by a woman holding a massage menu, just like all of the other massage spas, except solo instead of in a group. The rates looked fine, and every other massage I’d had was the same deal: stop randomly, check the rates, get a good massage. All the places were pretty much the same, so there was no reason to be either brand loyal or particularly suspicious.

I asked where the spa was, and she took me to a stairway a few doors away that led to an unmarked door with a bare bones massage spa inside. Not the most luxe setup, but no one was offering luxury accommodations. On the other hand, the absence of signage didn’t exactly promote a sense of legitimacy, but my red flag sensor was off. My new best friend had me strip off completely, which wasn’t the first time that’s happened, so also not a red flag.

There were a couple of places in Siem Reap that operated that way. They just moved the towel around carefully. I’m actually fine with that, as the false modesty of keeping the panties on has always struck me as odd. They’re always tugging them here and there to get the job done, and it just seems like in most cases it would be easier for everyone to lose them. I’m often tempted to ask, “Are those for you or me? Because I don’t need them.” But I have just (barely) enough on the ball to realize that even asking the question would be implying something I didn’t mean. So I don’t.

Next she takes a roll of paper towels, tears off one sheet for my head and two sheets for the middle and has me lie down on the table. This is an entirely new protocol to me, and I don’t love it. It bespeaks a concerningly casual commitment to hygiene. Then the massage starts, and I finally realize I’m in the wrong place.

She has clearly learned massage from watching a YouTube video, but not very closely. She pats randomly at my back and legs for a solid sixty seconds and tells me to turn over. I turn over, but before she can paddle about topside I tell her that I’m in the wrong place and need to go, and apologize for my mistake. She assures me that if I stay all of my dreams will be fulfilled, for a very modest price. But I’ve seen Aladdin, and I know that you rarely get exactly what you wish for when you rub the lamp. Pass.

I dress and skitter out, feeling, justifiably, very, very stupid.