A bobo Jesus massage

This morning Siteri sadly informed me that she would not be coming to California with me. It seems Ben, who she married a little over a year ago, preferred living on Beqa with their baby.

“You have a baby?”

“Yes, Mr. David.”

Not to worry. I have a backup plan. I’m bringing May back with me to California.

May is a masseuse at the Royal Davui spa. Yesterday she gave me a bobo (pronounced “mbombo”) massage that was as close to finding Jesus as I’ve ever come. We were in one of the vales that has been converted into the spa, in a room with all the folding glass doors open, and I was lying face down, the breeze from the ocean lightly touching my bare back as May used her forearms to sweep across my shoulders, pressing hard against my muscles as if she were trying to roll me out like pizza dough.

I don’t know what was going on there (some sort of nut oil was also involved) but I was definitely losing my religion. In my experience there are three types of massages: the “when-is-this-going-to-be-over?” massage; the masochistic massage (hurts like hell but you kind of like it); and the Jesus massage (just tell me what you want me to do, Lord, and I’ll do it, but promise me it will never end). The bobo massage May gave me was definitely a Jesus massage. Every muscle in my body was singing with the choir.

When May was done with me, a brief two hours later, I asked her where she’d learned to do that. “Everybody in Fijian village gives bobo massage,” she said. “That’s how we cure the ills of the body. But in Fijian village, bobo much stronger. Too strong for you, I think.”

I told her that was nonsense. I’m coming back tomorrow, I told her, and I want the real Fijian bobo massage. Tomorrow wouldn’t be possible, she told me. It was her day off. But maybe the next day.

Fine, I told her. I’ll see you in two days.

In the meantime, I need to talk to Christopher about May coming back to California with me. I’m thinking the two of us could go into business together: David and May’s Bobo Jesus Massages. Who wouldn’t pay for one of those?