Walking the Wall

The Purple Pagoda of Pain

Normally I don’t go in for alternative health therapies. I don’t doubt that some of them work; it’s just that I’m more comfortable with the kind of medicine I grew up with.

So it’s hard to explain, even to myself, how I came to be a victim of the ancient Chinese therapy of “cupping.” Maybe it was because there were five therapists simultaneously recommending the treatment, miming how it worked, and trying to teach me the Chinese term for it - and only one of me to explain that all I wanted was a head, neck and shoulder massage. Maybe it was because I was too tired to argue with them when they told me it was just the thing for sore shoulders. Maybe it was because the “spa” at our guesthouse, like many spas at country hotels, doubled as a house of ill repute, and I was just grateful that nobody was trying to take off their clothes.

Whatever the reason, I soon found myself face down on a couch with 13 (lucky me!) candle holders suctioned to my back, without completely understanding what I was in for. Later I learned that cupping, which is related to acupuncture, is a technique where the therapist places a candle within an inverted cup until the flame extinguishes itself due to lack of air. Using the vacuum created by the flame, the therapist applies the cup to the patient at a pressure point and leaves it in place for about five minutes. The vacuum draws blood to the surface, and at least in theory, draws toxins out of the body and provides relief from pain.

Cupping also causes massive bruising, but the first I heard about this was when Emma screamed in horror as I was changing to go to bed.

Anyway, cupping did seem to work for me in a perverse sort of way. The next day, when it came time to get back on the trail and walk 30 kilometres, the pain that came from my pack rubbing against 13 giant hickeys on my back made me forget all about my sore shoulders.