The great outdoors... and an awkward massage...again.

 If you're going to have an outdoor massage at a game lodge, here are a few things you should know: for starters, when the advertisement says "outdoor massage" it really means out-of-doors. There's no walls, no screens whatsoever. Sounds a little intimidating, but a little chic too.

The receptionist hands you a robe, orders you to strip down to undies, and to bring only what won't fall out of the baggy pockets. At first, the cozy white robe fits all nicely, reaching a comfortable calf length. Then you are guided out to the parking lot where the game drive truck is getting loaded up with a table, towels, and staff. They tell you to get in, but you must quickly figure out how to step up and into the truck without flashing all possible nether regions. You barely make it and sit down in said cozy robe and realize there's absolutely no give in the fabric. The length of the fabric instantly shrinks to mid-thigh leaving you to sit like a 1950's receptionist. The engine revs and the truck sidles down the bumpy road, past interested onlookers. Thank goodness you a) wore your bra, or b) don't need one. 

As the truck drives down the hill, you can still see the lodge up high, the pool a distant blue line. They pick a spot under a few giant trees and slightly behind a few others, and the staff sets to work while you stand there feeling super awkward in your blaring white robe and flip flops that have already snagged some thorns. But the view. Oh the view! You already drove past giraffes, oryx, warthogs, and baboons, and certainly there are more animals watching. Faintly green camel-thorn trees, bushes, and shrubs smear the dry, yellow-brown landscape. The air is hot on your skin, a nice reassurance when the breeze picks up. Then you look down and realize you are standing in two inches of animal poop. There's really no escaping it. That's okay because in the broken branches, you spot tons of grey and spotted guinea fowl feathers. You pick up a few because they are fun to decorate with, but you end up picking up a feather with bloody skin still attached. So there's a carcass rotting somewhere around here, but that's okay because you are in nature and that's what nature does.

By now the staff has set up the tables, so they bid the driver adieu, relying on spotty cell phone coverage because their radios are broken. The driver takes off like a bat out of hell and the masseuses order us to lay face down. It's cool. You've done this before, let the boobs roam free. Within minutes you are relaxing to the breeze, the buzz of insects, chirping of birds and... grunting of baboons. The time passes quickly until you recall having drank a liter of water prior to starting and now all you can think about is peeing. Peeing behind a bush half naked in a towel is not terrible thing, nor is sheepishly asking your masseuse to stop so you get up. It's not terrible when you stumble under the blinding sun to "privacy" and see a dozen waterbuck staring you down as you squat. What's terrible is that you waited too long, and you belatedly realize that you are peeing right into your flip flops and adjusting your position means you drop the towel and you pee on that too. Because, there's no stopping midstream. 

There's probably 5 or 10 minutes left to relax, so you hope that the masseuse didn't notice anything weird. Never mind the damp towel or muddy flip flops. You lay down on your back and force yourself into a state of zen. It's the perfect time to have the wind pick up and blow the towel right off your body which sends you into a fit of giggles. What else are you going to do? Perhaps it's an unceremonious finish, but decide this was all worth it when your partner in crime (your mom) wakes from her perfect massage, completely unaware of anything that had transpired. One bra, two robes, and shoes are back on while you wait for the truck to return and you try to make idle chat with the staff, but they already think you're insane and ignore everything beyond their cell phones. 

Finally, the serene moment must come to an end as the truck combi careens around the corner to pick everyone up. You pile into the idling hotbox, the driver first sets off the car alarm, and then attempts to drive. Alas, the tires are buried and the go even deeper as he totally guns it. That's what happens when you drive a combi into the soft sand. Take two: you hop back out and wait for proper transportation back to the lodge. Alls well that ends well. You change back into movable clothing, smooth down the oily flyaways on your head and prepare to drink a bottle of wine with your mom just to keep the moment alive for a little bit longer. 

Nope. Not awkward at all.

A joyous giraffe sighting on the way to the bush.

Setting up. Towels are you need in this weather.
But towel-face is a major downer.

Where the magic happened: mother-daughter trees of life. And death.

Oops.