Lying on my back, on the floor of the small hut, the only sounds I'm aware of are the creaking of bamboo and the grating whine of mosquitos swarming closer. Two old ladies - in whose home we are about to enjoy our first Burmese massage - shuffle quietly around us in long, faded longyis, carefully arranging a selection of herbal oils on the floor beside us. Noticing me slap at a mosquito which has settled on my arm, one of them smiles knowingly, kindly eyes shining in the candle-light, and holds up a reassuring hand. Wait, wait, I've got just the thing she seems to be saying. Stepping stiffly away behind a discreet curtain, she returns moments later, proudly gripping one of those electrified mosquito swats, on the tennis racquet-like surface of which hapless insects
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