After a vigorous thirty minute massage, water pails and torches were brought in and my nerves finally decided to kick in. I began to sweat. And ask a lot of questions, which meant nothing to the Malay speaking masseuse. Alcohol-soaked wicks were snaked across our backs and covered with a few lightly damp towels. The entire contraption was doused in more flammable liquid and then we combusted.
You're given a few seconds to cool before more flame throwing. Thankfully "HOT" seems to be universally understood for "put out that roaring fire before I'm extra crispy."
Once you're well done, roll over, baste the front side, and it's time to cook some more! Burn, baby, burn.
I spent most of the time praying my entire head of hair wouldn't go up in a blaze of glory as I was yin-ing and yang-ing. We walked out alive, only a little scathed [my stomach's battle wounds are finally fading!] and because I'm drawn to ridiculousness like a moth to a flame, I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat.