Doctor Fish Massage

Cambodia again. This time, we're walking down the aptly named Bar Street when we see
a shallow pool on the street filled with attractive young men with appealing foreign accents.

“This looks like an interesting situation,” I comment.
“We should probably join these gentlemen in whatever they’re doing,” Ellen concurs.

On approaching the pool, we find the young men to be just as attractive up close as they seemed from a distance. Their feet are submerged in lightly gurgling water, but that’s not all. Thousands of tiny fish are in the pool also, and they seem to be sucking on the attractive toes of the aforementioned young men.

“You want a fish massage?” asks a young Cambodian woman, standing off to the side with a towel and bowl of water. “Three dollar for twenty minutes.”
“What is a fish massage?”
“Doctor fish, eat your dead feet, make them smooth and feel good.”
“How is it?” Ellen asks the men.
“Downright bonza,” he says cheerfully. Must be a Kiwi, or at least an Aussie. I’ve noticed they have a tendency to cut off words halfway through and either simply end them or throw on a Z and call them slang. Presents are prezzies, sunglasses are sunnies, and it seems that bonkers is bonza.

“Want to do it, Ellen?” Before I even finish her name, she’s sitting on the edge of the pool, removing her Chacos. I take that as a yes. The woman washes our feet, which makes me feel like Jesus.

As a species, I like fish okay. I can eat them and touch them and, if pressed, can manage to extract some fillets out of them, possibly a bit mangled, but edible. I’ve even owned a fishing license at two separate points in my life to appease the two—not one, but two—men I’ve dated who actually worked for Fish and Game. So, while I’m not an expert, I’m no stranger to fish. Still, that doesn’t prepare me for the moment I stick my feet in the warm pool and dozens of little fish swarm up to my feet and start biting them. It doesn’t hurt. It’s more ticklish than anything, and it’s weird as hell. I imagined it would feel like mischievous fairies pinching me, but it’s more like a thousand tiny Hoovers sucking away in an attempt to cleanse my summer feet.

I remember to breathe after about fifteen seconds, which is better than I can say for the girl across from me in the pool. At the first bite, she leapt from the pool, shrieking, and was now doing what appeared to be the Dirty Bird dance to rid herself of the feeling.

Ellen seems to find it fascinating. “Look at their little mouths,” she says. “Are they actually eating our flesh? What do you think it tastes like? If we ate one of these fish, would that be like cannibalism?”

The other travelers are slowly scooting away from us in what they suspect is a subtle manner, but we don’t care. Someone gets out, and their fish immediately migrate to our fresh feet, and start methodically gnawing away. It reminds me of the way I eat corn on the cob. A couple daring swimmers try to get between my toes, but I’m having none of that. They can stick to the standard outside calluses, thank you very much.

After twenty minutes, our time is up, and once again the woman washes our feet, now pink and slightly shriveled from dinner. I touch my toes, and I think they feel a little smoother, but it’s possible that’s just my optimism showing through. Either way, we pay our three dollars cheerfully, feeling like we’ve done a good deed by feeding the animals, and march merrily on our way down Bar Street. I've just had my toes nibbled under water, and it's definitely time for a beer.

written by

alli_ockinga on September 1, 2009 from Siem Reap, Cambodia

from the travel blog: I go Korea!

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