XXI - Naked

 

As a late birthday treat we went out kayaking at dawn on the backwaters. We paddled along under an orange sun with the children dipping in their oars like a badly placed rudder and out of sync with the labouring adult behind them. In a rare moment of self-assertion I took us to brunch (my favourite meal) in Fort Kochi, when I think everyone else wanted to go home and be less wet. The café happened to be above an Ayurvedic Spa so Rhiannon suggested a massage before I rejoined the family at home. Luckily enough, I was able to make an immediate appointment, where I was led into a little room by a short man and through a series of gestures and inarticulate noises to disrobe. Normally (by which I mean “in my experience”), you are left deshabiller in private, but it was clear that this was not the expectation here and, being genial, I didn’t want to offend with my prudish English ways.

Besides, I am used to being naked among other men. Communal showers were a feature of my childhood and in sport from school to clubs, showering with 30 other men was at least a weekly occurrence. Everyone seems to think there was something dodge about their PE teacher. I suspect for the most part they just feel the same irritated frustration as I do trying to get my children through something vaguely akin to washing. There was a peculiar innovation in my GCSE year when our teacher, a huge Welshman with a fine moustache, insisted on gymnastics being done bare-chested in just our little regulation shorts. In the context of handstands, roundoffs and headsprings it does make sense though and we were spared the “full Greek” experience. 

Appropriately, or not, my first unisex (I have never really understood why this word is used in this way) naked experience was on honeymoon in Baden Baden – so bath-y they named it twice. Germany is famous for its naked baths and saunas. Neither Rhiannon nor I have qualms about nudity – she having been raised in the bordello-like camaraderie of the theatre – and the baths are very beautiful and historic, so we decided to be brave. From the start, however, the experience was plunged into bathos as I stepped out to the initial showers to find Rhiannon doubled over laughing. She is prone to nervous laughing and it was a bit strange to walk out to see her nude with two young men who were busy playing footsie (not a euphemism). The nudity normalises very quickly, though I’m not sure about the slap on the bottom to signal the end of the massage.

Part of the curious nature of nudity is its relation to power. It’s striking that Kings, historically, can be naked in front of their subjects, but subjects are never naked in front of kings, except perhaps when they're being executed. On the other hand, being naked makes you vulnerable; but especially in the context of a massage the power dynamic runs the other way. It’s especially tricky as social rules around nudity vary considerably from culture to culture, and so the tourist is at something of a disadvantage.

So, on instruction, I was stood in front of my masseur, as nature intended, at which point he approached me and tied a strange surgical-looking string loin cloth around my waist, before retrieving the trailing end and tying it off behind me. What purpose this served is beyond me, but it was apparently important as it was undone and redone through the massage. I don’t know if the massage was typical but I was essentially oiled up, much in the manner I would douse the willow of my cricket bat as a child with linseed oil, or marinade a juicy steak, and then given a most ferocious and violent rub. This lasted for an hour. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was a bit strange and close on the least sensual experience of my life after the time Zz, our greyhound, knocked me off my feet so intent was he on catching a squirrel. 

The massage ending with a face massage (akin to Apollo’s attempts to wake me up in the morning), I was led away to a shower and invited to take off my string loin-cloth, whereupon it got caught on my foot, at which point my solicitous masseur dived in to try and help. Which was awkward. After showering, I looked around to find no towel or clothes and only a vague sense of the rooms and corridors from which I’d come. No one was in the corridor so I returned to the shower as that seemed safest. Still no one came so I tried to leave, at which point the masseur came round the corner and pointed furiously to the tiny hand-towel, the size of large gentleman’s handkerchief, with which I protected my modesty till I could reacquaint myself with my salty wet kayak-wear, a process for which my new friend dutifully remained present.

It was an experience. Obviously, I’ve included the above in my trip-advisor review. I’m sure some people would be very pleased with it. Also, apologies, for the lack of photography in this post. It just didn’t seem appropriate.