After turning vegetarian several years ago, I discovered that there were still acceptable ways I could interact with marine life that did not involve the use of my digestive juices.
These included: wearing a diving helmet and being plummeted 20 feet underwater for a live version of the Fish Channel; jumping headfirst into the open sea and swimming alongside my fellow vegetarian butandings (whale sharks); and stroking trained false killer whales while partially submerged in the water (and no, that is not a euphemism).
But no interaction can compare to the restitution I recently made for all the sushi I had downed in my previous life: I allowed myself to be eaten alive by fish.
So there we were, leisurely strolling down the length of the aquarium displays in the Manila Ocean Park — myself, my wife, my baby daughter, my yaya, my baby’s yaya. This was a perfect family outing, I thought, my baby daughter excitedly pointing at the fish in the aquariums and yelling “Orange! Orange!” (We are still working on her vocabulary), my yaya and my baby’s yaya pushing myself and my baby along in our respective strollers, and my wife playfully shoving my stroller into the open-air shark tank twice.
After my wife had been properly restrained and the security guards took control of my stroller, we were being escorted to the exit when my wife squealed like a whistleblower “Spa!” she screeched. “Spa!”
Aha, I thought. My eyes lit up and I rubbed my hands together. I was looking forward to visiting a spa, even if it was quite unusual to have a spa inside an ocean park. Nonetheless, I had been hankering for a deep-tissue massage to take away the stress of dogpaddling away from great white sharks.
The spa attendant ushered us into an open area where several people were lounging around a pool with their legs dipped in the water. I was under the impression that this was some sort of communal footbath where you got your feet all moist and wrinkly before getting a foot scrub treatment. I turned back to the attendant: “Is this the waiting room?”
“No, sir.”
I looked from side to side. “Where is the sauna?”
“Wala po (None), sir.”
“Where are the essential oils?”
“Walang ganyan dito (There’s nothing like that), sir.”
“Where’s the big, burly woman with hands like pile drivers who will mash my body into a misshapen lump?”
The attendant smirked and pointed towards the center of the footbath: “Andiyan po (Over there).”
I inched towards the pool and leaned in carefully to take make sure I wasn’t being led into another open-air shank tank. I adjusted my glasses and furrowed my brows. “Ano ba ito (What is this)!?”
My baby daughter peered into the footbath as well and giggled: “Orange!”
“At bakit may pinakawalan na isda sa loob ng footbath (And why did you let fish loose inside your footbath)!? Magco-complain ako sa manager ninyo (I will complain to your manager)! ”
“Ay sir, Fish spa ito (Sir, this is a fish spa).”
“Ano!? Mamasahiin ko pa yung mga isda!? (What? You mean I even have to massage the fish)?”
“Hindi, sir. Mamasihiin po kayo ng mga isda (No, sir. The fish will be the ones massaging you).”
“Talaga?” I looked back at my wife, then I turned back to the attendant and whispered, “May happy ending ba yan (Is there a happy ending)?”
Unfortunately, these fish are no good at a Swedish or Shiatsu or even Thai massage (and this is presumably because these fish come from Turkey). But even if these species of fish (the Garra rufa and Cyprinion macrostomus for the benefit of my fellow trivia-addled nerds out there) have not evolved opposable thumbs to knead my back, they make up for it with their mouths. In fact, they like to operate with it.
I later learned that these “Doctor Fish” (as they are more popularly known) are part of a long-term strategy to return the Ottoman empire to its former glory. And I also found out these fish were practicing medicine in our country without a valid license.
If getting steamed until you turn into a puddle of sweat and other less-desirable fluids inside a Turkish hammam (bath) is not medically therapeutic enough for you, then you can drag your derriere over to the Turkish towns of Kangal and Sivas where you will find pools of “Doctor Fish” — also known as “nibble fish,” “Kangal fish” and — in non-medical contexts, as “reddish log suckers.” (I wanted to explore the species of reddish logs they preferred, but my desk editor and civil society and three female readers thought otherwise.)
These “Doctor Fish” live and breed in the outdoor pools of the spas in Kangal and Sivas, where the high temperature of the waters makes it almost impossible for nutrients to survive and thus renders their food supply scarce and unpredictable. As a result, these fish become hungry and desperate. It is no wonder then that these fish find themselves attracted to DOMs. In particular, they are attracted to a DOM’s crusty, dead, diseased or scabby skin that has been softened by the water’s warm temperature.
As far as the “Doctor Fish” are concerned, the older and thicker the epidermis, the better (apparently, if you place a young child’s foot beside an old person’s foot in a fish spa, the fish will gravitate to the old person’s foot). This is the reason that DOMs like to bring their dates to a fish spa. Even if that young college undergraduate refuses his advances, at least his feet are seeing some action.
The fish like operating on areas with skin conditions like psoriasis by nibbling and licking away at these scales with their gummy mouths, leaving behind healthy glowing skin and fish saliva in their wake. This is the true meaning of Eat Bulaga.
“You? You’re scared of fish chewing your feet?” my wife taunted me. My yaya laughed at me. My baby’s yaya laughed in agreement. Meanwhile, my baby simply shook her head. “Orange,” she said. “Orange.”
“No!” I declared. “I am not scared of fish chewing my feet.” I said while rolling up my pants. “I am scared of hundreds of fish chewing my feet.”
I tried to put my mind at ease by telling myself that this was supposed to be a therapeutic exercise, just as therapeutic as my colonic irrigation. In fact, I should think of it like a visit to my suking manicurista (regular manicurist) who makes kiskis (scraping) away at my kalyos (calluses). In fact, I think that my manicurista could probably do just as good as job as these fish, if she could hold her breath underwater for that long.
So I gingerly dipped my right big toe in the water when I spotted several fish darting towards my fleshy bait for first dibs. “Aaaiiiieeeeee!!!!” I screamed in my best Michael Jackson falsetto as I pulled my toe out before any of the fish could turn my foot into merienda.
After five minutes of screaming, moonwalking and grabbing my crotch, I turned to my wife, my yaya and my baby’s yaya. They were all staring at me with their jaws agape. Meanwhile, my daughter just smacked herself on the head and mumbled, “Orange...”
“Practice lang yan (That was just practice),” I said, crossing myself and reluctantly sinking both of my feet into the water, hoping that these Doctor Fish had not been crossbred with piranhas.
A school — nay, a university — of fish quickly swarmed all over my feet like it was an all-you-can-eat buffet. The initial sensation of those reddish log suckers pecking away at your skin is a ticklish and tingly one. So I found myself laughing nervously like a straight man in a Saudi prison when these suckers took their first few tidbits of my zombie flesh. They were munching away underneath my foot, then at the crevices in between my toes, then at my ankles, and one of them even attempted a jump shot for my knees.
After a couple of minutes into the treatment, it suddenly dawned on me that my leg had become a giant log of Turkish delight for hundreds of ravenous little flesh eaters. And that they were all chewing down on me at the same time. When that happened, I began to laugh uncontrollably. Because laughter is your best defense mechanism against raw fear.
But several minutes after you laugh yourself into an aneurysm, your legs begin to loosen up, your toes begin to uncurl and your sphincter muscle begins to relax. Then you actually enjoy those exfoliating pinpricks delivered by those little Turkish imports. In fact, you will develop such an intimate relationship with those log suckers that when they strip you clean off your traces of DOM and they swim away from you to chew on a new un-exfoliated flesh log, you will feel as used as yesterday’s tampon.
“That’s it!” I cried when it was over. “You treat me just like another piece of meat? What? Why, my dead skin’s not good enough for you anymore? I thought we had a connection!” And all they left me with were mini-chikaninis all over my feet. Damn them. I would have temporarily reneged on my vegetarian vow and had these two-timing scavengers for dinner had I not realized that I did not want to eat something that had eaten my own flesh.
Once my spa treatment was done, I immediately surveyed my feet. No more kalyo. Check. No blood. Check. Ten sets of toes. Check. No fish hidden in the crevices in my toes. Check. No stump where my foot should be. Check. Great. Now I am going home to scream some more.
As I was dousing my lower leg with rubbing alcohol and muriatic acid on the way home, my head was swimming with entrepreneurial possibilities: I could open up my own fish spa where we could introduce other body parts to the same fishy treatment! Just think about it: We could ask No Girlfriend Since Birth (NGSBs) to dip in either their right hand or their left hand (or both if they are ambidextrous) for freshly rejuvenated digits! (But for their own safety, they better not dip in any other calloused body parts lest it be eaten away into bloody pulp.) We could ask DOMs to sink their whole bodies in the fish spa and come out with the physique of Piolo Pascual. And we can ask politicians to submerge their faces into the fish spa to get their rid of their kapal mukha (thick-face) problems. But I’m not sure whether those reddish log suckers can chew through that. Oh, well, there’s always the open-air shark tank.
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For comments, suggestions, or if you want some zombie skin, please text me at PM POGI <text message> to 2948 for Globe, Smart and Sun subscribers. Or you can e-mail ledesma.rj@gmail.com or visit www.rjledesma.net and www.unomaga-zine.com.ph. Add me up on twitter, my twitter ID is rjled.