In December, I travelled to Thailand for a family wedding in the bustling city of Bangkok. Between celebrations, I ventured into the heart of the tourist scene, eager to explore the famed fish spas that have captivated travellers and wellness enthusiasts alike. The streets of Bangkok, a magnet for backpackers and gap-year students, buzz with the promise of adventure – and the fish spa, with its promise of an unconventional pedicure, was no exception.
For the uninitiated, a fish spa involves submerging one’s feet in a tank of water filled with small Garra rufa fish, also known as doctor fish. These tiny creatures originate from the fresh waters of West Asia but have been used as a tool for skin rejuvenation in various parts of the world. They nibble away at dead skin, promising smoother soles and a novel sensory experience.
As I stepped into the shop, the air was thick with the scent of warm water and something vaguely organic. The tanks, lined up like eerie display cases, teemed with writhing fish. “Only a little bit… need to keep them hungry”, a specialist remarked, a casual comment that hinted at a darker reality beneath the spa’s surface charm, implying that our dead foot skin was their most nutritional sustenance of the week, even month perhaps.
The moment I submerged my feet, the fish swarmed with desperate urgency, their tiny mouths latching onto my skin. It was an unsettling sensation—somewhere between a tickle and a persistent scraping. However, the conditions inside the tanks soon overshadowed the novelty of the experience. Some fish, unable to find a foot to feed on, turned to each other. Dead fish corpses drifted across the murky water, an unspoken testament to the reality of life inside these spas.
Next to me, a first-time patron, Mr. Burns, fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t know if it’s pleasant or not”, he admitted, as the fish explored the crevices of his toes. “They’re not trained pedicurists, I’m here to play with the fish”, he mused, his discomfort manifesting in forced humour. His wife leaned in, laughing nervously. “It’s like cigarettes”, referring to its addictive nature. When asked about the ethics of such an activity, Mr. Burns was blunt. “I’m literally sticking my feet into their homes for my pleasure, so I think actions speak louder than words”.
The ethical debate surrounding fish spas has been ongoing for years. The welfare of the fish is a primary concern; many are kept in cramped, poorly maintained tanks just like the ones I witnessed firsthand, deprived of natural food sources to keep them eager for human skin.
This particular spa does make certain claims regarding hygiene and care. They assert that they change the water and deep clean the tanks daily, treating the water with UV light filters at all times. They cleaned my feet before letting me put them in with the fish, and also claim to have discouraged customers with open wounds from using the service.
However, the key issue remains: the fish interact with countless customers, and there is no way to sanitise the fish themselves between treatments. Scientists have raised alarms about the potential transmission of bacterial infections, including strains of Staphylococcus which can lead to staph infections and other pathogens. Some countries have gone so far as to ban fish spas outright due to the risks they pose to both human health and animal welfare. This spa’s claim that UV light treatment is sufficient to protect against these pathogens raises questions. I was unable to verify whether their use of UV light filtration was truly effective, and the lack of transparency in this area remains concerning.
Ultimately, fish spas exist at a peculiar crossroads of tourism and bioethics. The experience itself is undeniably intriguing, but at what cost? As travellers seek ever more exotic experiences, the boundaries between ethical tourism and exploitation become increasingly blurred.
Walking away from the spa, my feet felt smoother, but the questions lingered. How much novelty justifies the potential suffering of these creatures? And at what point does an unconventional pedicure transform from a quirky tourist attraction into a moral quandary? In the end, perhaps the real exfoliation isn’t of the skin – but of our own ethical boundaries.
