MAGAN'S WORLD Manchán Magan'stales of a travel addict
THE CHANGE FROM backpacker to travel journalist is taking its toll on me. Having recently found myself in a five-star hotel directly above a Pacific beach where I had previously slept rough, the sense of culture shock is becoming ever more prevalent.
My latest jaw-drop moment happened when I was offered the services of a bath butler in a hotel. I had no idea how to respond. What in the name of holy mackerel was a bath butler? How had my 10 years of Jesuit education and university degree neglected to inform me of such things? The concierge mistook my silence as acquiescence and began to outline the process: "Ramon will be in contact to discuss your requirements, Mr Magan. A short, 10-minute consultation should suffice. Perhaps you could consider your requirements. Detoxification? Rejuvenation? Aphrodisiac salts? Scented candles? Petals? Essential oils? Ramon can provide a range of cognacs or cigars if you wish, and even rubber ducks."
Dear, oh dear. In India I thought I had seen the apogee of all things humans could get other humans to do for them. I knew a Delhi socialite who employed a boy to hold the mobile phone to her ear when she was on the treadmill. I admit I myself had a man to cut my firewood and even, occasionally, someone to make the tea when I lived in the Himalayas. I understood it was an engrained part of the culture. Vassalage is so endemic in India that it wouldn't be India without it. The country could probably not survive the shock of seeing anyone of any status making their own tea, for example.
During my time there, I frequently benefited from the system - people invited me to dinner and to stay in their homes precisely because they knew it would involve no effort on their part; someone else would cook and clean and buy the food and mix the drinks and even come to collect me.
There would always be someone on hand to answer the door and fetch a drink, and if any of these people failed in their task there were many thousands more than ready to take their place. It wasn't just the rich who had servants - everyone except the lowest of the low had some form of hired help. Even the backpackers and New Agers in their ashrams had local boys who they would send off to get samosas or Limca sodas when they were too blitzed from smoking chillums. It never occurred to them that the child might be hungrier and thirstier than they. Although I had had someone to bring wood and milk to my hovel during my time there, I always fetched my own water from the well and did my own laundry, more out of a sense of Catholic guilt than any common decency.
But a bath butler - it's just so creepy. Does he stay for the entire time? Or is there some point where you have to take over control of the taps yourself? I wish I had answers, but I'm afraid I chickened out at the last minute and opted for a shower instead. I suppose if I am to further my career as a travel journalist these are some of the things I need to come to terms with. Travel-writing colleagues I mentioned it to displayed no surprise and nonchalantly told me about the existence of music butlers to help load your iPod, beach butlers to polish your sunglasses, tanning butlers to baste you - and even a soap concierge to help advise the bath butler. If this really is the future then I will not be found wanting. I will accept the challenge of dubiously using butlers in the same way as my father took on the challenge of eradicating TB and my grandmother the challenge of removing British rule from Ireland. Bath butlers go brea!