Ayurveda is an ancient Indian tradition that roughly translates as “basting in oil”. At least it does when it comes to massage.

My first experience of an ayurvedic massage came on a recent trip to Kerala, where they take their massage seriously. I’d been booked in by my wife – who is knowledgeable in the ancient ways of the day spa – for a one-hour Kalari massage, which was described in the literature as a “traditional synchronised massage with two masseurs”.

A vision of two women wearing nose-clips and bathing caps entered my mind. Would I need to hold up a card reading 8.5? How would I rate their work? Would there be a scandal with the judge from the Ukraine?

This, I had to try.

When I arrived at the spa my masseurs were definitely not wearing nose-clips or bathing caps. Nor were they particularly female. In fact, they were decidedly male. Being a mere novice in the ways of the day spa, I had naively assumed all massage employees were women called “Fawn” or “Rain” who spoke in hushed tones while a CD of dolphins mating played in the background.

“Hello sir, how are you. Please undress,” said my masseur, whose name I missed while I was lost in thoughts of Fawn and amorous dolphins.

I took off my shirt and hung it on the hook by the door.

“Shorts too,” said my nameless masseur. “And underpants.”

“Excuse me, did you say underpants?”

“Yes, all off.”

Clearly, this was to be a day of firsts.

Trying to hide what little modesty I had behind the massage table, I removed my undies while massage person number two (he may have said his name, but really, I had other things on my mind) held out something that a Sumo wrestler might put on before doing battle. It was a strip of cloth that covered the essential bits and tied up at the back, leaving everything else exposed to the elements.

“Well, this is all new,” I thought to myself, wondering if my wife was in on some sick joke and a video of me would soon be making its way onto YouTube.

I was directed to a large wooden table with a depression in the middle and handles at one end. It looked like something from the classified section of S&M Monthly and I briefly flirted with the thought of fleeing, but getting out of my Sumo undies and into my Calvins would take too long. I was trapped.

Then masseur one and two started to douse me in oil. When I say douse, I don’t mean those gentle little splashes that you get from Fawn in your garden variety spa, this was a thorough soaking in enough oil to roast a camel and still have enough left to make some hummus.

As they began their synchronised massaging, the wooden table started to get a little slippery, something that quickly became a problem as each time a masseur rubbed one part of my back I slid across the table and had to grab the handles (so that’s what they were for) to stop from sliding all the way off. In an effort to keep on the table and off the floor I jammed my knee against the side of the table, which was excruciatingly painful and pretty much defeated any “relaxation” aspect of the massage. By now, however, I’d abandoned all hope of being relaxed and was concerned with survival.

As they worked their way around, masseur one or two would meticulously untie the string around my backside then gently tie it back up once they moved on. This seemed a little pointless as the string left nothing to the imagination and may as well not have been there.

All of this was accompanied by more and more liberal doses of oil from head to toe. I was fast starting to look like one of those photogenic seabirds washed up on the seashore when a tanker runs aground. I, however, would not be getting rescued by Greenpeace activists in green dungarees. Thoughts of ecological disaster and the environment got me thinking about Rain and Fawn and I suddenly realised there were no dolphin and/or whale sounds playing in the background.

Finally my hour was up and I slid off the table onto my feet, trying to peer out through my oily eyes to find my clothes. Masseur one or two handed me a bathrobe instead and I thanked them both for their efforts before trying to walk out through the cupboard. With the help of my two companions, I made it into the bright Keralan sunlight and waddled back to my room, ready to jump onto YouTube and look myself up.