Wake up and smell the coffee

In Bali, Rhiannon Batten tries a bizarre way of getting her daily dose of caffeine

Mmm... coffee. The aroma was instantly recognisable and helped me relax as the bittersweet scent percolated into the air, growing stronger with each breath. There's nothing like putting your feet up to enjoy a shot of caffeine at the end of a long day, but on this occasion there wasn't a cup in sight, let alone an espresso machine hissing away in the background. I was lying naked on a massage table, and Wayan, a Balinese beauty therapist, was methodically rubbing pulverised coffee grains into the skin on my back.

On my journey to Bali I had read that, between the 16th and 19th centuries, the Indonesian archipelago was put through the grinder by ruthless European traders, greedily wrestling over the spices that grow so well in the region's steamy tropical climate. The Dutch even sacrificed the land that would become New York in exchange for Britain's holdings in Indonesia (if only they had known what a fortune there was to be made from coffee in Manhattan a couple of hundred years down the line).

Indonesia's Dutch colonists made the most of the region's resources. Around Lake Bratan, in the centre of Bali, some of the coffee plantations the Dutch established are now visitor attractions. Between hiking out to clifftop temples, indulging in platefuls of nutty gado-gado and lazily lapping the hotel swimming pool, Bali had been thirsty work. A day at the coffee plantations was just what was needed, quenching a curiosity for history while also revealing a little more of the island. At one roadside restaurant, I got to roast and grind my own coffee, watching the beans turn from espresso black to cafe-latte gold before being bashed to bits in a giant mortar.

Now I'd seen the finished product, of course I wanted to try it. In Ubud, the arty heart of Bali, the one thing that's hard to avoid as you pick your way down the street is the offer of a massage. And, as I'd made my way back to the hotel from the plantations, it seemed more than just coincidence that, of the crop of massage centre leaflets that had found their way into my hand, the one facing directly upwards read "Kopi Scrub: 60,000 Rp".

Following directions to the salon in the sticky evening air, I picked my way through the croaking bullfrogs and up some steps into a series of small, traditional Balinese rooms. Gentle gamelan music emanated from the far end of the building, and the soundtrack was completed by the noise of water coming from the open windows. I undressed down to just a sarong before Wayan came to escort me to the candlelit therapy room.

After 20 minutes of having my entire body expertly massaged with oil, joints and pressure points worked on with a mixture of firm kneading and unnerving slaps, I was finally ready for the "kopi" part of the massage. Almost every inch of skin was exfoliated with crushed coffee grains followed by a soothing yoghurt and carrot mixture. It felt, well, like I'd been rubbed down with crushed coffee.

Before I left, Wayan insisted on washing me with a warm water shower and smothering my coffee-scented skin with a natural jasmine body lotion. But, despite the best of her efforts, when I woke up the next morning I was sure I could detect a hint of espresso. And it wasn't coming from any nearby kitchen... Lying back in bed, already reminiscing over the generous dose of pampering I'd allowed myself the previous day, there was only one thing to do. A few minutes later I heard a knock at the door. "You ordered coffee, madam?" said a waiter from the hotel restaurant. In his hand was a steaming cup of dark, gritty, Balinese coffee.