Hammam - Guest Blog #1

The Hammam is the public bath of Morocco. Every neighborhood has a couple, and in the days before regular indoor plumbing, it was standard to take a weekly trip to one, traditionally on the holy day of Friday. Even as indoor plumbing grows, the tradition remains and they serve a single-sex social-networking function as well. We’ve been curious about venturing into one, but perhaps a little reticent, too. After receiving the following email from guest-blogger, Laura Fitzgerald, we’ve decided to wait to visit the hammams until we’ve got some company.

“I ganged up with a group of young travelers when I was in Fes. It was a mixed group of about 10 Americans, Swedes, and Australians, and the gals -- around 4-5 of us -- decided a visit to a hammam was de rigeuer. So we asked our friendly hostel owner for a reco, and he directed us to the joint next door. We wander in with images of rose petals and bowing eunuchs dangling before us.

Place looks alright, definitely local, certainly patronized by females. So far, so good. As the only (lousy) French-speaker, I try to communicate that we want . . . well, the works. Whatever you do here. You know, a bath, I guess? The man at the gate takes our money (after some haggling), and tells us to step into the back, where we leave our clothes in a changing room. A glance into the hammam reveals 3 large rooms, each at a different steamy temperature with sort of open streams of water along one side of each room. Each room is populated by women of all ages hanging out in just panties and a collection of naked little ones of both sexes. So we dutifully stripped down to our skivvies and just sort of hovered, waiting for something to happen and feeling very, very . . . white.

(I should also point out that the wet, manky floor was covered in clumps of hair, as if dozens of women had decided to simultaneously shave their very hairy legs.)

A woman who could only be described as Amazonian appeared. I swear that I have never seen anyone of this size before or since. Imagine a Moroccan version of Big Momma from Martin Lawrence's delightful film of the same name. Now imagine her wearing nothing but a pair of bikini briefs. She gestured for us to sit down and huddle in the middle of the floor and then seized upon me, dragging me to her pendulous bosom.

I was like a child in her meaty paws. She began to manhandle me, tossing me back and forth, flipping me over, pounding me in some kind of approximation of a massage. She literally lifted me off the floor and held me like a baby at one point, with her arms positioned behind my back and under my knees. Between frequent position changes, I stole glance at the other girls in my group. They were clinging to one another, wide-eyed and frozen in place.

Then out came the loofah. Using nothing but hot water and a homemade clay concotion, she proceeded to scrub me vigorously. So vigorously that dead skin sloughed off my body in *sheets*, leaving me bright red over every inch left unprotected by my Jockey-for-Hers. After being given the Karen-Silkwood-meets-The-Sheltering-Sky treatment, I had some clay mushed rubbed in my hair, rinsed off, was given a final dose of ice water, and was pushed over to my friends as my beautician selected another victim.

By the time we all finished, we were laughing hysterically, mainly out of relief that we made it out alive. It was the most bizarre and painful beauty ritual I have ever withstood (save my one foray into the Brazilian wax), but I must say that my skin tingled magically once I stepped out into the sunshine again.”

~Laura Fitzgerald