Morocco: Blue Tinges Of Chefchaouen (cont.)

Later in the evening, Shauna, Michelle, and I visit the town’s hammam, or public baths. Locals are bathed weekly in the small, stone buildings, separated by gender. Two women, one young and one old, are waiting for us. We’re the only ones getting bathed tonight. The young woman smiles sweetly at us and leads us to the changing area. She speaks to us in Arabic and then in broken Spanish and walks away.

Shauna, who is fluent in Spanish, looks at us uncertainly. “I think she said to take off all of our clothes.”

We had expected to wear our swimsuits, but the old woman enters the changing area and solemnly strips down to her underwear.

I’m nervous, but start undressing. I’d rather not show my belly rolls and thighs squishing together, but Moroccan women do this comfortably every week. Once we’re completely exposed, the old woman leads us wordlessly to the bathing room. There’s a faucet installed at the wall and a bucket. She motions for us to sit. We obey, perched in a row on the cold, stone ground. She fills her bucket with warm water and begins attending to us, one by one.

When it’s my time, she almost smiles and utters her only word so far, “Negrita!”

Her near smile slides down as quickly as it turned up. She drenches me with water and rapidly pats her hands all over my body, personally ensuring, to my rising horror, that the water reaches my most intimate parts.

When the bathing is over, Shauna is first for the massage. The old woman pulls out what looks like a brillo pad and indicates Shauna should lie down. Michelle and I watch, wide-eyed, as she scrubs her whole body with the intensity of one scraping an especially grimy pan. Shauna alternates laughter with yelps of pain, while I stare at the layers of dirt from several continents released from her now crimson skin.

I’m a more difficult case for the old woman. I’m too tense, and my arms keep trying to hug myself. She smacks at my troublesome arms until I finally press my hands flat down on the ground. I close my eyes, accept the discomfort and let her go at it.

I’m at least a pound lighter without all of the dirt.

We repeat “shokran” again and again to the old woman, trying to thank her profusely in Arabic. I believe I see a slip of a smile on her face, and I feel freer with these women, having seen each other like this.

We meet Mark and return to the carpet shop, where Aarif and Omar have invited us to a party. Their friends trickle in, and one makes a grand entrance. He saunters in, lifts up his shirt, and with a mischievous gleam in his eyes whips out two large vodka bottles concealed in his pants. Very few shops in Morocco have liquor licenses, and it’s illegal to consume alcohol in public.

The men turn on the radio and try to teach us how to dance the Arabic way, having us mimic their flicking wrists and wiggling hips. Aarif sings us Moroccan songs. Some of the men drink happily straight from the bottle.

Near midnight, I ask Omar, who has abstained from alcohol, if his wife wants him home.

“It is no problem. I will go home soon,” he answers, unconcerned.

I am told the women in Chefchaouen don’t attend parties like this. The men are acting friendly with us and nothing more, but I wonder what the women would think of us for being here. I wish I could talk more with the women, but I’ve been restricted by opportunity and language.

Over the next few days we frequently find ourselves meandering around town on our own, often weaving our way through crowds of giddy, playing children.

Several times, a passing stranger greets me jovially, “Hola, Africa!” I wave and grin in response, thrilled by the welcome.

On our last night, Aarif takes us to his friend’s apartment for a dinner party. Many men we hadn’t met before were there and converse rambunctiously amongst themselves in Arabic, swigging beer and stealing occasional sly glances at Shauna, Michelle, and me like they hadn’t quite believed Aarif when he said we’d be here.

I duck into the kitchen where the housekeeper is preparing our meal. She gives me a broad, warm smile. Her English is limited and my Arabic non-existent, but I try to ask her if she needs any help. She shakes her head. She watches me for a moment, then touches my hand and points to her own brown face. “Like me,” she says.

I nod, immediately stirred by her two words. I hadn’t expected to find this in Morocco, people habitually and affectionately noting my skin color, embracing me.

She serves dinner in the living room: lamb roasted with dates and boiled eggs. It sounds like a bizarre combination, but under her hands it’s fresh and savory. Her job is done, and she leaves us sated to go home to her family.

We depart soon after, returning to the hotel for an early night. The next morning we’re squeezed into a taxi aimed for the border. I’m exhausted and eager to return to a place where I speak the language.

Yet I’m already missing the instinctive warmth and camaraderie we had with many of the locals.

My memories of Chefchaouen are tinged in blue.

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