Morocco: Public-Bathing 101
By Lynsey Clark

The trip into the Sahara was a little like a Disneyland trip; a packaged adventure. Everyone purchases the same deal; everyone laughs the first ten minutes on the camel, then complains for the next half hour. The guides who met us at an isolated camp at the edge of the sand were a small group of young Berber men. All three were in their early twenties, wearing turbans and jeans under their robes, smoking cigarettes and shouting "Oh my god," like any excited adolescent. I got the feeling it was just their summer job; but for an eclectic group of tourists this was a ride without railings.

It was a slow ride into camp where we unloaded expecting nothing to happen. But nature surprised us as night fell, and a full moon rose over the mountainous dunes. After a stomach stuffing meal of chicken Tajin, the Berbers said they wanted to take us up the highest dune. Initially it didn’t look hard; but climbing up sand might have been the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. For every three steps up hill the shifting ground sent us back at least two. Progress was impossible; and after a month of smoking in Spanish bars, I was not in the best aerobic shape. But your first night in the Sahara only comes around once; and I was not going to let anything, including myself, prevent me from reaching the top. I promised I would quit smoking if I could make it to the top. And it was worth it when we arrived at the top; and the sea of yellow sprawled out before us, all the way to Algeria.

Our group bonded that night under the influence of traveler’s openness. I think one of the guides fell in love with me a little. First I was only worth five camels and a sheep but after that hike I was up to twenty-five, a tent, and a rock. He seemed to especially like my iPod.
Tourists use empty film canisters to bring back a little of the desert with them, but I didn't need any; I had half a liter of sand in my hair alone. When we got back to Marrakech, my traveling companion Shoshi and I decide to relax in a hamam —a traditional Turkish bath—and get cleaned up. We were told helpers scrub and massage you, cleaning you up after a tiring day of backpacking.

We found a hamam in Marrakech on a narrow side street off the medina. Not knowing what exactly to expect, we paid for a massage and a scrubbing, then entered into the woman’s door. Inside we learned that the older woman passionately scratching at her crotch was our assistant. We had reservations but decided to employ our cultural sensitivity once again. "This is fine," I told myself, "no biggie, everybody scratches—Is she really putting her whole hand up there? Never mind, deep breath."

Instead of trusting our bad feeling and leaving, we handed over all our valuables and got naked.
I admit I am a little shy about being naked in public, which the older woman sensed and decided to set an example by ripping off her dress. She then poked at me and laughed. We paid for some towels and began to walk the sauna, not quickly enough I expect because she grabbed her breasts and shook them at us, chasing us into the sauna room. We hung our towels as she filled six tubs with hot water, then led us into an empty tile room with a hole in the floor. She handed the buckets to us, then disappeared. We squatted alone in the dark on the ground shivering, clutching our bits. This went on for a while.

Eventually we decided to take some initiative and find some soap so we could wash each other's backs. All this while pretending not to be too disgusted by the idea of critters climbing up us and giving us whatever itch she seemed so consumed by.
My skin had pruned by the time the woman returned. She proceeded to take great delight in violently tossing buckets of water at our faces.  She then grabbed Shoshi and flattened her out on the tile floor. Next came the scrubbing, which turned out to be the removal of the top four layers of our flesh.

"Bein massage?" she asked. Shoshi couldn’t answer.

She splashed Shoshi in the face again and then moved onto me, where I got to experience her tender attention firsthand. She then stood both of us up and dumped the remaining water onto our heads. She then told us it would be another 20 dirham each for a massage.

"No, no, no—we paid for a massage."

"No. More," she said and outstretched her hand.

"Well thank you for taking our pride and skin, but you can't have more money,” I told her, knowing she understood nothing of what I said. “We’ll just leave."

Without massages we returned to the changing room and dressed. On our way toward the door we tried to tip her, and that was when the lady got nasty. She grabbed my shirt and screamed that we owed her another twenty dirham each. I screamed back at her in English: "bad business! Bad business!"

This didn't go over well. All that scrubbing really kept her in good shape, and Shoshi had to drag me from the hamman before I was beaten up by a 70-year-old woman. We made it out and into the square, sans a fresh clean feeling.

I must relay that lots of other people had fabulous Hamam trips where pores were exfoliated with care and mussel tension was released under artful fingers. But not us. Though to the old lady's credit, our skin looks fantastic.

Page 1 of 1

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.