Morocco Hammam Visit
Roxanne Kessel
1st Edition
Published by Roxanne Kessel
Copyright 2011 Roxanne Kessel
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I was completely naked draped over an old Berber woman's legs as she scrubbed me with all her might. I was in Marrakesh, Morocco and was experiencing a traditional Hammam, an Arab bath house. The Hammam was located along a narrow side street where vendors sold local Moroccan crafts from ceramics to leather goods and Arabian Nights looking metal lamps. This was a traditional Hammam and not one of the tourist Hammams common in Marrakesh. The Hammam had two doors into the street, one for women and one for men. I paid a man in the booth located between the two sides, approximately $8 for an hour bathe/massage.
I slowly meandered into the first empty cement room where an old short, bull-legged woman, wearing only black underwear took me by the hand and led me into the next room. Her brown eyes gave me the once-over and she seemed slightly perturbed she had to deal with me. Another old woman, clothed, wearing the common headscarf, and with a missing tooth smiled and gestured for me to sit down on the long narrow bench facing across from another bench. Neither woman spoke French, and I spoke no Arabic so we communicated by gestures. I placed my feet on narrow strips of plastic elevated above a layer of cement in this warm room.
The clothed lady beckons me to disrobe so first I take off my light-green djellaba, a Moroccan robe that looks like something a Jawa or Jedi knight would wear. I couldn't resist buying one, as I'm a Star Wars fan and I love wearing local garb. I put my money and watch in the hood and the old lady knotted it for me and told me it would be safe. I took off my t-shirt, bra, and shoes. I am sure the ladies were entertained as I wore no pants as the locals do under their djellabas, I only recently realized.
The woman wearing only underwear, with large drooping naked breasts and gray hair tightly bound to her head, gestures for me to follow her. She slowly waddles into the next room as I follow her just wearing my panties. The room is cement and empty except for a water spigot off to the side. This small room opens into the final bath room, smelling of soap and moist air, with a dome overhead with about six open holes to the sky each about a foot in circumference, letting light in. Approximately ten Arab women are sitting on towels on the cement floor surrounded by buckets either naked or just wearing their panties. They are quiet and I just hear the pouring of water as they bathe. A couple of young boys are with them. The women are all shorter than me, plump and have huge breasts, at least compared with me, a 5 foot 11 inch tall skinny woman. The only thing I had in common was my dark hair and eyes. No one seemed to take a special interest in me and they continued to soap up, scrub, or pour water over themselves, as my bather led me to the back of the room part-way into a small enclave. I am the only one getting special treatment today, everyone else is bathing themselves. I feel a bit of an outsider, but yet comfortable as the ladies don’t mind me.
I don't have a towel to sit on, so after I remove my panties and hang them, as my bather motions for me to do. I sit naked on the tile floor waiting to see what will happen next. My bather hands me a chunk of soft dark-green glycerin soap so I lather up as she meanders slowly over to a spigot between several of the bathers on the other side of the 40 foot long room to fill a second bucket of water. One bucket sits in front of me. She set a glove scrubber to the side of me.
I soap up and then see the other woman scrubbing so I grab the glove scrubber and proceed to scrub myself. When my bather returns she chastises me and grabs the scrubber out of my hand and gives me back the soap. So I soap up beyond what I think is necessary until she seems content and takes the little glob of soap I have left from me. The bather then sits with her legs spread and stretched out. She indicates for me to lie down on the tile floor, face down between her legs. She drags my slippery body across her lap so my body is draped over her legs. She scrubs me with the hand scrubber and pulls and tugs on me to turn various directions so I am on both sides and facing up. If I don't understand, she tugs harder, and gives me a look of disgust in her dark yet still sparkly eyes. She puts my hand on my chest area so I can feel the grit she has scrubbed off. In my nakedness I feel I am being stripped of my former life and in this unfamiliar place I feel I am headed into unknown territory.
Recently divorced and making a new life for myself I feel as if my old self is being scrubbed away and I am shedding the snakeskin of my former self. This was my birthday and I felt I needed to shed my old skin and create a new life. Two days early, February 20th, Morocco's 'Movement for Change' loosely based on the protests in Tunisia and Egypt had made me wonder whether I should take the 'Marrakesh Express', but life is all about 'being brave' and facing the unknown so I boarded the train for Marrakesh. As they say in north Africa ‘insallah’, God willing. This large movement for change made me think about my own personal 'movement for change' in my life.
The unrest that started by a vendor burning himself alive in Tunisia in December, 2010 led to the subsequent protests in Egypt, Algeria and Morocco. Young people in Morocco organized the protests for change via the internet, however; the movement was small and calm in comparison to the other nations. An estimated 15,000 people in all of the major cities in Morocco, including Marrakesh, created a list of demands for reform. Moroccans in general trust their king, Mohammed VI, who has been a reformer, and believe he will make things better. He is a descendant of the Alaouite dynasty, who have ruled Morocco for 350 years and claim descendancy from the prophet Muhammad thus the king has spiritual significance to the people. The king allows for more freedom of the press and opposition groups than some of the other north African nations. His son, Prince Hicham Alaoui supported this ‘Day of dignity’. Protesters did however support a more democratic European style monarchy. The only sign I saw of the protests was graffiti on a wall written in English “They don’t care about us.”
‘The Marrakesh Express,’ an overnight midnight train ride from Tangier to Marrakesh, made me think of the Crosby Stills and Nash song. I fell asleep in the sleeper car to the rolling motion of the train. I smelt a cooking fire
when I awoke in the middle of the night. I rose to rolling green hills, eucalyptus trees and prickly pear cactus sprinkled on the hills and rock outcroppings here and there. We passed an occasional brick building and rock pile or bush-lined fence. As the train approached Marrakesh I saw plowed fields, the snow-covered Atlas Mountains to the east, and plastic bags blown onto bushes looking like cotton plants.
I sit up and the bather scrubs my lower legs and feet, washing away the grit from my former life. She hands me the mitt and indicates for me to scrub my face, and then my neck. She has me lie on my stomach and gives me a quick back massage. She then wanders back to the water spigot while I wait and then she pours water all over me, including my head as I agree that is ok. I feel as if I am being baptized into my new life, and to be doing it in Africa and in a tradition bath makes it even more exciting. The bather pulls me by the hand to stand up and I try to bend down a little for her as I am so much taller but she pulls me up. She pours the hot rinse water over me. She shuffles off and brings me back a towel as she leads me into the empty cement room. She leaves the room and goes back to the bath so I dry myself with the towel. A few minutes later she comes back and starts flaying her arms at me in disgust and pointing to the next room. “La, la, la! (no, no no)” I guess this room is not for drying off. So I go back into the room with the benches and finish drying myself.
As I dress I watch a young Moroccan woman prepare to leave. First she puts on a thong, and I notice an intricate tattoo on her lower back. Being a Muslim country I did not expect that and wondered if she was a prostitute. Then she puts on her long loose pants and top, and her robe and finally her scarf so I can only see her face. I feel like I am in a secret world seeing the usually bundled-up women so free of clothing. The clothed woman working there then says 'Souvenir Madame' so I give her some small change and she seems happy. I hope she shares it with my bather as she did all the work.
I head back into the craziness of the outside world of vendors and in the city square, Djemaa el Fna, where I see acrobats, blind violinists, beggars, drumming musicians, spice and fruit salesmen, veiled women on mopeds, donkey pulled carts, tourists, and Moroccan women in colorful veils and robes. An old man wearing a djellaba chants ‘Allah’ as he wanders, to whoever is listening. The smell of spices and tangines (Moroccan food) permeates the air and the orange-like tinge to the cement buildings enhances the brightness of the sun. Colorful watermen, with hats looking like elaborate lamp shades with tassels hanging along the brim, sell gulps of water from a goatskin bag, as they clang along with their brass cups and bells dangling from their bodies. Story tellers and a musician with a chicken on his head perform as western tourists wearing out-of-place shorts and mini-skirts pass by. Smoke drifts by from the food vendors kitchens. I stop to watch a snake charmer; as he plays the flute a cobra awakens from his nap in the sun and coils in motion with the music. I relate to the snake as I feel awakened by the music of life in this exotic locale as I flow with the pulse of the plaza.
Suddenly the elusive Jack Thorson appears out of nowhere and asks me to lunch. We eat harari soup, a lentil garbanzo bean local concoction and drink the local sweet mint tea. “Gosh, it has been awhile since I have seen you, where have you been recently?” “Oh here and there trekking around north Africa and sailing in the Indian Ocean.” “Elusive as always in your answers; are you sure you are not a spy of some sort?” “Oh no, I’ve just done a lot since I last saw you.” “Oh I would love to sail the seven seas and ride a camel across the Sahara.” “What do you think of the political situation in north Africa?” “The Moroccan people, despite similar problems to other parts of north Africa, love their king and have a great fear of becoming like neighboring Algeria. The country has a great potential to be the tourist destination in the region, if it continues to stay stable, as tourists avoid the once popular Egypt and Tunisia.” I hear the haunting call of the muezzin from several loud speakers, each off by a few seconds which sends me into a reflection of my life and new directions and I think of the many centuries the call occurred in this historic plaza. My skin feels so smooth as I feel refreshed and renewed ready for the next year and the adventures to come. “How about venturing into the dunes, like the author Paul Bowles for our next trip.” “Insallah.”
Two months later the Restaurant ‘Argana’ was the scene of a terrorist bomb. Jack and I had relaxed on the top floor, now completely destroyed, eating rich pistachio ice cream, as a Muslim bowed in the prayer area. Fifteen people died, mostly tourists, and many were injured. The bomb, remotely detonated, showed all the signs of Al Qaeda. In May over 8000 Moroccans protested in the square as they drank fresh orange juice, in defiance of the terrorists. Authorities believe the man who detonated the two bombs had a glass of orange juice from a local vendor before he detonated the bomb.
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