Hardcore Hammam

Day 38
July 12^th

Summer is already halfway over! Stephanie and I have been taking very good care of ourselves. Pampering, you might say. Weekly manicures and pedicures—why not when they only cost $4 each! Every Moroccan woman who can afford it takes very good care of herself. Always a French manicure, eyebrows perfectly groomed, hair blown out—it's all a sign of wealth. We've found a good little salon, courtesy of Houda. I just had my eyebrows threaded. It's a very common practice in India and the Middle East. Instead of waxing facial hair, a beautician takes a piece of thread, wraps it around two fingers on each hand and twists it. Then she can press the thread to your face and twist it even more to pull out every single hair--no matter how fine. It almost feels like someone is snapping a tiny rubber hand against your face, and then when it's over, your face is all tingly for a short time. It hurts a lot less than waxing, is cheaper, and doesn't make your face red.

Another common beauty practice is weekly trips to the local hammam or sauna. The authentic hammam is not for the fainthearted. I had been to a hammam before in Casablanca so I thought that I knew what I was in for. Indeed, I was mistaken.

Stephanie and I found a solidly middle-class hammam not too far from our hotel. It was bring our own towels and soap style. We paid the entrance fee of 12 dh (less than $2) and found a woman to give us massages. We started stripping, trying to figure out exactly what we were supposed to do with our things by looking around at the other women. It's important to note that staring (especially at foreigners) in Morocco is more acceptable, especially in public spaces. We're white and foreign and totally new, therefore very interesting. Still, the old Berber woman with the face tattoos didn't need to stare at me for fifteen minutes, chewing her cud, while I got undressed. I just told myself that she had never seen anyone with such stylish plastic glasses before.

Once we were wearing only underwear, Nearly Naked Fatima, our hefty masseuse, led us to the sauna part. It was like stepping into ancient Roman times, with the exception being all of the plastic buckets. There were three, large, barrel-vaulted rooms, each parallel to one another. Suddenly, all the Roman ruins that I've seen made more sense. It was all white tile, with very interesting alternating bands of blue conveniently located at eye-level. The blue tiles were square and each one was about oh two by two inches, a pretty, deep cobalt blue color…I stared at the tiling a lot.

Everyone sat on the marble floor next surrounded by a half circle of buckets full of water. Nearly Naked Fatima helped us rub on savon noir, goopy brown soap that is used for exfoliation. Then came the "massage." I was first. She directed me on what to do by pointing and grunting words in French. Once I was laying down, Naked Fatima proceeded to brutally slough off layers of my skin. Using only a glove made out of a rough material and her brute strength, she made my dry skin peel off in rolls like soggy paper. It kind of burned. Then I started to get used to it. When she had done every single centimeter of my body (emphasis on every), I felt so smooth.

It was literally a scene from an Ingres painting. There were women of every shade, of all ages, and most were pretty plump. Even the lighting and the colors evoked The Turkish Bath. We were the only Westerners but not the only ones getting the same scrub down. Nearly Naked Fatima also gave me a real massage, washing my hair and dumping buckets of water over my head as though I were a child. She also made me wash my own underwear, just to make sure that they were squeaky clean as well.

It was very different from the first hammam that I went to in Casablanca, which was more upscale and more expensive. There, everything was provided and we chose a package that included towels and a massage. The whole experience brought up interesting differences between my own culture and that of Morocco. None of the women there were the least bit ashamed of their bodies. I tried to act the same, but the truth is that North Americans are much, much more concerned about how our bodies appear to others. The hammam is an interesting intersection of public and private space. At once, it is closed off from the street, and segregated by gender. But once inside, the space belongs to everyone. Whole families come to wash and gossip and relax. The other women stared at us, but they were also very helpful, motioning to us what to do. The central area is public, but you must always rinse the floor before you sit down, even as clean as it is. The water cisterns are also public, and you never dump your water back into them. But once you sit, the space becomes private, and you can get down to washing yourself as you please.

And sorry, no pictures for this post…