The Hamman. I heard it was a scrub down and massage for 150 dirham (13.4 euros). Not bad, I thought, I'll take it.
I had one more day in Marrakech, on my own, as Mike had left in the morning. What else was I going to do? So I walked around the souks one last time, stopped at Earth Cafe for a fruit juice and some think time, and headed to the spa for "hamman," the unknown word which spoke of mysterious healing and tranquil relaxation, to me.
But I didn't realize it would be so...traditional.
"Take all your clothes off, except your underwear," the hostess told me in a lounge area filled with half-naked women. Oh, this is so not what I expected (and yet, what
did I expect? Everything else in Morocco had been unexpected and exciting, why not this?).
I knew at that point that this was going to be an experience unlike any other, and I could either quit right then and there or just throw up my hands and go with it.
So I threw up my hands in prayer to Allah.
And I took off my clothes.
***
Earlier that week, I had my fair share of disorienting experiences, including a visit to a Berber village in the Atlas Mountains on market day, where I was not only the only white woman around, but also the only
woman for miles, as all the men from the surrounding mountain towns had come via donkey to do the weekly "grocery shopping" in this dusty center of Amizmiz. I was stared down by at least four hundred pairs of Berber eyes, but they were not threatening--only curious. Nonetheless, like so many other encounters in Morocco, it was by far a humbling experience.
***
The hostess came back and led me through the lounge to a doorway that in my memory of Moroccan films, led to exactly what I dreaded: a marble tile room filled with buckets of steaming water and naked women. The dense steam from the room wrung my lungs out like a towel; I felt as though I were breathing through a straw.
My "masseuse," Fatiha, led me to one side of the room (apparently the "white foreigner" side, as one other plump whitish woman occupied this space, opposite of a group of beautifully tanned Moroccan women on the other side of the room). She sat me down on a yellow mat against the wall and left me there. What was I supposed to do?
Trying my best not to look like it was my first time in the Hamman (although my blonde hair and deer-in-the-headlights look had already given me away), I imitated the other women and poured hot water on myself, then picked up the washcloth-loofah-sandpaper thing and tried it out on my feet first. Ouch.
***
It's not easy to imitate someone of an entirely different religion, lifestyle, continent. Walking through the markets of Marrakech, I attempted to dress modestly, but my attire of long sleeves and pants did not match the traditional dress and headscarf of Moroccan women. I heard the call to prayer ringing from the mosques five times a day like clockwork, but didn't know how to respond. In the souks, my efforts of bargaining were successful, but I could come nowhere near the market price that a Moroccan could get for a common
tajine. My foreigner status stuck, unalterable like the stamp on my passport.
***
An eternity later, Fatiha came back, looked at me and snickered (showing her white, if not complete, set of teeth), and took a handful of caramel-like muck and started washing me with it. Not strange at all, a foreign woman soaping up every part of my exposed body--and then some. Whatever, I thought, I can handle this.
But then Fatiha put the sandpaper washcloth around her hand and got to work sanding off my skin, nerves, and finally my bones, leaving me with what felt like an osteoporosic skeleton. When I realized (after opening my eyes) that the gray particles on my skin were not in fact clay but skin itself, I nearly gagged. Exfoliation at its best.
Strangely enough, the longer the scrubbing lasted, the better it felt. Fatiha wasn't just buffing off my dead skin. She was cleansing my body of the dust and ache of my two weeks of travel from Berlin to Marrakech. It was a complete over-stimulation of the senses, but I did not yet want to leave this beautiful country that was simultaneously so alien yet so familiar.
***
The spices lure,
The cats prowl,
Mosaic-laden palaces remind,
Friendly local banter.
Tajines smoke in the corners of crusty cafes,
Filled with tumeric and saffron,
Creating the finest of foods that no character-less spotless restaurant could provide.
Jovial bargaining with your "friends" of the souks
Your eyes a blur with color.
This is Morocco.
***
The clay massage that followed was a relief; I lay there for 20 minutes letting it soak in and realizing that nobody else in the place gave a damn that I was nearly-naked. How freeing is that? The final rinse off and hair wash made me hard-pressed to keep from laughing, as Fatiha time and again dumped a large bucket of steaming water over my bowed frame (and into my underwear). Afterward, I sat in the lounge drinking tea, enveloped in a giant white bathrobe and breathing in the fresh air.
This was Morocco.
(March 19, 2010)
