The Couscous Weekend – 5 Days in Morocco #4: Day 3 cont.: Bath Time – Marrakech, Morocco

Day 3 cont.: Bath Time
April 13th, 2002

Back at the hotel I remembered to ask the girl at the desk about something I’d read in my book. The hotel had shared showers on each floor and, while I didn’t mind that at all, I thought it would be a good excuse to go native and try a traditional Moroccan bath house, a ‘hammams’.

“Is there a ha-mams near here?” I asked.
“A quoi?”
“Uh uh, est-ce qu’il y a un haamam z?” I tried again.
“You want what?”
“Uh hama? Ham – ass?” I was pretty sure that wasn’t how to say it. “A bath? Un bain?”
“Ah, you want to take hammams?” She said, saying it like “ama”. Silent letters seem to be the bane of my existence on this trip. I filed the word away for future use.
“Ok, I have someone take you, ok?”

After some discussion among the staff, the big old guy in the fez and long brown djellaba (I think he owns or manages the hotel) was elected to walk me to the hammams. I followed behind him trying to keep up, and feeling for all the world like a daughter accompanying her father on an errand. It wasn’t very far, but I never would have found it. There was no sign, just an open door and small blue counter with a tough looking lady behind it. He put a hand on my shoulder and said a bunch of stuff in Arabic to her and she looked me over and replied in the same. I started feeling like the chicken being bargained over. But instead of blowing on my feathers and lopping my head off, I paid her 6 dirhams and was lead inside.

Just inside the doorway was a steamy changing room with long benches and cubbyholes for belongings. Light came in through a small high skylight illuminating a scene that probably hadn’t changed much in a thousand years. Women of all ages and stages of undress were chatting and brushing hair and trying to cope with children. There was no sign of the quiet, deferential women I’d seen on the streets. Nothing was hidden here, nothing was demure. They were loud, their laughter and gossip and child-chastising rang off the tile and cement walls.

I was handed over to a pot bellied, gray haired woman in a big pair of worn black undies, plastic shoes and nothing else. There were a pair of dark gloves tucked into her waistband like the tool belt for some Amazon uniform. She appraised me in much the same manner as the first woman, and then pulled off my head scarf and pantomimed undressing. I stripped down to my bikini and she gathered up my things and stuck them in a cubby hole. She looked me over again and tugged at my top gesturing at the other topless woman heading deeper into the building. When in Rome…

With an approving nod she took me by the hand like a child and led me to the curtained doorway that separated the changing room from the baths proper. It was almost dark inside and not as steamy as I expected, but it was warm and damp and I could feel my skin absorbing the moisture after a day of dusty sweating. There wasn’t much in the way of decor. Just an arched rectangular roof with another tiny skylight, four tiled walls, and a tiled floor that sloped just a bit towards a central drain. An opening in the middle of one wall lead into another room just the same. The far wall had several water taps where women were filling large plastic buckets.

My guide, or attendant, or keeper walked me over to one wall with baby steps and many warnings of ‘attendez-vous’ as if she wasn’t sure how well a Westerner could walk on slippery floors. She chose a spot and pushed me down to the floor and then shuffled off to fill a bucket. I took the opportunity to watch my fellow bathers.

The bathing ritual was in full effect here. Everyone was intent as the craftsmen I had seen in the street working out the detail on an intricately painted bench. I watched one teenage girl scrub one elbow for almost ten minutes. Everyone was armed with plastic baskets of bath paraphernalia – rough black gloves like the one my lady had, pots of brown soap, jars of stinky black mud and bags of different colored henna. There was plenty of talking and joking and squealing of children, but also quiet contemplation and pure animal enjoyment of the bathing ritual. There was no hurrying. No one had to get home for anything, no one had a report to write for this meeting or that – this was their time.

I was pulled out of my reflections by my guide who had finished filling two buckets and unceremoniously dumped one over my head. She handed me a wad of slimy brown soap and made big scrubbing motions in the air like a scene out of The Karate Kid until I started soaping up. She watched me with her hands on her hips, occasionally making a comment to one of the other woman nearby which brought a laughter and amused looks. I wondered if one of them could be the veiled woman from the bus who giggled so shyly into her hand on the bus the day before.

I knew I’d finally reached an approved state of soapiness when she dumped the other bucket of water over me. I was still spluttering when she hauled me to my feet and walked me into the next room. It was exactly the same, but maybe a little warmer and noisier. The female sides of entire clans were present – babies, daughters, mothers, sisters, aunts, grandmas – like mermaids on a Sunday picnic. She rinsed off a bit of floor and pushed me back down until I was lying on the warm tiles. I’d given up trying to guess what she wanted me to do and just let myself get tossed around like a bath toy. She put on the black glove and proceeded to scrub off about an inch of skin. It was like being attacked with steel wool, but it somehow felt wonderful at the same time.

She rolled me onto my side and then my back, then another bucket of water, and then more scrubbing. Just as I thought I was going to doze off into some steamy dreamstate, she hoisted me back up and led me back to the first room. I felt like pounded meat and was relaxed as a newborn kitten in its mother’s grasp.

Too soon I was back in the changing room and back in the dusky evening street. I smiled contently at the woman at the entryway and she smiled back.

“Demain?” she asked knowingly.
“Demain,” I agreed. Tomorrow.