Shawn, Mustapha and the Hammam...

Original short article by Shawn P. Conley and edited by Lori C. Conley

After our slog through the desert, Mustapha suggested that we go to a hammam for respite.  Mustapha explained that a hammam was a sauna, but he didn’t understand when we asked if it was dry or wet heat.  Since we didn’t know which it was and Aliah had been having trouble breathing in dry heat, I decided to go while the girls showered at the riad.  

So… it turns out a hammam is a Turkish bath house with separate facilities for men and women; women use the left side of the facility, and men use the right (at least this is how this one was set up).  You enter and pay 80 dirhams (~8 euros) for use of the facility, and I needed to purchase a cleansing glove (30 dirhams).  In the reception area, you strip down to your underwear (I did bring a swimsuit, but, alas, underwear it is), grab your towel, lock up your clothes, and head on in. 

The first thing you do is rinse off in a staging area shower.  Check, that was easy.  Next, you enter a larger room with men standing around tables wearing nothing but underwear, but I will get to that later…

Mustapha takes me over to the steam room door, reaches into a big pot, pulls out purplish goop, slaps it into my hand and tells me to rub it all over my body but explicitly tells me not the face.  Bad for the eyes… Oh boy!  FYI, I think the goop was date butter, but I am not 100% sure.  As I am doing this, he grabs another handful and starts rubbing it all over my back.  When finished with me, he grabs another handful, slaps it in my hand, and tells me to rub it on his back… OK… when in Marrakech!!!!

After we are lathered up, we head into the wet and extremely hot steam room. Mustapha hoses off the area, squeegees it down, and tells me to sit.  I watch what he does and do the same.  He starts to rub in the date butter while breathing in deeply and then letting out deep coughs.  I do the same.  It sounded like we both had C-19 in there.  He then tells me to lay back and breathe in deeply.  I do what he says… At this point, I am sweating like a hog, rubbing in what I think is date butter, and rethinking some of my life choices.  

The cold water Mustapha used to hose down the area has by now formed into steam, hit the ceiling, and condensed into boiling hot water that begins to drip on me.  It is essentially raining boiling water all over my body, and I do mean all over.  We lay there in silence as I wince every time I get dripped on, then Mustapha says, “You ready?”, and I exclaim, “Giddy-up!”

Remember the men standing in their underwear…that is our next destination.  Mustapha says something to one of them in Arabic.  The man looks at me and slaps the table.  I jump up on the table, sit down, and hand him my cleansing glove.  I assumed this cleansing glove would be soft.  Wow, was I mistaken.  It had the texture of rough grit sandpaper; 40-80 grit for those of you that have done woodwork.  He then proceeds to rough sand my entire body.  It was all I could do not to yell out in pain, and when he did find a particularly sensitive area through my wincing, he worked those areas extra hard.  BTW, the fact that I was wearing underwear did not preclude him from working on a majority of that area as well…. OUCH!!!

After the rough scrub, I was instructed to get off the bench so I could be hosed off.  He then slapped the table for round 2.  This entailed the “washer” taking off the glove, lathering me up with some kind of soap, and giving me another once over with bare hands.  During this process he would karate chop me with his hands, cup his hand and smack me across my body, then attempt some form of chiropractic adjustments.  When finished, I was instructed to get up again and was rinsed a second time.  He then rinsed the table as I stood there watching.  When he was finished, he looked at me and pointed to the door…I guess I was done.

Upon exiting, I took yet another shower and then was given hot tea so I could relax in the final staging area.  We sat in silence and drank our tea.  They brought in our clothes so we could get dressed, and we left. Upon leaving, I asked Mustapha what he said to the man.  He said he told him, “Be kind to my friend, he is family!”

I know you are all wondering… would Shawn do this again?…. 

Heck, yeah!