I finally went back to the Hammam again. This time I went with my host mom and there were significantly less people in the Hammam. The room that we were in was covered in white tile with an arching roof. There was a grey tile floor (probably so that you couldn’t see all the dead skin.) There were two water pipes / spouts that lined the room. One pipe carried scalding hot water and the other cold water.
My host mom and I both paid (under $5) to have someone scrub us with the infamous, black, sandpaper mitt. The woman that took on the job was probably in her late 60s , wore a maroon bandana and a yin yang ring on her ring finger. She started out scrubbing the dead skin off of one arm and my back, which wasn’t too bad. Then she made me lay back with my head on her thigh while she scrubbed my chest, under my arms and on my sides (OOUCH!) She proceeded to reach across my body and scrub my other arm and sides which was not without the slapping of the face by breasts and stomach roles. If this wasn’t traumatizing enough she made me role over on my stomach and scrubbed my butt cheeks.
There were some positive outcomes from all of this. First of all, I don’t think I had showered for a week or so and the combination of sweating the grossness out, getting all of the dry, dead skin off and then actually washing my hair and body was surprisingly refreshing. It was also a chance to just sit and enjoy the quiet without having to really talk to anyone, a nice break. While I sat there I stared at the floor and thought, Ah man, I could be at home right now, in a coffee shop, reading or just hanging out…OR I could be in Morocco, getting scrubbed down in a slightly awkward bathhouse by an odd little old lady who has probably scrubbed down 1000s of women and thinks nothing of it. Besides in all actuality I can probably find a café and some friends to sit with, if I really need to.
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