The woman of Morocco are a contradiction; they have managed to embrace the modernity that Western woman strive for, whilst staying true to their more traditional roots. Nowhere is this clashing of era's so apparent as in the Hammam.
I had only one previously encountered the theory of a shared bath- a scene in Sebastian Faulkes' Charlotte Grey, other than that the theory of communal cleansing has only been revisited in the context of Herbal Essences advert. Luscious long haired beauties prancing about in very little, was not an image I would place myself in, and yet the description of the Hammam had a certain familiar ring to it. If I was to be clean without the prospect of pneumonia (cold showers abound at the Hostel I was staying at in Casablanca), I was to put my quibbles aside and brave my own nudity.
A nondescript door lead onto an equally nondescript corridor which ended in a changing room, typical of any swimming pool I'd ever visited. Armed with my soap in one hand and a bucket in the other I stripped down to my birthday suit (as had previously been advised by a kindly Fin on the train from the airport) and entered the inner sanctum. I was greeted by a series of dimly lit, tiled rooms, obscured by steam; the whole set-up made me feel I was in some sort of mythological maze waiting for the Minator. It was at this point I was to realise one very embarrassing error- pants! Everyone bar me seemed to be in possession of them.. I find moments like these require a shed load of self confidence akin to "What? You're wearing underwear? What a novel idea." However mine was crumbling fast and I could barely muster a Moroccan teapot full when I was gently guided to a corner and to asseyez vous.
My guardian angel had relieved me of my bucket and was busy filling it with steaming hot water. When she returned I knew the cleaning would begin. First a thick, brown, oily paste was smoothed over, left to soak in and then rinsed of, followed by 'the scrub'. This doesn't fully describe the removal of three layers of my skin. While this near surgical process was being performed I got a chance to take a look at the other patrons. The woman ranged from small children to grandmothers, all sitting on the floor, surrounded by buckets of hot water completely involved in the process of self cleansing. Every sector of Moroccan society was reflected in this room- young women with perfect pedicures and manicures who would surely leave dressed in tight jeans and Armani sunglasses. The middle aged woman with a young boy, and even the matriarch chatting incessantly about the lives of her neighbours. I was now part of history- this custom has been occurring for hundreds of years and even now woman favour tradition over convenience as their mothers and grandmothers before them had.
Walking out in freshly cleaned clothes I felt like poetry. Every inch of me had been polished to perfection and I literally shone. And the best part? I can do it all again next week!
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