When in Morocco… Right?
The process of procuring an appointment began yesterday when my landlord and new best buddy, Rachid, had escorted me and bargained with the hammam staff to get me a better price. I had informed Rachid that I wanted the real and ritualistic experience, not the dog and pony show I had been Informed that they sometimes put on for tourists. The bargaining went on for 15 minutes. Fascinating to watch, feel, and hear, the inflections and pitch, at times near yelling. Most likely just the product of a bartering culture, the “conversation” was akin to two bantam weight contenders throwing flurries of punches. Rachid and his counterpart, perhaps the proprietor, circling each other in the heavily tile clad locker room. Punch, counterpunch.
The bout ended abruptly, Rachid enveloping me with an arm around my shoulder as if I had won the fight. As we exited the ring, “I get you goot price. 100 Dirhams. Vetty goot price for you.”
So the appointment was for 8 am this morning. Currently mid-Ramadan, all bets are off when any given business might open its doors, in spite of the hours listed on the shingle.
I woke late because apparently they were doing some construction right outside my door until midnightish. And I think some of the construction staff were drinking on the job site. Maybe even the foreman was the party maker. Being in construction for the majority of my life, I remember yearning for a few drinks on some of those days. Maybe most of those days.
When I arrived 15 minutes late I was grateful that the doors were locked and they were not present. Grateful, not because I was late, but because I was terrified and needed to go say a quiet prayer for courage. An hour later after 2 cups of miraculous Moroccan coffee, I strode confidently in the direction of my bath. Caffeine and adrenaline artificially supporting my confidence. The wind whipping the Mediterranean up through the narrow streets. It would have been whipping through my hair had I been here 30 years ago. But I have few regrets, and even less hair.
When I entered, adrenaline was with me, but apparently confidence had made the decision to wait in the street. No communication, he just comes and goes as he pleases. Two new bantam weights met me in the locker room and immediately started barking commands. Me and my buddy, adrenaline, understood no words but the gestures were sufficient. “Go over there and take your clothes off”. A pair of far-too-small slippers were tossed in my general direction and landed flat, the sound echoing off the tile surround. I had read that you were supposed to keep your underwear intact. Thank god (no sacrilege intended) that I chose to follow that literature. Standing next to naked, nerves barely intact, in a 50 degree locker room, my slippers were not the only things too small. My underwear was the only stitch of confidence that could be found. I reluctantly handed my wardrobe to a man behind the counter as another approached me. He truly looked like he was a fighter.
Fighting out of the red corner, standing 5 foot 4, and weighing in at 129 pounds, dressed only in black shorts, with a record of 59 and 0 with 1 draw, was my bather, Mr Morocco. He was ripped with sinewy muscle. Had a stark black mustachio and like me, not a hair on his head. Unlike me, most of his weight appeared to be supported by confidence. He was missing his left eye and looked like he had fought like hell to keep the right one. He pointed towards a steel door the color of rust. I pushed hard and it gave. The other side welcomed me with the warm embrace of steam and heat. He followed and closed the heavy door behind me. Then gestured towards the next door. Also the color of rust. “There’s a theme here,” I thought. I pushed through and entered. He followed and somewhere along the way had picked up 2 black plastic buckets, the bucket in his left hand filled with items I did not recognize. The room was large, about the size of Tangier traffic roundabout, or for those of you at home, a standard American living room. Every square inch of wall was clad in regional tile. Colors and patterns intricately abound. The ceiling was vaulted concrete and painted red, richly oxygenated blood red.
I was pointed in the direction of a corner while he dumped the contents on the floor at my feet and went to fill both buckets with water. There were two spigots at the base of the wall under a large trough. I watched intently as he mixed water from each spigot and the trough, all the while checking for temperature with his hands. Apparently satisfied, he approached with both buckets gesturing for me to sit on the tile floor. I gratefully obliged. The tile was warm and wet and my legs were unsteady. The first bucket was introduced in a torrent without warning and whatever organisms that had previously been living on my skin were immediately vanquished and vaporized. Perhaps just contrast to being nearly naked in the undressing room, the shock was shocking. The second bucket, the same temperature, maybe slightly less so, came as abruptly as the first and without even the subtlest hint that it was coming.
He barked an order which went uninterpreted, so his hands told me to lie down. On my back. He spread my arms and legs as wide as possible and I took some very deep breaths. I kept my eyes closed, embracing, but moderating and modulating my vulnerability. Allowing my other senses to accept and interpret what was happening and what would come next.
I’ve spent a great deal of time in my life with sandpaper: woodworking, cabinetmaking and fabricating with my hands. And with sandpaper and other abrasives and tools I’ve been able to remove material and create shapes from wood, some stone, and even steel. My research told me that he would be using a Kessa Mit: a textured glove used to exfoliate. Exfoliation, not typically part of my vocabulary or practice. He started on my chest where it felt something like 150 grit sandpaper, on his first pass. Some of you may want to turn away for this next visual. The Kessa Mit is employed on all parts of your body. And I mean all parts. Yep, every nook, curve, cranny and ridge. And the 150 grit on your chest is okay, but it quickly converts to 30 grit on your more sensitive parts. And Mr. Morocco was thorough. And here is where I started to speculate the why of how he might have lost his eye. But I settled into the experience the best I could manage as he exfoliated parts of me that only a handful of other humans have ever touched.
I’m not very smart, but I quickly learned that a firm open handed slap on my belly meant that it was time to turn over (and a hard smack on my ass meant it was time to flip back to supine). Now prone, my backside was met with the mit. As I was breathing deeply and begging for my confidence to come in from the street, I conjectured that I would have to include the cost of my underwear in the price of the hammam. He was not shy about scrubbing everything and the elastic waistband did not represent an obstacle.
After being thoroughly sanded, two more buckets of hot water followed. I tried to contemplate the number of skin cells rushing in the torrent towards the drain in the center of the room. And had some humorous thoughts of them: little kayakers navigating the whitewater rivulets in the grout joints. My giggling out loud was indicative of impending relaxation. I embraced it and sunk more deeply into the tile and the experience. Then came the soap. Again, thorough. Extremely thorough. Again giggling with the thought. “I’m not sure if I’ve ever washed that.”
There were a total of 5 rounds of that: buckets, sandpaper, soap, buckets. After round three was the massage. Not your traditional massage, by any stretch of the imagination, and I do mean stretch. Instead he put my body in positions it has not been in for 30 years. If it were not for the scalding hot water and the flexibility that heat induces, some of my joints would probably have gone the way of my elastic waistband. At one point, lying prone, he had me lock my hands together behind my back. While I prayed that he was not going to shackle me in handcuffs, he sat on my back, locked his knees under my forearms and began pulling my knees towards the vaulted ceiling and lifting my chest from the tiled floor with his legs. Arching my back beyond what felt like was its range of motion.. When my soap-slicked wrists came apart and my chest came slapping back to the floor, his English arrived. “Don’t Break!” He shouted. Like a scorned schoolboy I re-engaged my “I’m getting arrested” posture. Again he bent me backwards. I haven’t been in that position since trying to learn how to Limbo in Mr. Wilson’s fourth grade P.E. class.
Then two more rounds: buckets, sandpaper, soap, and buckets. A thorough washing. I have not been washed like that since mom had me in the kitchen sink at 18 months of age, thorough. “Right now I am likely as clean as I will ever be,” I thought.
We went to the room between the rusted doors where I got two more buckets while seated on a tiled bench. “Fini” was the final word after the last bucket. After dressing, and well, discarding my underwear which ended its useful life with a waistband of 48”, I had a warm, firm handshake with Mr. Morocco. I felt relaxed and lighter. Literally lighter because he must have removed 2 pounds of skin and the majority of my body hair, not to mention most of the tan I had just acquired in Florida. Relaxed by being bent and twisted and contorted and not resisting it. And at some point that I do not exactly recall, my confidence came in from the street and joined me. We are pretty good together. But not just that… I had slowly embraced a new experience that’s normal here. It’s cultural. And yes, I had another man thoroughly wash every part of my body. It was enjoyable and relaxing all said and done. I am beyond grateful for that experience. My eyes, and yes, my pores, had been opened just a bit more.
Now, off to the desert for humpday, literally, an afternoon camel ride.
