Hammam

(This photo is not of the Hammam we went to, ours was much more "rustic," if you will.  I grappled with whether or not to share this story on here, because it is of a personal nature, but I really feel like it explains an aspect of Moroccan culture that is not often exposed, so I found it hard not to. Enjoy!)

            I have been wanting to visit a Hammam ever since I was 13 and my mom and grandma visited Turkey.  My mother came back from Turkey with stories from the public baths that they went to and I remember her saying that it was the “coolest” experience that she had while she was there. 

            In Morocco there is a clear distinction between public and private spaces.  The public is highly dominated by masculinity, to the point where women in Morocco are viewed to some Westerners as highly subjugated and treated like children or animals.  While there are some clear discrepancies between the public discourse between men and women, there are spaces where women have been liberated, and even dominant, for centuries.  Those are the private spaces that society has set aside and dedicated specifically to women.

            I have changed the focus of my research while I have been here to focus more on this private/public space distinction.  I am focusing specifically on storytelling, and the differences that take place between men and women’s stories and story telling.  Traditionally, storytelling has been a unique art form in North Africa.  Just as a man might be a talented artist or carpenter, he might also be a great storyteller and be known for that in the community.  Coffeehouses and town squares are venues where men typically would share their stories, almost always to other men.  Their subject matter dealt with politics, daily life, religion, history and real-life accounts.  Women, on the other hand have taken storytelling and made it into an art that is entirely their own.  

Women in Morocco and other Islamic states were once relegated entirely to private spaces, namely their homes.   Women in Morocco are more recently becoming more integrated into the public domain, but there are still clear distinctions between what is appropriate for both men and women.   Traditional women’s stories have made up for the lack of access to information about the outside world by invoking their creativity and imaginations in storytelling.  Women’s tales, told to other women are rife with magic, folklore, superstition, the supernatural and sexual fantasy, the latter being something women are not particularly known for in Islamic, Arab countries.  They are rich, imaginative stories that often depict women as the brave heroines who often outsmart a stupid man or an evil mother-in-law.  I really wish Disney would get a hold of these and give those princesses a run for their money.

            Anyway, with my focus being on the differentiation between public/ private, masculine/ feminine spaces in Morocco, and the experiences that my mother shared with me from her travels in the Middle East, the allure of the Hammam has really appealed to me and I was excited to get a chance to go to an authentic Hammam.  I was especially interested in finding one that was not used to having foreigners and where many local Moroccan women go two to three times per week.  Looking back, it is an experience that I won’t soon forget and I was so excited to have the opportunity.  (Sorry, but as you can imagine, there are no photos to accompany this story.  In the spirit of Moroccan women’s stories, I will do my best with imagery to help paint a better picture.)

            I hopped in a cab with Angela and headed for the old medina.  I had a map and a very vague idea of where we were going, but I wasn’t too worried when we left the hotel.  That confidence faded quickly as the driver (with a lazy eye) dropped us off at the back entrance to the old medina.  I quickly referred to my map, devised a game plan, shared it with Angela, took a deep breath and thought, “Here goes nothing.”

            We walked in the gate and turned left down the narrow cobblestone footpath lined by shops on both sides.  I feigned confidence that we knew our way, because I didn’t want to get stopped by young men offering to be our guides.  After about thirty seconds into the medina, I knew we had no idea where were going.  I stopped and asked a group of three women huddling in an alley who referred me to a shopkeeper who spoke English.  I asked him where to go and he pointed toward the direction that we had come from and said, “You see the girl with the oranges?  The door is right past her.”  I thanked him and we turned around.  At this point, the guide book was out, a first for me on this trip, and I was ready to beg my way to the place that we were trying to find.

            We walked past the girl with the oranges as the man that helped us shouted something in Arabic to her.  We stopped at the entrance to the Hammam and I mumbled a few words in Arabic and a few in French… I have no idea what I asked.  A few people yelled, the men out front shouted at the girl at the orange stand and a big, giant Moroccan woman grabbed me by my arm (not lightly) and dragged me inside.  She motioned for me to take off my clothes and I thought to myself…When in Morocco...

            Angela and I were at a loss, and for a second doubted we were even in the right place.  She told me to ask the lady that grabbed us, so I grabbed my guidebook, indicating to her the place we wanted to go and she looked at me like I was crazy.  I remembered the part where she spoke only Arabic, so my English guide book meant nothing to her (seeing as the text isn’t even written in the same direction).  Also, illiteracy rates among women in Morocco are astronomically high, so she had a 50% chance of being able to read it, even if it was in Arabic.  One of the young girls there acknowledged my struggle (I have no idea what Angela was doing at this point) and came over to try to bridge the communication barrier.  At this point, I was so anxious that even my French was failing me because I couldn’t think straight.  I asked her to ask the lady how much it was, and the lady told me hand over my wallet.  I have no idea why I complied.  Luckily, she only took out a hundred dirham, (about 12 USD) and said, “This much.”  Then she motioned to Angela to cough up the same amount. 

            After we stripped down to just our underwear (at this point we were in basic survival mode and just watching what the other girls were doing) the lady grabbed me by my arm again and dragged me into the dark tile foyer into the Hammam.  It was two huge adjoining rooms tiled from floor to ceiling, heated from underneath by fires in an underground furnace.  She dragged me over to a wall, made me sit down, and walked off yelling something in Arabic that I didn’t understand at all. 

            The lady came back, with a scarf wrapped around her head and wearing the biggest pair of black panties I have ever seen and nothing else.  She grabbed Angela first, put a blob of brown Henna soap in her hand and motioned for her to wash herself; I was next.  She then put on a red mitt and started scrubbing Angela from head to toe, when she was done she threw a bucket of water over Angela’s head to rinse her off.  When it was my turn, she grabbed me by my arm and effortlessly slid me across the soapy floor toward her like a rag doll.  She scrubbed my back, my hair, my legs, my feet, my arms, my stomach, my face, and almost every last inch of my body until my skin felt like it would fall off.  She scrubbed me so hard that my hard-earned tan from my day by the pool in Marrakesh was completely rubbed away. 

            When she finished, she tossed a bucket of hot water over my head and spun me around my ankle, laying me flat on the hot tile floor.  She massaged my back and neck and shoulders while I laid on the warm ground.  I haven’t had a massage since my back was hurting in Merzouga, so it was like a dream.  I was so relaxed, that is, until a huge screaming fight broke out in the lobby of the Hammam.  I was in a daze from the steam and the big lady’s elbows into my back so I had no idea what was going on.  Angela asked me, “Do you know what they’re talking about?”  I had no clue and although people kept trying to talk to me, I just ignored what was going on around me.  After my massage the big Moroccan mama grabbed me by my arm again (surprisingly I don’t have the bruises to prove it), pulled me to my feet, and dragged me into the lobby where the screaming was happening.  By that time a group of women had congregated in the lobby, and one asked me in French, “Avez-vous parlé à la fille avec les oranges?” (“Did you talk to the Lady with the Oranges?”)

            I stood their wet and shivering in my underwear because it was cold in the lobby, and tried to figure out what was going on.  When I finally figured out what she was asking, I said I hadn’t talked to her and recounted the story of how we found the place, the three ladies on the street, the man that spoke English who told us how to get there, and how she grabbed my arm and dragged me in.  Then I realized what was going on.  The girl with the oranges was trying to claim that she had brought us in to the Hammam and wanted a commission from the 100 dirham that we paid when we arrived.  After I realized what was going on I tried my best to clarify the situation, and the big lady who still had a firm grip on my upper arm shouted something to the effect of, “I told you so!”  She looked at me with a look that said, “Thank you,”  then she spun me around again, patted me on the butt and sent me back into the Hammam.  At this point I had lost every shred of dignity that I had come in with and nothing was surprising to me at that point.

            When I went back in, I explained to Angela what was going on and she laughed.  By then the interest of the other girls had piqued so I had to try my best to relay the story to them in French and we laughed.  While Angela got her massage, I went with the other girls into the furthest room in the Hammam, which was exceptionally hotter than the outer two.  The girl who had come to our rescue in the beginning came over and brushed my hair, which was knotted and matted with Henna soap.  She said that we were the first Americans she had ever seen in the Hammam and that she had been coming there since she was nine years old (she was nineteen).  Based on the experience that we had, I wasn’t at all surprised.  After the girl was finished brushing my hair, we lay out on the hot stone slabs on the floor and relaxed in the steamy room.  A little girl lounged in a bucket next to us with her arms and feet spilled decadently over the sides, eyes closed, her hair in a bun on top of her head.  Another little girl was in the other room screaming because she didn’t want to take a bath.  A third was wearing her mom’s too-big flip-flops and dragging a bucket half her size full of water across the slippery floor.  Women aged nine to ninety sat in corners, totally at ease, in the dim light that came from the small holes in the ceiling, obscured by the steam in the room.  They were chatting with one another, joking and telling stories.  It was an aspect of Moroccan culture that men would never see and certainly not appreciate.  When all was said and done I felt more comfortable and relaxed than I have since I’ve been here.  I forgot about missing home, I forgot about my research, and I forgot about everything else that has been weighing heavily on me since I’ve been here.  I allowed myself to be completely taken up in the time and place, and for the first time I was able to reflect on how rich this experience has been so far.  This day, in no uncertain terms, is one that I wouldn’t trade for anything.