Hammaming
Her boobs swung in my face as she debated in Arabic about who was going to scrub down this dirty and nearly naked American. At least that is what I thought she was saying as she yelled clipped phrases at her colleague. Both women were middle age-ish with black sagging underwear and flushed faces. At first I wasn't even sure if she was a masseuse or simply an overbearing patron. She spoke Arabic and French and I spoke in giggles mixed with "Uhh, you want me to lay down/turn over/put my face on your thigh?" type sounds. I didn't get her name. I will call her Fatima just to keep things straight.
When my friend Sarah and I signed up for massages at a hamam (a traditional bathhouse) behind the medina walls in Meknes, Morocco, I wasn't sure what to expect. I like baths, I thought. I like massages. What the hell? We might even get a bit of insight into the social lives of Moroccon women since interaction on the streets of Fez and Meknes had been nearly non-existent. What I didn't know at that point is how close I would be getting to the women. Or at least one woman- my very enthusiastic masseuse and scrubber Fatima.
I got the gist that it wasn't the Four Seasons when we asked for towels and after some rustling about were given two damp and obviously very used (unwashed. with hairs.) robes. The plastic shoes dropped in front of me also had a well loved vibe but were just used in transit from modest dressing room to the full on nakedness of the baths so I just went with it.
It is amazing how a simple cloth curtain between locker room and baths can be the determinate between embarrassed modesty and unabashed humanity. In a culture where women are traditionally dressed with all skin except hands and face under fabric, the locker room is a more drastic transition than say the Crunch gyms of New York where yoga instructors have 20 minute conversations in the buff.
Once in the baths, which is really just a series of big steamy shower rooms with spigots a couple of feet from the tiled floor, inhibitions cease and women spend much more time washing and shaving and exfoliating and luxuriating in the warm water than I ever have at home. Some are naked, some with provocatively lacy underwear, some fat, some model perfect. There is no judgment except for the askew glances at Sarah and myself that taper off as the novelty of foreigners dissipates.
The rooms are full of chatter and kids screaming and playing, kind of like an evening happy hour among girlfriends at the playground. Not that all the women are social. Some use their "spa" time to have a proper wash and reflection. Or just plain rest.
Once Fatima and her colleague were in agreement about duties for Sarah and I she donned a black mesh mitt began a series of aggressive scrubs to my arm. I hadn't signed up for a "gomage" (scrubdown) but the look on her face (obviously practiced to score another 50 diram- about eight bucks) had me caving instantly. Yes I could see the thin rolls of gray skin (mine) on her mitt. Yes I could see the look of disgust on her face. No the scrubbing actually didn't hurt that much. "OK, go for it" I motioned.
She smiled and took over my body.
The water was warm and pleasant as she doused my head, chest, arms, legs, sliding her hands over my now damp skin. I felt like a four year old in the bathtub. Only there was no bath tub just a slippery tiled floor and the lady scrubbing and dousing my body was doing so for 50 diram not for the sake of my hygiene.
She motioned for me to lay my cheek on her upper thigh. I giggled and schooched my mostly naked self down on the plastic mat pooling with warm soapy water. My blushing face on her damp skin she grabbed my arm and pulled it over my head. She yanked my underwear down past my hips so she could scrub from armpit to fading bikini tan lines. I looked around the steamy room wondering if anyone else thought the scene was as amusing as I did.
Embarrassment transformed into a relaxed hilarity. I actually wished someone was watching what I was going through because I thought it was open-mouthed gaffaw-worthy, the kind where you run out of breath and start crying. But Sarah was consciously staring straight at the wall pouring bucket after bucket over her shoulders. She knew she was next.
I sunk into the floor and let Fatima maneuver me. It was nice to be out of control, out of my comfort zone, submitting my body to steam and soapy hands. When I could I looked, listened, soaked in the importance of this private feminine space. Before I knew it I was being shampooed and rinsed and dried and robed and escorted back into the bashfulness of the dressing room. My skin was smooth and tingling, my smile wide and mischievous as Sarah and I bounded down the stairs to the cobble stoned street and recounted our experiences.
It was just a bath full of women. Yet from then on I saw women in the street differently. Instead of seeing the conservativeness of the culture, I thought of the lacy undies and loud passionate discussions and naked freedom of the Moroccan women.
We're all naked underneath whether we wear a burka or a bikini. We're all women who talk and bathe and giggle and glow.
When my friend Sarah and I signed up for massages at a hamam (a traditional bathhouse) behind the medina walls in Meknes, Morocco, I wasn't sure what to expect. I like baths, I thought. I like massages. What the hell? We might even get a bit of insight into the social lives of Moroccon women since interaction on the streets of Fez and Meknes had been nearly non-existent. What I didn't know at that point is how close I would be getting to the women. Or at least one woman- my very enthusiastic masseuse and scrubber Fatima.
I got the gist that it wasn't the Four Seasons when we asked for towels and after some rustling about were given two damp and obviously very used (unwashed. with hairs.) robes. The plastic shoes dropped in front of me also had a well loved vibe but were just used in transit from modest dressing room to the full on nakedness of the baths so I just went with it.
It is amazing how a simple cloth curtain between locker room and baths can be the determinate between embarrassed modesty and unabashed humanity. In a culture where women are traditionally dressed with all skin except hands and face under fabric, the locker room is a more drastic transition than say the Crunch gyms of New York where yoga instructors have 20 minute conversations in the buff.
Once in the baths, which is really just a series of big steamy shower rooms with spigots a couple of feet from the tiled floor, inhibitions cease and women spend much more time washing and shaving and exfoliating and luxuriating in the warm water than I ever have at home. Some are naked, some with provocatively lacy underwear, some fat, some model perfect. There is no judgment except for the askew glances at Sarah and myself that taper off as the novelty of foreigners dissipates.
The rooms are full of chatter and kids screaming and playing, kind of like an evening happy hour among girlfriends at the playground. Not that all the women are social. Some use their "spa" time to have a proper wash and reflection. Or just plain rest.
Once Fatima and her colleague were in agreement about duties for Sarah and I she donned a black mesh mitt began a series of aggressive scrubs to my arm. I hadn't signed up for a "gomage" (scrubdown) but the look on her face (obviously practiced to score another 50 diram- about eight bucks) had me caving instantly. Yes I could see the thin rolls of gray skin (mine) on her mitt. Yes I could see the look of disgust on her face. No the scrubbing actually didn't hurt that much. "OK, go for it" I motioned.
She smiled and took over my body.
The water was warm and pleasant as she doused my head, chest, arms, legs, sliding her hands over my now damp skin. I felt like a four year old in the bathtub. Only there was no bath tub just a slippery tiled floor and the lady scrubbing and dousing my body was doing so for 50 diram not for the sake of my hygiene.
She motioned for me to lay my cheek on her upper thigh. I giggled and schooched my mostly naked self down on the plastic mat pooling with warm soapy water. My blushing face on her damp skin she grabbed my arm and pulled it over my head. She yanked my underwear down past my hips so she could scrub from armpit to fading bikini tan lines. I looked around the steamy room wondering if anyone else thought the scene was as amusing as I did.
Embarrassment transformed into a relaxed hilarity. I actually wished someone was watching what I was going through because I thought it was open-mouthed gaffaw-worthy, the kind where you run out of breath and start crying. But Sarah was consciously staring straight at the wall pouring bucket after bucket over her shoulders. She knew she was next.
I sunk into the floor and let Fatima maneuver me. It was nice to be out of control, out of my comfort zone, submitting my body to steam and soapy hands. When I could I looked, listened, soaked in the importance of this private feminine space. Before I knew it I was being shampooed and rinsed and dried and robed and escorted back into the bashfulness of the dressing room. My skin was smooth and tingling, my smile wide and mischievous as Sarah and I bounded down the stairs to the cobble stoned street and recounted our experiences.
It was just a bath full of women. Yet from then on I saw women in the street differently. Instead of seeing the conservativeness of the culture, I thought of the lacy undies and loud passionate discussions and naked freedom of the Moroccan women.
We're all naked underneath whether we wear a burka or a bikini. We're all women who talk and bathe and giggle and glow.
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