Experiencing the cleansing ritual of a Hammam in Morocco is considered essential for any visitor; generally as a pampered hour or two in a hotel spa with sweet smelling oils. Of course for Moroccans, and across North Africa and the Middle Eastern world, it is ingrained in Islamic culture. Ever since Mohammed became a keen advocate of the steamy bathhouse many centuries ago, a regular visit to the Hammam has become an indispensible part of the social fabric of life here.

Bearing this fact in mind and adapting the old saying of ‘when in Rome…’, two friends and I left the comfort of a rather elegant and boho Riad one afternoon, armed with an excellent idea and couple of bath towels. Our host had suggested a public hammam across the street. “If you want to experience the real thing, then this is as real as it gets”, he said. I should have recognized the sardonically raised French eyebrow as a sign.

(I don’t think I can possibly condense this into a short blog post, so please be pre-warned that this may exceed the parameters of blog etiquette.)

A large, flapping, plastic sheet shielded the entrance from the early evening street activity, and after checking for the all important femmes sign and hesitating for a long moment, we sidled in. A long corridor led to a pile of clothes and a slightly astonished-looking, ancient lady of the Hammam, wearing only a wet t-shirt. Let’s face it, 3 western girls clutching white fluffy bath towels and wearing terrified expressions, was probably an equally odd sight from her perspective.

After stripping in the corridor and donning the tired looking flip-flops we had been presented with, we followed our guide and her naked buttocks through a dripping, concrete cavern into a dripping, steamy, marble cavern. Unceremoniously instructed to lose the towels, we flung them over a rusty pipe, and watched open-mouthed as she changed out of her large wet t-shirt and into an equally large pair of wet knickers. We shut our mouths pretty swiftly as she threw a bucket of hot water at us. And then another and then another.  Sitting like a huddle of sorrowful wet cats on the marble floor, we dutifully took the globs of traditional savon noir and soaped ourselves thoroughly. L was taken in hand by our stern lady in the large pants, who was now wielding the coarse mitt that is used to slough the dead skin from the body. K and I looked on in convulsive fits of giggles at the sight of the woman’s pendulous breasts rhythmically slapping L’s head with each long sweep of the mitt.

The giggles turned ever so slightly hysterical when I found myself flat on my back on the slippery  floor, being subjected to the cheese grater feel of the mitt attached to the hand of another wet-knicker-clad lady who had appeared out of the steam. I tried very hard not to think about the mitt and how many people’s dead skin it had exfoliated in recent days. When she prodded me to lie on my stomach I was brought up short by the problem of what to do with my head. I’m not especially squeamish, but the thought of the mitt and its recent use had pushed me to my limits. I just didn’t want to rest my face on the floor of questionable cleanliness. My masseuse had clearly run into this quandary before and helpfully offered me one of the discarded manky flip-flops to place under my cheek. Seeing my look of horror, K rescued me by lending me her hands to act as my pillow. I can’t say it was the most relaxing massage I’ve ever had.

The traditional Hammam gives, particularly women sheltered by stricter Islamic codes, the chance to socialize outside the home, gossip with friends and can even provide the opportunity to check out potential brides for their sons. I don’t think we were taken into consideration that day. We probably unwittingly committed numerous faux pas, but we did come out with incredibly smooth and glowing skin the knowledge that we had taken a brief, but very real, glimpse behind the Islamic veil.

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