The hammam is a traditional Moroccan public bath, whose roots started with the Roman baths of 2000 years ago. Back when people didn’t have private showers in their homes but cleanliness was still a desirable state, public bath houses became the norm, as a place to both get clean as well as to meet friends and socialize. While most houses in Morocco now have indoor plumbing and hot water heaters, the hammam is still a traditional experience that’s generally high on the internet’s “must do while in Morocco” lists. So, with some hesitation, I decided to give it a shot. The last time I bathed in front of other guys was after gym class in high school. Presumably this would be less awkward.
Before venturing to the hammam, I read a brief article on what to expect, so I had half an idea of what would happen. I would be invited to strip down to my underwear, then I would be bathed and scrubbed from head to toe for about 45 minutes. After a brief soak in a pool, I would get a 45 minute massage. All in all, it didn’t sound like a bad time, so I signed up and went. The interior decorations of the lobby of the hammam were a mix of traditional Moroccan, with a big open courtyard in the middle of the building and colorful tapestries on the wall, and western, with comfortable chairs and tables. The hostess introduced herself and gave me a quick rundown of what to expect, which lined up well with what I had read. She then walked me to the changing room and left, shutting the door behind her. I took off all but my underwear and put them in a locker. The hooded robe that was provided was heavy and had clearly been through the wash a few hundred times before today. The slippers were plastic and rubber, reminding me of knockoff Crocs, and not in a good way. I left the changing room and was soon guided to the hammam room itself.
The room was roughly 25 feet long by 15 feet wide, with poured concrete walls and a poured concrete bench that had been sanded and treated to be as smooth as marble. To the side of the door was a large basin full of water with a running faucet above it. The room gave off a vibe that suggested it would be suitable for informal business discussions, much like a sauna. If you search for images of a hammam, you’ll find some very impressive buildings. The one I went to was nothing like them. The one I went to was less “luxury spa” and more “cold war Poland”.
The matronly woman who was waiting for me took my robe and hung it on a hook behind the door. She then spoke to me in quick Arabic (I’ve been told several times over the past few days that I look Moroccan, and this isn’t the first time that I’ve been greeted in Arabic). Met with my blank stare, she switched to French (Morocco was a French protectorate until 1956, and French is still widely used). I sheepishly grinned and said, “Uh… English?” She smiled and said, “Sit” and pointed to the bench. When I did, she dipped a bowl into the basin and poured warm water onto my knees, letting it wash down my legs. Then she poured more water onto my thighs, and I noticed that my underwear was getting wet. Before I could process that, she then started dumping bowls of water on my chest and head and I realized that there was no hope in leaving with dry underwear. After a quick soaking, she said, “Face down” and pointed to the bench. I laid down with my forehead on a small pillow, and I noticed that the bench and the walls were heated. She quickly spread some kind of cream on my legs and back, told me to flip over, and repeated the process. She said something in French or Arabic and left the room for several minutes. When she came back, she had me sit up and she rinsed me again, having me stand up and turn around so she could wash my back. Then she had me lay face down again as slathered some more stuff on my legs and back, a quick flip, and she repeated with my front. She left again for several minutes, and I started to realize that the room was quite warm and that I was sweating, wishing that I had some water to drink. She returned and rinsed me off again and quickly shampooed my hair and rinsed it. Again she said something in French that I didn’t quite catch. She opened a small plastic package that contained a blue scrubbing mitt, and she started scrubbing my legs. I could see layers of dead skin and dirt coming off with the mitt, some staying on my body, some falling to the floor. As she continued, more and more dead skin (I think she may have taken a living layer or two off as well) flew around the room, landing on the bench, the floor, and elsewhere on my body. (I will say that, given how much dead skin came off, I’m starting to question the effectiveness of my shower routine. I may need to invest in one of those mitts. And a pressure washer, apparently.) Eventually satisfied that she had successfully removed all the grime that had built up on my body since the Reagan era, she rinsed me off again. She had me stand up and again used the bowl to dump water all over my body, washing the dirt and debris from my body. While I was facing away from her, I felt her grab the waistband of my underwear and pull it away from my body. While I was trying to figure out what she was doing and wondering if she had a new plan for the scrubbing mitt, she dumped a bowl of water down my shorts and put the waistband back in place. It wasn’t an altogether bad feeling. She had me turn to face her and washed my chest and face, and, just as quickly, pulled the waistband of my shorts and dumped another bowl of water down the front. I’ll just say that the front felt better than the back and leave it at that. After getting all of the detritus off of my body, she had me stand up, and she helped me put my robe back on, tying it tightly in front, and putting the hood up over my head.
She escorted me to the co-ed pool where I disrobed again, and stepped in to lay on the bench for a few minutes, enjoying the feel of the cool water around my body with just my head above the surface. I was still in just my underwear, but the ladies that were in the pool appeared to be in theirs as well. I did them the courtesy of keeping my eyes closed while I lounged and as they entered and exited the pool. (I’m not sure if they did the same, since my body glistening as it emerges from the pool is a sight to see, but I won’t blame them for looking if they did.) In short order, I was summoned from the pool and, as I stepped out, another woman helped me with my robe, again cinching it tight and pulling up the hood. I was walked to the massage room, which was unfortunately on the other side of the main lobby. As I walked past the people waiting for their appointments, in their dry underwear and with all of their skin still intact, I may have felt a twinge of envy. Dry shorts are one of God’s gifts to humankind and should not be taken lightly. I entered the massage room where I was again helped off with my robe and treated to an enjoyable massage with argan oil.
Quick side note: Argan oil is made from the argan nut, native to Morocco. While people have attempted to grow argan in other countries, it has yet to be successful, so all argan oil is from Moroccan nuts. There are two types of argan oil- one for cosmetic purposes and one for cooking. They’re both refined in very similar ways, so the only major problem you’d have if you got them mixed up is that your dinner would look beautiful and you’d smell good enough to eat.
The massage itself was very similar to a Swedish massage, with long flowing strokes, so I don’t know if they developed similar techniques independently or one appropriated the other, but it was very enjoyable. When it was finished, I was, yet again, helped on with my robe and shown to a lounge where I relaxed with a cup of Moroccan mint tea, and some biscuits. After several minutes of that, I was sent back to the changing room. Over the course of the 45 minute massage, my underwear had almost dried. Almost. So now I was left with a dilemma- Do I leave doing the walk of shame with my wet underwear in my pocket, or do I wear the cold and clammy underwear under my pants, hoping that the combination of my body heat and the Moroccan heat would dry them out? While it’s not exactly Sophie’s Choice, it was still the toughest decision I’d had to make all day. (Just so you don’t stress too much about the result, I decided to wear them and hope that the heat did the trick, which it eventually did). A few minutes later, I stepped out of the doors with wet underwear and oily skin, 2 hours after my appointment started, feeling thoroughly refreshed and relaxed, and only $60 poorer for the experience.
I can’t imagine that going to the hammam daily would be good for your skin, but the overall experience was quite enjoyable. I haven’t seen any hammams in the US other than one in Miami, but I don’t know if it’s just a lack of knowledge about the process or if we don’t take the time to relax and get pampered for two hours. Either way, if you have the time, it’s certainly an interesting and enjoyable experience. Just make sure you pack extra underwear.
