Near-naked at the reception desk: My awkward hammam experience
Stripping down at a reception desk is a first for me, as is being in a Blue City. I’m in Chefchaouen – an ancient Moroccan town famous for its buildings awash in shades of azure.
Some say the makeover occurred after WWII when Jews entered the Rif Mountains region, painting the town as a religious practice, the calming hue representing the sky and heaven. Others say the splash of colour brings the sea to the mountains. Or there’s the theory blue keeps the mosquitos away – perhaps Morocco’s version of Australia’s ‘Drop Bear’ tourist hoax. But if the latter is true, I demand depleting Dulux of its stocks and coating all the world’s walls in blue ASAP.
There are varying explanations for the blue colour of Chefchaouen’s buildings.Credit: iStock
Whatever the real reason, the iconic paint job brought me here. But after numerous hours getting lost in its extensive labyrinth of striking cobbled streets bathed in blue and taking countless photos destined to spam Instagram, it’s time to go beyond bold appearances. I want to experience Chefchaouen the local way – and what better way than to sweat it out with strangers in a hammam?
A Moroccan hammam – the local way
The cleansing ritual has been around for centuries, taking inspiration from Morocco’s former rulers, the Romans. Moroccan hammams consist of three chambers varying in humidity and heat – one cold, one warm and one hot. It’s a way of life for locals, engaging in something both social and purifying and usually conducted on a weekly basis. Traditional bathing experiences range from BYO kess (exfoliating glove) and soaps to luxurious all-inclusive with sexes kept separate, participating at designated times.
Hands-on experience: you need to let go of your self-consciousness at a hammam.Credit: Alamy
Far from seeking a plush experience with a hefty price tag, I opt to go to the no-frills neighbourhood hammam. I’ve barely done any research. All I know is what it will would roughly cost and that I need to bring some items – a towel, shampoos, soaps, and a glove – for someone to use on me. The sequence of it all would be a surprise; I hope it’s a case of ignorance is bliss.
The closest hammam, Meslouhi, is less than 10 minutes from my accommodation. However, it’s easy to get lost in the Medina (old town), with Google Maps struggling with narrow streets. An elderly Moroccan man notices my confused expression, looking back and forth at my phone, working out my whereabouts. He offers to help, and I follow him; a few twists and bends around the blues to arrive at the 1927-built hammam.
Ladies only
As it’s the ladies’ designated time slot, he cannot enter the underground venue. He talks loudly from the stairwell to the women inside the centre. I give a gesture of thanks and enter the reception.
An elderly woman lies on a blue wooden bench, and two women are behind the reception counter. All eyes are on me. I speak no Arabic, no French. They speak no English. I use expressive hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions. But they know what I want, she slides a tiny bit of paper across the empty desk with 100 dirhams ($A15) written on it – roughly the price I had expected for someone to wash my travel sins away.
I nod my head and agree. They all gesture for me to start stripping. I look around. What? Here at the reception desk? Saving space, this hammam’s reception area doubles up as a change room. During my moment of hesitation, a mother and toddler enter. She converses with the women, quickly strips off and disappears downstairs, her son in tow.
Ain’t nothing but a g-thing
Shaking off my fears, I begin my strip show at the reception desk. Silly me, not bringing my bathers. I feel self-conscious. I’m almost butt-naked in the Blue City. Under my towel is a barely-there thong. I imagine it’s a rare sight within these walls.
The elderly lady sees I’m ready and gets off the bench to pass me her size-five pink slippers adorned with cartoon cats to use. Cute. I thank her and follow her younger colleague – also in a towel with a bucket in tow – to the bathhouse.
She gestures to me to hang my towel and leave the slippers, appearing nonchalant about removing her towel and exposing her pineapple-shaped breasts. I follow her to the final chamber, already occupied with the mother and son fortified by buckets beside a fountain.
My bathing maid gestures for me to sit on the paper-thin blue foam mattress on the tiled floor. I sit cross-legged like a curious kid in class, analysing her every movement. One by one, she surrounds my near-naked body with buckets of water. I have no idea what to expect, just that the cleansing session is about to begin.
She passes me over a sachet of black soap – a Moroccan speciality made of olive oil, olives and argan oil – and motions for me to rub it all over my body. I lather myself swiftly. The glove then comes on, and she starts rubbing my limbs. She looks down at the dead skin flakes departing my body, nods and smiles. As she vigorously scrubs, she continues chatting with the young mother. (Is it rude for me to look at her naked torso while she bathes me?)
It’s time to polish the limbs. She yanks my right arm towards her, accidentally making me fist-pump her saggy breast with every scrub (Sorry?). I smile at her, and she smiles back. All is forgiven in her brown eyes.
She indicates I should lie on my back, my hands behind my head on the mat. I feel so awkward. She moves her gloved hand up and down my torso across my breasts. Nothing is sensual about it. Her glove then goes under the strap of my thong (Oh hello!). The side of my bare butt is tapped a few times, indicating to turn around. My hot, steamy buns now receive the same treatment. More cheeky pats follow, gesturing me to sit back up.
Countless buckets of warm water are poured over my body. A shampoo rinse of the hair follows, and then I am done. It’s all over within an hour. Feeling refreshed, I hastily get changed in reception, thank the ladies, and depart.
No doubt this was an authentic cultural immersion – but not one for Instagram.
You can catch a bus from Fes to Chefchaouen. The journey takes about four hours. Book via ctm.ma
The writer travelled as a guest of Intrepid Travel.
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