One of the few things I had actually taken note of when reading Marrakech guidebooks was the concept of the hammam, which is essentially an enormous sauna. An enormous and traditionally Moroccan sauna. The only thing more traditional may be that sheep head pita. And since I could not bring myself to chew on such a macabre sandwich, I choose to experience the hammam. Upon our arrival, prior to which of course Mike and I repeatedly got lost and had to get directions from the local police force, we were directed to change and hop into pairs of hammam flip-flops. Me, not trusting the non-existant security method of “cram your belongings into this frail wooden locker and push the door kind of shut,” sheltered my precious dirham in the pocket of my shorts. My, what a bad move.
I really cannot adequately describe the hammam experience, but I will try my best. I will say that it is one of life’s experiences which is meant to be normal and serious, but all you really want to do is laugh uproariously. While walking through the hammam (this one was quite large, with the tiled ceiling at least twenty feet high) I passed a gentleman wearing a black speedo, furiously scrubbing away at his crotch. This was the first of many moments where it was both difficult not to laugh while also saying, “What the shit is going on…”
Our faithful hammam guide filled a bucket of water and sloshed it on the floor, indicating where we were supposed to sit. Stay classy. At that, we were left alone, laying on our backs in a puddle of water in a very humid and cavernous room. I may not know much, but I know it is not good when your doctor friend says something like, “And this is where hepatitis comes from…” We had both purchased the illustrious massage package, a requirement given that if one is going to a traditional Moroccan hammam surely one must choose to receive the traditional massage as well! The drama built – mainly consisting of Mike wondering why he was laying on a scuzzy floor in Marrakech while I struggled not to laugh loudly in a chamber very conducive to echo – for about about twenty-five minutes or so. We had no idea what we had signed up for, but the very thin Moroccan gentleman clad only in a pair of gray briefs now advancing upon us was not necessarily a good sign.
Really, at this point I think the large and obvious language barrier was essential for the rest of the hammam experience. Had we been told what exactly the plan was it is possible that one or both of us may have fled. Mike was the first lucky victim – our skinny new friend motioned him to get up and move to the center of the large sauna room, and what happened next is what I will politely call “homo-erotic bathing.” I cannot tell you how absolutely hilarious it is to watch a friend endure this. Sadly, the comicality of the situation abruptly came to an end when a second, more portly gentleman arrived and pointed over to the same vicinity where Mike’s guy was giving him the business. It was with heavy heart that I made that fifteen foot walk of watery shame, laying down and preparing myself for the cold touch of a stranger’s sponge.
Don’t trust him.This sponge was actually more like an oven mitt wrapped in sandpaper. I suppose one could call it exfoliating, but that adjective escaped me when the scrubber guy told me to touch my freshly scrubbed torso so that I could feel the skin that he was filing off my body. The lone victory here was Mike’s expression; he was doggedly staring at the ceiling while his new friend’s posterior was positioned in an extreeeeeemely awkward position while scrubbing Mike’s foot. I would trade just about every picture from the rest of this Moroccan journey for one picture of the expression on Mike’s face at this moment. It was, without a doubt, priceless. I honestly began thinking about things like global warming and food shortages in order to avoid laughing. The only thing more awkward than enduring my current sponge-ing would be giggling while receiving it.
It was around this time that the massage portion of the morning started up for Mike. The worst thing, mind you, about all of this thus far is that I was second. I had to watch what they were doing to the guy, then wait my turn. It was like being chained together while standing in line to get punched in the face. You really don’t want it to happen but you have very little choice, plus if you are second you have to watch it happen first. Massages, one would expect, are meant to be relaxing. This one was apparently meant to be torturous. There were bones cracking, tendons aspiring to snap in half in order to escape the extreme stretching, twisting, and at one point the guy had his knee in Mike’s back somehow lifting him off the ground. I have no idea how this happened. But I did know I would have to go through it, too.
Go through it I did. And I’m not a limber individual. I think there may have been some mockery from my masseuse in regards to my inability to touch my toes, who had by now finished with Mike and was busy abusing me. I actually thought I may break a rib during the stretching routine, but I distracted myself by wondering what they were now doing to Mike, who had since been led out of the room after his beating was concluded. At least I was able to keep a sense of humor – there was one point which must have looked extremely ridiculous, when I was laying on my stomach with this diminutive Moroccan man crouching on me, somehow and simultaneously bending both my legs at the knee while yanking my neck back so my back was in a painful and (surely, at least to someone watching) amusing arch.
Finally my punishment ended, and I picked myself off the floor, following my tormentor into the next room. There I was reunited with Mike, who was not looking especially pleased. He was standing near a spigot and a bucket, which one of our hammam friends was filling with water. Soon enough the bucket was empty again, its contents dumped over Mike’s head. “It’s cold,” is pretty much all that was said. The bucket was filled again, and prompty emptied on Mike’s head, who this time was clenching his fists. “Colder,” were the words I heard next. Aaaaaaand, once, twice, thrice, there goes the water on the head again! This time there may have been some unprintables, as apparently this bucket of water was colder than the previous two. And you know what? They were! Once again I had to watch before the same exact process was administered to me. Yes, truly putting my paper dirhams in my pockets was an idea lacking in foresight.
Streets of Marrakech, post hammam.
By the time we left the hammam – by the way, I had to retrieve my Morocco guide book that I had stuffed in the locker from some guy sitting in the main room – the focus had shifted from the odd, yet very unique experience to tracking down a couple bikes with which we could use to bike through and around Marrakech. After finally finding them and biking around for a solid five or six hours – dodging traffic (video here!) and horses on the main roads, as well as crowds of people while riding kamikaze style through alleyways – this turned out to be one of the highlights of my trip. The whole city basically succumbed to cycling dominance, as Mike and I rode past palm trees and surly camels, by a mysterious parade, in the alleys of the old town and through the boulevards of the new city, even stopping long enough outside of a mosque to be asked to leave (although the kid that told us to get out also gave us the thumbs up after discovering we were Americans).
The last surprise of the day was that Mike got kicked out of the hostel room to make way for a girl and some guy she was traveling with, both of whom were teaching English in Barcelona. They were easily convinced to come upstairs to the beer embassy and smoke a hookah (tobacco!). Here’s another reason why it’s A) fun to stay at hostels, and B) truly, a small world: upon learning that Mike and I had been in the same fraternity during college, this guy, who we thought was from Poland, primly noted that his alma mater boasts the largest fraternity system in the USA. Well, anyone from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign knows that it holds that title – and sure enough, it just so happens that this guy went to school there. Odder still, he actually grew up in the town right next to Mike – now, you tell me that’s not a little crazy…
In retrospect, the hostel was kind of like the beer embassy of Marrakech – outside, those little cans of aluminum were not welcome, but here – within these hostel walls – a beer could rest comfortably in a cooler without fear, waiting for a friend in need of a drink.
To prepare for the great Moroccan adventure the next day we found it appropriate to drink a random 1664 and a six pack of Pelforth, a French beer that is named for “pel” – for pelican, and “forte” – for strong and whose brewery also makes Killian’s, an old favorite and the subject of one of the best songs by the underrated Lucky Boys Confusion. During the heavy bottle lifting we both crammed clothes into backpacks and debated Superdrag while rocking out to…wait for it…DragonForce! That’s right, Mike came through in the clutch and delivered me a CD containing two superb DragonForce songs, one titled “Through the Fire and Flames” and the other “Soldiers of the Wasteland!”
