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.
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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.
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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 viactm.ma
The writer travelled as a guest ofIntrepid Travel.