Hammam Experience – last day Morocco

It is our last day in Tangiers – our travel day. We will fly on our 1/2 hour flight back to Seville, pick up the luggage that we stored with kind Rosa – where we will spend the night. Rosa has an Airbnb room in her house that we booked just for the night as we get in later this evening and will leave for Tavira, Portugal tomorrow morning.

So our last day is spent eating breakfast at the beautiful hotel buffet, walking the Medina, and resting in our room till we head to the airport.

I had booked ahead one last Moroccan experience for me- I decided to experience a hammam. Going to the hammam is a very important ritual in the Muslim culture: The bathing and cleansing is an integral part of a Muslim’s life, and water is considered sacred in Islam. I wasn’t brave enough to visit a public hammam although Majid assured me that I would be made welcome. So for 300 Dirham or close to 30 dollars, I booked a private hammam. I knew someone was going to wash me and I had never experienced that before so I was a little more than nervous to be honest, but here is how it went:

I was guided down into the spa by a gracious staff member who then handed me a robe, towel, slippers, and a key for a locker and a paper tube about the size of a cigar. I undressed, put my belongings in the locker, put on my robe and slippers and unwrapped the cigar. After studying it for a few moments – I knew it was either a small Covid mask or a very small paper loin cloth thongy type of thing. I decided on the latter and donned it.

A young gal came and got me and took me down into a totally marble room. It was hot and steamy and had a large marble tub at one end and a heated marble slab against the wall and numerous copper ornate pots and pails.

She took my robe and hung it up and indicated I was to sit on the marble slab. She spoke no English, and other than hello and thank you – I was very limited in Arabic, so we continued for the next 2 hours with smiles and pantomime. She removed her uniform (right there) and put on a small dress that at first puzzled me, but later I understood that she would get very wet in this process too. After I sat down she filled one of the large copper pails with water and threw it over me. Not quite ready for that, but it was nice and warm and smelled floral. She repeated that with three or four more pails and then ended with two over my head. The first one I wasn’t expecting and came up blubbering, but I was ready after that.

With her gestures I knew I was then to lay down on the slab and she soaped and massaged me with a black soap from stem to stern. I was so soapy that each move threatened to send me spinning ungraciously off the slippery slab. When she wanted to relocate me or roll me over, she just steered me the direction she needed me like a curling rock on newly pebbled ice. Then came much more hot water splashed down by the bucket-load, Okay – I thought – I’m clean – That’s a hammam.

Not so much. She indicated to lay back down and next comes the Ghassoul (pronounced Rassoul). This is a clay mask, originating from the Atlas Mountains in Morocco. Said to be rich in minerals , this clay has been used for centuries , in daily skin. and hair treatments. My entire body was scrubbed and masked and then again came rinsing with multiple pails of water.

Then came a mixture of salt and some fragrant oils. It smelled wonderful. With this mixture she did my face, ears, neck and so on to the toes. Once I was totally covered in this soapy oil she put on a pair of kese (rough gloves used for scrubbing) – almost like loofah and started scrubbing…and scrubbing … and scrubbing. Layer one of skin gone – soon layer two. It never hurt but bordered on it. No stone was left unturned. I have not been that clean ever, ever. When she was done scrubbing – came the pails of water – many many pails. I got to love the feeling of being doused with hot water.

Next she indicated for me to sit on a little stool in the middle of the room and she washed my hair, It helped that she was friendly and welcoming, almost motherly. As I sat with my eyes tightly shut, having my hair shampooed, in this warm, dark, room, I felt cosy and pampered. It was a very nice experience– not at all awkward or unpleasant. After a few pails of water, she then took a sprayer from the wall and rinsed my hair and face and indicated to open my mouth and pantomimed how to rinse and spit. We did that quite a few times. Lastly I stood and she sprayed me down for one last rinse and said – finished. It was great – I felt clean and comfortable, clean and respected- very, very clean. She handed me my robe and led me down the hall to what I expected would be my locker but we went the other direction into a room that looked very similar to a spa room in Canada with a massage table.

She indicated that I was to lay down and for the next 30 minutes I had a wonderful relaxation massage with oils that smelled like heaven. The term ‘full body massage’ usually means back, arms, legs, and a little on the tummy, but not in Morocco. Every inch of my body was massaged: between my toes; my neck, face and head; my chest, my bum, even my armpits! At the end of the massage, my skin felt like cashmere. I was then tucked into a lounge bed and delivered a pot of mint tea and a bowl of dried fruits and nuts.

And that, ladies and gentleman, was my hammam experience. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. Did the nudity and scrubbing make me uncomfortable? Maybe for the first 5 minutes. This is a culture where this is about cleanliness and I don’t think for one moment anyone worries much about age or body type. There are many variances between hammams – some more traditional and some more spa-like and I can only speak on my one very limited experience. My recommendation would be – if you are coming to this part of the world be sure to give yourself the gift of a hammam.

Just as an add on – when Abdul, (the man who drove us everywhere) took us to the airport tonight, I felt like we were saying good-bye to a friend. He held my hand to say good-bye and hugged Jim twice (women are treated more demurely) He couldn’t understand much English nor could we Arabic, but somehow we communicated and bonded over three days. In the words of one of my favs- Maya Angelou – “We are more alike my friends, than we are unalike”.