Kitesurfing and Hammam.... this is the life

August 8

I've finally struck gold with the winds- the past few days have been fantastic and I've spent nearly all my time out in the water here in Essaouira. The wind is gusty, but it's wind all the same. More difficult conditions make for a more versatile kiter... so although it can be incredibly frustrating, I'm having an awesome time.


The instructors are new to Essaouira themselves, two of them having arrived only a week ago. One is French, having grown up in Paris and spent his early adult years in Guadaloupe, the French island in the Caribbean, another is Swiss, and the third is a born and bred Moroccan. The two foreigners have spent the past ten months traveling the world while teaching kite surfing- bouncing from school to school in places like Vietnam, Egypt, and Spain, with plans to head to the Maldives next. It's a breeze to find work as an instructor, which is only adding to the appeal of earning my instructor's certification so that I can travel and kite for more than just a holiday. A group of us 'students' and the instructors went out for drinks the other night- not an easy feat in this very Muslim city. To avoid being socially awkward, I've been forced to use my French more than I ever would have imagined, but it's becoming easier with each day.

My lessons have been in a mix of French and English, but since English is the language of kitesurfing, most of the terminology for the more technically-advanced stuff is the same in French and English. Didier, the Caribbean instructor, asked me for some help translating a cover letter for an application to his next kiteschool in the Maldives. He speaks English fairly fluently, but as with any language, the written word is a whole new ball game. I gladly offered to help, and met him yesterday afternoon after a solid day on the water. I almost had fun putting together the letter for him, my endless hours of cover-letter writing in this past school year coming back to me like it was yesterday. Issa, my Swiss instructor was heading to a Hammam for her first experience in the traditional Moroccan public bath, and offered for me to join her. I had thought of visiting a Hammam on my own, but had no idea where to start, so I jumped at the opportunity to go with someone I knew. Not only that, but Didier offered to pay for my trip to the Hammam as a thanks for my translating services.

Issa and I were to be taken to the Hammam by a local, the girlfriend of the Moroccan instructor, who we met under one of the massive arched entrances to the medina. We trailed behind her as we weaved through the narrow streets, eventually stopping at a big wodden door painted a rich royal blue. She led us in to her home, where I was introduced to her mom, sister, and aunt, a chatty blonde visiting from France for 10 days. The four of us gathered our things- including the Hammam "equipment"we would need- four large buckets, and a goodie-basket of other tools I would soon see put to use.

A short walk around the corner left us standing at the entrance to the subtly-marked 'Paps Hammam,' with a sign directly underneath saying, "No visitors." Issa and I looked at each other with worried glances- we were clearly visitors. I suppose we were an exception to the rule as we were soon welcomed by a tiny Moroccan woman in a dark djelaba, who we followed into the dimly-lit, mosaic-tiled hallways.

The humidity poured into the tiny foyer, as the tiles became slippery in the wet heat. We were herded into a long narrow room lined with benches, lit with a traditional Moroccan fixture glowing in the corner. The other three girls were nattering away in French, as I strained to hear and understand their conversation- waiting for a cue as to what to do next. To my left were two middle-aged women, sitting topless, wrapped in colourful towels each with an expression of true relaxation. Were they waiting their turn? Had they already gone 'in'? At this point I realized how little I knew about what I was about to do... Was I in the Hammam? I had heard talk of some sort of massage, and I knew of a paste that was used. When did these things come into play?

Issa and I followed the cue of the other two experienced Hammam-ers, and began undressing. But how many layers? Does it all come off under the towel? Are there do's and dont's of Hammam-ing?

Oh man. I couldn't let this famously relaxing exprience become stressful because I was worried about doing the 'wrong' thing, so I did my best to shake my look of confusion and general disarray and got on with it.

Our eight bare breasts made their way through another heavy, medieval-looking wooden door, nearly six inches thick. The air was heavy and moist with a warm glow from the candelabras lining the walls as we shuffled down the slippery hallway. The entire interior was mosaic tiles, with inset arches providing bench seating every ten feet. Women of all ages were scattered about, each at different stages of the Hammam process, some wearing tiny black undies and others strutting confidently in sopping wet granny-panties halfway up the torso. It was like the YMCA back home, only it wasn't just the old ladies who were comfortable being half-naked, every woman in the room was completely at ease- tall, short, fat and skinny. What a shocking change from the strict dress code Moroccan women adhere to when in public.

Since hot water is still a bit of a rare commodity in Morocco, we fill our various buckets from a communal hot water basin, adding the occassional bucket of cool water to avoid scalding ourselves. We slide the heavy buckets over to the inset bench where we had left our towels, and began pouring the wonderfully warm water over ourselves. The hot water and steam quickly brought the body temperature up, providing a deep cleaning of the pores as we began to sweat in the heat. A woman approached, handing each of us a black glove without saying a word. Hm. What was I supposed to do with it? The acoustics of a Hammam aren't great, so although the local girl provided an explanation, I didn't hear a word she said and just smiled and nodded. I suppose being half-naked left me feeling unsure of my French, and unable to spit out, "I didn't quite hear you." So I just continued to followed her cue.... which was working just fine, but I knew that by the end of the visit, she might end up a bit suspiscious of my repeated glances in her direction.

Hammam lady No.1, in nothing but a gigantic pair of hanes-her-way undies, came over with a small tub of an aromatic green putty, and began slathering us, one at a time, in the oily pommade-like gunk. Was this the massage? I didn't know what it was for, or why I was being coated in it. I managed to catch that it was some sort of 'peeling agent,' aiding in the exfoliation process.

We relaxed in the steamy room, as the musky scent of the pommade wafted in the air.
I glanced to my right to catch the eye of a tiny woman in a full smock, greying hair tied back, as her outstretched arm swong around to point to me. Hammam lady No.2 was summoning me for the next step of the process. I carefully got up from my place on the tile bench and slid through the thin film of hot water on the floor, making my way to another room down the hall. It was immediately apparent that the Hammam ladies spoke only very basic French, so I relied on her pointing and dramatic arm motions to describe what she needed me to do. I laid back on another tile bench as she put on the black glove before ravaging my skin with the roughest exfoliating process I've ever experienced. It felt like 60 grit sandpaper being rubbed all over my body. I eventually became numb to the feeling and was almost able to relax. I went into the Hammam with a fairly deep brown from my days of kiting on the beach, and left looking close to the colour of a Brit in winter.

Once I had my full-body exfoliation, I was directed back to Hammam lady No.1, where I layed down on a rubber mat in the middle of the tiles and was massaged head to toe- coated again in the green gunk. The steam felt wonderful, enabling complete muscle relaxation as I mmm'd and ahhh'd.

The last step was the actual bathing part- where the local girl generously provided us with delicious-smelling soaps and conditioners. Using scoops of water from the buckets we filled, I soaped off the green gunk and sudsed up my hair. A final rinse with a bucket of cool water left me feeling relaxed and refreshed.

I was shocked to discover an hour and a half had already passed as we shuffled back out to the changing area. We dried off and layered up, preparing for the chill of the cool night air after an incredibly relaxing and exotic experience in the steamy Hammam- all for only $12.