August 11-15
My arrival in London presented one final opportunity to flex my adventure muscles and find my way to Margot's London abode via public transit. Arriving at her door stop a mere 45 minutes after leaving the airport, I was slightly disappointed with the ease of the transfer. The cost, on the other hand, was a struggle.
Nestled in the corner of a beautiful Notting Hill neighbourhood, Margot's nannying home couldn't have been a more comfortable place to ease myself back into first world luxuries. Actually, it was beyond first world luxuries- we were traipsing in the zeroeth world. And so we spent the next three days in London accordingly- lazy mornings watching olympic highlights, followed by strolls in the park and top-notch shopping, with meals spent enjoying some of the city's best restaurants (which were chosen with the help of a handy guidebook found in the home's well-stocked library and Margot's beloved laminated pocket map).
London did live up to it's rainy reputation, but that didn't stop Margot and I from plunging into a decadent vacation mindset, all while catching up on lost time.
We stretched my last night in London into the early hours of the morning and enjoyed the company of a chatty cab driver on the way home, who had a lot to say about the short time he spent in a Newfoundland airport, after running out of fuel on a flight from Chicago to London.
Fortunately my flight home was a lot smoother- as smooth as bubbly champagne, French pate, juicy lamb chops, stilton and a soft and sweet port.... all the luxuries enjoyed by those who take up the spacious individual cocoons, with fully-reclining chairs (or rather seats that transform into a bed with the touch of a button) at the front of the plane. That's right- I was bumped up to first class. The view from the window next to the toilet in the generously-sized first class bathroom made even the most awkward and uncomfortable part of flying a pleasant experience.
My thrilling adventure in Africa had a rather anticlimatic ending as I made my way to the ground transportation desk, where I met the Red Car driver who returned me, all limbs attached, to an empty home at 8 Valleyridge Trail.
But that was fine by me, as I tossed my pack, sat down at the computer and began googling the hiking trails, seaside winds, and exotic foods of the countries that top the list for my next romp with the world, 365 days away and counting.
Essaouira to Casablanca
August 9-13
I had more great kiting since my last post, with winds getting up to over 20knots. This not only meant smoother sailing, but the fiercely blowing sand had scared off the herds of people who had been crowding the beach. Joining me out on the water was Julien, a 23 year old Swiss traveling solo on a ten day holiday. We were at about the same level, and while I taught him English kiting lingo, he was responsible for teaching me the French equivalent when it existed. After another great day on the water, Julien and I agreed to meet for dinner. He was looking to try the classic tagine, or visit the fish market, while vivid memories of my recent experience with Moroccan tummy left me slightly apprehensive to try either. Despite my hesitation, I agreed to give a traditional Moroccan restaurant in the heart of the medina a chance. We were shown into a large back room, lined with banquet seats covered in flashy Moroccan pillows, dimly lit with beautiful iron and stained glass fixtures. The meal was a pleasant surprise, and I enjoyed a cool cucumber salad to start, followed by tasty couscous with chicken and vegetables (which included a thorough inspection of the chicken to ensure there wasn't a tinge of pink to be seen), with a creamy house yoghurt for dessert. We laughed about some of our more lonesome experiences while kitesurfing, with faulty equipment causing a kite to deflate, leaving you floating helplessly over a kilometer from shore. We compared self-rescue tactics while raving about the kites we liked the most- and which we wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. By 11:30pm we had finished the last sips of our mint tea, and Julien had begun to look a bit anxious, checking his watch while peering around the corner of the archway next to us, trying to catch the waiter's attention. I was curious as to why he seemed so suddenly urgent to leave, and was nearly laughing on the floor when I found out why. No, it wasn't a sudden need to get to the bathroom, but instead it was a rush to return to his hotel... before he got locked out again.
"Again?" I asked.
Julien had returned to his hotel one evening to discover that the place was locked up at midnight, leaving him to spend one of his first nights in Morocco sleeping on the steps with the stray cats. Minor piece of information they forgot to include at check in.... And based on my experiences with the Moroccans and their attempts to scam every dirham out of you, it wouldn't surprise me if they made him pay for that night he spent in the comfort and safety of the city's streets.
I returned home that evening with a full stomach for the first time in days, yet to feel any suspicious rumbling.
The next day we took a late lunch break from kiting to grab some schwarmas from a beach-front shop. A few people in the group had eaten there before with no reports of stomach problems, so considering my previous night's success, I decided to take the plunge and try another cooked meal.
Back on the beach, and no more than 30 minutes later, I knew I had pushed my luck. It was either some seriously bad schwarma (although it tasted delicious) or something from the night before, but the Moroccan tummy was back with a vengance. I resumed my course of antibiotics, and that schwarma was the end of my local food experiences- for good. I was back at the cutting board, purel in hand, slicing and dicing my fruit salad.
My time in Essaouira wrapped up soon after, and I caught the bus to Casablanca on August 10th. The smells and dirt and total lack of organization (queues, restaurants, transportation- you name it, all were painfully disorganized and hectic) that I had been cursing throughout much of my travels were becoming fond memories.
In all of Africa, I had yet to take a bus, matatu, airplane, boat, taxi, or train, where I wasn't offered some of my neighbour's food or drink, animals weren't blocking a part of the voyage, and some funky smell wasn't lingered in the air. My bus ride to Casa was no exception, as my neighbour, a soft-spoken, young male nurse returning to his home city of Casa after a weekend holiday, offered me the first sip of his yoghurt drink, which I politely declined. He watched me curiously, as I scribbled away in my journal, making notes about the when and where of my past few days. He tapped my arm, and reached for my pen, asking if he could show me "un petit truc." I passed over the paper, which he flipped and unfolded to find a blank space.
Oh great, I thought, he was going to give me his email or phone number, and insist that I call him when in Casablanca. That or he was just being friendly, and he was going to show me how to make a house with an x through it, without lifting my pen off the paper.
To my surprise it was neither. In fact I wasn't entirely sure what it was, even as he handed back the paper.
In a perfectly serious voice, he says: "It's my autograph."
I looked at him dumbly, before snapping out of my small state of shock to thank him (I wasn't entirely sure if that's what the situation called for... but I figured it could do no harm) as I tucked away the paper.
'Ha!' I thought... should I be expecting to see him on television in the near future? Or was that just his attempt at making himself memorable? If the latter was the case, then I suppose it worked.
I arrived into the bustling Casablanca bus station that evening, where I noticed a young Dutch couple, hovered over a Lonely Planet for Morocco. I couldn't hear them, but the English copy of the ever-popular travel bible was a refreshing sight to see. It had been nearly 2 weeks since I had bumped into English-speaking travelers. As I collected my bag, the couple approached me, asking if I had made a reservation for accommodation somewhere. Pasting the Canadian flag to my bag proved to be a wise choice- a clear marker of a traveler being friendly (for the most part) and english speaking. They opted to share a cab with me toward the hotel with which I had made a reservation, hoping to find another one nearby that might have vacancies. The friendly petit-taxi driver sent us walking- he was nice enough to let us know that the hotel was a mere two blocks away. Lonely planet in hand, cracked open to the detailed map of Casa, we headed off into the streets, sleeping bags and hiking boots dangling from our worn packs. As we rounded the first corner we caught up to a group of three Australian girls, the mirror image of myself and the Dutch couple- with a lonely planet map open to the same page and three big bags in tow. The six of us were headed for the same destination, so we collaborated our efforts and paused to re-orient ourselves, even though we'd only taken one turn. We resumed in the same direction, but found ourselves struggling to find any street signs or markers- making both copies of the map virtually useless. Eager to get to the comfort of a bed, where ever it was, I didn't hesitate to start asking the odd person we were passing in the street. After 20 minutes of map-checking and talking to other pedestrians, we managed to locate Hotel Gallia, nestled along an unmarked tiny sidestreet.
I tossed and turned before falling asleep, knowing it was my last night in Africa.... at least for now. I was bursting with excitement to see Margot in London, and for the first time in my trip, I didn't have the sense of unknown of what was to come, as exhilerating as it had been.
After a taxi, train, and shuttle, I made it to the Casablanca airport to discover that my flight time had been changed- leaving an hour later. So when the printout says to 'call 24hrs in advance to confirm flight time,' it's actually advisable to do so.
I boarded the plane and watched the ground disappear below me as we took off. It was difficult to leave Africa, absolutely... but I know it won't be long before I find myself back on the extraordinary continent that has been my solo-travel playground for the past 2.5months.
I had more great kiting since my last post, with winds getting up to over 20knots. This not only meant smoother sailing, but the fiercely blowing sand had scared off the herds of people who had been crowding the beach. Joining me out on the water was Julien, a 23 year old Swiss traveling solo on a ten day holiday. We were at about the same level, and while I taught him English kiting lingo, he was responsible for teaching me the French equivalent when it existed. After another great day on the water, Julien and I agreed to meet for dinner. He was looking to try the classic tagine, or visit the fish market, while vivid memories of my recent experience with Moroccan tummy left me slightly apprehensive to try either. Despite my hesitation, I agreed to give a traditional Moroccan restaurant in the heart of the medina a chance. We were shown into a large back room, lined with banquet seats covered in flashy Moroccan pillows, dimly lit with beautiful iron and stained glass fixtures. The meal was a pleasant surprise, and I enjoyed a cool cucumber salad to start, followed by tasty couscous with chicken and vegetables (which included a thorough inspection of the chicken to ensure there wasn't a tinge of pink to be seen), with a creamy house yoghurt for dessert. We laughed about some of our more lonesome experiences while kitesurfing, with faulty equipment causing a kite to deflate, leaving you floating helplessly over a kilometer from shore. We compared self-rescue tactics while raving about the kites we liked the most- and which we wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. By 11:30pm we had finished the last sips of our mint tea, and Julien had begun to look a bit anxious, checking his watch while peering around the corner of the archway next to us, trying to catch the waiter's attention. I was curious as to why he seemed so suddenly urgent to leave, and was nearly laughing on the floor when I found out why. No, it wasn't a sudden need to get to the bathroom, but instead it was a rush to return to his hotel... before he got locked out again.
"Again?" I asked.
Julien had returned to his hotel one evening to discover that the place was locked up at midnight, leaving him to spend one of his first nights in Morocco sleeping on the steps with the stray cats. Minor piece of information they forgot to include at check in.... And based on my experiences with the Moroccans and their attempts to scam every dirham out of you, it wouldn't surprise me if they made him pay for that night he spent in the comfort and safety of the city's streets.
I returned home that evening with a full stomach for the first time in days, yet to feel any suspicious rumbling.
The next day we took a late lunch break from kiting to grab some schwarmas from a beach-front shop. A few people in the group had eaten there before with no reports of stomach problems, so considering my previous night's success, I decided to take the plunge and try another cooked meal.
Back on the beach, and no more than 30 minutes later, I knew I had pushed my luck. It was either some seriously bad schwarma (although it tasted delicious) or something from the night before, but the Moroccan tummy was back with a vengance. I resumed my course of antibiotics, and that schwarma was the end of my local food experiences- for good. I was back at the cutting board, purel in hand, slicing and dicing my fruit salad.
My time in Essaouira wrapped up soon after, and I caught the bus to Casablanca on August 10th. The smells and dirt and total lack of organization (queues, restaurants, transportation- you name it, all were painfully disorganized and hectic) that I had been cursing throughout much of my travels were becoming fond memories.
In all of Africa, I had yet to take a bus, matatu, airplane, boat, taxi, or train, where I wasn't offered some of my neighbour's food or drink, animals weren't blocking a part of the voyage, and some funky smell wasn't lingered in the air. My bus ride to Casa was no exception, as my neighbour, a soft-spoken, young male nurse returning to his home city of Casa after a weekend holiday, offered me the first sip of his yoghurt drink, which I politely declined. He watched me curiously, as I scribbled away in my journal, making notes about the when and where of my past few days. He tapped my arm, and reached for my pen, asking if he could show me "un petit truc." I passed over the paper, which he flipped and unfolded to find a blank space.
Oh great, I thought, he was going to give me his email or phone number, and insist that I call him when in Casablanca. That or he was just being friendly, and he was going to show me how to make a house with an x through it, without lifting my pen off the paper.
To my surprise it was neither. In fact I wasn't entirely sure what it was, even as he handed back the paper.
In a perfectly serious voice, he says: "It's my autograph."
I looked at him dumbly, before snapping out of my small state of shock to thank him (I wasn't entirely sure if that's what the situation called for... but I figured it could do no harm) as I tucked away the paper.
'Ha!' I thought... should I be expecting to see him on television in the near future? Or was that just his attempt at making himself memorable? If the latter was the case, then I suppose it worked.
I arrived into the bustling Casablanca bus station that evening, where I noticed a young Dutch couple, hovered over a Lonely Planet for Morocco. I couldn't hear them, but the English copy of the ever-popular travel bible was a refreshing sight to see. It had been nearly 2 weeks since I had bumped into English-speaking travelers. As I collected my bag, the couple approached me, asking if I had made a reservation for accommodation somewhere. Pasting the Canadian flag to my bag proved to be a wise choice- a clear marker of a traveler being friendly (for the most part) and english speaking. They opted to share a cab with me toward the hotel with which I had made a reservation, hoping to find another one nearby that might have vacancies. The friendly petit-taxi driver sent us walking- he was nice enough to let us know that the hotel was a mere two blocks away. Lonely planet in hand, cracked open to the detailed map of Casa, we headed off into the streets, sleeping bags and hiking boots dangling from our worn packs. As we rounded the first corner we caught up to a group of three Australian girls, the mirror image of myself and the Dutch couple- with a lonely planet map open to the same page and three big bags in tow. The six of us were headed for the same destination, so we collaborated our efforts and paused to re-orient ourselves, even though we'd only taken one turn. We resumed in the same direction, but found ourselves struggling to find any street signs or markers- making both copies of the map virtually useless. Eager to get to the comfort of a bed, where ever it was, I didn't hesitate to start asking the odd person we were passing in the street. After 20 minutes of map-checking and talking to other pedestrians, we managed to locate Hotel Gallia, nestled along an unmarked tiny sidestreet.
I tossed and turned before falling asleep, knowing it was my last night in Africa.... at least for now. I was bursting with excitement to see Margot in London, and for the first time in my trip, I didn't have the sense of unknown of what was to come, as exhilerating as it had been.
After a taxi, train, and shuttle, I made it to the Casablanca airport to discover that my flight time had been changed- leaving an hour later. So when the printout says to 'call 24hrs in advance to confirm flight time,' it's actually advisable to do so.
I boarded the plane and watched the ground disappear below me as we took off. It was difficult to leave Africa, absolutely... but I know it won't be long before I find myself back on the extraordinary continent that has been my solo-travel playground for the past 2.5months.
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.
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.
Overland Photos
Some pictures I've grabbed from other people's blogs and good 'ol FB. The rest of mine will come up when I get home...
Zanzibar- stone town
Zanzibar- stone town
Morocco tour photos
Here's a few photos from Morocco- more to come when I can post from London
The Berber tents
Victims of Moroccan tummy
Spending a night in the Sahara
Camels!
Sandstorm in the Sahara
Dancing to Berber music next to the dunes
The medina in Fes
Tanneries in Fes
Volubilis- Morocco's ancient roman ruins
The ceramics factory- where it's all done by hand
Looking over the beach in Rabat
Another tasty dessert- profiteroles in Rabat
Freshly squeezed OJ in Marrakech
Giant sundae (the only way to do it) in Marrakech
The 3rd largest mosque in the world, Casablanca
The Berber tents
Victims of Moroccan tummy
Spending a night in the Sahara
Camels!
Sandstorm in the Sahara
Dancing to Berber music next to the dunes
The medina in Fes
Tanneries in Fes
Volubilis- Morocco's ancient roman ruins
The ceramics factory- where it's all done by hand
Looking over the beach in Rabat
Another tasty dessert- profiteroles in Rabat
Freshly squeezed OJ in Marrakech
Giant sundae (the only way to do it) in Marrakech
The 3rd largest mosque in the world, Casablanca
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