The Hammam Experience

MARRAKECH, MOROCCO - March 29-31, 2006

I am making my best attempts to adjust to local life, although jet lag was nothing compared to the adjustment to the timetable by which things work around here. It seems that the hotter the sun, the slower everything and everyone operates. The bus leaves the station when it's full. "Just 2 minutes" easily stretches into 20... or 30... or more. I had an understanding with Monir that this morning I would accompany his mother to the hammam for one of the shouldn't-be-missed social-cultural experiences available in Morocco. His family would wake around 10:00 AM, then eat, and then off we would go to bathe, scrub, loofah, steam, and preen our dust-laden bodies.

I tried to contain my frustration, but by 4:00 PM, I was growing agitated. This was my first day in Marrakech, and I had yet to see anything outside of this family's house. I think out of concern for me, because there are many touts, beggars, and local who approach tourists with a friendly front who are really only out for money. They want to spare me the hassle, but in doing so, they keep me a well-treated prisoner in their home. Prisoner... that's too strong a word. Still, I am finding it difficult to willingly relenquish my independence.


Finally, at 4:30 PM we depart for the hammam. Preparing to leave is quite a process. You need a fresh change of clothes, a mat or stool to sit on, a small bucket for rinsing, soap, pumice, shampoo, a comb or brush, and a bag to carry it all in.We are both wrapped from head to toe in clothing, a long, flowing jellabah over a pair of pants, and a scarf covering our heads. We shuffle through the stone-floored alley, so narrow in places that we have to walk single-file when a moped or local boy on a bicycle speeds the opposite direction. Regardless of this, you would be amazed at the size of the vehicles that people are willing to brave down such narrow passageways. Donkeys pulling carts stacked with fresh produce are a common sight as well.

Ten minutes later we arrive at the entrance to the hammam. As soon as I walk through the doors, I can feel the thickness in the air from hot steam. We proceed to the changing room, and undress completely, except for underwear to cover our lower extremities. I am somewhat surprised that in a culture which teaches the absolute importance of covering the body, here in the hammam, almost everything goes.

A visit to the hammam is as much a part of the health and beauty regimen for girls and women as it is a place for social interaction. Friends congregate together in the steaming room, washing one another's backs or rinsing those hard-to-reach places. A firm hand massages a tired shoulder here, and there a hand suds the ebony mane of her female counterpart. There is talking, laughing, catching up on local gossip, not a word of which I understand, but it is the spirit of the hammam that is alive, well, and happy.

The process from start to finish of cleaning the body in the hammam is much more complicated than I imagined. Toureiya fills three large tubs with water from a communal spigot. One tub is warm, another hot, and the third much hotter. You must be careful not to contaminate the water in these tubs with the dirt you are washing off your body; hence, the small bucket you use to dip into the tub must first be pre-rinsed with a few splashes of water.

First, the pre-rinse. I get off to a good start when I manage to work a good amount of soap into both of my eyes. Eyes burning, I strain to feel my way to the small bucket. I hear the chuckle of two voices, Toureiya's and another woman, a friend of hers. They exchange some words between laughs and pour several bucketfuls of water over my head until I can see again.

Then begins the scrubbing. There are two steps to this process. You begin by rubbing a coarse mitt over your arms, legs, chest, shoulders, and feet, and watch in disgust at the amount of grime and old skin being lifted away. This is followed by a profuse amount of rinsing. Then a finer loofah is used to scrub the same areas again, and more delicate areas, such as your face. After every step, bucketfuls of water are dumped over one body part after another. We soap, lather, wash and comb hair, scrub feet, and exhaust ourselves in the steam of the hammam.

Two hours later, I am literally a new woman as we leave for the short walk home.Women and men visit the hammam separately, one or several times a week. Some hammams are open only certain hours a day for men, and certain hours a day for women. Others offer separate bathing areas for each.

~Melanie

Last Words on England

I imagined before leaving home that I might run the risk of falling in love with every country I visit... England certainly did me in!

I fell hard and fast for the charm of its small rolling hillsides and breathtaking architecture, that English accent that somehow makes even the most cultured American sound oh-so-dull by comparison. I loved England for the world-renowned sites that add up to more than enough of a reason to take that trans-Atlantic flight and put up with jet lag. But I think mostly, I fell in love with England because of the people I met here who made my experience so uniquely... personal.

As a parting gesture :) I am pleased to provide a rather short list of truly "English" words collected during my short visit to England. If you want to make that English accent sound really convincing, try tossing a couple of these into your vocabulary (English expression is followed by its American equivalent):
"Can't be bothered" = "I couldn't care less."
"I'm completely knackered" = "I am so tired I could fall asleep standing up."
"Brilliant" = awesome, amazing
"Rubbish" = not even worth bothering with
"tube" = metro
"subway" = underground walkway, NOT the same as the tube!
"Mind the gap" = "Watch your step" (as you exit the tube)
"loo" = toilet (don't ask for the bathroom; you may be met with a quizzical expression and a question of why you want to take a bath!)

Cheerio!

~Melanie

Ourika: Valley of a Thousand Waterfalls

OURIKA VALLEY, MOROCCO -- March 28, 2006

I awake at 6:00 AM to the sound of the call to prayer being broadcast from the loudspeaker at the top of the Koutoubia Mosque's minaret. Koutoubia Mosque is the largest and grandest in Marrakech, and can be seen for miles, especially at night when it is lit like a decorative lighthouse rising above the cityscape.

I meet Monir at 9:00 and after a light breakfast of hohbs (Moroccan flatbread, much like a pita, but denser and larger) and freshly-squeezed jus d'orange, we proceed to the grande taxi stand, where we will wait until the taxi driver has collected his standard 6 for the ride into the valley of Ourika. I had read about this place before coming to Morocco, but listening to Monir tell me about it last night convinced me that it was worth a day trip to explore.
After a lengthy wait and some bargaining for two Moroccan-priced fares (there is an unwritten rule that all tourists are charged more for everything). The taxi ride is cramped. There are three including the driver in the front seat, and four in the rear, in a car the size of your normal sedan. This is how public transporation works in Morocco.

Our taxi continues down a long, dusty road before beginning its ascent into the winding mountains outside of Marrakech proper. The scenery is beautiful - bright, blue skies and ochre-colored cliffs, a smattering of foliage here and there. Less than an hour later, we are in Ourika.

We hike over rocky ledges upward, chasing the wind to the Cascade d'Ourika, a smallish yet tranquil waterfall. My sandals are no match for the challenging footholds from one rock to another, but I manage to make it to the base of the waterfall. We sit in the shade of the neighboring trees and munch on a handful of luz (almonds), which we purchased enroute from a meager snack stand. The salesman had wrapped our handful of luz in a piece of newspaper, and folded it up like the secret notes you pass during Algebra in high school.

We splash the crystal clear stream water on our faces, arms, feet. It is cooling, a refreshment from the hot Moroccan sun. We wander along the dirt paths in the foothills of the mountains, passing small huts and homes, a multitude of sellers with their handcrafted wares for display. It is spring, and groves of apple trees are in full blossom, a welcome sign of new life.

We stop at a cafe tucked in the hillside, and I enjoy my very first tajine (in this case, potatoes, peas, olives, and a bit of succulent beef cooked in a clay pot over a hot flame). I love this Moroccan style of eating -- your fingers and a hand-torn piece of hobs are the only utensils you need. Sop the bread in the fragrant liquid simmering in the bottom of the clay pot. Mash a potato or bunch of peas between the bread you hold in your hand and the side of the dish. And, with a bit of skill, rotate your wrist as you raise the food to your mouth. I wash it down with a quasi-cold bottled drink. My fingers smell of onion and curry, and I am thoroughly satisfied.

We cross over rickety footbridges made of wooden planks, chicken wire, and strong twine. I think, one misplaced foot and I am eighteen inches deep in ice-cold stream water. I walk carefully. Soon it is time to head back to Marrakech. Monir hasinvited me to stay with his family, as a guest in their home, for the rest of my stay in Marrakech. I think, what a marvelous opportunity to throw off the shackles of "tourist travel" and really see the life of the Moroccan people. This is why I came, after all. Not for the sights or the food, or the extremely good sunshine (although they all were factors!). I came for the total experience.

At 11:30 PM I am sitting in the focal point of the home of Monir's family. This room functions as both sleeping quarters for the whole family, and as the dining room. We sit on thin mattresses lying near to the ground, our legs crossed Indian style near a short, round table in the middle of the small room. Our sandals are left near the doorway, as this room is the only one with a covering over the bare concrete. Monir's mother finishes the last of the meal preparations over her kerosene burner, and I try to find some kind of commonality with Monir's brother Osama (15), sister Iptesam (24), and father Mahajoob. It's difficult, so I break out the Chinese checkers and battle a few rounds with my new friends.

Dinner time is always this late, and always served to the whole family together. It is part of an enduring legacy that I wish Americans had not become too busy to appreciate, and I am one guilty of the same. We sup over seasoned fish, a salad made of diced tomatoes, onions, and spices, and more than enough hobs to go around. It is an enjoyable ending to a scenic, relaxing, and utterly enjoyable day.

Plumbing is sparse -- Toureiya heats a kettle of boiling water for me to use for my evening dushe (Arabic for shower). The bathroom consists of a small, unfinished concrete chamber, one meter by two meters. The ceiling tapers low in the back, so much so that I can only stand upright just inside the door. The latch has been repaired by hand, but closing the door still leaves a one-inch gap visible from the main entry hall. There is a spigot for cold tap water, and to the rear, a squat-style toilet built into the ground. A large and small bucket stand ready for us, to sluice your business down the drain when you are finished. There are no provisions for toilet paper, but that's what your left hand is for, after all :)

I remind myself how absolutely spoiled I am to have spent nearly every morning of my life showering in a sparkling stall bigger than this bathroom, with hot water that runs right out of the tap. It is these simple pleasure that most of the world will never know.

~Melanie

Going Underground: Top-of-the-Line London

LONDON, ENGLAND --- March 25-27, 2006

London... fair city of queens and palaces, towering monuments and bridges that span revered rivers... capital of a country both proud and proper, known the world over for its historic conquests and modern civility. I was fortunate to spend three hypnotic nights in London, where the sights of the city took a backseat to life from a local vantage point. With Alex, lifetime Londoner, as my host, I saw a side of London that the traditional traveler would miss without even knowing. And in hindsight, I'd say I got the much better end of the deal.

I arrived quite late Friday evening by bus, after a rather long conversation with a very inquisitive Oriental woman who wanted to know all about the Mormon religion. I'm not even sure how it came up -- I think I told her I had a brother living in Peru right now as a missionary. I was tired out by the time the bus pulled into the station! It had been raining all day almost, and was raining still as I walked the 30 minutes from the bus depot to the place I would call home for the next three days. Upon arrival, I was sopping wet. I was quickly learning that London is more or less synonymous with rain, and that sunshine is somewhat of a rarity. So, I decided that it was time to lay off heavy usage of the camera, and just SEE Londonwith my own eyes. (Besides gray buildings and even grayer skies don't make the most attractive photos).

And although London truly does have some tourist treasures (not just the Crown Jewels), exploring them on my own terms and at my own pace, while perhaps a sacrifice in quantity, was for me a superior experience.

After a taste of London nightlife, I enjoyed my first real opportunity to sleep in Saturday morning. The falling rain outside was the white noise I needed to catch up on some much-needed rest. I took the metro to Westminster Abbey and spent the next several hours exploring the city on foot. I eventually found my way through some beautiful parks (St. James Park and Green Park), both with budding daffodils, finally arriving at Buckingham Palace. From there I meandered north, passing streetside artists displaying their masterpieces for purchase.

I took the tube (NOT the metro... and NOT the subway -- a subway is an underground walkway) to Piccadilly Circus, London's unofficial Times Square. I continued on to the Tower Bridge and St. Katherine's Dock, nothing particularly famous, but a nice enough place to wait out the pelting rain. Finally, dark settled over the city, and I caught a glimpse of the Tower Bridge lit up at night... impressive to say the least.


Other highlights include seeing the Rosetta Stone, Egyptian artifacts and Parthenon sculptures on display at the British Museum, which proudly showcases the spoils of its far-reaching conquests. And Covent Garden, probably my favorite place in all of London. This pedestrian-only covered market is home to jolly taverns and pubs, lingering locals, and a diverse mix of entertainers, from the professional string-quartet variety to the mimes doing handstands before an applauding crowd. Unicyclists, clowns, anyone and everyone can find ready entertainment here.

My last evening in London was topped by the most lavish dinner I have ever had in my life! Ceviche, imported Argentine ribeye steak, cooked medium-rare, with a succulent porcini mushroom sauce, a side of grilled mushrooms, and a sampling of London's best beverages.

I left London having vastly satisfied my thirst for all things expensive... though I must admit, I depart for Morocco with some fear and trepidation... this African nation marches to the beat of a different drum, speaks languages all of which are foreign to me, and for the first time ever in my travels, I venture forth without so much as a reservation to my name -- only a vague idea of what I want to see and how long I plan to see (and even those two factors are susceptible to a fair amount of change).

Africa, here I come!

~Melanie

First Impressions of Morocco

MARRAKECH, MOROCCO -- March 27, 2006

I have arrived! After a grueling day of transport from London to Gatwick Airport and then all the way to Marrakech a continent away, I am not quite sure what to expect.

From the plane I look out over an arid landscape peppered with boxy buildings colored the warm tones of earth colored by the setting sun. Palm trees dot the horizon, and the air is strikingly warm in contrast to the damp and dismal cool of London. I ask around until I find a group of travelers to share a taxi with me into the city. I have a small knot in my stomach, as this is where the finality of my Moroccan travel agenda ends.

We pile into the grande taxi, normally held until a group of 6 have congregated for the same destination. As we are not locals, the taxi driver will simply double, triple, or quadruple his normal fare and call it even. We drive along the dusty road leading to the center of all Marrakechi action from sunup until far past sundown, Djemaa el F'na.

It is here that the street vendors set up their stands for freshly squeezed jus d'orange, piping hot tajine, and a whole range of fried, dried, and otherwise prepared food for the masses. It is here that the entertainers set up their stage with a small umbrella during the daytime to offer shade from the sweltering sun, and with a small floodlamp at night to attract the meandering crowds. Snakecharmers, tambourine players, belly dancers, singers -- all congregate here on a scale which is unmatched anywhere else in Morocco.

Djemaa el F'na is what gives Marrakech its identity. So, from a distance, you hear the rapt of dozens of performers, all overlapping into some caucophany of sound. You see the dull glow of lights from the carts of the street vendors, diffused by the billowi ng smoke from the foods on offer. You smell the spices that waft through the air, tempting you to linger.

So here I begin my Moroccan journey. I thumb through my guidebook for a map to orient me, but feel too conspicuous, so I simply begin the wander. I soon find a friend, who is eager to show me to a better, cheaper guesthouse. Expecting that this is some kind of tout only after a meager commission, I follow half-heartedly as he guides me to Hotel Salama, where, after a look at the simple accomodations that can be mine for 50dH (a mere USD6), I agree.

He offers to take me to a nearby cafe for mint tea, which he claims is lovingly referred to as Moroccan whisky (Muslim religion forbids imbibing). I am surprised at how delicious it tastes -- freshly brewed mint sprigs in a bath of boiling tea-steeped water, with just enough sugar to make it taste perfectly sweet. From the cafe terrace, I look out over the bustling street below, which at 9:00 PM is still in full swing. After a brief walking tour of the vicinity, my new friend, Monir, introduces me to his sister who works just down the street, and then I am off for a night of peaceful sleep.

~Melanie