The Roamings of Rachel in Morocco

A quivering hand grabbed my elbow and I turned to see a bare elderly woman shaking her head. Wide eyes enfolded in crumpled skin stared at me as she pointed towards my bikini top.

Some women offered me smiles of encouragement; others snickered in amusement. I had watched them unpin their headscarves, release their dark hair and gradually undress down to their pants. Inside this traditional hammam nestled in the labyrinth of Fez’s medina, I was the only one concealing my chest.

Crouched in a corner, I hastily removed my bikini top. I scrambled to my feet and instantly felt a strong desire to envelope myself with shivering arms to prevent prying eyes gawping at my body. I walked anxiously through a humid gust of steam, holding my sabon beldi tight, the olive oil soap squelching like clay within my fist.

As I knelt on the warm tiles and threw water over my face, I was stirred by a wave of freedom. I allowed my arms to hang loose at my side before placing a hand in my kiis and using the mitt to rub the dirt from my legs.

I felt the eyes of a younger woman rest on me, and when my gaze reached hers she extended her arm, offering a gloved-hand. I mirrored her movements by offering mine. She ushered me between her legs. My back, tired from carrying a heavy rucksack, was scrubbed by a woman I had never met.

Surrounding me were older women laying their heads on friend’s chests and rubbing each other’s torsos. Young girls used pumice stones on each other’s tough ankles. The room echoed with the hubbub of Arabic conversations, feminine laughter and the splashes of water onto stone walls.

As I gently massaged ghasoul into the young woman’s hair, I felt an abundance of gratitude. I had been welcomed into a centuries-old tradition by women whose lives were entirely different from mine, women who I could barely communicate with.

I will never again feel embarrassed about embracing the community in a local hammam such as Sidi Azouz, and I urge visitors to feel the same. Attending a luxurious experience in a five-star spa would never match up to the overwhelming sense of community these hammams have striven to uphold, which left me feeling elated.

With my towel draped around me hours later, a woman stood in the doorway to the hammam and waved goodbye to me. Even from behind her burka, those large eyes and wrinkled lids were unmistakable. They furrowed into a hidden smile and I smiled back, knowing that I would never forget this hammam and the women I had met inside.