Agadir
lessons from the field

Hammams and all...       Fresh off the plane, we hurried off to the hotel. Or rather not so fresh, as a 5:30 wake up call had made for a rather evil trip, which I tried to forget in the languid fumes of a luxury hammam. And so my first taste of Agadir came amidst the tempting vapors of a suspiciously empty steam room. By the looks of this bath house, I can tell that Agadir promises to be a Moroccan town like no other I have visited.     Perhaps there is something to be said for hammams and cities; as if the first could reflect the true essence of the other...

Cristel's parents in Agadir

    First Fes, with its tiny little hammam tucked away in one of the 'out of your way' quarters of the ville nouvelle. A posse of Moroccan women lounging on the floor of the changing room, brewing tea and joking loudly. Their curious looks as I walk in, and eagerness to show me the way through the rooms and rituals. While one of them beat my flesh numb on the steaming stone floors, I could almost hear Jon scream in wonder at the mounds of dead skin falling from his bones. We came out, shiny and dazed- wondering both at the oddity of the experience and the incredible cleanliness which overcame us. Jon was cleaner than I ( I suppose that happens when strong men take hold of your scrubbing glove and run in through all layers of your body!), but my experience was satisfying enough for me to want to try again. Cost: 5 dhs for the hammam, 20 dhs for the massage ; and a general feel not unlike that of the crowded, narrow streets of the Fes medina.
    Then there was Rabat. The small neighborhood hammam- where men and women of the Oudayas crowed into two small rooms, sharing each other's heat and gossip. Early morning and evening for men; women get the rest of the day... I sit on my small red stool, watching Aisha (my neighbor) or Fatma ( the hammam lady and professional back scrubber) scare all my dead skin away. Occasionally I ask them to slow down a little- there have been times when my scrub buddy has rubbed so vigorously my skin has calloused under the pressure! Cost: 7dhs for the hammam, 10 dhs for the back scrub; and the general impression that my Oudaya neighborhood life is nicely preserved in the confines of these steam rooms, where everyone knows each other by name.
    And now Agadir. When I paid 110 dhs to enter the realm of steam, I already knew something was not quite right. The 'real thing' never costs that much, nobody could afford it. And what's the point of going to a hammam where no one else goes? Hammams are a social scene, a comfortable, intimate space where women can truly 'see' each other, freed of all silly street conventions. For mothers with a marriageable son, it is a true goldmine- a place to assess the quality of the neighborhood merchandise. I always wonder how much of this 'hammam' information is passed on to the male population? Do wives tell their husband's about Radija or Loubna's figure...? And this hammam seems to presage the neutrality and bland luxury of a resort town.
     Everyone's first hammam experience should be memorable. So I try not to show my disappointment and focus on Mom's first steps through the steam. Happily enough, I manage to scour a bit of black soap (a rose, gravel and oil concoction which Moroccan women apply to their skins), a rough glove and a water bucket ( which I stole from the Sauna, as there wasn't a single plastic container in the whole Hammam!). I sit Mom on a plastic mat and splash water down her body, then I grab hold of the glove and soap and run her her through the ritual scrub- Alas! not one measly piece of dead skin. I make a pathetic hammam lady- none of that fleshy strength in my arms!
    My mom, on the other hand, may have a career in the business. Barely into the place she has already befriended the hammam lady who has graciously offered to cover her body in mud. I walk out of the steam room to find Mom wrapped in green clay, talking away with a neighbor covered in a similar fate- so there was someone else in the hammam after all! A few minutes into her cure, Mom decides I need to share the marvel and proceeds to cover me in green substance, using leftovers from her treatment. Our hammam lady walks in, to find Mom laboring over my still body- surprised to see this novice take hold of such a delicate process. Mother is transgressing the hammam rules- and the smile with which she does it makes everyone laugh at the comedy of the situation. The hammam lady even jokingly offers her a job. Some people just have a gift for transcending rules and other patterns of behavior. If Mom were a Moroccan woman she would probably stage a hammam revolution, forever altering the steam's power relations- no more experts teaching the way to novices: just a bunch of women playing with water, gloves and soap!