Hammam A Leuyah. Facing Sorrow in an Arabic Hammam.

Via on Jan 11, 2010

A story about Western women in an ancient community hammam, or traditional Arabic bath. Some hammams are chic, some are antiseptic. Some are raw and real. ~Peggy Markel

solobathersml

Sorrow pushes you down to the bone. It seeps into the marrow to scoop up the sweet. It leaves you lying there like a corpse with the world spinning it’s luscious web all around you, but you cannot move.

In this place, it’s dark and quiet. Yet it’s hard to face the everyday all tied up and keep functioning with joy. This is not depression, it is a sense of being lost. And thinking too much.

high arched doorways, ancient and crumbling

old women sit cross-legged on folded blankets

wrapped in patchwork

wrinkled skin with a hand at the end

covers the heart

they strip

With big eyes, They enter the domed room painted with stars. They indeed strip and give their belongings to a small bossy woman, who gives them plastic slippers in exchange.

Toweled, They follow her into a steamy room with low light and marble floors. Buckets of water are side by side a handful of women of various shapes. Towels placed on a hook, They are motioned to sit down on mats with other bodies they do not know. The mats and the floor are warm and wet. Cross-legged like monkeys They are lined up like See no Evil, Hear no Evil, Speak no Evil and Think no Evil.

See No Evil is taken first…down on a brown lap, head on a thigh, before she can say jack rabbit and “I ain’t doin that.”

A skinny brown woman with empty breast and kind eyes takes a small bowl and dips it into the nearby bucket of warm water. She pours it over and over on See No Evil’s body. See no Evil has never been in a dark steamy room in a foreign country on the lap of someone she has never seen, naked. Not even when she was born.

The old woman rubs a handful of black olive oil soap all over her. More water follows, then she starts to scrub. Hand in a textured mitt, she rubs vigorously, as dead skin rolls into black strings. She motions for See to flip over. Her dark arms are strong, but her face is soft. See relaxes into it, mind and body won over purely by the nurturing gestures. More water was followed by shampoo, which was followed by a few more bucket loads of water. See opened her eyes carefully. She has just shed a skin.

Brown mother with breasts like sacks, motions for See to move to another mat. See looks mesmerized. She walks without question to the next mat where she is met by a cross-eyed woman in red panties, who motions for her to lay down again. Hear No Evil and Speak No Evil are still sitting cross-legged with curiosity. They look at each other as if to say, ‘What will happen next?’

The cross-eyed woman starts to massage. A hundred years, she has practiced her technique. She moves and flips and caresses the muscles with precision.

See lay wondering if she had just landed on earth. For the last 6 years, she had resided on the moon. A snake with false teeth had just smiled and greeted her in her dreams. She was happy to be back, but still a little jet-lagged.

Hear No Evil was next. She had said to herself, ‘I’m not sitting on that floor’ and then she was. Her scrubber was a bit intense, more like a laundress, breast looking more like atomic bombs and enough rolls around the middle to get lost in. Years of Hear’s skin came off just the same. Who ever scrubs the mother? Hear was the mother to everyone. She surrendered immediately and was tossed around like she was three. She forgot about the floor. She forgot her name. She forgot everything. Her strong legs were like willows bending in the wind. Her feet moved back and forth like windshield wipers. Comforted, her mind went to apples, baked apples in cinnamon and honey. She could no longer support her hesitations. They were lost, like moss hanging from a tree.

At that point, See wandered out of the room like a zombie and went where she was told and waited. Hear went to the cross-eyed red pantie’d masseuse. She melted into the floor with gratitude. Her attitude lost altitude. It had broken out in small beads of sweat and the nearest powder room was somewhere over the straights of Gibraltar. Meanwhile, Hear took a deep rest.

Speak was speechless. Far away from harmony and beauty as she knew it, she feared only for the sorrow of her family if they could see her now. What could be lurking invisibly on the warm wet floor, that might choose her for transportation? But, it was too late. She was motioned down on the mat. Hopefully if she was chosen, it would not be too expensive to cure. Her insurance was limited. A sophisticated girl, legs folded to the side like Sophia Loren, water poured over her like a Raphael painting; lipstick still intact. It wasn’t long before Speak, eyes closed, was smiling through the falling water down her face, caution to the wind, happy, not sad, to be in unknown territory. It was new. A boundary crossed. After all, this was what she wanted. What she realized is that what she may lack in insurance would be made up by her assurance. This she had in spades. Maybe she would keep this to herself.

Think No Evil lay down with ease. It was not the first time for her. She willingly gave herself up to the scrub. She willed the release of 50 years of grief. She was not worried about the floor. She was worried that she might have to live with herself with spooned out marrow. She wanted to surrender, become reborn, find out what was left of sun-bleached bone and sinew.

The moist dim room felt like honey, dark manna, spread thick and antiseptic. It was healing something, perhaps a deep wound, a heart punctured with poison arrows. Deep tangible sadness, that didn’t even feel like it was all hers, rose like cream to the top and the pores opened up and the skin sloughed and sloughed. She was raw and felt very vulnerable.

She sat up, took a few deep breaths, opened her eyes and floated over to the red pantie’d wonder, who put the muscles back on her bones and got the blood flowing again.

The next thing she knew, she was lying flat again in another deliciously steamy room, spread eagle on dry warm marble.

Her other monkey friends were there too. All They could do was nod and smile. A week in the woods solo, would not have done more for their souls.

Refreshed and renewed, They threw their towels over their shoulders and walked out of the hammam like They owned it.

They left sorrow, fear and hesitation on the floor. And threw a bucket of water on top to wash their sins away.. before someone else sat down.

About Peggy Markel

Sign up for Peggy's monthly newsletter, to receive stories, videos, recipes and updates in your inbox. Join the PMCA community on facebook for photos and stories from the road. Since 1992, Peggy Markel has traversed the Mediterranean and North Africa, from Elban fishing villages and Moroccan markets to the homes of Tuscan artisans and chefs, furthering her own exploration of culture and cuisine. On these journeys, she saw an opportunity to design and direct her own brand of culinary tours in which enjoyment of the present place and moment plays a pivotal role. "When we speak of Slow Travel, we mean that particular experience of letting yourself merge with your surroundings: the pace, customs, mores and style of where you find yourself. It’s really about our willingness to let the world in, and see ourselves a part of it.” For more information about Peggy's trips and classes: peggymarkel.com For more writing and recipes by Peggy: peggymarkel.blogspot.com Or, follow Peggy on Twitter

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3 Responses to “Hammam A Leuyah. Facing Sorrow in an Arabic Hammam.”

  1. caroline douglas says:

    Oh thank you Peggy for the memory! If I ever get a second chance.. I shall not resist from the beginning…unforgettable!

  2. [...] canvas for us. Have you ever enjoyed a concert while lounging in a pool? Or practiced yoga in a hammam? The offerings vary from burlesque and belly dance classes to drumming workshops to intense asana [...]

  3. [...] In Morocco, an old woman stoops to sweep the path. She is covered in an array of prints. Whenever I come upon her, she smiles silently and spends the day amongst the carob trees, the palms, and the pomegranates. Cooks, dressed in white, move from house to house with trays of mint tea, a steaming tagine for the table in the courtyard, or to the garden with a basket to gather fresh herbs. The call to prayer brings my attention out of my conversation or out of my book and I stop to listen. The birds are also singing. The round table is set with a clay tagine and nothing else. They wash their hands and sit down. Each takes a bit of bread and scoops a bit of tender meat out of the pot closest to them. They say, Bismillah, “in the name of God.” [...]

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