What else do you want me to do? The worst thing you can do in a Moroccan medina is look lost. The mischievous children can sniff you out in a sec and depending on the day, decide whether to accurately help you or point you in the opposite direction just for giggles. Today they were nice and pointed at a subtle yellow and green tiled entrance, where tendrils of steam from what lies within slowly escaped up towards the clouds.
Luke and I were on the hunt for a hammam for later that night. We intended on scoping out a few and run a check on prices, as well as the possibility to simultaneously enter since in traditional hammams, there were separate hours for women vs. As I stared at a printout sign trying to decipher the French words, a Moroccan women bursts through the steamed up door followed by a foreign girl, who in broken French was asking a stream of questions, then translating in English and Portuguese to her male companion who was waiting alongside Luke.
Seeing an opportunity to piggyback off valuable info, I asked the girl if she has information on the hammam and we quickly realized we were after the same thing- a slightly less traditional hammam which allowed men and women in at the same time. The Moroccan woman said she knows a place, and the next thing I know she readjusted her hijab and linked her arm through mine, tugging me along and briskly walking through the medina maze.
We walked for about 10 minutes, winding our way through narrow alleyways, Mama Moroccan proudly parading us down the street. The tiles and intricate carvings were delicate and tasteful and at the front and center was a zen fountain with fresh flower petals floating within it.
We were greeted with mint tea of course , and after we sipped our sugary drinks Elsa and Marcos got down to business. Instead of a soggy paper printout in French like the last place, a laminated menu with prices was presented to us in English, and Elsa and Marcos start the negotiations right away.
All of us. We were then ushered into the steamy bath house where Elsa and Marcos sat on one side of the room while Luke and I faced the other side. At this point we were giddy, laughing at ourselves and the situation we were in, and excitedly anticipating what will happen next. After our bucket pouring ritual we laid down on plastic beds where the woman slathered us in argon oil soap, then proceeded to scrub the shit out of our skins with a rough exfoliating glove. Rolls of dead skin come peeling off - there goes my tan!
A few minutes later someone picked up one of my limbs and continued scrubbing. I began to suspect the same glove was being used on all 4 of us and I tried not to think about it.
There is sweet relief as they cake on natural clay, and then moments pass as I marinate in the natural minerals. Luke and I return to our little plastic stools while we get our hair shampooed side by side. The woman picks up a brush I swear I used on my Barbie when I was younger and runs it - no, scrapes it through my tangled mass of hair.
She gestures for us to stand and takes Luke by the shoulders and steers him towards Marcos, returning with Elsa. More manhandling occurs as she shapes Elsa and I in hug formation yes, hug while she dumps several buckets of water on us.
I glance over to the boys who are in a middle-school dance position receiving the same treatment. The whole ordeal ended with a rewarding 30 minute essential oil massage housed in a cool, dry, dome room.