So, myself and fellow blogger extraordinaire Mike Mikeson (I urge you to follow his travels at www.katenmike.wordpress.com) thought that it was time to see what all the fuss was about.
Nicola and Kate (our blogging better halves) have provided us the following set of questions. So this is where the relative highbrow tone of the conversation ends and the lowbrow begins.
How did you prepare yourself for the experience? Were there any reservations?
Clint - After five weeks of should I shouldn't I, meeting Mike provided a hand to hold and all of the impetus I required to step outside of my comfort zone and give it a go. And I felt as though I was fairly well prepared until we met Mike and Kate the night before and the girls proceeded to giggle and laugh at all possible awkward and culturally unacceptable events that may unfold the following morning.
With that came not the greatest night's sleep and a dream that involved my sperm being cultivated and provided to other men to give theirs a little boost. Part of the dream involved me sitting around with a group of men whilst sharing said sperm, which upon waking up I hoped wasn't symbolic of a similar sort of process at the hammam. I was wondering if maybe the guidebooks don't tell you about that part.
Mike - I was also only too happy to find a willing comrade to share the experience with, and possibly share a Fassi cell with in the event we violated any hammam protocols too badly.
I was feeling OK about the whole thing up until Clint's extended monologue on exactly how coarse the scrubbing gloves he'd acquired were. "It's like sandpaper... no no, like shark-skin... no, it's like Bigfoot's arse crack." (OK I made that last one up but you get the picture). This did trigger a rather vivid dream of a giant glove chasing me through dark medina alleyways. Thankfully my sperm remained unharvested so it sounds like I got off *ahem* pretty lightly.
What were your initial thoughts upon entering the hammam?
C - The previous day I'd been for a walk to scope out our hammam of choice and decided that it must be the place with a sign in Arabic and what sort of resembled opening hours.
Mike and I set off the following morning, found what I'd believed to be the entry and sort of slowly shuffled over each other down a dark corridor and were soon stood in front of two very stern looking men. At which point we both just hung there like deer in headlights until one of the men finally said "hammam?", to which we over enthusiastically nodded yes and he then motioned towards a changing area. For a moment we knew what we were doing, we knew that we were capable of stripping down to our jocks without assistance.
M - I confess I'd settled on a "get Clint to go in first" plan which I executed with aplomb. If things went south too quickly I was going to disappear on him quicker than a Big Mango. #topicalhumour :)
Talk us through the process, in particular the scrubbing/rubbing elements
C - After stripping down to our jocks, the Maroc version of Prince insisted that we hand him money for a massage.
M - We initially rebuffed Prince's enthusiastic offers of a massage; he seemed a little too keen. Having caught our breath a few seconds later, we conferred and agreed that given he was the only one offering we might as well take him up on it. Otherwise we'd just be scrubbing each other's backs, a prospect which at the time seemed potentially weirder than an excitable little Moroccan stranger doing the honours. For some reason.
C - One of the stern looking men pointed us towards a door that just looked as though it would lead us to a toilet. Alas, it was the entry to the beginning of the rabbit warren where once again we slowly shuffled along together until a little boy popped up saying "come, come". He led us through the small 'cold room', past a couple of people in the 'warm room' and into the hammam's hive of activity, the 'hot room'.
This place was madness, buckets of water were flying everywhere, people were getting scrubbed so hard that you wouldn't be surprised if they walked out without skin and then there was Mike and I in the thick of it without a f*cking clue what we were doing. Someone motioned towards a gap along the wall so down we sat hoping we'd get further instructions.
Fortunately Prince appeared out of the steam, filled a couple of buckets with water and began to pour them over us whilst we gave ourselves a bit of a superficial clean. Then after only about five minutes he dragged us back into the warm room. It was rub and scrub time.
You know those times in life where you choose to do the easier thing before the harder one? Well this was one of those times for Prince. Given Mike has about a foot on me (height that is) I was first cab off the rank.
M - It took us some time to react given Prince's only method of communication was wild gesticulating, pointing and clapping. To be fair, he spoke pretty good French but sadly my translator (Kate) was nowhere to be seen. Sticking to my strategy, I quickly and authoritatively deciphered Prince's first instructions as "You're up Clint" and sat back to watch the show.
C - Prince began by pulling, twisting and bending my body in every imaginable direction which at times involved moves that seemed like they were out of Karma Sutra and not really out of any massage textbook. All the while making a soothing "ktssssshhhhh" like sound.
M - Specifically, within about 10 seconds our man had folded up my new Perthian friend like a cheap banana lounge. As long as I live, I'll never forget both the speed in which Prince executed a move I can only describe as The Human Pretzel, and the look of absolute bewilderment on Clint's face. My delight at this development faded significantly when I realised I had to endure this next.
C - I think it was at this point that I noticed Mike rolling around on the skin flake covered floor in an attempt to limber up seeing as he now knew what he was in for.
Next began the scrub. We'd picked up some traditional olive oil soap the day before along with a couple of pairs of gloves - those shark skin ones. I was under the impression that the soap would go on before the scrubbing to provide a bit of lubrication. Nope, the scrub began and Prince proceeded to work off flakes of skin that he proudly showed off to Mike. At one point I looked down and sat in a pool in my jocks was a pile of skin flakes that would've filed your palm.
M - The ferocity of the scrubbing itself is hard to describe. The action was like swabbing the decks of a ship; Prince was putting his full body weight into each stroke. No spot of skin was missed save the nether regions. Clearly we westerners were filthy; he was delighted at the results. "Oh, no massage, no massage" he cried gleefully, mimicking our initial reluctance whilst holding up the fruits of his labours: a glove full of dead skin. I think he enjoyed it so much he should have paid us.
C - Following the scrub it was time for the rub. The olive oil soap finally made an appearance and Prince rubbed it all over my now smoothened body where my only role was to clean my bits. Prince and I weren't that friendly.
I received a final wash off and then it was Mike's turn, much to my great enjoyment, knowing what was coming his way.
M - By the time he got nearly through with me, Prince was so exhausted from the intensive effort he had to sit down and take a few draughts of cold water from one of the buckets.
Was the key cultural no-no of 'don't show your balls' adhered to?
C - I managed not to however there is the possibility that Mike did. At one point Prince pointed near Mike's arse, looked at me and had a bit of a chuckle. Or maybe he was just pointing out that Mike had decided to wear Calvin Klein jocks to the hammam. Fancy lawyer types hey.
M - I feel compelled to state that I retained my honour. Same as for Clint, Prince did pour a few buckets of water into my jocks after this but kept his eyes tastefully averted. And the CKs were chosen not for their brand but their colour (dark - to avoid a Wet T-shirt effect) and length. Clint's decision to go with a leopard print g-banger seemed brave, but I just figured things are done differently out West?
Finally, rate your experience and would you return to a hammam?
C - The experience could not have been any more enjoyable. There was a point following my rub and scrub, sitting on the floor, quite possibly in amongst someone else's skin flakes, that it dawned on me to take in the moment as this experience would more than likely never again be replicated for me.
Would I return? Probably not. My first experience was a ripper and if I was to go back and it wasn't the same as the first, my memory would never again be as fond. And without Mike I wouldn't have someone equally as awkward but twice as tall to divert the gaze away from me.
M - It went from somewhat nerve racking, to hilarious, to slightly painful, to extremely relaxing. All up it was absolutely fantastic. I can say without qualification that I've never been cleaner in my life. I think I'd definitely go back - but I agree it wouldn't ever be quite as new and exciting.
C - Mike's and my bond following the experience? Now that we've shared skin flakes I think you can safely assume that it's been upgraded to brotherhood.
M - Absolutely, brothers in (Prince's) arms.
As we left, Prince gave us the traditional Maroc farewell of one air kiss. Was it my imagination but did he also give Clint's arse a friendly squeeze at the same time? Perhaps that's the Berber farewell.
Barrie-ometer of "Feel" - watch me...
