Even though it’s been months since I returned from Morocco in December 2024, the fond memories of that country and its people have left an indelible mark I won’t easily forget. I wrote about the sheep migration in an earlier blog. But there was so much more. In several instances, it seemed that life stood still for centuries.
Upon my return, I wrote feverishly about that time with deep connections to the people. But none more than my Hammam experience. Here are excerpts of that narrative. (I plan to publish the entire entertaining piece in a future anthology of my writings.)
A hammam, for the uninitiated, is a public bathhouse originating in the Roman Empire and spreading across the Mediterranean, serving as a place for bathing and socializing....
Our tour guide, Mohamed, expertly enticed us into this "authentic" cultural experience, describing it as something Moroccans do weekly. So why not? Six men and seven women from our group decided to give it a go....
After surrendering our clothes into tattered plastic bags—promptly snatched away by four giggling Moroccan women—we entered a steamy, marble-lined chamber. Inside, we were split into groups and paired with local middle-aged women wearing nothing but spandex shorts....
I took in my surroundings. Several naked Moroccan women of all body types and ages were represented including one sporting an eight-month pregnant belly. There was no body shame, embarrassment, or standards to meet. Highly refreshing. My favorite sight was a grandmother, a mother with her 3-year-old daughter who bathed her baby doll, a generational tradition in the making....
...Then it was my turn when my "scrubber"—a formidable woman with the strength of a seasoned wrestler—began her work. Two heaping ladles of warm water rained down upon me. Before I processed what was happening, I was guided to lie on a towel that covered the marble floor. The scrubber donned her abrasive glove dipped in olive oil husks and began the ritual. Our guide warned us that if the scrubbing became too intense, we could yell "Shwia!" to signal discomfort.
I was tossed about like a fish being prepped for the market - descaled, flipped, scrubbed, exfoliated. I attempted a feeble "Shwia!" but was met with a bemused grin. The scrubbing was vigorous. Aggressive. Thorough. I was flipped and exfoliated within an inch of my life.
When it was over, I was shampooed and doused again. As I exited, I noticed one of my companions, wide-eyed with terror, pressed against a wall. This was probably not the highlight of her trip.
After we were finished, dressed and dazed, with the skin as soft and new as a newborn baby, my six tour mates and I stumbled out into the night, buzzing with shared experiences. And then came the real fun—comparing stories with the men of our group who had their experience....
This hammam experience was more than a bath; it offered an unfiltered look into local life. It was cultural immersion at its most intimate. And nothing can be more intimate than nudity. I felt honored to experience it. It was, without a doubt, one of the most memorable moments of my Moroccan adventure.
Would you have engaged in this experience? Or maybe you have. Tell me about it.
Susan E. Greisen 
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