July 8-11: Essaouira

Essaouira, a port village midway along Morocco’s Atlantic coast, has a reputation for being windy. For the first time in weeks, we were actually cold. Somewhat concerning, as we had been hoping for a bit of beach time. We counted our blessings: there were far less people, which meant less crowding, less stress, and less random shouts of “Japanese!” in our direction. Also, the constant odor of fish was mildly more preferable to the odor of donkey.

Limmy with all his friends.

A fellow resident at our guesthouse.

The combination of strong winds and fine sand made the beach rather challenging. The shallow, cold, opaque, grey, metallic-tasting water made swimming unpleasant. We managed four hours of quasi-relaxation, during which time Limmy fell victim to the paradox of sunburn on a cool day (possibly potentiated by exposure to whatever was in the water).

Concerningly grey water.

The following day, we decided to try a Muslim ritual: the hammam. It was Islamic custom of old to attend the community bath-house, or hammam, once a week, to be aggressively cleansed, exfoliated, oiled and massaged by an attendant of similar gender. As men and women congregated (separately) in their naked splendour in these hot steamy chambers, they would swap stories, dispense advice, gossip and arrange marriages, while awaiting their turn. The practice still occurs in a somewhat diluted form today, but usually in hammams out of the tourist eye. Other hammams have become tourist establishments – unsurprisingly, given the prospect of a “traditional” experience incorporating sauna, massage and a servant giving you a bit of a bath.

Vicky went before me, as the hammam we went to treated girls in the morning and afternoon, and guys in the evening. She returned looking relaxed and clean, and thus I looked forward to the same, not really knowing what to expect. I arrived at the hammam, and once inside, I stripped down to boardshorts (no nudity in this place) and waited in the “hot” room – a small tiled room with three taps over three sinks and a very low tiled bench along on the walls – along with a Dutch man and his son.

Two Moroccan men in underwear entered – our cleaners. One of them, a dead ringer for Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, indicated to me and pointed to the floor, then made the “sleepytime” motion of hands together held under his tilted head. I obeyed. He filled a bucket with water from one of the taps, and proceeded to pour what felt like near-boiling water on me several times over. My legs, which had borne the brunt of the sunburn, felt like they were glowing red. I rolled over and the same parboiling followed.

As I lay facedown, the man knelt over me and donned a small mitt. I caught a whiff of body odour and wondered how this could be possible for a man who cleans others for a living. This train of thought was broken by the sensation of something like unlubricated steel wool scouring the exposed skin on the backs of my legs. He was really going for it. Back and arms followed in the same forceful fashion. I turned over again and watched as he scrubbed my sunburnt legs. I recalled the unusual sequence in which small nerve fibres transmit information from the dermal layer: first light touch signals, then pain and heat signals, are sent to the brain. There was a mildly pleasant feeling, followed by the fresh, prolonged searing … and then a strange coolness. Maybe I should have said something. The scrubbing came to an end and I was stood up and drenched with more very hot water. As I returned to my seat, covered in soap and small, thin rolls of clumped dead skin, I saw the Dutch man motion to a small area on his forefoot and declare to his cleaner: “Watch out – sunburn!” I thought this was incredibly soft.

I looked forward to the massage but noticed the absence of a massage table or similar Western appliance. When it came to my turn, I was led into the “cold” room – a similar room but much smaller than the “hot” room. Once again, I was asked to go sleepytime on the tiled floor. This was difficult, as the little boy had occupied almost the entire floor of the room with his spread-eagled frame. And so, with feet sticking into the change room and head unavoidably pressed against the bench, I received an oil massage from a smelly man on the floor of a bath house.