Keep Away

I went to the hammam for the first time last week. This is like the public bathhouse (though it's not quite that: less adornment, more implied luxury), where, if you are the typical Moroccan, you go once a week to clean yourself. Separate ones for men and women, of course.

The one my brother, Abbas, and my little brother, Omar, took me to was a few blocks from our house; you got in, as you get into most places worth getting into here (you'd never find it without Moroccan brothers, that is), through an unmarked door several feet below ground level. Once in, you got lower, and then suddenly you were an anteroom with tiled floors and mirrors at weird angles on the wall, which anteroom smelled like clean men, which is a smell I've never smelled till then but recognized immediately when I smelled it. In one corner of the anteroom was what could only be called a ticket taker in a kissing booth.

You stripped to your underwear, handed your clothes to the ticket taker, and entered the hammam. The ceilings were very low, maybe 7 feet. Water splashed about on the floor; one fat old man was on his knees scrubbing the back of another fat old man; the most unerotic moans I have ever heard whistled along the dripping concrete malls; and it was so hot you were immediately put into submission. It was wonderful; this wasn't a place for contemplation.

I'm not sure how to explain the actual ritual of cleaning yourselves. Two buckets per man. One for pouring on yourself pre-lather; the other for rinsing the lather. If it is a group of more than two, the two eldest fill up the buckets. My 11 year-old brother poured an entire bucket on his head and sang (which he is always doing, in the most extreme indication of a future musician I have ever seen); my 17 year-old brother took his time, measuring his pours, asking me throughout, good, yes? good, yes?

Well, yes. I went into the hotter adjoining room at one point (eventually, the heat makes individuals out of everybody) and I sat with my eyes closed on a chunk of a marble bench before which lay two adolescent boys stretching like they were about to play--what else?--soccer. I closed my eyes and counted to 44 in Arabic. Or, I tried. But this is really hard to do. Keeping your eyes closed for even 44 seconds in a public place, even in the hammam. It felt like a worthwhile challenge, though that might be wrong. I think I made it up to 44. I tried counting down from 44 in Spanish; this was harder. I really was imagining that some mortal enemy of mine was going to come and stab me in the stomach.

Either way, around 20 on my way down, my brother woke me up (which is something: being woken, awake) and I didn't want to explain in very bad Arabic what I was trying to accomplish...

Finished, back in the anteroom, I placed my shampoo and body wash on one of the benches while I dried and changed. In a moment, a short round man flew across the room and all but attacked Abbas. I had put my shampoo and soap on what I think was his prayer mat. Now, he should not have put his prayer mat on the bench in the small public area where we dry and change; but I didn't say that, of course. I really bit my tongue; his anger was so righteous and provocative I had to talk myself into silence. It's true: I am like this; I'm a bit careless. I also know (intellectually, etc.) the importance of this man's prayer mat...is that why I did it? To see how he would really react?

La, la, la. Bullshit, they say in all languages. After arguing with Abbas, who stood up for me, sort of, though it seemed more like he was trying to elaborate my ignorance (which wasn't really ignorance) while himself wanting to sock the old man--after that ceremony of confrontation, the old man began to taunt Omar. I think it was about mothers. It was odd: I couldn't tell if the taunts were escalating, or if this was some juvenile form of manly reconciliation (yes, Omar is, in many ways here, a man). When we left the hammam, I rubbed my cheek and there was bits of skin on my hand. My friend, Michael, who came with us, has been three times since we've been here. I understand, but he should definitely try to keep away--until he can't.

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