Hamam

The wise men from the East

Sometimes all we need is to be away from this world. Away from our demanding jobs, evaporating savings and crushed hopes. Some like to drink themselves into a stupor on a Friday night, but most are content to hit the sack at the end of a long day and drift off into a dreamless sleep. Having ample experience in both fields, I was glad to discover the Turks have found a third path that leads to the river Lethe: the hamam.

I always thought the hamam serves the dual purpose of getting clean what is dirty and catching up on the latest with your cronies. Little did I realise that a visit to the hamam extends beyond the realm of the physical and social and touches on the spiritual.

As a first-timer I entered somewhat apprehensively, not knowing what to expect or how to behave. While my companions ordered the full programme for the three of us, I gazed up in admiration. We were standing in a wood-paneled reception room that reminded me of the Moorish courtyards in Seville: two storeys separated by an elevated gallery, small rooms opening out onto a central space adorned with a trickling fountain. We retired to one of these cubicle-like rooms to exchange our dusty clothes for checkered loincloths—nudity seems to be a definite no-no in hamams. Even in this tiny changing room everything was set for pure relaxation: low light, toned-down colours and comfy beds inviting us to take a little nap later on.

Clickety-clacking on our flip-flops we entered the main bath chamber. Through clouds of steam I could make out the shape of a masseur hovering over what looked like a walrus lying face-down on a marble slab. We retreated to an alcove for some fooling around with running taps and plastic scoop-dishes, and then hung around in the sauna until we nearly passed out. After a cold shower it was our turn for a good scrub. The effect the kese (abrasive mitt) had on me was rather embarrassing. As my masseur scrubbed away at my tanned limbs, grime and dead skin amassed into thick grey worms. He smiled delightedly and showed me the fruit of his labour.

After another shower we returned to the heated slab for a final massage. By blowing air into soapy cotton sacks our moustached masseurs managed to cover us in a deluge of foam and then set to work, kneading and twisting away. It was pure bliss. 'Everyone deserves this,' I thought as they wrapped us in soft towels. 'Make hamam visits mandatory, especially in times like these, and the world will be a different place.'