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Traveling in India, for all the
personal growth it brings, is a dust, soot, and sweat laden experience.
Even after a bath, rubbing a random spot on my arm produces little black
streaks of muck. One gets used to it but during such moments I have often
recalled my visit to a hammam in Damascus in Feb 2001. I was traveling
alone and, on a whim, dropped by at a hammam near my hotel. It was one
unforgettable experience.
I had signed up for the
hour-long, full-service option for about $6, including tea in the end. It
also came with a personal attendant to navigate me through the many
chambers of the hammam. Without a lingua franca, we had to rely on
gestures. The deal began with my undressing and putting on a white cloth
"modesty wrap", mandatory at all times. I remember thinking of a remark by
Herodotus on the non-Greeks of his day: "For among the . barbarians [or
barbaros, a Greek term
for all non-Greeks, who all sounded like 'bar-bar' to Greek ears] . it is
reckoned a deep disgrace, even to a man, to be seen naked." Old habits may
die hard but right then they suited my Indian sensibilities just fine.
I
was
first
led
to
a
small,
furnace-hot
sauna
chamber.
Just
as
I
had
begun
broiling
in
my
own
sweat,
the
door
opened
and an
orderly
tossed
a
half-bucket
of
water
on
the
heating
elements
in
the
corner,
at
once
turning
some
of
it
into
steam
and
nearly
scalding
me.
I
rushed
out
with
a
yelp;
my
personal
attendant
appeared,
knowingly
smiled,
and
led
me
from
this
"hot
room"
to
a
much
larger
"warm
room",
which
had
a
few
people
milling
about
through
a
mist-like
steam.
There
were
taps
and
washbasins
along
the
wall,
where
I
self-administered
the
first of
many
soap-n-wash
treatments.
A few minutes later, I was
taken to a squatting pot-bellied man in a small room for the "hard scrub"
treatment. He asked me to lie down on the floor flat on my belly. Through
a film of soapy water, he proceeded to first scrub me with a camel hair
brush, and then with something that felt like a steel wool scrub, the kind I use to get
the toughest cooking stains off my pans. He extracted layers and layers of
hidden dirt along with, no doubt, some of the epidermis, and proudly
showed it to me. 'Look!' he would grin. By now I was tingling all over,
pink and sensitive. I was led to the warm room again to wash off the soap
and the clinging bits of muck.
The final step was a "power
massage", a fine display of controlled ruthlessness. I wondered if the
masseuse was practicing an act of personal vendetta against a relative on
me. He rubbed warm oil and asked me to relax but the pain from his
ministrations was so sharp and sudden that I couldn't. A final trip to the
warm room and it was finally over. Emerging clean and spotless like china
from a dishwasher, I sat in the sumptuously
decorated main hall wrapped in thick towels and sipped a syrupy tea. It
was now that I felt wonderfully relaxed, with a delicious ache all over my
skin. Though very glad for the experience, it had also clarified one thing
for me: better the muck on my arms than a hammam again! |
