Wham, Bam, Thank You, Hammam
Ever wonder what it's like to experience a hammam in Turkey? Take a read of Justin Wegiel's experience
Travel isn’t always pretty, nor should it be. Those creature comforts of home—the kind you so often take for granted—can’t and won’t save you from that feeling of being so completely vulnerable and out of place when you find yourself in such a weird and twisted situation such as I had experienced deep in the heart of Turkey.
This is what travel is all about: The challenge, the adventure, the unknown. There are times when you will, and in fact should feel so uncomfortable and unfamiliar with your surroundings that you can only wish you could pinch yourself and wake up. Escape the madness and the depravity.
Exhibit A: The traditional Turkish bath, or hammam as they’re known as to those of us in the know. Now, don’t let the cute name fool you; there is nothing cute or sensual about a Turkish bath, Nothing.
We were somewhere outside of Göreme in the heart of Cappadocia when the fear and loathing began to take hold. I was told we were to visit a traditional Turkish bath—an ancient ritual dating back to the time of the Romans—that was not to be missed.
Who am I to argue with tradition? I was feeling a bit tired having just spent a banger of a weekend in Istanbul, and I remember thinking: “What better way to relax and unwind after a long day on the road?” I couldn’t have been more wrong.
As I blissfully skipped off to the changing room, I could already hear grown men crying for mercy. Like the bumbling Roman fool who entered the lion’s den thinking it was the brothel, my world crashed all around me when I came to the sad realization that this was no pleasure cruise. My heart sank like a stone and my mind began to race with fear, anxiety and regret.
With a world of apprehension, I accepted my fate and made my way into the changing room. After slipping into the standard-issue uniform—paper thin boxer shorts and flip-flops—I stumbled into the first stage of the process. Step one is a walk in the park: a hydrating facial. Once dried, you are then lead into the sauna where (according to common belief) you sweat out all the toxins in your body. After that weekend in Istanbul, I may have needed an extra few minutes in here ;)
It was a real international affair that afternoon at the hammam: three Canadians (myself included), a group of older Indian fellows on business, a group of French tourists on holiday, and a Japanese sumo wrestler flying solo. So here we are from all corners of the globe, sweaty and panting in this hot and dry sauna.
As you start to sweat, the facial slowly melts away and runs down your face like a sorority girl’s makeup after a long night out on the town. After what seemed like an eternity at the time (although it was closer to ten minutes) I had to get out of that sauna. I simply couldn’t take the dry heat any longer.
Gasping for a decent breath of air, I left the sauna and was directed to go sit in the steam room. This is when the real madness began. The steam room was at the opposite end of the “massage” room. I caught a glimpse of what was to come and couldn’t help but have my regrets. One of the poor old Indian men had his leg wrapped up around his head like a pretzel, another one was being worked by a masseuse who was driving his thumbs deep into the man’s calf muscles. Both of the massage recipients were screaming in pain.
I passed by one of the masseuses and, with an odd and crooked smile, he gave me this funny wink. I felt like fresh meat walking into a maximum-security prison, and it was all happening in slow motion. These guys could sense my fear and were not at all about to give me any special treatment.
I flopped myself onto the steam room’s bench and could only shake my head in disbelief—what have I gotten myself into this time? I sat in the steam room cursing our tour leader for talking me into this and began to muster up the mental strength needed to proceed with this whole thing.
I left the steam room and asked one of my fellow Canadians, “Now what?” He pointed across the room and said, “Plunge pool, and it’s cold!” He wasn’t joking. The pool is a drastic contrast from the hot and humid steam room, and your entire body tightens up in the freezing cold water. Once you happen catch your breath you’re ready to move onto the main course, and the real torture.
“Hello, my name is Riza,” he said. “Riza?” I asked, “Like, from the Wu-Tang Clan?” I laughed. He looked at me blankly, having no idea what I was talking about. “Here,” he said, slapping his hand on his thin blue mat spread out on this massive marble square in his corner of the room. He then flashed that crooked smile again as I sat down in front of him and he motioned that I lay on my stomach.
He began working my shoulders and back like any typical massage, but things got hairy in a hurry. He drove his elbow into my lower back and, using it as a fulcrum, grabbed me by the legs and bent me in half—the wrong way. I could hear and feel every last vertebrae crack one by one all up my spine, and once again he flashed me that silly grin. He moved onto working my legs and feet, at one point squeezing my foot so hard I thought my big toe was about to pop like a champagne cork straight off my foot.
After dousing me with a couple of buckets of hot water, Riza then flipped me over and continued to go about his bizarre business. Stretching each arm across my chest with all his weight, he bounced on my elbows until cracking each shoulder, still grinning at me from ear to ear.
Next came the bubble treatment, which involved slowly lathering me up with an extra-bubbly lotion that foamed me up like a human sponge. Just as I was about to enjoy myself, he came down on my stomach with a big slap, leaving my belly with a bright red handprint. Then, he flipped me over and continued with the same routine on my back.
After splashing me with a few more buckets of hot water, I found myself in a complete daze and headed off to the showers. At last, it was over and I was done with this place. I tried to cleanse my mind of what had just transpired and to make sense of what I had just spent good, hard-earned money on, but ultimately couldn’t do either.
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