The girls were having a mani-pedi yesterday and as my nails were all fine, I decided to book in for a 45-minute Moroccan Bath at the same salon. I'd had one in Jordan a few years ago and it was quite lovely.
On arrival, I was ushered into a curtained change room, handed a disposable G-string and instructed to change.
Is there a robe? I enquired. Looking about, spotting only the berqa and bra of another client.
No. No robe.
Hugging my possessions for modesty, I was shown a locker where I was obliged to deposit the lot - including our shopping from the day at the mall. There was a small argument between the attending ladies as to whether 'madame' was allowed to use a second locker. I wasn't, so jammed everything in one with a purposeful shove.
Now exposed, I was taken from the air-conditioned comfort of the lounge and locker area into a very warm, fully tiled 'wet room', decorated like a Roman bathhouse, where other clients and therapists were splashing water about for various beautifying purposes. Fatima, the executor of my treatment, indicated that I should sit on the marble-like stool and plaited my hair, trying to make it stay up without an accessory - that wasn't working - so she gave up and sloshed water all over me. I was then soaped, rinsed and pushed into a small steam room.
Now if I thought the wet-room was hot, this was totally redefining. Visibility was about 60cm due to the dense mist. I could make out one other occupant, also resplendent in a disposable G-string, who would occasionally throw water on herself from some unseen urn.
Is that water cold? I asked hopefully, and seriously concerned about expiring. I usually like a steam room but this was a level of heat and humidity beyond anything I'd experienced before.
No, it's all hot, she said.
It's so hot in here, I commented, trying to sound casual and not too panicky.
I think you're sitting where the steam comes out, she offered. Maybe sit over this side.
She was right. I moved and although I felt like I'd stopped cooking, it was still excruciatingly hot and claustrophobic. I asked how long we had to stay in there and she said just as long as you like.
I wasn't liking, so popped out in less than 10 minutes. Fatima wasn't impressed. She asked if I wanted to go back in for more. I declined, so we moved on to the scrub. I lay down on a plastic covered yoga mat on a bench.
I'd had to buy a mitt from the salon for the scrub. It looked innocent enough but it may as well have been a pot scrubber. Laid out like a slab of meat, I was scrubbed so hard I expected to emerge tattoo-less and two kilos lighter as the exfoliated skin formed worms and rolled off along with my excessive sweat. At times, I had to count in my head to distract myself from the searing pain. On and on it went with no spot spared, arms and legs were lifted and bent to ensure full coverage was attained. I was rolled from back to side, side to side, and side to front, skin left tingling from the relief of being left alone.
Finally, it was over.
I was asked to sit on another stool and Fatima said she'd wash my hair in a way that suggested this was a bonus. She wandered off and came back with two large, unlabelled pump packs; one resembling apricot jam, the other custard. The 'jam' lathered and smelled like cheap dish washing liquid. I was instructed to tip my head forward over the urn for the rinse. Now I've never been water boarded and I don't want to make light of that heinous practise, but as Fatima held my nose and scooped continuous bucket-loads of water that streamed over my mouth, I had a small insight into what it might be like. I tried to make a veranda over my mouth with my hand so I could get some air intake.
Time for the 'custard'. She left it in like some exotic hair treatment while she soaped me down again with a product I suspected is also used in the shopping centre toilets to wash your hands.
Rinsed off for a final time, Fatima yanked off the paper G-string and plonked a large towel in a plastic bag and a smaller towel for my hair on the bench.
I shakily made my way back to the 'lounge' area and drank three glasses of water. Fatima soaked two cotton pads with some kind of lotion and popped them on my eyes as I leant back in the recliner, recovering from the ordeal. With eyes shut, she opened my hand and dropped something into it. I wasn't sure what it was - it felt like the cardamon seed mix you sometimes get at Indian restaurants after a meal - I wondered if I should eat whatever it was? I slipped off an eye patch and saw it was my necklace that I'd popped in a shoe for safe keeping. While my eyes had been shut, my belongings had been piled on the side table next to me.
Rousing from my recovery and removing the cotton pads, I noticed other clients, clearly regulars, with small plastic baskets filled with luxury products they'd brought along. No jam and custard for them!
My skin felt like I'd been whipped with stinging nettles and the rash confirmed it.
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Finally, I made my way, dazed, back into the room where the girls were still having their nails attended to. The laughed and said I looked like a drowned rat. I had been offered a hair dryer but I required no more heat that day.
As soon as I could, I got back to the apartment and into the shower to condition my hair that felt and looked like raffia from the Reject Shop. The water stung - like I had sunburn - and when we went out that night, the heat from the seat in the taxi had the same effect.
So that was yesterday and today, the rash has receded and my skin does feel amazingly soft and super-smooth - but not sure I'd be rushing back.
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