Naked at the hands of a stranger (Hello Morocco!)

We had a big day ahead of us. Not only was it Mig’s birthday – so we needed to find a way to celebrate – but we also needed to make it from Cadiz, Spain to Tangier, Morocco by public transport. Little did I know, the day would end with me completely naked at the hands of a stranger.

Getting to Morocco meant taking the 9am bus from Cadiz to the Tarifa port, with enough time allowed for delays before the 1pm ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to Tangier, Morocco. Many of the reviews we read said the ferries and buses never ran to schedule but everything seemed to run smoothly for us without any issues. All our tickets had been pre-booked.

Leaving Spain from Tarifa Port

Boarding the 45-minute ferry ride to cross the Strait of Gibraltar to Morocco

The ferry ride across the Strait of Gibraltar was sickening. Literally. With the wild weather and rain over the past few weeks, the seas were rough. I’m not sure if they’re always that rough but luckily the 3 kids took their travel sickness tablets and managed to keep everything down. John, who is terrible with boats and sea sickness, refused to take the travel tablets and was turning green. I think his pride was the only thing that kept everything down. 

I’m usually OK with boats and choppy seas, so I didn’t feel the need to take any meds. However, during what was probably the roughest part of the trip, I was walking back and forth between the passport control queue on board and where the kids were sitting as I thought they may have needed to present themselves to passport control when our turn came. Those trips trying to keep my balance in a boat rocking side to side, coupled with standing in the queue trying to keep my balance while people around me were being sick, and the relative warmth and stuffiness the closer I got to the counter all combined into the perfect storm. In the midst of the officer processing our 5 passports at what felt like a snail’s pace, I could feel myself breaking into a cold sweat. I had to call John to finish the transaction excusing myself for some fresh air outside where I stayed until the end of the trip.

Onboard the ferry before we turned green

Adios Espana!

I had told the kids that we would have to ‘hail a donkey’ and find our own way around Morocco after their persistent questioning about how we were going to get around. Given that we were making our own way to Tangier, they believed me, so there was a combined sense of excitement and relief when Mig saw someone holding up Hubby's name at the Tangier port. Even more relief when we were ushered out to the waiting vehicle.

Our ride while we're in Morocco. No hailing of donkeys necessary.

Tangier is a massive and relatively cosmopolitan city, more European than Moroccan as far as the eyes were concerned… nothing at all like Marrakech, or even Fez, which I will never forget as my first impression into Morocco. I had envisioned Tangier to be a small port town, nothing at all like the city that it is. I have since found out that it’s the second largest city after Casablanca. My thoughts went back to the Canadian I was talking to while standing in the passport control queue on the ferry. They were making an overnight trip to Tangier from Spain just so they could ‘check out Morocco’. Tangier is not Morocco. It’s in Morocco but I couldn’t help but wonder what impression of Morocco this Canadian and his family would have if that’s all they saw. There’s so much more depth and variety to Morocco that I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them – the souks, the medinas, the kasbahs, the desert, the Rif and Atlas mountains. 

It seems there are many who do this - hop on the ferry from Spain, spend a few nights in Tangier, and that’s their foray into Morocco. It’s the equivalent of hopping on a ferry across the English Channel from Portsmouth, England into Caen or Calais, France - spending a few nights there and going no further to experience the rest of France. If Tangier is all you have time for, then at least stay in and explore the old medina inside the old city walls.

Old prison now abandoned. Beautiful buildings 'ripe for renovation' are not an uncommon site.

Riad just inside the old city walls.

We managed to get Mig a cake with a candle at our lunch stop which led to an entire restaurant full of people singing Happy Birthday to him in a bunch of mixed languages so I was glad we were able to make his day feel special before it ended. 

Little did we know, Moha, our driver/guide, had also arranged for a birthday cake and some Moroccan tea at our riad. Hubby and I were completely caught off guard wondering if the other had organised the surprise. Unfortunately, we weren’t quick enough and the confusion showed on our faces so we weren’t able to take credit for the preparations.

The long day ended in the most unexpected way possible. Our riad had a private hammam (bath house) which we had always wanted to experience. We had seen the historical moorish bath houses when we were in Granada, Spain several years earlier but never got to try any of the hammams there. So when Hubby asked to see it, he was quick to organise ‘a hammam experience’ for both of us. It was a heated stone room similar to the now familiar Finnish and Swedish saunas except - instead of wood – it is made of marble, stone and traditional mosaics expected from this part of the world. Then there was a massage table. ‘Great!’, I thought. ‘I know how this works! I’ve been to spas before. Sign me up.’

The attendant showed us where we could undress. Always the awkward part with any spa experience as you never really know how far to undress. Down to your underwear? Underwear off? Top only? Or everything?? 

Change room and massage area

In this case, as it was a private hammam, the attendant told us matter-of-factly we could just remove everything and go naked. Everything?? Ok… I complied but clutched my towel wrapped around me as I sat on the hot marble bench. Then she asked for my towel. “But I’ve got nothing on”, I sheepishly reminded her. “Can I just sit on my towel??” I asked now feeling like I was back in Year 2 asking for permission to go to the toilet. That marble was HOT! “Ok” she shrugged, “...but you’ll need to take off the towel when I do all the other things”. Other things?? What other things? Aren’t we just supposed to sit here and sweat, then shower, then get a massage??

(Damn it! I should've Googled 'Moroccan Hammam' before getting to this point!)

Well… those “other things” involve the attendant bathing and scrubbing you like you’ve never been bathed and scrubbed before.

First, she asks you to lie down on the hot marble slab. So ‘naked you’ not only has to lie down, but more bare skin now has to touch this hot stone. The ‘ritual’ then starts with the attendant pouring hot water over you using shallow dishes, a bit like how you would baste a roasting turkey with glaze. This is a relief because it actually cools the hot stone. Next, she starts slathering every inch of you in what I now know as ‘black soap’ (sabon beldi), a gel-like substance made from olive oil that makes you so slippery you could easily slip off the marble bench you’re laying on.

Marble bench - 'Scene of the Crime'

Water fountain (tap) and buckets of water with THAT marble bench in background

Once you’re sufficiently covered in this ‘shmuck’ you then need to sit for a while, trying not to slip off the marble bench, to let this ‘soap’ and the heat of the room do their work. After a few minutes, the attendant washes the soap off and uses an exfoliating mitt (kessa) to vigorously scrub every inch of you to remove dead skin cells. I’m not talking ‘gentle aromatherapy, sea salt scrub’ kind of scrub. I’m talking ‘scrub the mud off that car’ kind of scrub. Then once again, she washes you down to get rid of your dead skin which you can literally feel come off you like sunburn peeling. I shudder to think about the hygiene factor of everyone’s dead skin swishing around that stone room and just convince myself that the heat of the stone and tile is enough to kill anything in its path. 

Once you’ve been cleansed of your dead skin, the attendant slathers on something else that looks like a black scrub. By this stage you’re well and truly resigned to the nakedness and the fact that a complete stranger is not only washing you but has just scrubbed you in places you’ve never been scrubbed before.

After several minutes of letting this black ‘shmuck’ do its work, you’re then free to get under the shower and wash it off yourself (Really??! Why stop now?). You’re then ushered into the change room and given fresh robes where you can sip on a cool cup of fresh lemon drink while you wonder what the hell just happened.

Shower area

PS. The massage needed to be booked separately so we never got one as we were only there overnight!

PPS. I have since Googled 'Moroccan Hammams' and discovered that the Arabic hammams in Granada and Seville, Spain that I've seen with the pools of water at different temperatures is more aligned to the Turkish bathing tradition. Moroccan hammams include the washing and scrubbing I just described. It's not a touristy or ancient ritual either. Moroccans today go to public hammams around once a week, or at least once a month. What a luxury! My skin has never felt so soft - ever! Not even after a body scrub at a 'normal' spa. This was next level exfoliation which, heaven knows, our skin needed after last winter. 

Mental note: need to get my hands on that sabon beldi and scrubbing mitt. That was a miracle combo.