Stu's visit to Egypt.
01/21/02
Fire and Ice
One of the touristy things to do as a foreigner in Istanbul is to have a large, sweaty, bald man rub you down with hot,
soapy water. These so-called 'Turkish baths' are supposed to be historic and cleansing and no one had
warned me of any dangers. Still, I was leery. I had been washing myself privately for the better part of three decades and
couldn't think of any benefit to public bathing, especially when it involved audience
participation. Needless to say, I was less than enthusiastic as I walked through the heavy wooden doors of the Cemberlitas Hammami.
I went early in the morning, before breakfast, in an effort to avoid a crowd. Eight o'clock was too early on a frigid
January morning for carpet sellers and trinket hawkers, but the historic bath had been open for two hours
already. I approached the ticket window just inside the big doors and read
the information posted there. I had no idea of the process and hoped that I
wouldn't have to speak Turkish to anyone to find out. I still hadn't made up
my mind and any small inconvenience would send me in the opposite direction,
avoid of a new experience, but relieved.
Unfortunately, the flyer posted on the glass was clear and informative. Also, the price was reasonable. I paid my
twenty-five million Turkish Lira (fifteen USD) like I was made of money and received a yellow, plastic chip,
about the size and shape of a domino, with the word "massage" etched into it.
So far so good. I waited for further instructions from the ticket seller,
but got only a cursory wave sending me away from the booth. I backed away
and turned toward a large, square room. It was open to three stories with a
balcony lining all four walls on the two floors above. There was a pile of
folded towels on a table in the middle. Three or four attendants in plaid
robes milled about behind the stack of towels. I stood for several seconds
wondering if I had made an embarrassing mistake, like walking into the woman's section, or wearing the wrong kind of shoes.
A short, fully dressed man approached me and pointed to a stairwell recessed into a corner of the room and said
something in Turkish. Guessing he said, "Upstairs, please" I followed him up the steps to the first balcony landing
and into a small room. He continued to speak Turkish and I continued to stare blankly and say, "Huh?" I eventually
put the pieces together and guessed that this was a changing a room where I should disrobe, wrap a towel
around my waist, lock the door, and take the key with me downstairs when I
had finished. He would wait for me there and we would proceed to the next step.
Minutes later I arrived downstairs with a towel wrapped around my waist and key in hand. Suddenly a chorus of
Turkish men yelled objections and with much fanfare I was waved back up the stairs with a towel wrapped around
my waist and key in hand. I hurried into my little room panting and
embarrassed. Surely I had just made some kind of grievous error. Panic stricken I searched the tiny room for any clue of what to do next.
I eyed my plastic massage ticket on the small table and a pair of slippers in the corner. I put them on and snatched
the token. I peeked over the railing of the balcony before tip-toeing down the steps and caught the eye of the
attendant who had ushered me. I held up the token, lifted my foot to show off my new found footwear and waited
for an approving look from below. He smiled, nodded and waved his arm toward the stairs. I pointed to my chest
then pointed down just to confirm his instructions and he repeated my gestures. I walked down the stairs cautiously
and approached a small group of male attendants. One of them stepped forward put out his hand and spoke
Turkish. I placed the plastic token in his hand and said, "Huh?"
He led me through a big, wooden door into a small antechamber with wooden benches and four marble fountains set
into a stone wall. It was very sparse and I was a bit disappointed. But then we walked through another thick,
wooden door and a moist wave of heat surrounded me. He directed me to a large, flat, knee-high marble slab and
had me lie on my back. The stone was almost unbearably hot and felt soothing to my muscles. I lied on my back
and stared at the ceiling. Suddenly, his face filled my field of vision and he said, "After twenty minute later, I
rub. "Then he left the room.
"Great!" I thought. I have twenty minutes to lie here and worry about what kind of torture he was planning for me. I
stared at the round, domed ceiling filled with round, domed, glass portals that allowed ambient sunlight to seep
into the room. The entire room was carved out of marble. The heated, round slab in the center of the room on which I
reposed was large enough to hold twenty men. There were only three of us on it at the moment so there was no
danger of actually coming in contact with another naked man. Marble fountain basins with brass fixtures were set
into the marble walls around the slab. The marble columns that supported the dome were decoratively carved. The
single, bare light bulb that hung from the end of a long cord attached to the apex of the dome seemed oddly out of
place.
Eventually, my mind wandered and I was struck by the attractiveness of the room. I imagined what a relaxing,
cleansing activity this must have been hundreds of years ago before advances in modern hygiene. Unfortunately, I
couldn't shake the foreboding thoughts of a large, sweaty, Turkish man sudsing me up and rubbing me down.
When he returned he was wearing an oven mitt on his hand. He gave a few gruff instructions in Turkish which I never
understood but usually meant slide closer or farther or roll over or lift an arm or sit up. I guessed
right most of the time. I knew it was pointless to ask questions, but when he saw me gape at the dark debris that was collecting on his
loofa he replied with a smile, "Skeen."
After the industrial exfoliation he directed me to lie on my back. He poured buckets of hot water on me then began
to lather me in thick airy suds. He rubbed my legs, cracked my toes and massaged my chest and arms. The piece du
resistance came when he crossed my arms over my chest and heaved downward with his full body weight. I heard
my own vertebrae make a noise that I usually associate with breaking glass. Before I could recover from the
surprise he did it again. I didn't feel any pain. I was just amazed at the sound of my own joints.
Then I sat up and he pulled a Steven Segal move on my neck. I had no idea it was coming. He was shampooing my
hair and massaging my scalp when suddenly he gripped my skull hard and threw my head sharply to one side, then,
just as violently, threw it the other way. I heard a sound that reminded me of
knuckles cracking and realized that it had come from my own neck. I remember feeling no pain, not even numbness. Just that my head seemed suddenly
weightless. Either this was an effective body massage technique used throughout the Ottoman regime for centuries,
or a large, sweaty Turk had just severed my spinal cord in several places.
When the next bucket of water hit my chest and almost scalded the hair off I decided that I hadn't actually been
paralyzed. He finished the massage, rinsed me and left, saying that I could stay and wash myself and lie on the
slab as long as I like, "No problem." I accepted the offer and lied down on the slab for another half-hour. I rinsed the
sweat off with more very hot water and walked to the door.
The attendant met me with towels and wrapped one around my head, replaced the one around my waist and draped
a third over my shoulders. He spoke more Turkish and I nodded and smiled when I thought appropriate. Following
his prompts I returned to my change room with my key and dressed. I reflected on
the experience and decided that even with my awkward western discomfort it was a pleasing and relaxing venture. On my way out I dropped the key
into his hands with a tip and left the warmth and relaxation of the Cemberlitas
Hammami.
The euphoric feeling that comes from severe exfoliation, scalding water and spinal contortion lasted about two steps
out the door. That's when a snowball struck me square in the face. Luckily, it was loosely packed by a
novice snowball-maker in haste. This also explained the missed target who I guessed was his teenaged companion ducking
behind a kabap sign.
Snow was falling at such a furious rate that it obscured the opposite sidewalk. It had already accumulated past the
ankles and showed no signs of letting up. A small herd of young men pushed a police van up the sloped
street. The trams were stopped as men brushed and scraped the rails ahead of them. Autos were stuck in snow banks and
some drivers were struggling to put chains on the tires. The streets were full of school aged children.
Everyone was throwing snowballs. Kids, shopkeepers, even policemen were getting in on the act. Snow of this magnitude was
rarely seen by Istanbulians.
A cafe owner stopped me, thrust a camera in my hands, and asked me (in Mime) to take a photo of he and his son
beside a snowman they had made. I smirked as I snapped the picture. One foreigner taking a picture of another
foreigner. Both of us staying for only a few days. I probably should have warned Frosty about the hammami.