Ümlaut's first post from Syria - Hamam

Al-Hamam

For the men reading this, I am sorry. Sorry that while you may go to a public bath in the Middle East you will never experience the enclave of female comfort that I experienced. For those of you visiting Istanbul, many of the male public baths are gay pick-up joints (if that’s the kind of thing you’re into). I have heard that there are similar gay baths in Syria although I wouldn’t know where to ask or where to go. For the women, if you have the chance, do not miss a uniquely female experience like ladies’ day at the hamam.

The entrance to the hamam I went to a few days ago is a large circular room with a 30-meter high ceiling finishing in a beautiful cupola punctuated by small stained glass windows. Low divans surround a central fountain where women sit smoking nargile and cigarettes, drinking coffee and chatting among themselves. Once you’ve divested yourself of your belongings and your clothes (in a carefully orchestrated changing process as to not reveal too much) you are given a thin cloth to wrap around yourself and sent into a hot sauna with a small bowl containing a scrubber, a small bottle of shampoo, and a bizarre sponge made of plastic wires.

We sat, sweltering, and chatting, when a lovely buxom British women came in and sat with us. Other than the three of us, everyone was local. Old women with large breasts that hung down to their bellies and tall, nubile young Syrian women splashing around sitting on the hot stones around small fountains. A young mother brought her two daughters, one who was likely around 18 months old and clearly not pleased by the hot room or the constant deluge of water her mother poured over her head. We sat until we had sweated enough and then moved in front of a fat woman dressed in drenched black clothes. I laid down on the hot floor, basically naked, with my cloth draped between my legs, and she scrubbed my arms, my legs, and my face and then motioned over to a table jutting out from the wall – “massage” – I imagine one of 3 words she spoke in English. The table is dangerously slippery and I almost slid off several times, saved only by the bulk of the frizzy red-headed masseuse. The massage was nothing like I have experienced in the States, involving all my parts, including those that even the most adventurous masseuse in San Francisco would likely avoid. When she wanted me to move closer to her she grabbed the two ends of my cloth and pulled me towards her and I slid like a winter sled down the long table smack into her generous bosom. You may think that there are too many mentions of breasts in this short description but if you should find yourself in this situation, I guarantee, breasts are all that you see – they are unavoidable and ever present. Shy women should steer clear.

After the massage and hot shower during which I fashioned my wrap into a shower curtain of sorts, we retreated into the first stone room, an entryway of sorts, where women offered us small, sour green plums and escaped the heat. At this point, I felt clean, slightly light-headed, but altogether relaxed. We exchanged our dripping wraps for dry ones and went into the first room again to sit on the divan, smoke nargile, and drink peach iced tea. Just as I was thinking a bit of music would be nice, loud belly dancing tunes began emanating from ancient speakers, echoing loudly in the chamber. I shook my shoulders a bit to the tune and the next thing I knew, I was dancing with the proprietress, switching my hips to the beat with women clapping in the background. We started a dance party as other women began to dance, either in their seats or in front of their divans, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Two young Syrian girls, beautiful, tall, with amazing figures, began a dance that was mesmerizing. Their wraps were tied around their waists in knots and their midriffs were bare – they had changed into colorful bras that accentuated their full breasts and thin shoulders. I’ve never seen girls dance so well, carefree in front of their mothers, aunts, grandmothers. It was lovely. Everyone, young and old, was swaying to the music and laughing and clapping. What I would have given for a video camera at that moment. We sat for an hour listening to the music, chatting, trying to answer questions in our broken Arabic, and feeling entirely at ease. One of the older women got up and made a space to pray in the corner. My friend whispered to me, “There is a time to dance and a time to pray.” Apparently, at the hamam, these can happen at the same time. After an hour, reluctantly, the dance party broke up and we got dressed. The young nubile Syrian girls drew dark kohl lines around their eyes and put on their trendy clothes. The older women donned their headscarves and lost a bit of their charm. We left the building through a curtained old doorway. The harsh reality of the Syrian afternoon light was a bit surreal after that time of sweet female companionship.
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