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MyWikiBiz, Author Your Legacy — Thursday October 03, 2024
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Coming up next is my experience in the hammam (حمّام), a public Turkish bath, as well as a mystery subject which you will find out when the article is published. As always, keep your eyes glued here! My entries should be more frequent during our twelve-day excursion outside of the house since I will have a stable Internet connection and too much to talk about.
Coming up next is my experience in the hammam (حمّام), a public Turkish bath, as well as a mystery subject which you will find out when the article is published. As always, keep your eyes glued here! My entries should be more frequent during our twelve-day excursion outside of the house since I will have a stable Internet connection and too much to talk about.
==The Clothes Are Coming Off==
A few nights ago, I went with my family and my housemates to the hammam (حمّام), a public bathhouse descended from the old Turkish baths that are spread throughout the whole former territory of the Ottoman Empire. We had to go at night - it is segregated by sex according to time, and during the afternoon it is occupied by women. We brought along our toiletries, change of clothes, and towels, and headed out to the hammam - it was within walking distance. The first one we tried to visit, however, was closed, even after the family argued with the management and peered through the window by standing atop an unstable pile of rubble, so we went back to the house to visit another one - which, as we would later learn, was a wise decision.
We entered the hammam, greeted by a changing room where we were given lockers to hold our stuff. We stripped down to our bathing suits and trunks here (all the men were nude except for this), then grabbed our toiletries and headed onwards to the cleaning facilites. And what a variegated display we saw: the neatly tiled room was so full of steam that our visibility was slightly reduced. Nevertheless, I could still make out spickets for both hot and cold water dotted along the perimeter of the room and private showering rooms with locking doors, each containing a small stool. The two most interesting features, however, were the room over to the left, even more congested with steam than the main hall thanks to two candles at the top of the room (which also provided the only light within the room itself) and the flat panel on the right room where employees gave professional massages and scrubbings to whomever wanted them.
The eight of us began by sitting in the dark room, simmering our feet in hot water held in large plastic pails, which were provided for free use alongside some gourd-like devices which had a handle which we could use to scoop up water and lap it upon ourselves. Being the constantly-intrigued type, I grew somewhat bored of this and joined Aziz up on a raised landing, where the steam was at its thickest thanks to the candles, constricting my vision even further. It was almost suffocating to be up here for too long - I could only keep my head up here for a few minutes at a time and had to take long, labored breaths after only several seconds. During this time, I talked to Moemen and Achraf about starting a hammam business in America, making myself president and the two of them vice-presidents. However, I was only joking about that prospect - or am I?
Next came the time we spent thoroughly cleaning our bodies. We lathered ourselves with our soap, taking hot showers either in the stalls or outside with the public shower. This allowed me to use my new shampoo and almond-infused milk soap, both of which I approved. In addition, I received a massage from the man that Mansour personally recommended - it was a very interesting experience, to say the least. The massager stretched me in ways that I did not think possible, and he relieved stresses on my joints that I was not aware of until he soothed them free. He also had a special coarse sponge which he lathered up with shampoo and liberally scratched over my whole body - apparently this is supposed to clear off dead skin and reduces risks of infections as well as making you smell fresher. I finished off this hammam experience with a shave using one of the little scoopers to wash off my blade and changed into my pyjamas back in the foyer, all for only three dinars.
We went two days later to the hammam that was closed on our first night. Everything about this place seemed tawdry in comparison to the other one: the facilities were less clean and did not feature any wonderful mosaics, just plain blue and white tiles. Furthermore, the men there were likely all ex-convicts - they had large tattoos covering their bodies depicting things such as snakes and demons, and one of them had a straight-blade razor, but I seemed to pay no attention to this and went about my jolly way. Luckily, for my own sake, Dave had kept a lookout for me and advised me not to strut about the place so freely. To be honest, though, the people there were not inhospitable - perhaps a bit brusque and annoyed by our presence, but still they did not show any outward signs of disrespect to at least me.
The last hammam we went to was unique among the three - while the other two were similar in regards to their amenities, this one featured an odd combination of a cool room and a searing-hot room which was filled as much as possible with steam. So saturated was this room with steam that it was simply impossible to see further than three inches. Nevertheless, I explored around with extreme caution on the slippery tiles and discovered a trough filled with warm-hot water, which I laid in and soaked my arms, legs, and hair. I spent the rest of the time lounging out on the raised platforms and attempting feebly to do some crunches, then retired to the cool room for a shower and dressed myself in the changing room.
And now, for my surprise topic: maybe it was obvious, maybe you thought it wouldn't come, but it's here now. Without further ado, I'm putting the Man in Mandrew...!
To begin the chronicle of my escapades, I present an incident which occurred in the Celio store at Carrefour, a mall on the outskirts of La Marsa. While perusing their selection of "les t-shirts", a very pretty employee wearing blue eyeliner came up to me and asked me something in French. I whipped out the only French I know, "Je ne parlais français," and without any further warning proceeded to talk her in Arabic. Immediately her expression livened up, and we carried ourselves into a discussion on our studies and travels. She did not speak much English, so we had to hinge on my knowledge of Arabic to communicate - nevertheless, we were able to tell each other our aspirations for employment and education, and she even made a few suggestions on the shirts I chose. However, despite my command of Arabic, I still was struggling to find the right words, so this sadly had to remain a brief flirtation.
Prior to this, I had partied at the discotheque in the Hotel Mouradi in Gommarth (قمرت), where we would have spent the entire trip had the host familiy stays not worked out. One of the workers at the hotel noticed that I was dancing improperly (shock!), so we spent some time dancing with each other the proper way in the middle of a rowdy circle of Delaware students. It was hard to retain my composure in the pandemonium that had erupted down there, but eventually I recalled my informal lessons from ages past and was able to put on an acceptable demonstration. Expect more details about the night life in Tunisia later in the trip - we almost certainly will be going out to one, hopefully with some locals.
However, what happened yesterday puts both of those meager stories to shame: we were touring some ancient mosques and forts being guided by Si Najib. At the last fort we visited, I walked up a hefty flight of stairs to bear witness to a small museum carved out from one of the abandoned embattlements. A man nearby was selling newspapers and gestured as much to me. In reply, I said "لا أريد الجريدة" (I don't want the newspaper) - this pleasantly surprised everyone sitting around the area, and they could not help but break out into laughter. The curator of the museum, curious about this Westerner who could speak Arabic, began bombarding me with friendly questions about where I was from, how long I have been studying Arabic, etc. I told her that I wrote articles for my school newspaper and that I was considering becoming a journalist and that I would consider buying the newspaper when I left.
This discussion raised the attention of two female visitors nearby, who seemed just as mesmerized at my Arabic abilities as the museum employees were. Recognizing me as an English speaker, they took this opportunity to practice their knowledge of the language with me - they had only been studying for two years, but their command of the language was stronger than my Arabic. Luckily for me, the more attractive of the two, Rania (رانية), seemed more interested in me, and showed as much by looking me straight in the eye and beaming with a sincere smile. Amused by this demonstration, several members of our crew took pictures of the three of us talking about our travels and their desire to become English teachers - they were from the north of the country, but are temporarily residing in more southerly reaches to attend university.
Things took an interesting turn as we climbed up one of the fort's towers - it is structured roughly like a lighthouse, but its spiral staircase is made of somewhat irregularly placed stones and was much darker and narrower. Rania had exclaimed to me "Oh! I'm afraid of the dark!", which led me to ascend the tower with me holding her hand and hugging the innermost edge. Several of the guys on the trip made some intriguing (though not offensive) comments about this display, but mostly they were grumbling about how it complicated their descent from the tower. Eventually, I reached the top with Rania and her friend, and we could overlook the entire city of Kerouan.
We stared down at the many harbors, buildings, and streets which dominated this somewhat poor costal town, which thrives primarily on tourism. By this time, Rania had sidled next to me. She was joking around a little bit with Dave and few members of our crew, but quickly returned to discussion with me. We had been making light of our ethnicities and playfully stating how the Asians on our crew were related to Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, and that I because I was Italian, I was connected to Sylvester Stallone. By this time, we had climbed back down the tower and were looking around in some parts of the fort we had not explored. Unfortunately, this all came to a bittersweet ending as Khalil had called us back to the bus before I had a chance to get her number - perhaps our paths will wend together again, but alas, I have no guarantee that they will. Still, I predict this is the start of something big...stay tuned for more!
My next entry will discuss Aziz's volleyball game (with considerable assistance from him, since I know so little about the art of that game) and our treks through the Sahara, from which I am writing this entry right now. As always, don't blink for a second lest you miss an entry! They should be appearing more frequently now that I have a break from studies and am going on a twelve-day excursion touring the whole country.
