The Hammam

The Marketing Department at Rituals may well have made a mistake, linking their latest product line to the Hammam, a Turkish bath. I went to a Hammam in Wadi Musa, Jordan, at Christmas and the experience was as far from our 'pampering' spa days as an hour on a rugby field is to an aerobics class.
I chose the women-only Hammam, not because I'm a prude but I thought that if there was going to be embarrassment or worse, humiliation, in the bare-naked department I would rather deal with it in front of my own gender. The staff were plump women in black swimsuits who ordered us about with single-word commands normally reserved for dogs. I sat where I was told, on a hard bench in a room full of steam; 'sit!', 'wait!'. The other punters were vague, pink shapes in the mist and as I peered at their vapourous gestures, I understood that I should first try the sauna, once there was a space, then sluice myself with what I hoped was warm water. I hadn't managed to get to the water bit when somebody grabbed my arm and I was taken to another room where bodies on slabs, not unlike gravestones, were being vigorously scrubbed by the attendants. One beckoned cheerfully and pointed to a vacant slab.
'Lie down!' I climbed on with difficulty and lay on my back, the hard stone pressing into the back of my skull. The attendant scoured my face with a rough cloth, soaked in something that smelt of Vim. Stupidly, I had kept my make-up on. I hadn't been washed like this since I was a child and my mother was fed-up. I had forgotten how it felt, that particularly ferocious scrub unique to mothers who are at the end of their tether. After my face, all my other parts followed. 'Turn over!' Do you remember when you last had your bum washed by someone else?
'Get down!' I heaved myself off the slab. Another hand led me through the steam and I stood gasping as I was doused in cold water. More hands. 'Come!' Another room, another slab. Now the oils. No! Not through my hair! Too late. The oils smelt like fly spray. I was pummelled, squeezed and pinched, as if by bullying hands in a school playground. My legs and arms were pulled into positions they hadn't seen since I was six months old and could suck my own toes.
'Finished!' I was pulled off the table and wrapped in a towel. Pushed through a door I stood, blinking, in front of a quiet group of women sipping herbal tea. 'This way!' Back in the changing room, I sat blinking on a wooden bench. I couldn't get dry. The oil clung to my skin and hair and no matter how hard I towelled my skin, it stayed wet. My clothes had to be peeled back on. There was a hairdryer but my hair was so tangled, my brush shed bristles in despair. Looking like Worzel Gummage, I slid onto a bench amongst the other women to drink my tea. They murmured softly to each other in German, calm and relaxed. One of them turned to me and smiled, her eyes scanning my disarray. 'First time?'