What happens at the hammam stays at the hammam

My experience at the community baths in Morocco

One of my friends was like “lets go to the hammam!! It’s like a big full-body exfoliation, and they really get the skin off and your body is left so soft!!”

Naturally, I saw no need to question this. Soft skin? Who doesn’t want that, sign me up!

So me and a big group of girls decided: yes, we would go to the hammam together. It would be a fun little bonding experience. A little cultural adventure.

There aren’t too many supplies that you need, if you’re getting scrubbed by someone they usually handle all the supplies. So we grabbed a towel and a change of clothes for after. And then on we went.

The hammam we went to was in Anza, a small coastal town just north of Agadir where I spent two months volunteering, and you have to understand, it was not a touristy spa-type hammam. No white coats or cucumber slices in sight. This was the real-deal. A local, community hammam. You know it’s local when the tiles are cracked, there are buckets everywhere, the floor is wet, and no one’s speaking a word of English.

I feel like sitting in a room almost entirely naked with other women for over an hour does something to your psyche. At first, you’re hyper-aware of your every fold, wrinkle and freckle, but after five minutes you realize—no one cares. Everyone’s too busy pouring hot water on themselves, and overall just having their own spa day to be analyzing your body. It’s kind of freeing.

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At one point, a woman, Fatima (one of the owners of the hammam, and also the lady who was taking care of us), gestured for me to lie down on the tile floor. And then... she went to town. She scrubbed me with such vigorous determination that I have never seen before. Naturally, I was the first person she scrubbed, so all of my friends were eyeing me while I was going to see what should be expected for their turns.

While watching, they kept commenting Jost how much dead skin was coming off of me. I lifted up my head while Fatima was busy elsewhere and sure enough, I was molting. I was unsure that I would even have skin at the end of the scrub. Somehow, I did, and I was left with my thoughts for the next hour and a half as she scrubbed everyone else within an inch of their lives.

The soap they used in the hammam was a single serving of a mysterious slippery brown goo. Once we lathered it on, it apparently softens your skin to make it easier for it to be scrubbed off, and it also acts as a moisturizer. I later found out it’s a type of Moroccan black soap—savon beldi—and you can actually find big globs of it (that look like translucent brown resin) at every souk in town.

Naturally, I bought a bunch. I used it a couple times in the shower at the hostel, on days where I felt like I needed a deep clean that a simple shower does not accomplish. I never did get quite the same level of renewal that Fatima managed, but it was good enough.

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If you ever get the chance to go to a hammam, *especially* a local one, not the fancy touristy kind — you have to do it. It’s not just about the clean skin (though that part is a definite plus). It’s a cultural experience. A ritual. A place where women gather, relax, chat, and let go of the outside world for a bit. You’ll leave feeling scrubbed, steamed, and strangely empowered.

And if you go with a group of friends, even better. Nothing says friendship like making eye contact while you're both being scrubbed until your skin falls off in chunks on the floor next to each other.

10/10. Would get scrubbed again.