Let me begin by setting the record straight. I am in no way a spa virgin. Right from having my backside whacked with acacia branches by a sadistic masseuse in an up-market day spa in Nairobi to having heated crystals placed strategically all over my body in Macao to our very own oil-rich desi abhyanga in Kochi, I’ve tried them all. But somehow, the famed Turkish hamam experience had always remained elusive. So, on a recent trip to the weird and wonderful, lunar-like landscaped town of Cappadocia in central Turkey, I decided to see what the big fuss was all about and indulge myself with the exfoliation-massage-scrubbing trilogy that makes up this very unique bathing experience.
After I paid up the fixed rate of 50 Turkish Lira (approximately Rs 1,500), I was ushered into a tiny room to disrobe by an attendant who handed me a tiny red checked towel called a pastemal to cover my modesty with. Wrapping myself up in it, I proceeded nervously into the mysterious realm of the hamam, unsure of what awaited me behind the heavy wooden doors. I was greeted by a moist waft of steam, and by another burly attendant who proceeded to remove off (much to my embarrassment!) a whole lot of my dead grey outer skin with what looked like an oven mitt made from an abrasive fabric that he rubbed all over my body. A vigorous massage followed next which was more stretching and bone crunching than soothing.
Later, I was shepherded over to a basin, sat on a marble step, and doused in soapy warm water, removing my protective pastemal, and returning me to my birthday suit. My hair was then shampooed, before the attendant left me to my own devices for a final rinse off. Squeaky clean and wrapped in fresh towels, I made my way into the next room, where I was served traditional Turkish apple tea. After drying off and changing, I stepped out into the balmy Cappadocia evening feeling a little bemused, a little relaxed and yes... very, very, clean!
(First published in the October issue of The Man)
No comments:
Post a Comment