After a few weeks on the road in Africa I began to dream about having a bath or shower. Having to put up with heat and sand storms is fine, as long as you can have a wash at the end of the day. After enduring a 2am sand storm while camping in the desert in southern Mauritania, and then not having a wash for 5 days afterwards, I was ready for the 'Hammam Experience'.

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By the time we reached Dakhla, in the region south of Morocco known as Western Sahara, I had a layer of dust on my skin so thick that it was beginning to form cracks. Public bathing facilities are not in abundance in this part of the world. I had heard about hammams, the local version of the Turkish steam baths, and set out, towel in hand, to investigate.

My French was not so good, and being the local language other then Arabic I was not confident of finding a hammam at all. A friendly English teacher found me wandering the back streets, fending off nosy dogs and even nosier children. He understood nothing of what I said except for the word 'hammam'.

It is an exotic word. It reminds me of 'Harmattan', the annual dust and wind storms that sweep over parts of Africa. But 'hammam' has an entirely different meaning. Feeling like I had just walked weeks through the Harmattan, I welcomed any assistance that would get me to the hammam, and fast.

He took me to an anonymous mud brick building on the outskirts of town. The only hint as to what lay inside was a small trickle of water running out from under the front door, which created a dark stain on the dusty street. The sign above the door probably also held a clue - to anyone who could read Arabic that is.

Along one side of the building was an open trapdoor. Through the door I could see a huge furnace, being fed by two men clad only in trousers. Above the furnace were large tubs of water, being heated for the bathers above. Large piles of wood were stacked along the side of the building. Little boys in dirty gallibeyahs hung around the entrance, leaning purposefully on their wood carts, ready to fetch more wood when the supplies began to run low. I was told that the fire went all day from 7am to 8pm.

My guide led me through the front door to a small booth, which was occupied by a very large lady. All that I could see of her was the scarf that was wound around her hair, making her head appear twice as big as it really was. Her dark eyes glinted at me from above fat cheeks. My guide must have told her what I wanted and I was asked to pay 5 Dihram for the use of the facilities, and a further 30 Dihram for a 'massage'. Realising that I was only spending $5.00 I agreed to the massage.

The dusty Dakhla streets were replaced by clean tiles underfoot. Muffled voices came from beyond a big wooden door. My new found friend agreed to wait for me outside as the large lady squeezed out of her booth and led me through the door. Only women went beyond this door.

Once through the door she shed the large cloth that was wrapped around her body, to reveal multiple layers of fat, brown skin. Her breasts hung almost to her waist and she wore a small loincloth over her hips. I must have looked shocked because a small grin began to creep across her face. She motioned for me to leave my shoes and clothes in a small locker to which she supplied the lock and key. I stripped down to my t-shirt and underpants and she then motioned for me to remove the t-shirt as well.

After my eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, I began to register my surroundings. I was standing in a huge room, with tiled floor and walls. A row of wooden benches ran around the walls. It was so large the room reminded me of a ballroom. Windows were set high up near the roof, so as to let in maximum light but no prying eyes. The tiles were typical of Morocco - bright colours and exotic patterns. Another large wooden door was in the corner and steam was seeping through the joins.

A few women sat on the benches, drying their hair and using their body creams. Their chattering stopped as they turned to stare at me; a tall, skinny white Australian amongst all of these rounded, dark, exotic bodies. Neutral faces looked me up and down, before slowly returning to their activities.

The large woman yelled something in Arabic and a smaller but older woman came from beyond the steaming door. I would have guessed that the first woman was in her 30's or 40's. The second woman must have been in her 60's or 70's. She too wore only a loin cloth and sported a permanently hunched posture. She was friendlier than the younger woman, and took my hand as I followed her into the steaming room. I was carrying a bottle of shampoo and conditioner as well as some soap. She gave me a small plastic bucket to put these in.

The steam came from a large trough at one end of the room, into which the heated water from underneath was pumped. Next to the steaming trough was one filled with cold water. The old lady grabbed a few buckets and filled them with a mix of hot and cold water.

The walls and floor were completely tiled. Women sat at random on the floor, or on small plastic stools, leaning languidly against the wall. Some were shaving their legs, some were shampooing their hair. Others just sat and gossiped with their friends. All stopped to stare at me as I stood there, steaming and dripping dirt as I waited for further instructions.

I was led to a free space along the wall and was doused with a bucket of warm water. The hand signals from the old lady told me to begin using my shampoo and conditioner, whilst she inspected my soap, sniffing and scratching it. When I had thoroughly washed my hair the old lady lathered up with my soap and commenced my massage. I was instructed to lay on the floor whilst she rubbed the soap in to my back and along my legs. She even got in between my toes and managed a quick foot massage whilst she was there.

Then the real massage began. She was pushing so hard that I was propelled along the floor on my stomach, the old lady pushing all the time as if I was a human mop. Luckily the tiles were not rough as my soapy body slid right across the room to the steaming troughs on the other side. I was turned onto my back and the assault began on my front, propelling me back to the other side of the room where I started. Then the old lady decided to stretch my limbs. My arms were twisted this way and that, my ankles swiveled and my head rubbed.

When she finished with me I was certainly clean, but by this stage I could hardly walk. The effect of the steam and manipulation rendered me useless for a few minutes. This must not have been such an unusual thing and explained why the other women just sat there steaming away. It struck me then that like a lot of people, I had forgotten how to relax and take it easy for a change. Bathing was a daily chore for me at home, but these women had a weekly trip to the hammam to clean themselves and socialise. I was left alone, propped up against the wall as the old lady went off to torture someone else.

After allowing my body time to recover I made my way back out to the big room, where I had left my towel. I then understood why there were women sitting around here as well. It was considerably cooler in this room and this was where you acclimatised after the steam room. If I had dried off quickly and walked outside I would have fainted in a second. Instead I was given a glass of water, and was left to sit and recover from my ablutions.

After dressing and collecting my gear I rejoined my guide outside, momentarily blinded by the harsh afternoon sun. He had by now attracted a crowd himself, as word had got around the local kids that 'the tourist' was inside having a hammam. Just as I was enjoying being clean and fresh, a soccer ball came bouncing towards me. I spent the next half hour undoing all the good work of the hammam by becoming involved in a game of soccer with the local kids.

Melanie Dooley 1999-2001. Reproduction in any form is prohibited without the permission of the owner.