Humma Humma Hammam

Not to miss out on a “real” cultural experience, Holly and I enquired at the hostel front desk about visiting a Turkish bath. The Cagaloglu Hamami is one of the more famous ones listed in the guide books and has appeared in numerous movies.

“Why you want to go there?” one of the hostel staff asked. “Everyone goes there. Too many tourists and it’s expensive.” The cost is around 30 Euros. “You should go to this one.” He pointed at a poster on the wall. “It is 570 years old, very traditional, and only 15 Euros.” A free transfer by taxi was also offered.

Holly and I thought about it and decided to give the recommended hammam a go. Why go to a place that every man and his dog visits?

The taxi dropped us off on a street away from any tourist area. An elderly gentleman stood up from his white plastic chair to meet us at the sidewalk. We showed him the ticket we’d purchased at the hostel and began to walk to the entrance.

“Madam, madam,” he said and stood in our pathway.

“Yes, we go to the hammam,” I said and attempted to pass him. He shook his head.

“Madam, madam,” and gestured for us to follow him to another doorway, the women’s entrance. After shouting down the stairs and waiting for a response, an all-clear, he motioned for us to follow him.

A little old lady aged somewhere between 60 and 70, wrapped in a floral print house coat, greeted us at the bottom. Before taking his leave, the man took a bite from a bread roll and placed it back on the table he’d found it on.

Using only the word “off,” the woman shooed us into two of the individual wooden cubicles, camekans, that lined the walls of the main reception and changing area. Apart from the lady, Holly, and me, the place was empty. She handed us graying towels, which I think were originally blue, and went back to watching a program on the push-button television in the corner of the room. As our cubicles were directly next to each other and did not reach up to the ceiling, Holly and I were able to chat freely without being understood. We watched the lady through the glass outside sit down and take off her knee high socks.

“What’s she doing?” I asked as we took our clothes off, and jokingly added, “maybe she’s the one who gives the massage.” We wondered where the other staff members were. Since there were no other customers, I was glad we’d joined up for the outing.

After placing our valuables in wooden lockers, the woman led us back into a large room with a raised marble platform, goebektas, in the center. Individual bathing sinks and marble benches that had seen much better days sat along the walls of bear plaster and peeling paint. Diffused amber light came through the porthole windows above.

“All. Off. Shoes,” the woman said and directed us to the sinks. We hung up our towels and gingerly sat our naked butts down. She handed us a plastic Tupperware container each and instructed us to “wash!” and then disappeared.

After ten minutes of slopping water over our bodies, we began to wonder if we’d been forgotten.

“Maybe she’s gone to call ‘the girls’ to come and do our massages,” I said.

Shortly afterwards we heard footsteps coming back towards us. The little old lady appeared around the corner and smiled. She marched into the room naked, except for a very brief pair of black panties, droopy boobs, skinny legs and all. Armed with blue plastic washing up bowl and coarse scrubbing mitten, she pointed at me and then at the platform. As I sat down, she pushed me back into a lying position and began to scrub away at my skin, top to toe, and bottom and all bits in between.

Just at the point when I began to feel mildly violated, when she’d worked on my front and my back, she slapped my bottom hard to let me know she’d finished.

“Ola! Shoes. Wash.”

I went back over to the sink and began to rinse all of the dead gray skin from my body, kissing my suntan goodbye. I watched as Holly underwent the same treatment with the same mitt, and tried to not think about the hundred of other bodies that had been exposed to same glove before me, as well as the heinous skin disease I’d come down with during the next few days.

When Holly was done, it was my turn again. After the goebektas had been rinsed off with another bowl of water, I lay back down. The woman took what looked like a dish or cleaning cloth off a hook and began to fill its pockets—like an ice cube bag—with small bars of soap.

As she lathered me up and massaged me, the bubbles pleasantly frothed and tingled. I was then instructed to sit up so the back of my neck and behind my ears could be cleaned. To facilitate the process, she grabbed my head and pulled it towards her, right between her breasts. Then with the power of five elephants and a look of determination bordering on a trance, she pummeled my shoulders. For such a small individual, I was amazed by her strength.

“Shoes. Wash.” Holly’s turn again.

I rinsed of the suds and observed the process from a different vantage point. Since there was still no one else around, I had little else to look at.

After that, the only part of my body not yet touched was my head. When the woman disappeared again, we wondered if the process was finished. She returned armed with a bottle of Wash ‘n Go, and sat down on the seat next to my sink and slapped the inside of her thighs.

“Sit!”

Rightio then. Here goes.

I turned around and sat down between her open legs, my back towards her body. A great blob of shampoo was dumped on my hair and the head massage began with a vengeance. Rinsing simply entailed throwing several bowls of water of my head, with little disregard as to whether or not soap suds got into my eyes.

After Holly had been sufficiently taken care of, we were both left alone to finish rinsing. I’ve since learned that we were apparently supposed to use the time to clean our own “privates” in private. A little embarrassing when the two of us were sitting right next to each other. By this point, all modesty had disappeared, it didn’t really have much choice in the matter.

The next step was to move into the sauna. We lay out and relaxed, thinking what a bizarre situation we were in. Several pairs of underwear, presumably the lady’s, were hanging out to dry. Ten minutes passed and the woman had not returned. Since the heat was starting to get to us, we opened the door to let in some air and continued to wait. A few minutes past and the woman appeared at the door, this time neatly wrapped back up in her house coat.

“Okay?” she asked.

“Yes, okay, but hot,” I said and wafted my hand in front of my face. I was happy to be getting out.

“Okay!” she said, slammed the door closed and walked away, leaving us to sweat and drip some more. I could take it for only another five minutes before I got up and walked out to find the lady. She was back standing in front of the television. I motioned with my hand across my neck to tell her we’d had enough.

“Okay. Finish. Wash!” she said and ushered us to the back room for a final rinse off with cold water.

Feeling dehydrated but clean, in a strange sort of way, Holly and I gathered our stuff to leave, but not before being reminded by our tormentor that “baksheesh” was expected. We handed over a few Lira, said goodbye and left to find a taxi to head to Taksim Square.

The whole experience was definitely different and something I won’t be forgetting any time soon. Before I leave Istanbul, though, in a couple of days, I’d like to pay a visit to the famous Cagaloglu Hamami, just to make a comparison. I think I know already which will be the more memorable of the two.

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