The Deep Cleanse of Hamam
I was the butt of more than a few jokes when I first told my Turkish friends that I wanted to visit
a hamam while I was in Istanbul. I don't understand much Turkish, but the word tellak seemed to come
up a lot. I later found out that this word traditionally described the masseurs in the bath houses. Usually
young boys, they would help scrub their clients' bodies and were often employed as sex workers, which
earned them special status among the Ottoman elite. But in modern times the term has taken on a
derogatory meaning. Modern secular Turks don't visit hamam, I was told, but when they realized I was
determined, it was decided that I should at least visit a historical one. Commissioned by Nur-u Banu
Sultan, wife of Sultan Selim II, the Cemberlitas Hamam was built in 1584 and is Istanbul's oldest
operating traditional bath.
Upon entering the hamam, I was served a small glass of chai and treated to a ten minute diatribe
in Turkish. I later learned that this was the history of the establishment and an explanation of what I
could expect inside. My tea finished and my shoes traded for leather sandals, I was given an ornate key
and sent up the stairs to change.
The private change room had a long couch along one wall and hooks, a mirror, and sink along
the other. I shed my clothing and wrapped myself in a large, thin towel of soft cotton and left through
the door on the opposite wall.
The first stage is the hot room, made entirely of marble. Visitors change into wooden clogs and
sit on raised platforms around the walls and in the centre of the room to sweat and adjust to the heat.
The sound of dripping water is magnified a thousand times, echoing off the walls and the high domed
ceiling. A small, partly hidden hallway takes you to the “hot hot room,” which looks essentially the
same, only larger and much hotter.
After about twenty minutes of intense heat and profuse sweating, I was starting to become
uncomfortable when an obese man, his body covered in thick black and grey hair, strolled in. As he
was dressed like me, in only a towel and wooden shoes, I thought he was another patron until he came
over and threw a bucket of ice cold water on me. I lay there paralysed from shock, gasping for breath
and wondering if I was being punished for breaking some unknown custom. “Up! up,” he shouted.
Realizing that this scary, hairy man was to be my masseur, I stood. As soon as I was on my feet, he
took hold of my towel, now thoroughly drenched, and violently ripped it off. I began to have serious
doubts about whether I wanted a massage at all. Shivering in the steam, naked and dwarfed by this
beast of a man, I wondered if there was a face-saving way out of the situation.
He ordered me to lay on my back on the hot platform. I reluctantly obliged. While homophobic
nightmare scenarios played out in my mind I looked longingly at the towel he was wringing out and
slapping on the floor. He folded the towel into a triangle and placed it over me, and my fears began to
subside. I was lathered up with course soap and the massage, that was more like a one-sided wrestling
match, began. Starting with each arm and leg, he pulled each limb until it cracked loudly. Volume
seemed to be the deciding factor for him because when one of my joints popped exceptionally loud he
would smile his nicotine stained toothy grin and say, “aggghhh evet... is good, yes?” Satisfied with his
work he would go back to roughly cracking my neck and back, with stunning chiropractic results.
Working his way down, every bone in each finger and toe was cracked until I was left lying there,
rubbery and exhausted. I had never felt so relaxed.
Dizzy from the heat, thinking the worst was over, I laughed at my earlier fears and silently
praised my bravery and open-mindedness in trying new things abroad. Then I saw the mitt.
It wasn't so much the mitt that scared me, as the look on the big man's face as he pulled it on. He was
like a vengeful older brother daring me to do something, while knowing I'd hurt myself. Woven from a
course fibre, the kese is an exfoliating tool used to remove every speck of dirt from your body, and
zealous as this particular operator was, I think an extra layer of skin was stripped off for good measure.
Using the same coarse bar of soap, my hair was washed and my scalp “massaged” with the
kese. Then it was time for the rinse, and alternating buckets of hot and cold water were splashed on me.
When all the soap was gone I was pulled up into a standing position and slapped on the back, arms,
legs, stomach, and bottom. Surprisingly, after what I had been through over the past hour, this felt
rather nice. Finally, he massaged my face and head, crushing my ears and nose beneath his huge fists.
With one last farewell slap on the belly, and a, “good service, good tip, yes?” He handed me a
dry towel and wrapped another around my head, then sent me back to the hot room to cool down and
change back into sandals.
After what felt like a long climb up the short flight of stairs, I saw a tiny old man in a dark suit
waiting outside the door to my change room, with a dry towel in his hand. Handing it to me, he
unwrapped the towel from my head and proceeded to dry my hair. As tender as the giant was rough, the
contrast was shocking. Taking my key and opening the door, he disappeared and left me to change. I
flopped down onto the couch, my entire body feeling like pulp, and shut my eyes. After what seemed
like only a second, the little man was back. This time he brought Que-tips, a cigarette and matches, and
cheap cologne. Although he called it rose water, it smelled faintly like coffee. As he explained that rose
water was the only acceptable thing to wear on a body this clean he put out his hand for a tip. Not
impressed with the million lira note I handed him, he pointed at the other two in my hand. I was in no
state to barter, so he got those too.
When I dressed and went back downstairs, my torturer, now immaculately dressed in shirt and
tie, stood smiling and waiting for his tip. The same thing happened. I handed him a ten and he stood
pointing at the three million I had left in my other hand.
An amazing experience, for forty-three and a half million lira (about $40) multiple tips
included, I was a new man. A very clean and very sore new man. I had experienced the deep cleanse of
hamam, the Turkish Bath.
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