Shayne Currie gets hurled around a marble slab – attempting to preserve his dignity while also trying to relax – in a Turkish bathhouse.
My wife and I sat opposite each other on thin, wooden slat single beds with threadbare mattresses – our knees almost touching in a tiny room in a backblock building of a Turkish suburb.
With just a tiny towel each to cover our dignity, we nervously emerged from the room into the waiting area of the Turkish bathhouse, wondering exactly what on earth we were in for, and just a teeny bit concerned that no one knew exactly where on earth we were.
Just half an hour earlier, we had been enjoying an early morning stroll in the western Turkey town of Kusadasi – a free day on land in a rather gritty location compared to the glamour of the Seven Seas Splendor cruise ship parked up in port.
In a chilling wind, we visited the Hand of Peace on Kusadasi’s waterfront before turning inland and through a remarkable inner-city cemetery, where tall trees and abundant plants competed for space with historic tombstones and graves.
As we emerged back into the shopping and markets zone, past vendors opening for the day, we met Umit, armed with a Turkish coffee and an easy charm. He’s been a travel agent based on one of Kusadasi’s main streets since 1994.
This morning, council officers were instructing him to move his sandwich board from the pedestrian zone – shaking his head in disbelief, he whispered to us that he would place it back once the officers had departed.
Tourism, after all, is the lifeblood of this town, a central hub for cruise ship passengers wanting myriad experiences from hot-air ballooning to visits to historic ruins and religious sites.
One of Umit’s marketing attractions caught our eye. A Turkish bathhouse – a traditional hammam experience where men and women alike are stripped, steamed, soaked, soaped and sudded.
Umit was a good salesman: he showered regularly, he said, sometimes twice a day, and still a layer of dirt could be extracted at the Hammam.
“I can have a private car pick you up in 10 minutes,” he told us. “It will take you there and bring you back afterwards. No problem.”
Forty euros ($80) and 14 minutes later, we were in what can euphemistically be described as a well-loved Toyota with malfunctioning seatbelts, heading out of the Kusadasi city centre and into suburban backblocks.
As my wife and I emerged in our towels at the Ottoman Turkish Bathhouse, we were ushered into the first of the six cleansing stages – a sauna.
We lasted some five minutes in the estimated 45-50C heat, which was a good four minutes 50 seconds longer than the considerably extra-hot second stage, a suffocating steam room.
As we ventured back to the waiting area, armed with water bottles and open pores, we were separated for the next 90 minutes – my wife to a downstairs area to be looked after by a female staff member; me into the men’s section, where a young man applied a face mask of mud, an extra that we had each agreed to.
As mud sank into my face, I observed the surrounding scene: two older men lying flat on a central marble slab – one also naked save a towel, the other in running shorts, and both of them covered in soap suds and foam.
Two male attendants, each in shorts, were giving them a vigorous massage.
And then it was my turn.
One of the attendants, Kadir – a young, burly and hirsute Turk – moved me on to the warm marble and descended on my body, pouring alternate buckets of lukewarm and cool water over my head, washing away much of the facial mud.
He paused and then scribbled something on the marble with the mud remnants. The number 20, as in €20, pointing to a sign on the wall. For that price, I could upgrade, again, to a full-body mud mask. As if to explain the benefits, no-nonsense Kadir squeezed my nose and pointed to my back, clearly observing that the pores needed the same loving attention.
I agreed to the upsell. Kadir caked my torso, arms, legs, leaving me to soak once again, this time as I lay horizontally on the slab, my eyes gazed at the dome roof – the cupola, peppered with tiny, circular skylights.
Ten minutes later, Kadir was washing me down again with his buckets, before he turned to a new weapon – a scouring mitten attached to his right wrist and forearm. I was now in the peeling stage, a somewhat vigorous all-over sandpapering.
The towel was by now a soaking, thin and somewhat hopeless cover. I was being bathed like a baby boy.
I closed my eyes as I was twirled and hurled around the slab, immersed in a mixture of water and the final remnants of the mud – my body showcasing all the attributes of a dollop of butter in a hot frying pan. Kadir moved me around with ease. I gave in to the routine, finally starting to relax.
With the peel over, it was time for the deep clean. Kadir used a long, thin towel soaked in a bucket of soap mixture to foam me up. The foam was akin to a bubble bath but I was still lying, sliding on a hard surface – the bubbles and suds finally giving my body some cover as Kadir worked on my arm and leg muscles. Suds flew everywhere.
By now, sensing my sheer state of puzzlement, Kadir had a smile. He also had his buckets of water back.
He washed me down for a final time – the water flushing away the last of the bubbles and suds from my ears and eyes.
The hammam was one of life’s great experiences, but it would pay to also shop around. We were treated like royalty, but I suspect that’s partly because we were so willing to agree to the extras, over and above the initial €40 outlay.
All up, for both of us, the experience cost $280. That included the extra face masks and an hour-long massage at the end of the traditional foam bath.
My wife reported a slightly gentler regime on the floor below – but we ultimately both came away happier and cleaner. For a couple not normally as intrepid as this, it’s a day – and a wash – that will live with us forever.
Visit Turkey during a seven-night cruise on Seven Seas Splendor from Salerno, Italy, to Athens, Greece, with Regent Seven Seas Cruises.
New Zealand Herald travelled courtesy of Regent Seven Seas Cruises.