The Nervous Bather.

Hamam Baths, Istanbul, Turkey.

As my friend and I wander through the colourful side stalls and mayhem of the Sultan Ahmet district and dodge the eager merchants trying to plug their goods we stumble across an empty side alley tucked away between the hundredth rug store and yet another baklava shop. As we walk further down the cobble stone path we find a pristine, bleached white building with deep, sea blue shutters and the sign “Hamam, Turkish Bath”. How can we resist?

We are escorted into change rooms where we must don tiny, stripy orange towels with, shock horror, nothing underneath. The lack of undergarments is quite an unnerving thought for me, so for that extra piece of mind I secure my little boob tube towel dress with my hair tie as tight as I can possibly tie it. I can just imagine it coming undone as I walk past the staff. We are guided into an amazing room made entirely out of marble, the ceilings reach up to the heavens and ornate, mosaic windows enable natural lighting. The sun filters through the translucent windows as we are instructed to lie on the warm marble floor, which is more like a tolerable sauna or steam room. We lie curiously and sweaty on the moist floor for fifteen minutes wondering what will happen next.

The Turkish Baths are similar to the Middle Eastern Steam Bath. They served as an integral part in Middle Eastern cultures for socialising, leisure and ritual based relaxation. They have been around since the Medieval times but the tradition was most popular during the Ottoman Empire. These days the majority of visitors are tourists.

A robust man in a tight loin cloth with his beer belly cascading over it finally comes in and points at my friend saying “you, boy.” I am lucky enough be allowed to stay as he is led up to a marble slab where all the magic happens. He asks my friend if he “like the hard massage?” Which luckily he does. He then proceeds to crack, scrub, exfoliate and massage him to a pulp, a very relaxed pulp at that. The masseuse uses a contraption that looks like a simple cloth but then, with one swift jerk, it inflates into an air pocket and releases millions of soapy suds.

Just as I am keeling over in hysterics at my friend being turned into one giant bubble a very trim woman in a red string bikini summons me over to the ladies massage room. My friendly masseuse is originally from St. Petersburg, Russia and assures me that this will be a very enjoyable experience. I am instructed to take off my towel and lay down, what was the point of my pathetic efforts to secure my towel? I should of just cut to the chase and paraded around naked from the beginning. My friend got to leave his modesty towel on, this is just not fair! I have been backpacking for almost 5 months and have acquired a lot of excess pudge along the way, as you do, and can’t remember the last time I ate a piece of fruit so getting naked in front of a gorgeous, fit Russian lady is not exactly my ideal situation. The nakedness soon doesn’t faze me as my body is covered in head to toe by “security suds” (I created this word in my mind at the time to reassure myself that of course the lady cannot actually see my naked body and I also told myself that the majority of her clientele would most definitely be above 80 and wrinkly). I am in absolute heaven, every crevice of my body is melting. My hair is even shampooed and conditioned, who knew something so banal like being washed could be so relaxing.

A bucket of cold water is tossed over me and I am brought back to earth. I am given a dry towel and fluffy slippers like the ones you get from pish posh hotels. I am reunited with my friend in front of a toasty fire and we are given warm apple tea. As I sip on my tea half comatosed I could do it all over again, without my towel!

- BELLA