Budget Hammam: Not my best idea

If I could, I would spend a good portion of my life wrapped in Turkish towels with cucumber slices over my eyes and a masseuse coercing my muscles into a relaxed and pliant state. In light of this, it's not very surprising that before even setting foot in Morocco, I had already decided to dedicate at least one afternoon to visiting a Hammam.

After spontaneously signing up to run a marathon up Toubkal, the highest peak in North Africa, the Hammam experience became more of a necessity. My legs had staged a coup d'état and I had no choice but to give into their demands and seek out a massage as quickly as possible.

Toubkal Marathon

So following our impromptu mountain marathon adventure, British guy and I headed to Essaouira: a beautiful--albeit extremely touristy--town on the Moroccan coast.

British guy in Essaouira

It's also a popular spot for kite-surfing, and British guy was looking forward to a few sessions of being bounced across the waves like a rag-doll. Actually, that's what happens when I go kite-surfing. Which is why I decided not to join British guy. I intended to park my backside on the beach and not get up until I could move my legs without pain.

Essaouira

Unfortunately we awoke the next morning to pouring rain and poor surf conditions. Perfectly content to change my plans, I set out to find a Hammam, and because he had nothing better to do, British guy tagged along.

We passed a variety of lovely, relaxing and pleasant-looking Hammams before budget constraints directed us instead toward a 10 euro all-inclusive Hammam experience.

Unless you want to be prodded and kneaded and scrubbed within an inch of your life, I don't recommend this option.

If we had known what we were getting into, we probably would have walked the other way or invested money into a more upscale Hammam package, but since we didn't, I waved good-bye to British guy and ducked behind a curtain. Stripping down to my bathing suit, I placed all of my clothing into a basket and handed it to the woman behind the counter.

"Please, go," she said, gesturing toward a few stairs in front of a small door.

I hesitantly pushed the door open and found myself in a dark two-room cave. Plastic lawn chairs stood askew next to a cement basin of water. Steam rose in curling tendrils.

A collection of red plastic buckets were stacked in the corner. I smiled at another woman already sitting in one of the plastic chairs, and sat two seats away from her.

Everything was dark and heavy, but the temperature had not yet become oppressive. It felt sultry and welcoming; a heat so tangible, its velvety touch embraced me. Droplets of sweat collected in the creases and folds of my body before sliding down in winding rivulets.

The woman and I sat in silence. Minutes passed. I stared at the ceiling where beads of water had collected, reflecting what little light shined from small lamps along the walls.

Another woman walked in. Dressed in a one-piece bathing suit with the top pulled down, she grabbed  a bucket and dipped it into the basin of water. Swinging it back to the floor with an air of familiarity, she beckoned me toward her.

After dousing me with buckets of hot water, she motioned me to lie down on a rectangular marble table in the next room.

Dipping a rough loofah into a bucket of soapy water, she began to scrub the first layer of skin off of me. I could feel the shade of pink I was going to be for the next few days. Pouring a bucket of water over me to rinse off the soap, she began kneading my throbbing calf muscles. Her breasts hung heavily, gently swinging forward whenever she moved across me to pour more Argan oil into her hands. The whole experience was reminiscent of childhood. A matriarch moving heavily over you as she repeats the bath-time routine of a dozen children and a thousands nights. Her hands are moving over you, but her mind is somewhere else.

Occasionally she tapped me, indicating the direction I should move. Flip over, stand up, come this way, sit down. A morse code of gentle shoulder taps.

The marble slabs are slippery, and I slid as I sat up. She laughed. The only sound I heard her utter. A gentle nudge toward the plastic chairs and I lowered myself carefully onto one. A pool of tepid water had collected and it felt refreshing in comparison to the heavy heat hanging over me, pressing down on my chest. I breathed deeply and deliberately, slowly sipping down oxygen.

Desperately uncomfortable, I shifted in my seat and wondered how much longer I would be expected to sit there. Suddenly, the woman who had scrubbed me down walked briskly toward me and threw a bucket of cold water over my head. I gasped. She smiled and I smiled back at her. It felt delicious.

I continued to sit there for longer than I would have liked. The minutes dragged by before I was eventually summoned back outside and handed my clothes. They stuck to my skin as I pulled them on. All I wanted now was a cold shower and a gallon of gatorade.

Walking back outside I found British guy waiting for me.

"So, how was it on your side?" I asked.

"Enh. Okay. Not very relaxing. Felt a bit like a piece of meat. You?"

"Yeah. Same."

The rain had stopped and we walked slowly back to the hotel. Children chased each other through alleyways; flea-bitten cats stretched themselves out under brightly colored displays of shoes, scarves, jewelry and spices; vendors waved to attract our attention.

I closed my eyes against the brightness of Morocco and all I could see was the woman in the Hammam, still moving slowly and deliberately through the heat, rubbing oil across tired skin and splashing cold water against her face.

Toubkal: The movie

I made probably the most badass* video you will ever see of Toubkal.

It's that good.



* By badass I mean a really shady amateur video of the race I wrote about here. I'm posting it in lieu of an actual post. It's Sunday. I'm pretty sure God said something about not working. He might have also said something about not working Monday-Saturday too. The Bible is technically just a summary. It could be the Cliff Notes version of what really happened. What if God really said "Nobody work. Ever." and someone got lazy and instead wrote "Don't work Sundays. Or Saturdays." I'm going to stay unemployed just to be on the safe side. Check back tomorrow for a story about camels. Or the Great Roach Fiasco of October 2010. Or maybe something entirely different.

Toubkal: Why spontaneously signing up for a marathon is not a good idea

Remember when I said that I often become so enthusiastic about things that I lose touch with what I can and cannot do? 

Yeah.

Well.

It happened again. 

Something is wrong with me. Seriously, seriously wrong. All signs point toward insanity. What else would inspire an otherwise rational person (questionable...) to spontaneously sign up for a mountain marathon up North Africa's highest peak without training? I didn't even have any running shorts with me. Or a water bottle. And I still somehow thought that this was going to turn out well. 

After a day and a half spent wandering around Marrakech, British guy and I decided to head to the Atlas mountains. 

The Atlas Mountains

Within an hour and a half, we arrived at the Moroccan mountain village of Imlil. As we stepped out of the taxi my vision of a quiet mountain village was completely shattered. Red Bull and PowerBar banners flew, dance music blared, and groups of runners clad in varying shades of neon stood around chattering excitedly. 

British guy and I had unwittingly stumbled upon a trail running marathon up the Toubkal. With 42 kilometers (26 miles), 3,313 meter (10,869 feet) total ascent and three climbs, it was dubbed the hardest trail marathon. 

There was no getting around it.

We had to do it. 

Except that we only had enough cash to pay the race fees and get back down to Marrakech. There were no banks in this town. Either we used all of our money to pay the registration fees for the race or we spent a few comfortable days in Imlil sleeping inside and eating at restaurants. 

We signed up for the race. 

We handed over the combination of Dirham and Euros that we had cobbled together and then spent the subsequent waning hours of daylight borrowing missing equipment (like running shorts), and ignoring any rational arguments about whether or not this was a sensible idea. 

We pitched the tent and set the alarm for 4:30 a.m. 

With 9 years of competitive running under my belt and a stint as a member of the U.S. junior mountain running team I knew exactly what  I was getting into and I knew it wasn't going to be pretty. But I couldn't say no. I couldn't turn down the adventure. This inability to say no gets me into a lot of trouble.

At 4:30 a.m. the alarm went off, followed closely by the call to prayer. I threw on my borrowed running tights (which were too big and kept falling down), a long-sleeved Icebreaker shirt (a staple travel item for me), and my 15 euro (21 USD) Decathlon running shoes (I lost my expensive trail running shoes while racing to catch a train in Germany and I'm too broke to buy new ones. Note: Don't tie expensive running shoes to the outside of your backpack. Especially if you're too broke to buy new ones). 

British guy and I grabbed everything we thought we might need for 42 kilometers (26 miles) in the mountains and headed to the starting line. The sun hadn't yet risen and the stars were still faintly twinkling. The air was fresh and cool and because I've always loved races, I was excited. 

Imlil. Start of the race. 

We set off. 

The first 10K (6 miles) and the first big climb went well. We had a good pace and I had at least been training for this distance. At the first food and water station, we grabbed some tea and cookies and kept climbing up alongside waterfalls. 

First food and water station. Thanks for the cookies guys. 

I thought we were pretty close to the top and was in high spirits. Except as it turns out we were nowhere near the top. And as we rounded a bend, I saw this. 

This photo was taken from the top. You can faintly see the trail switchbacking.
We ran up this. I use the verb "run" very loosely.

The altitude (3500 meter/ 11482 feet) grabbed me by the ankles. I felt as if I was walking through water...underwater even. I took slow deliberate steps and deep breaths and cursed myself repeatedly for being such a sucker for an adventure. 

At the second pass the trail dipped down along the ridge spilling into the valley and winding its way to the 2nd food and water station at the base of Toubkal. It was stunning. Unfortunately I was too busy coaxing my muscles and lungs into operation to really appreciate the magnitude of this spectacular mountain range. But the pictures look nice. British guy and I split a Red Bull (hey, it was free) and continued onto the réfuge*--which kept moving farther and farther away like some twisted optical illusion. 

Réfuge at the base of Toubkal

The trail was rocky and the loose rocks and gravel made each step a delicate dance with gravity. British guy totally wiped out. Ok, fine. It was me. 

We made it to the réfuge as the first runners were coming back down from the summit. I ate some cookies. And then some peanuts, a banana, some other fruit, almonds, chocolate, tea, coke, and then some more cookies. I'd never run a marathon before. I was an 800 meter runner. The longest race I'd run before this endeavor was a 10K (6 miles). I watched the other runners approach the food station. They barely stopped as they grabbed a cup of water and perhaps an orange slice. Apparently you're not supposed to treat the food stations like an all-you-can-eat-buffet. I felt mildly self-conscious, but luckily the feeling didn't last too long. I grabbed another cookie. And a banana. 

Food and water station. We kept getting stuck behind the mules. 

I often get myself into some pretty interesting and hilarious scrapes, but I haven't died yet (YET) because I (usually) know when enough is enough. I desperately wanted to run up to the summit just so I could say I completed a trail running marathon without training (stupid). But I would have been miserable and exhausted and it could have been dangerous. Also my hands had begun to swell at an alarming rate. I looked like I was suffering from some sort of Harry Potter inspired curse. I reluctantly--but gratefully-- decided to scrap the summit and head back to the village.

Because British guy is British guy, he stayed with me through the whole race even though he is fit enough to have gone further and faster. British guy's idea of a good time is an Ironman. I'm just waiting for him to suggest a weekend excursion to cycle up Everest and then ski down. During which time he'll master the local language. I'm 99.9% sure that British guy is a spy. 

I gave Toubkal one last look, grabbed some more cookies, and we headed down the valley and back to Imlil with Toubkal rising up behind us. 

As we approached the final food station I got excited and started talking about cookies. In detail. I spent at least 5 minutes  explaining the difference between biscuits and cookies and lamenting the fact that Europe doesn't have any good cookies. British guy didn't contribute much to this conversation. I guess he doesn't have strong opinions about cookies. 

After 30K (18 miles), 2 climbs, 2300 meter (7545 feet) total elevation gain, and at least 3 dozen cookies we reached Imlil. I already have an unhealthy obsession with Chaco flips, but I was so happy to put my feet back into flip flops that I nearly cried. Here is what my feet looked like:

Gross. 

So I didn't finish the marathon, but I had a hell of a good time and got some free cookies out of it. In my book, that's a successful adventure (in my book anything involving cookies is a success), but next time I run a marathon, I'll train for it. Promise. 

*A réfuge is the French term for a mountain hut. When the French refer to refuges, they're referring to something that looks like this.