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A Detour to Aleppo: Hammam, Masseuses, and One Unforgettable Landing
"Come here!" echoed repeatedly and firmly through the misty hammam.
It was the only phrase that passed between the masseuses and us – the guests. And ... as you'll soon see, these words were more than enough.
2001 SYRIA ( before the WAR)
To set the scene: we were in the baths of ancient Aleppo, a city of artists and mystery. It was spring of 2001,
One evening, a group of Dutch and French women and I decided to try out the local ritual bath in town.
We had absolutely no idea what we were in for.
Upon arrival, we were handed towels, white gowns, and bars of olive soap. At the entrance, three masseuses sat quietly on a bench, dressed in black robes, their faces composed and serene. With subtle gestures they told us to wait, that soon we'd be part of the bathing ritual.
Women to the right — that was the direction for the female guests. We were wearing our white gowns.
"Come here!" we took off our bathrobes and followed the voice. Then naked, one by one we walked through huge doors into a steaming, fog-filled chamber.
The decor, barely visible through the haze, suggested turquoise-and-green mosaics across walls and floor. The space was round; four smaller circular rooms branched off.
Then, from one of them, came the decisive: "Come here!"
In this steamy, fogged-up sauna, we could just make out one of the masseuses.
She was, of course, stark naked — and even through the thick mist, her generous proportions were impossible to miss.
(Just another confirmation, by the way, that black clothing really does slim you down.)
While her two colleagues were busy preparing the "massage tools" — meaning buckets, basins, washcloths, and soap — we sat sweating, slowly melting, and wondering what exactly we had gotten ourselves into.
And then it began.
The Venus of Věstonice — as we nicknamed her — stood by an enormous barrel of cold water, scooping it up and pouring it over our heads before vigorously scrubbing our hair.
There was nothing gentle about it — more like an evil stepmother brushing your hair until it bleeds.
And as she worked, her breasts swayed so dramatically we were genuinely afraid one of them might knock us straight back into the dressing room.
The second Madonna got to work on the upper half of the body.
And the third, well… she took care of the lower half.
I don't quite remember who was rolling over whom, but maybe it had some beneficial effect on the joints.
We Western women didn't protest. We let ourselves drift in the whirl of events, completely out of our control.
Since we were the last group of the day, the masseuses decided to go all out.
Once we were massaged enough that we lost track of where one body part ended and another began, they started singing. Fingers snapped to the rhythm of an Arabic melody. Before we knew, belly dances in the steam.
No "Shall we dance ?" — just another "Come here!"
And we joined in. Refusal was not an option.
The climax was absurdly theatrical. One of the masseuses poured a bucket of soapy water onto the floor. Our Venus sprinted and landed on both breasts, legs high like a Boeing 747.She slid a good ten meters before coming to a stop.
The entire hammam responded: finger-snapping, accelerated rhythm, applause — lot of landings on the runway South North, there and back.
These landings — I will remember them for a long time.
We closed the event with a final collective belly dance. And just like that, it ended as suddenly as it began.
That last "Come here!" guided us back to the changing rooms.
At the hammam exit we saw the three robes in black again, sitting quietly on the bench.
As if nothing had happened.
But that Mona Lisa‑smile on their faces gave us certainty: these were our masseuses.
It was meant to stay a secret. Arab women know well what they are doing.
But I was foolish enough to tell my husband about it.
Since then… every time he's in a Muslim country, he can't rest.
At every veiled woman he sees, his mind replays that runway, that flight — South to North, North to South…
And I ask you:
Do you think that women this passionate really must be veiled?
"All photos in this blog are protected by copyright ©. Please do not use them without my permission. The photos feature models from the IPS workshop."