I’d just landed in Casablanca, ready to ease into my trip with something relaxing — which is what I thought a hammam in Morocco would be.
I was at the start of a 15-day adventure across Morocco with Adventure Women, a women-only tour that would take me through bustling markets, serene deserts, and historic cities.
If you want to see how the rest of the trip unfolded, check out:
After checking into my hotel in Casablanca and grabbing a late breakfast, I decided to visit the spa for something relaxing—a massage, maybe. But when I saw “traditional hammam ritual” on the menu, curiosity won out. I didn’t know exactly what a hammam was, but I’d heard it was a quintessential Moroccan experience. So I booked one.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that “traditional hammam” meant a full-on scrub-down, complete with black soap, buckets of hot water, and exactly zero modesty.
The spa was on the first floor, six floors below my room. There was also a gym and an outdoor pool—not that I planned to use either.
When I checked in at the spa reception, I was all set to book the massage. But then I noticed they offered several types of hammams. I asked about them. The receptionist didn’t speak much English, but we managed. At her suggestion, I changed my mind and booked a 30-minute traditional ritual hammam followed by a 30-minute massage.
I’d heard people talk about hammams before, but I didn’t really understand what I’d signed up for. At that point, it just sounded like a local experience—and I figured, why not? I’d come to Morocco to try new things.
I didn’t realize that “trying new things” meant being stripped down and scrubbed on a marble table by a stranger. But I was about to find out.
The word hammam translates to “the spreader of warmth” in Arabic. My female attendant, known as a kessala—a traditional term for women who perform scrubbing in Moroccan hammams—guided me through the experience. She instructed me to remove all my clothing and put on the robe left on the massage table. After doing so, I followed her to the treatment room—it was warm, steamy, and smelled of eucalyptus.
There are private and public hammams. Mine was private (which felt like a good choice for my first time). From what I understand, private hammams are more like spa treatments, where someone scrubs and massages you. In a public hammam, you might buy a kit—mat, black soap, Kessa glove—and exfoliate yourself, or pay someone to scrub you.
For Moroccans, the hammam is an important part of life. Many locals go weekly. It’s believed to promote healthy skin and also serves as a kind of social hub. Public hammams are typically gender-segregated.
It’s also considered a form of ritual purification, especially before religious holidays or family events. Treatments often begin with savon noir—a black, olive-based soap used to soften the skin before exfoliation begins.
The room was covered in beautiful tiles, with a large heated marble table in the center. I removed my robe as instructed and lay face-up on the table.
I’ll be honest—lying there naked in front of a stranger felt a little awkward at first. But I took a breath and reminded myself to just go with it. The marble felt warm and slick beneath me, the air heavy with steam.
It was oddly comforting, even though part of me still felt like I was being prepped for a medical exam.
First, my body was rinsed with warm water—front, then back. While I was still face down, the attendant rubbed warm oil into my skin, starting with my legs, then moving to my back, hips, and arms. She then had me flip over and repeated the oiling: legs, stomach, chest, shoulders, neck, and arms.
Then came another rinse—front and back.
The scrubbing started on my back while I was lying face down. She used a Kessa glove with black Beldi soap—a gritty, olive-based paste used to exfoliate the skin. It felt like a loofah, only more intense. At times, it felt like she was sanding me down—thorough and methodical, but never painful. More like the kind of roughness you expect from serious exfoliation. I kept wondering if visible layers of skin were coming off (they weren’t). It wasn’t unpleasant, just surprisingly clinical. A full-body reset, basically. Every inch of me got scrubbed, and then I flipped over so she could do the same on the front. Even my face got a gentle exfoliation.
After another rinse, she had me sit up. She cleaned the marble table with something that looked like a squeegee, then had me sit on the edge. From behind, she combed out my hair, then washed and massaged my scalp—twice.
A final rinse followed. The whole process was surprisingly relaxing.
I made my way to the spa lounge and sat with a cup of mint tea. Now that’s how to start your first day in Casablanca.The tea was hot and sweet, a little stronger than I’d expected, but it hit the spot after all that steam and scrubbing. I sat for a while, just cooling down.
Would I do it again? Definitely. My skin felt smoother than it had in ages—like I’d been polished clean after the long flight. But more than that, the whole experience made me feel like I’d officially arrived. It forced me to slow down, let go, and let someone else take over for an hour. Strange as it sounds, getting scrubbed and rinsed like that actually helped clear away the mental fog of jetlag. I walked out of the spa feeling lighter. Not a bad way to start a new trip.
If you’ve heard about hammams but weren’t sure what to expect, I hope this gives you a better idea. I’d definitely recommend trying it—especially if you’re somewhere like Morocco, where it’s a meaningful part of the culture.
I’ll be in Morocco for the next three weeks, and I’m hoping to experience a few more hammams while I’m here—maybe even a public one next time.
Just a heads-up, though—it’s probably not for the shy.
