Views of Uchisar - 0r (how I learned to stop worrying and love Hamam)

{WARNING: The following text has little relation to the above photo, bar the geographical location. Currently no other platform for story writing so dumping this 3-4 part piece of travel writing here for the time being. Anyone reading, much appreciated and criticism, lavish praise welcome. Info on the shot contained in tags}

 

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Hamam - Part 1:

 

There are moments during my solo travels when a great enlightenment occurs. A glorious vista, a personal achievement or a cultural insight bring forth a calming sun of sanity that shines forth glorious rays of sense which pierce the obfuscating cloud of nerves that lingers in my mind. During those elusive moments my thoughts rise weightlessly. They ascend with grace through my elevated, enervated psychological state. Unhindered by doubt and untouched by fear. My life, both that of the present moment and as a holistic entirety unfolds before me and I can view my joys, my foibles and regrets with a calm, wise disposition. It is within these blissful times that I make decisions that shift the direction and tone of my entire life. With nary a blink or a hesitation I discard the past and embrace a new, improved future. Neuroses are shed, bad habits discarded and I view this spinning world and all its opportunities anew. It is no exaggeration to say that at these times I am flirting with the Ubermensch. I am the master and everyone of my own domain and no asinine reality can perturb my meditative state.

 

Sitting all alone in a sweaty Turkish sauna clad in no more than a skimpy loin cloth and a mud facemask was not one of those times. There in that sodden chamber there was no past, no future: only a startling, sweat soaked present. In that ever heating chamber the niggling cloud of nerves swirled mercilessly behind my eyes, cursing me to ponder many an unanswerable question like 'what is this stuff on my face actually doing?', 'How long am I supposed to stay in here?', 'is it really, really hot in here or is it just me?' and 'Why on earth am I in a Hammam, in the middle of Turkey, alone?' There was however one question that soared above and beyond all others, causing adrenaline to flow through my system in alarming, pulsing surges. That question being:

 

'Should I have kept my pants on?'

 

With that single query my intended immersion into the aged tradition of relaxation and release was transformed into a hellish re-run of the 'running through school naked dreams' that tormented my early teenage years. There I sat, ensconced in the heat and sweat of the sauna. My posterior slowly being grilled as it pressed upon the burning wooden slats, my body visibly shrinking as every last drop of water oozed through my skin while my mind desperately tried to remember how and why this had seemed like a good idea just a few short minutes ago.

 

It was my last day in Turkey before embarking upon what promised to be a unique but tedious day long journey to Georgia. Aware that my imminent arrival in the Caucasus was going to put some level of strain upon me, and aware that if I was to fully embrace all of the opportunities that it would present I would have to be in a mindset that felt no nerves, I had decided to do something that had been making me nervous for the past week. That thing was attend my very first ever Hammam.

 

Writing now with hindsight and an extensive array of Hammam experiences that ranged from fighting publicly onanistic Germans through to being brutally broken at the hands of an Istanbul massage master, my nerves seem inexplicable. But put yourself in my shoes. I was 6 days into a 3 month solo trip that is going to see you trawl your backpack through former war zones and down into the alleged axis of evil. The trip was going to be the longest I have ever been away from home, the longest I have been apart from my home stuck damsel in distress, Hazel. I will readily admit that while I could feel the thrill of adventure, I could also also feel the gentle throb of fear. This was partly based upon the vast swathe of unknown that stretched before and partly based upon a deep mistrust of my own capabilities.

 

You see, I knew that no matter where and when I have travelled, disaster has somehow snuck its way into my backpack, revealing itself at the most inopportune times. In this head of mine there are memories that make me wince even now. The experiences they relate to are as vivid as fresh, painful scars. With consummate ease I can still conjure up the moment when I phoned my work from a Milan train station to inform them that due to a mixture of alcohol and a Railways strike I was going to be late back for work. Not by a few hours nor a day late, but an entire week. If this memory becomes too tame I can swiftly move onto the recollection of being thrown out of a convent in Manhattan for having pre-marital liaisons with my partner. Not so bad you say? No, it wasn't, until I discovered that the only other choice of accommodation in that entire island was a room in a run down brothel, replete with mirrored headboard, mirrored ceiling and porn on every single channel. Cheap porn at that. It is fair to say that I have travelled but I am not a traveller.

 

However, I had decided that this trip was going to be the one where I scratched off any mental scars. This trip would be the one where I embraced fear, stared down uncertainty and took on any challenge life threw my way. I was going to be the man people thought I was: I was going to become a traveller. I thought for a while about how I would put this plan into action, casting around in my mind for what made me nervous about my current location. The locals were friendly, the food served up was mostly dead, bikes could be hired, cars could be rented and everybody spoke perfect English. There seemed so little threat that it was almost tedious.

 

Then I thought about the Hammam, that ancient pillar of Turkish life. I thought about what it would be like to enter that mysterious, sweaty world of rigorous rubbing for the first time, alone? The answer was nervous, I would feel very, very nervous. I had heard only half tales and partial words about what to expect. Some men talked happily of glorious chambers of steam and sweat while others whimpered about muscle snapping massages and inappropriately intimate rubbing. Personally my own knowledge about that ancient ritual were limited to an awareness that it involved liberal amounts of water, lots of steam, men vigorously massaging other men and a certain disregard for British boundaries of personal space. Everything about it made me twitch inside. This was the perfect first phase of my transformation into the the Ray Mears for the terminally inadequate. With no hesitation at all I gathered all that I thought I needed and made my way with some haste to the local Hammam.

 

 

To be continued...

Done