The Weekly Wad: Torment and Tea

The old van labored up the water-slicked cobblestone and with every hairpin turn, I was awed we were still moving forward. Kevbro and myself were having a revealing conversation with Rahim; a thin teenager with a bright yellow sweatshirt and an even brighter demeanor. Kevbro and I occupied one of the middle rows of seats in the large passenger van. Behind us, seated in the last row, was a stern-faced older Turk, his glasses lightly glinting as he periodically peaked his head above his newspaper.

While the driver pushed the van through Sultanahmet, Istanbul’s “old town”, Rahim answered our questions with enthusiasm we hadn’t seen from someone not trying to sell us anything. He was young and in college with a grasp of English far stronger than our attempted grasping of Turkish. His heavy, serious eyebrows belied the eyes of an easygoing jokester. An employee of the Turkish bath – or hamam – we had just paid for, Rahim was responsible for bringing two large men hoisted upon a leather sofa, barely covered in towels, their tea and Fanta. So it was easy to understand why he couldn’t help but chuckle after every few sentences.

The van ride back to the perfectly-priced Hotel Legend, which was a hotel in some sense and far from legendary in every sense, was thrown in by Rahim’s employer as part of the Turkish bath package we had paid for. Eager to take part in what was billed as a soothing Turkish experience, Kevbro and I made our way a few hours earlier to one of the oldest Turkish baths in the city. Cold and rainy, Istanbul in March made the word ‘bath’ ever so inviting and so after several wrong turns and a few rounds of point-and-gesture with some locals, we found ourselves in a plush changing cabin. We hung our wet clothes on the hooks and exited the cabin wearing nothing but striped towels around our waists. Luckily for me, the towel managed to just cover my capital region, while making sure my Constantinople didn’t unexpectedly peek out.

We hobbled to the hararet, or steam room, on uncomfortable wooden, yet traditional, clogs and were told to enter and lay upon a giant heated stone slab and wait. Once inside, the cavernous stone room was humid, but not steamy. All around the slab in the center were several stations complete with faucets and marble beds. The slab itself was warm, but not hot, and laying on it while developing a good sweat was wonderful. The deep echo produced when Kevbro and I talked also added to the atmosphere as it reminded me of how monks would chant in the steam room after hitting the Stairmaster.

Fifteen minutes of bliss passed when two thin, sinewy men wearing similar towels to ours walked past. They greeted us and told us to follow them to one of the stations encircling the slab. These were our masseuses and with a handshake and a smile, perhaps our friends. Kevbro went to a separate marble bed and I mine and the whole thing started out friendly enough.

Immediately, the sanctity of the room was broken by the gush of the faucets and my guy proceeded to pour pans of warm water on my back. He took what looked like a giant loofah sponge and began to scrub me thoroughly with its firm fibers. The whole thing felt brisk and invigorating and put me in a state of sorely needed relaxation.

Then came the thumbs, which my masseuse sorely kneaded into my flesh as though I was wearing a tattoo that read ‘Pillsbury’. A good massage has to hurt a little, or so I kept telling myself. That little mantra became less convincing as he put all his weight on my calf muscle and slowly squeezed upwards until it felt like a midnight leg cramp. Then came interesting techniques like being punched in the back several times and exerting abrupt pressure on my stomach with both of his hands. My hamstrings became his sparring session; my lower back his tackling dummy.

During the punishment, my grunts became louder and harder to conceal. I even started to get self-conscious as I knew Kevbro must be going through the same pain and I hadn’t heard him utter a whimper. The periodic pans of water quickly began to alternate between uncomfortably hot and shockingly cold. I began to gasp and squirm uncomfortably. For his finale, my tormentor took his opposing thumbs and forcefully applied them in direct opposition to my inner thighs. An alarming move, I began to flop around on the marble slab like a fish pulled right out of the lake. I even let out one of those high-pitched yelps you save for special occasions like third-degree burns.

He assured me it had to be this way. He had to search out muscles rusting in a corner somewhere that I never knew I had. He had to sit me on the floor afterwards and pour pan after pan of glacier-like water over my head till I had to grab his arm and make him stop because I was having trouble, you know, breathing.

After they had left, Kevbro and I sat on the edge of the stone slab and looked down at the floor. My heart was trying to stop beating a thousand times a minute. Had we just gone through barefoot boot camp? Why did it have to be that way?

“Hey man, I’m impressed,” I said, panting, “you didn’t make a sound.”

“What?!” he looked at me with disbelief, ”didn’t you hear me scream?”

The terrible two brought us to another room where they tied several towels around our heads and torsos. We looked ridiculous; like sheepherders. They then led us to a couple of leather couches where we were invited to lay down and relax as long as we’d like while they brought us plenty of refreshments. Within minutes, Rahim and his bright yellow sweatshirt, came into the room bringing us some of that addictive Turkish tea and a joke about how I look like I came from Spain.

Before long, we found ourselves in the western suburbs of the city, caught up in rush-hour traffic. The older man in the back continued to dodge any attempts at a friendly smile towards us and doggedly read his paper.

When we got to a street corner he liked, the old man stood up, said some things in Turkish to the driver and Rahim and exited the vehicle. During this process, he continued to not look in our direction and might have muttered something under his breath.

Rahim loved tourism, or so he proclaimed. I was inclined to believe him. As soon as the old man left, he turned to us and began a candid conversation with us about not only where we were from (oddly enough, the Turks were bad guessers) but what we had seen or done in Istanbul. He told us about wanting to fulfill his dream and go to Spain one day which of course forced me to break out my rudimentary high school Spanish and yammer on about how ‘caliente’ the women were and how ‘bueno’ the food was. His more than capable reply made my inferiority in Spanish seem suddenly equal to my Turkish.

Rahim made us aware of the gargantuan importance for Turkey of the soccer match that evening. Little did he know he was trying to inform two people who do not follow sports. Yet, he tried to explain it to us as best he could and we put our most polite smiles forward. Conversely, while passing a mosque no less, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” soulfully seeped out of the radio and I instinctively asked for him to turn it up. Rahim didn’t know who Marvin Gaye was but out of pure interest, he turned up the radio and proceeded to groove a little as Motown rocked the old town.

The van began to weave its way gracefully through the windy roads of Sultanahmet, when Rahim turned and asked us if we knew who the old curmudgeon in the back was. We didn’t. Apparently, he was a former high official, very high up in fact, with the Turkish police. A “VIP” as Rahim called him. Considering Turkey’s appalling track record on human rights and torture, not to mention the physical intimidation with a sponge that Kevbro and I had just experienced, I couldn’t help but think that maybe our masseuses were really working for him.