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The Big, Fat, Moroccan Wedding

So there we were, completely naked, carrying plastic buckets, and padding into a small tiled room with a trough of water in the corner. The floor was a little too hot for my bare feet, and as we proceeded to fill the buckets with water, and pour it over ourselves, I couldn’t help but wonder, if this was an Edinburgh Festival show, what would it be called? The situation verged further into “gritty & honest feminist theatre (five stars)” territory, as we stood legs akimbo, and another naked woman entered and, with a concentrated look, slathered us in an exfoliating henna mixture that looked rather like menstrual blood. Then, we waited, sweating in the sauna-like heat, and wondering what was to come. Then, each in our turn, and in various different positions, we were scrubbed all over - scrubbed in places we didn’t know we had – and scrubbed harder and more thoroughly than Lady Macbeth ever scrubbed, until at least 10 layers of dermis had been removed. Our experience in the hammam w…

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