Hamam, Hammam, and a Bollywood duet in the steam

It was still bright when we reached Wadi Musa. Imad pulled over beside Sharah Mountains Hotel — my stay for the night. I hadn’t even stepped out of the car when he turned to me and asked,
"Do you want to try a Turkish bath?"
I blinked, a little confused.
"A Turkish bath? Here?"
He smiled, amused.
"Yes, very good after long drive. I’ll wait in the car while you drop your bags."

It wasn’t something I expected. A Turkish bath in Jordan? I had already told Imad yes, but curiosity got the better of me. Back in my room, I quickly Googled it. Hammam — that’s what it was called in Arabic. The name made me chuckle.

Back in India, as a kid, I used to bathe with a soap named Hamam. Its tagline, etched into memory by decades of TV ads in Hindi, was: “Suraksha ka pyara bandhan, Hamam.” — which loosely translates to "the sweet bond of security."
The ad always showed a loving mother bathing her child with Hamam soap, promising to wash away 99% of germs using its natural ingredients. I never knew until now that the name traced back to the Hammam — this ancient Middle Eastern bathing tradition.

A few minutes later, Imad drove me to a place called ‘Yakhor Turkish Bath’, and — as usual — was greeted like an old friend by four middle-aged men sitting outside. Pleasantries in rapid Arabic, some laughter, and then I followed up a narrow flight of stairs into a warmly lit room with stone walls and soft yellow lights. It felt vaguely theme park-ish, and I still wasn’t sure what I had signed up for.

At the counter, the owner chatted warmly with Imad, then turned to me with a reassuring smile. “You’ll have a good time,” he said, before moving to print the bill. I pulled out my phone to tap the card reader when he waved.
"Machine not working, my friend. Cash only."
I looked at Imad, a confused expression on my face — a silent signal that I didn’t have any local cash.
With a calm wave of his hand and a smile, Imad slipped a few notes into my hand and said,
"Don’t worry, my friend. Take it. Enjoy."
I looked at him — a small gesture, but deeply kind. I mumbled thanks, humbled, and promised to repay him later. He just waved it off and said he’d wait downstairs.

Two tall, lean attendants appeared from a wide wooden door in front of me, which swung shut behind them on its own. One of them handed me a pair of plastic-feel shorts and asked me to come in through the blue curtain once I had changed. I reluctantly changed, not knowing what awaited beyond the blue curtain. I locked up my belongings and wrapped the key band around my wrist.

Beyond the changing room was a large, tiled hall. In the centre, a raised stone platform (the göbektaşı — "navel stone") glistened under steam-filled lights. To the left, a couple of shower rooms. I was ushered into the steam room on the right — no curtains here.

I sat in the middle, and for a moment, it was quiet. I had stepped in with genuine excitement — which turned out to be short-lived. The heat began to build slowly. An herbal oil had been added to the steam — maybe eucalyptus or something minty.

But within minutes, the room filled with dense white vapor. I started to feel uneasy. The air was too thick. My breath felt shallow, each inhale a slow, deliberate effort. I tried to draw in a full, deep breath—long and steady—but as I reached the end, it faltered, incomplete, as if something blocked the final stretch. The air never quite filled my lungs; it slipped away, leaving a tightness that tightened with every attempt. I’d been in steam rooms before — in Infosys, Mysore, India — but this felt different. More suffocating. My brain started to panic.

"It’s just a room," I told myself. "You’re not trapped. You can leave."
Still, I had to battle that rising wave of anxiety, eyes closed, taking slow measured breaths.

Soon, others entered — a group of eight tourists, one man and seven women, chatting away in a language I couldn’t identify. Their laughter cut through the steam. I sat there, still uneasy, but determined not to bail.

Then someone — I couldn’t see who — began applying something to people’s faces. When it reached me, I realized it was probably a mentholated ointment — like Vicks VapoRub, but stronger. My eyes burned. I couldn’t open them.

Now I really wanted out.

Then came a splash after some time. I squinted through the haze of cooling ointment and the sharp sting it left behind, desperate to make sense. One of the staff members was pouring a bowl of water over the person seated at the start. The laughter within that group grew louder. But I wanted out. As the cool water spilled over my skin, a sudden wave of relief washed through me. The coolness seeped into my bones, and I could finally breathe a little easier.

After a few moments, one of the attendants called me over and led me out of the steam room. Finally.

He asked me to lie face down on the göbektaşı — the raised, heated stone in the center. And then it all started.

He poured bowl after bowl of warm water over me. At that point, I had surrendered. I couldn’t stop smiling. I just let him do his job.

He pulled on scrub gloves and started working on my arms and back. I’m extremely ticklish — and so when he hit my waist or the soles of my feet, I flinched and wriggled involuntarily. He kept going.

"Where you from?" he asked.
"India."
"Nice music in your country! Bollywood Bollywood!" he grinned.

Then, to my astonishment, he broke into song.
"Hum tere bin ab reh nahi sakte..." — the hit track from Aashiqui 2.
He got the first few words right, then mumbled the rest with conviction but zero accuracy. Still, the tune was spot on.

So I joined in.

Surely a painful duet for the other guests, but I didn’t care. I mean, when else do you get scrubbed down on a heated stone slab in a Turkish bath, in Jordan, singing a Bollywood ballad with an Arabic man?

Once done, he poured more warm water, folding my ear flaps gently as he rinsed my head and body for the final time. He then asked me to wait near another room.

One guest after another started taking their place on the slab, but I didn’t hear any Bollywood duet. That was just for me.

After 10 minutes or so, the other staff led me into a smaller adjoining room. Again, raised stone slabs lined the walls. He motioned to lie down again. This time, there was a folded towel for my head.

While I was bracing myself for what lay ahead, he was preparing himself too. Sitting in the corner, he poured bowl after bowl of water over himself—something he would occasionally do during this phase of the Turkish bath.

He lathered me up—top to toe—with thick, fragrant soap, his hands moving with practiced ease and surprising gentleness. The suds slipped and slid over my skin. He worked methodically. Then came the brief massage—firm but careful—loosening away the tension I hadn’t even realized I was holding.

As he poured bowl after bowl of warm water over me to rinse away the soap, I found myself grinning again. It was ridiculous. The contrast between the suffocating steam and the warm cascade was almost absurd. The steam room had wrapped me in a tight, anxiety-inducing heat, pressing down on my chest and mind. Yet, as the warm water poured over me, that tension began to melt away. In that absurdity, there was something strangely beautiful—a moment of simple, unexpected joy amid the ritual.

Still damp and relaxed after the experience, I stepped out through the door, where Imad was waiting patiently in the reception area, seated on a cushioned bench, his arms folded and that ever-familiar, relaxed smile playing on his lips. He looked up and asked, “Feeling relaxed now?”

I wasn’t sure how to sum it all up. With a wide, slightly amused smile, I said, “Wow, that was something else.”

I turned back offering a warm thank you to the man inside for the experience and followed Imad to the car.

But the night in Wadi Musa was far from over. As the golden light faded and hunger returned, I set out into the heart of town—unaware that my next adventure would be served on a plate, with flavours and surprises I’d never imagined.