Fire and Poetry: The Man Behind a Marrakech Hammam

It was a late November morning and the Marrakech alleyways were still wet from the night before. The shops’ doors remained closed and the sun had not yet risen. Omar, my photo tour guide, met me at my riad at 7:30 AM. As per usual, an early start was on the agenda, sleep be damned; we were heading deep into the medina to find the heart of a traditional Marrakech hammam.

Together, Omar and I walked through the empty back streets, photographing the small details of the intricate door knockers, the archways that lead to the open courtyards, and the few people out and about.

Ahead of us, a figure moved through the quiet street. He wore a djellaba: Morocco’s traditional full-length robe. At this time of year, its fabric was a heavy wool, designed for exactly this kind of weather. The hood, wide and floppy and pointed at the tip, was pulled over his head. He walked slowly, his gait unhurried. He turned a corner and was gone from our sight.

The feel of the early morning medina was completely different than what I had otherwise experienced during the day and evening hours. A wintery Moroccan morning, spent exploring the streets with my camera in hand, gave me a glimpse of the city most visitors don’t get to see. Yet, this wasn’t the most memorable part of the day. Nope, that would be the time I spent with Mohammed.

But First, Tea

When coordinating with Omar about the photo tour, I mentioned that I love to take portraits and ideally, I would get access to the people and places most tourists walk past. Omar hit the nail on the head.

He had arranged the morning with Mohammed in advance. This is often why I try to connect with local photographers for a guided photo walk– they have connections and knowledge that I obviously do not have as a visitor. Luckily, Mohammed invited us into his world and for that hour or so, I relished it.

That morning, Mohammed welcomed the us into a small, dimly lit room, just adjacent to a hammam (a traditional Moroccan public bath house). Behind him stood concrete walls and a set of steep stairs which would later lead us up to the roof. I also noticed some funny details like a boombox sitting on the concrete ledge and a black office chair placed in the corner of the room. Mohammed himself was dressed for the chilly winter weather, wearing a maroon wool djellaba and a light blue cloth wrapped around his head.

After some polite introductions, Mohammed sat on the floor and did the thing I’d learned over the previous 10 days in Morocco was customary: he offered us tea. But, this wasn’t the typical black tea I drink at home. Moroccan tea is sweet, minty, fragrant, and surprisingly delicious.

He picked up the tea kettle and poured it the way Moroccans pour; he lifted it high above his head and the thin amber stream of tea fell into two small glasses on the tray. This wasn’t just for show. Pouring tea from this height aerates it and creates bubbles on top, a sign that the tea was mixed properly. Mohammed even poured the glass of tea back into the kettle and poured again, further mixing it to create the perfect cup. He asked if we wanted sugar. My answer: always yes (although even for me, as someone who drinks sugary lattes, I found Moroccan tea to be extremely sweet). He dropped a whole sugar cube into my cup, as is typical, and that was that.

Only after tea did he take us into his sweltering workspace.

The Furnace Room

From the living area, Mohammed led us down a few concrete steps into the furnace room. This was where he worked throughout the day, feeding the fire which, in turn, heated the water and warmed the marble floors of the hammam next door. The room itself was small, dark, and enclosed. The only natural light seemed to come from an opening somewhere above, which provided just enough oxygen for Mohammed (and the fire) to breathe.

Mohammed sat down on a pile of the kindling: hay, straw, woodchips, and sawdust that were strewn around the room. He tossed a handful of the fuel into the mouth of the furnace and the fire immediately surged. The sparks flew from the clay furnace, the heat hitting my face like an oven opening. Here I was, just standing around in a lightweight jacket and I could barely handle the temperature. I wondered how he tolerated the days in that heat, especially wearing a heavy wool djellaba, hood up and all. Yet, this was just another workday for him.

Between the Fire and the Sky

After exiting the furnace room, we walked back through the small living area and climbed up concrete stairs to the top of the building. After the dark, cramped space below, stepping out onto the bright, expansive roof of the hammam was a jolt.

The rooftop itself was a functional work space: messy, disorganized, and not exactly intended for a photoshoot. Long hoses were strewn across the ground, various metal pipes stuck out from the floor of the roof, wires ran in no particular direction, and a metal gate had seemingly been blown over by the wind, just laying discarded on the ground. Looking at this gritty, industrial exterior, it was fascinating to think how much it likely contrasted against the serene, tiled interior on the other side of those walls.

But the most interesting thing in my camera’s frame was the large, weathered concrete hammam dome itself. I noticed the little circular glass windows which were embedded into the dome, a feature Omar explained had two purposes. They allowed natural light to filter into the steam rooms below, as well as managing the humidity and heat that would otherwise remain trapped.

Mohammed moved between two spots on the roof. Over to the side, he stood against the course wall, put his hood down, and adjusted his head wrap. With the morning light now illuminating him, I noticed that his heavy djellaba featured a decorative hand-embroidered braid (called a sfifa) which ran down the center.

But the most striking detail, though, was the long string of thick, wooden beads which hung prominently around his neck. I learned that these are called tasbih: prayer beads used in Islam to count dhikr (the repetitive remembrance of Allah).

Then, Mohammed walked over to the soot-stained chimney. He remained as he had been all morning: serious, composed, with a quiet authority and intense focus. The fire was apparently still raging from his work down below because the smoke was pouring out from the vent, leaving the ground covered in ash.

The smoke was thick and consistent, rising from the stack in a way that made every shot feel more dramatic than I deserved credit for. I just had to point the camera in his direction.

The Poet on the Rooftop

As the smoke continued pouring from the vent, Mohammed started speaking in a rhythmic cadence. At the time, I didn’t understand a word he was saying, but later learned he was reciting a piece of Malhun, a form of Moroccan poetry that blends spiritual themes with social commentary.

Omar took my phone and began filming. Mohammed’s delivery, set against the hazy, smokey background, produced a very ethereal scene. His head turned right, then tilted up toward the sky as the spoken word poetry flowed.

His words were about the hammam fire itself, about purification, and about the trials of daily life. He had spent the morning tending that fire. Then he climbed to the roof and recited poetry about it.

The Moroccan Blues

Back down in the small room where the morning had begun, Mohammed, joined now by his nephew, picked up some musical instruments. The tea tray from earlier was still sitting in front of them, the blue teapot now cold.

Mohammed picked up a gimbri: a three-stringed bass lute carved from a single log and covered with camel skin. Mohammed started tuning it, plucking the strings and tightening them to adjust the tone. His nephew held castanet-like instruments called krakeb, which produced a heavy clacking sound when he tapped them together.

They were doing more than just simply playing music, though. They were teaching me about their history and culture. Mohammed and his nephew are part of the Gnawa community: descendants of enslaved West Africans who have, over the centuries, maintained their deep heritage. This group has blended their ancestral beliefs with Islam to create a unique spiritual identity.

Historically, the Gnawa people were often marginalized and relegated to the hardest labor, like the intense work of tending to the hammam’s fire. But their resilience can be found in their traditional music. The musical style itself was soulful and repetitive, and is sometimes referred to as Moroccan Blues.

Hanging on the wall behind them, I noticed three beanie-looking hats, which I learned was also related to the Gnawa culture. Hanging from a peg and decorated with sea shells, they were a small reminder that Mohammed’s heritage was all around him.

Watching Mohammed play in this unkempt room, his hands still sooted from the furnace, it was evident that the music wasn’t a separate part of his life. It was another layer of the same one.

The Soul in the Shadows

When I eventually stepped back out into the medina, the alleyways were no longer empty. The shops were open, the crowds were thick, and the mid-morning sun was high. The smoke lingered on my clothes for the rest of the day, a constant reminder of the world beneath the pavement.

It’s easy to walk the narrow streets of Marrakech and see only the surface level: the brass lanterns, the pyramids of spices, and the vivid, woven rugs stacked high against shop walls. Most people make their living out in the open: vendors beckoning you into stalls, selling fresh juice from trucks, or trying to draw you into an (unfortunate) snake charmer act.

But Mohammed showed me that the city also relies on a different kind of life, one lived in the shadows. He is one of the unseen workers whose backbreaking labor in the stifling heat happens far from the tourist’s gaze. Yet, that morning, I witnessed a job that was about more than just sweat and soot. Beneath the medina is where the soul of Morocco is kept alive, one shovel of sawdust and one recited verse at a time.