Available on. Romantic landscapes. Enchanting souks. Affable people. In a special series, Arthur J Pais takes a magical, mystery tour of Morocco. The massage will follow a shower bath, I am told. The woman running the massage parlour at our Casablanca hotel speaks only a few sentences of English. She hands me a thick robe and a bar of almond-fragrance soap and mint shampoo. When you are travelling in a South American or an Asian country, it is but natural that you pamper yourself.
The masseuse, perhaps a 25 year old, speaks no English. No underwear, she says. Everything here is natural. Famous for its sulphur-rich spa waters, it beckons thousands of families over weekends. I shower and go into a dark room wearing a robe. The masseuse tells me to lie down. She will be back in a minute, she says. In French, of which I understand a few words. I put the robe back on wondering at the excitement and touch of horror. Soon a hefty woman enters the room. I expect to be caned.
She is stern and stares into my eyes. She knows some English. I tell her I was doing the same thing as I did in the Casablanca massage parlour. I offer to wear my underwear. I hear a few giggles. It is a three minute walk to the entrance where my wife is waiting for me. But I feel as if I have been walking for an hour.
News APP. NewsApp Free Read news as it happens Available on. Sign in Create a Rediffmail account. The Casablanca massage. Following the shower, I enter a dimly lit room redolent with the aroma of jasmine flowers.
I am not an exhibitionist, but I think what the heck, the room is dark. After 20 minutes of an excellent professional massage, she asks me to turn over. Not a problem, I tell myself, the room is dark. It is a gorgeous massage. I long for more. I remove my robe and lie down on my belly, after removing my underwear.
