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.
