It was going to be a lark. At four o'clock the baths would open for the women of the village and we could finally take the dust out of our mouths. A few days in Morocco was to become an escape through time--backwards to an ancient way of life, one to which we were not privileged: In a smaller village we were disallowed entry to their public baths. Circumstances changed with a larger population. The town might have been Fez. It was a large enough city to permit "Europeans" to enjoy the public baths. No public baths for Europeans meant it was forbidden to those capable of wearing a closed shoe. Tourists stand out in a culture acclimated to hot temperatures.

In Fez we found the usual medina where we could hire a child (who could speak clearly in seven languages) to guide us through it. There were so many of these kids demanding to tour for us that it was simply a better choice to committ ourselves to one, and rid ourselves of the question of the job any further. Indeed, the 9- or 10-year old made it much easier for us. He would find the rear alley ways and the shortest distances, the best couscous and most importantly, the way to the public baths. He would earn a little money.

One of our hotels was a most palatial building, nestled in an strange-looking village. The unusual shapes of the houses made them look like piles of snow. Smoothly sloping mounds hid the ancient dwellings. These former huts, the boy told us in broken English, were annually painted over with a coat of brightly blue lime. Eventually, the paint's thickness contributed to ever smoother surfaces. After a milennium of yearly coatings the buildings lost their right angles under the smoothed, sloped layers. The sun was hot. But because of the light blue color, we were visually among centuries-old glaciers, a visual trick against the heat.

At the desk of the hotel we learned about the former prince's home transformed for our use as guests. From the entry patio lobby, we could look up to the second floor where intricate and brighly patterned tiles glazed every wall, pillar, balcony and archway. Immediately in front of us the villa's fountain splattered refreshingly. Its daily purpose in the center of the house would be fully revealed later that afternoon, when employees cleared all furniture from the first floor and followed with a vigorous hose-down of walls, floors and all surfaces. The result took the heat right out of the air, relaxed and refreshed the entire house, even the second floor took a sigh.

Our short visit let me know that the Moroccan self-sufficiency combined with an overall admiration for their King (this in 1972) and life was not so bad. Their cultural past and communal integrity were solid, palpable-connecting.

At the hotel as in the private country homes, the rooms when first presented were vacant of furnishings. At the hotel the exeption was the several beds (we were a party of seven) that awaited us in one of the wings. Invited as guests into private homes, we were impressed that every home had the same empty rooms, with a standard neat stacks of blankets and pillows. Yet, this culture proved to be the ultimate in lounge.

WithIn a matter of minutes any such room could be easily transformed into a dining room so rich that it boggled the mind to discover where all these pillows, carpets, brass table and accessories. A fabulous dinner would be set in a matter of minutes with everyone assigned a proper role for the occasion: Someone would be removing the 8-foot diameter hammered brass wall hanging, and with a small, wooden folding support, a table was instantly created. In the meantime two or three others were spreading blankets and pillows, motioning us to sit. The table was placed so while seated on the floor it was exactly the right height to fit our folded knees underneath. In one private home, we were greeted by an ancient lady wearing a 1950's pink dotted swiss dress, made for a "young junior" judging by the peter pan collar and gathered skirt. She had tattoos extending from her fingers, up her arms, toward her neck, which continued to make a pattern of lilies and stalks on her cheeks. She carried a chicken in each hand, by their feet, and when we arrived she threw these into their yard, cackling and flying to their meal, spread by the children, on the ground.

When we women left the hotel for the public baths, we still had a wait. The child guide took us to wait next door to the baths. It was apparently where the public could go for tea, though there were no women actually drinking tea. Rough log benches were used for seating and a large copper tea urn was operated by a leathery man in a djellaba. The tea is served in what we in the USA would consider to be juice glasses. In Morocco, as it is throughout the Muslim world, all glassware is hand blown, and frequently festooned in gold.

We would sip the tea by holding the small glass between the rim where it was cool, and the bottom whose thickness absorbs the heat. The tea man had the pointy mules (les Ababouches) which curled at the toes, a short vest which made his djellaba look like a comfortable dress, and a small cap. A few minutes later, the cafe was suddenly crowded with little old men, freshly bathed. One tall figure stood out. A handsome young Arab, all the more obvious because of his jeans, who carried a pair of bongo drums and sat down. His rhythms were hypnotic, and many sang, or chanted along, shouting to the men who answered in chorus. The monotone song of the Arabs always ended with what sounded like, Alesh Allah. The handsome drummer translated smiling playfully, "Pour quoi pas, dieu?" ("Why not, by God?")

Our little guide ran to us. The baths would finally permit all the women. We followed a murmuring crowd dressed in traditional shadurs. An attendant at the entrance must have been the oldest woman on the planet. Once admitted we were surrounded by other, similar attendants--all nude. I struggled with my surprise while trying to pay attention to what these women were trying to tell us. Understanding was barred by the different language. They waved at us the, "Europeans." Maybe this was not the lark we had hoped. Perhaps we were to be prohibited from the bath, as in the smaller town. In their native Arabic, the attendants tried authoritatively to show us something by motioning what we were expected to do. But it was without effect. We stood there frozen. Thanks to Allah, a French-speaking woman arrived on the scene and soon all nerves were calmed.

Ah. Vive la difference! We now understood where to hang up our clothes. These were over the clothes that were already packed together on school room hooks. "No one steals. Ever," said the French woman. Luckily she also instructed us to take coins with us, even if we had no purse, since we were proceeding stark naked. "You'll need it," she whispered. The attendants could take control now.

The first rooms were enormous, even slightly chilly. "This won't take long," our dark haired guide hinted. An attendant, elderly but spry, waited at the entrance of a mosaic-tiled foot bath--only 6 inches deep, but maybe 15 or 20 feet square decorated in cream-colored mosaics, striped in blue and sprinkles of gold glassine. We were among a crowd who crossed the pool together, as if it were a sidewalk, all splashing. The French lady saw my mystified expression. "This is how we wash our feet before entering."

At the ultimate entrance of the baths, we were surrounded by yet other naked attendants. Some had little drapes of cloth, these may have served as towels--they were certainly not meant to cover their bodies. This portal seemed like a large, vaulted entrance to the deep and dark spaces within. There, another spry one handed all of us little wooden buckets, like the ones Mickey Mouse was using in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice."

In it were some scrubbing accessories. A pumice with a natural fuzzy texture, very unusual, and two little paper bags; one of henna for our hands and feet (and for the tattoo painter) the other for balsam and a small soap. The place was a dark cavern, and we were led by the spry attendant, as other clusters of women were, all taken to vacant spots to sit. We were led past this to still one more cavernous room. All of these vaults were lit minimally with widely spaced little 60-watts at more than fifteen feet. It was made much more habitable by the now-familiar faces. The attendants' nudity soon became another uniform, and they were comforting in their sober committment to the bathing work.

In our large room a few women had begun lounging on the wet, warm cement floor and the little old attendants went to work on us. Apparently the news that we had carried in coins benefitted us in toward greater luxuries. For a coin, the scrubbing stone was used all over starting with the feet and as we surrendered. Another coin got us a treatment of the natural balsam, which with water melted into a cream, for our hair. By the looks of it, there was one attendant available for every three women, with the exception of the grande dame in the corner. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dimness I finally understood a spate of activity nearest natural hot springs fountain. A group of little children were working on what seemed to me a custom car wash where each attendant is a specialist. One for the toes, another for the hair, a pair for the arms and another to carry water. They called her "Maman."

The two attendant ladies with our party were busy every minute, mostly hauling the little buckets of water from the fountain, each splash more welcome than the last.

I understood later why we were in the last of the vaults, we needed little more privacy for the hookah pipe loaded with the national relaxant: hashish. This was provided (with some more coins to enable the privilege) by our French-speaking guide. After two or three hours of endless gentle steam, splashing, scrubbing, long discussions and henna-packed hair, we were unhappy to break the "instinctual" time so deeply relaxing. We parted company with the lady guide who made our afternoon the highlight of our trip. She invited us to her home the following day. We had to hurry though, and found our waiting child guide in an instant.

We were going to be late for our couscous with the guys.

(CF Perez was born in French Morocco)