November 2, 1996

We had pulled into Tinerhir, a small Berber town on the outskirts of the Todra Gorge, one of Morocco's prime tourist attractions. It was mid day and a smattering of men were sitting outside shops drinking mint tea (Berber whiskey) and watching the world pass. Janet stayed with the van and I set out in search of eggs and bread.

"Bonjour." The greeting came from behind. A young man had left his perch outside a shop and stepped to meet me. "I speak English. Is there anything you need? I can help you."

"I'm looking for bread," I said. "Is there a shop near here?"

"Yes, I have bread, real Berber family bread."

His name was Mohammed. His English was flawless. "I am studying English in school," he told me "I have a friend who is working at the Morocco exhibit at Disney World. You know Disney World?" But I didn't have time to answer. "In here," Mohammed said. We had stepped into an alley of mud homes and Mohammed was rapping on a door. The uneven hinges sent it swinging slightly inward as he knocked. Like so many of the other houses we had passed, this one too was crumbling at the corners; it's metal door no longer matched it's sagging molding. Mohammed said something in Arabic to the woman who answered and she extended her hand to me. Two shiny gold teeth sprang from her smile. Her eyes were like white marble saucers. It wasn't until I was inside her home that I realized Mohammed had vanished. But another man had taken his place as my English guide, Hassane, Fatima's husband.

"My wife, does not speak English," he said. "How many bread you like?" He smoothed the dirt on the floor and drew a circle. "This big," he said.

Ah, I thought. A chance to have fresh baked bread. Bread that had only been touched by one set of fingers, bread which the flies wouldn't have had time to attack. "Two breads would be great," I answered.

"You will sit then and have tea with me while it bakes," Hassane said. "Five minutes is all. You travel alone?"

"No, my wife is waiting in the car."

"Ah, my wife would like to meet a European woman. Please, please, have her come too. I will go with you to get her." Exchanging not a word with Fatima, he added, "My wife would like you to take her picture."

He walked with me to the end of the alley and pointed to our van."Ah, it is the white one," he said, then added, "The nice one."

Fargo accompanied Janet and the four of us sat cross-legged on the kilims laid on the dirt floor. Behind us, three looms stood with unfinished works hugging their warp threads.

"My wife says you do not look European. You are Berber." Hassane said. Fatima reached a hand to Janet's hair and pulled on a tuft. "Black like Berber hair." he translated. Perhaps the hair is similar, I thought. But not the teeth. Fatima once again showed off her gold. Fargo was able to get a similar gleam from her and we promised to send her copies of the pictures when we returned home.

My wife would like to paint henna on your wife's hand," Hassane said. Again there were no words between husband and wife. "It is a sign of good luck." It was a unique Berber experience and to deny Fatima this pleasure would have been an insult. Janet eagerly accepted. Fatima dipped her small stick into the green paste and began. "I will interpret the symbols for you when it is complete," Hassane said.

While his wife worked, we were bombarded with questions. What did we do for jobs, where did we live, how many children? The conversation turned to travel, to America, and, as it seems all conversations in Morocco do, it turned to carpets and kilims. Fatima and eight other woman worked the looms in the house. "We sell them to men who own the city shops," Hassane said. "But they have not come in a long time."

The henna painting was finished. Janet sat with her palm up waiting for the paste to dry. "How long," she asked.

"Fifteen minutes and then my wife will do the next step."

"What do the patterns mean?"

"When it is finished I will tell you."

What better to fill fifteen minutes than a display of rugs. Fatima, with no coaxing from her husband, opened the door to a small room and began producing them in arm loads. One after the other she rolled them out for us. Her golden smile accompanied each one. "Do you like them?" Hassane asked. "Which do you like the best? I make you good price."

Had we been caught? I wondered. Had a mention of bread really been a ploy to sell rugs? Had the painting of henna been a means to hold us captive. Hassane continued his sales patter. Slick I thought, very slick. "We are not interested in rugs," I said. "But we appreciate you showing us your wife's lovely work." But Hassane hadn't listened.

"We have more," he said quickly. "Which one do you like. If you take two, the price can be reduced."

I could almost predict the words, the description of patterns and animals on the rugs, the explanation of colors, of materials. "We have no place to put a rug," I said. I was glad now that we had told him we had no house in Boston, that we had only the van as our home. We hadn't mentioned our professions either. There was no need for him to know that we were anything more than travelers.

His banter continued. Janet blew on her hand to speed the drying. "Is it ready yet?" she asked and extended her hand. The scrapping of the henna was quick. Underneath the green was an orange pattern crisscrossing her palm and dotting her fingers.

"This is the tree of life," Hassane explained. "And this is the symbol of the nomad tent." He pointed to the alternating stripes and dots on her fingers. "These are the moon and stars. You will have a long life throughout..." he paused.

"The universe?" Janet offered.

"Yes, the universe," he said. "Now you will buy a Berber rug to make Fatima happy. It is very fine work."

More salesman patter followed, and, from us, more head shakes of refusal. Janet put on her boots and went to wash the last of the henna paste from her hand. I took this opportunity to pay the agreed four dirham for the bread and make an exit. When I turned to thank them for their hospitality, I saw that Fatima had produced a trunk of jewelry. Hassane began pulling out old bracelets and rings. "Perhaps some jewelry, for your wife's birthday."

"No thank you," I was as gracious as I could be. "We must go to the gorge now." I tried to change the subject. "Is it nice at the gorge?"

"Yes, yes, is good." He dismissed my question with a wag of his hand. Then he held out a ring. "Here, this one."

Escape without offense was going to be difficult. True Moroccan hospitality had turned on me. "No thank you," I said again. "But we will send the photograph."

"Don't bother," Hassane said, his voice harsh.

I looked at Fatima. Her face had slid into an expressionless mask."Then I will send one for her," I said. Janet managed to evoke one last smile from our female host by bowing to her deep at the waist and we left. Unescorted, we pulled the narrow door closed and watched it come to rest a few inches before its frame. "Can you believe that," I said. "I was caught totally off guard."

Janet flashed me her orange-patterned hand. "Yes, but you have to admit, it was interesting having my hand painted. It's so hard to tell but I think Fatima may have been genuinely sincere."

"Yes," I agreed. "But I feel like I was had. The smooth English speaking guide, the stall for time by painting your hand. The questions and the walk to see our car to size us up. We were a captive audience, the best kind. I know people here have to make a living. I don't fault them for that. I just wish they didn't use sincerity as the lure." I started the engine and pulled the front wheels away from the curb. In my side view mirror I saw a man approach us. "Not again."

"Gutten Tag," he said. He had recognized our German plates. "German?" he asked as he approached the window.

"No we are from America," I said. I managed a weak smile.

"Come have tea with me at my house," he said. "To welcome you here." A big smile came to life across his face. Then he added, "Don't worry, I don't sell carpets. "

Janet held up her henna-painted hand. "We have no time, but thank you anyway."

That was all the man needed. "Oh, I see," he said and he walked away.