Bucket Baths

            It has been over one year since I was last fortunate enough to take a bucket bath.  For months in the U.S., I had to suffer through standing in tubs for minutes on end, scalding hot water raining down upon me, wondering when it would be that I would have the opportunity to once again sit on a tiny plastic stool and pour small bowl-full’s of non-chlorinated water over my body.  Fortunately, living in Morocco has afforded me that chance.

            It isn’t everyday that one takes a bucket bath.  Indeed, it may be many days, or even weeks that pass before this small treasure, this half hour of bliss, this soapy, wet spot of joy on the dusty, dirt floor of the communal outhouse that is life in Ain Medyouna is experienced.  The sheer ecstasy of it all stirs the soul and awakens the body like half a pint of icy cold well water splashed onto warm, dry skin.  There is no mundane, constant shower of clean, heated water to lull the body into a sleepy calm.  There are no nozzles to twist; no spray heads to aim.  There are no mirrors to be fogged by excessively hot and damp conditions.  There is only a bucket and water.  And this is no ordinary water.  This is water that hits the body like frozen punches, targeting the most sensitive areas with great vigor and aim; water that leaves the naked skin underneath even more able to enjoy the biting wind that comes blowing through old planks of wood that have been bound together with bits of string and connected at four corners; water that begins quickly to dry, leaving behind a thin layer of dirty, soapy film; water that is not only the source of life, but actually has life living in it.  This is the water that shower dreams are made of. 

            Close your eyes and imagine yourself squatting over a bucket, butt naked in an outhouse, trembling and shivering with excitement, scooping and pouring water over yourself with a small metal pot you borrowed from the kitchen.  Imagine the enchanting sensation of local spring water running down your sides and legs, forming dirty little pools at your sandaled feet.  Think of the delight you would feel during such an incredible experience; the quick thumping of a rapidly beating heart; the tight clinching of curled toes; the brief moments of lost breath.  Now think back to the last time you bathed.  The characterless caulk and tiling.  The unnatural, over-processed water.  The fake, halogen lighting.  How boring.  How sad. 
           Sometimes it takes travel abroad to really understand how hard we have it in America.