When I used to say to folk I’m off to Egypt to relax they’d laugh, in that ‘she’s being ‘ironic’ way ! and then they’d realise I was serious and say, “What do you mean r e l a x ? You can’t relax there, its all hassle and noise!”
Then I’d explain and they’d nod but not quite agree. So, when I said ‘I’m off to Morocco, to do something quieter.’ I met the same reaction.
Of course it isn’t quiet slap bang in the centre of the Medina here in Marrakech, indeed there is quite a racket. Mopeds cruise the streets you walk almost brushing your arm as they career on by. People jostle to avoid carts filled with brightly coloured pots, melons the size of medicine balls and piled with freshly baked breads. Drums sound, bells ring, horses clatter past dragging tourists in brightly decorated calesh. Stall holders sell freshly squeezed orange juice to grateful parched customers and yell their stall number as you wander on by. The men with the monkeys will try to part you from your cash for a quick photo op, and snakes will eye you slyly from behind a stray arm, and henna ladies demand the promise of your return.
How a mind is kept busy with such sights to behold. How a body is made tired from wandering alleys and souks. How just being in a land where having stuff doesn’t matter means its a life much ‘quieter’.