Marrakesh is like walking into an explosion; completely disorienting, loud, chaotic and jarring. It bombards you with smells, some beautiful and exotic, others putrid and rank. It is a dizzying labyrinth of colors and sounds lining every street and tunnel-like alleyways with surprises at every turn and jam packed with stalls selling carpets, rattan goods, perfumes, leather goods, spices, meats, knock-off handbags and Nikes, tangines and ceramics. Every street is full of the meandering tourist, the bustling locals, the heckling shop keepers and the banter of everyone trying to haggle the best deal. Between all this is a constant stream of motorcycles, bicycles and donkey carts full of goods being shuffled in and out of the city. There are tourists dressed to influencer perfection and mothers sitting on the piss smelling cobblestone, stroking the head of her child who lies in her lap, barefoot and filthy and begging. Marrakesh enchants you and breaks your heart simultaneously.  Here exists humanity in so many extremes, from the completely exposed to the completely covered up, from the most progressive to the most conservative all converging and flowing together in order to survive, too busy existing to be bothered with how another chooses to live.  There are snake charmers in the square and monkeys on leashes. There are scammers who convince you are lost but will lead you to your destination expecting payment at the end of your journey. There are kids selling bread from their moms kitchen and 7 year olds zipping among the crowds on rollerblades with no helmet giving me a heart attack. After a day the rhythm of the city and people begins to resonate within us and we become part of the madness as we relax into the vibration of this surreal city. 

It is Ramadan and the locals are fasting from sunrise to sunset every day of this holy month.  During the hour before the fast is broken this already chaotic city swells even more as they rush out for last minute ingredient. Make shift grills are erected over coals in the streets and a guy sitting on an upturned milk crate cooks up fish or skewered meats.  The nut and dried fruit stalls are packed with shoppers yelling out orders and frenzied scoops filling bags like the stock market. Shopkeepers set out tables in the streets and sit down to mint tea, dates a meal and a respite from the endless work. Cigarettes in hand they finally sit and take a break from seducing customers. At 7 o’clock the call to prayer echoes through the city and just as fast as the crowd swelled in, it recedes and an eerie calm replaces the intensity for a short time. The witching hour and the magic hour. The juxtapositions that define this place in one literal and figurative moment. And then it all begins again. I want to stop and stare into every shop, I want to give all the money to the barefoot babies, I want to let the scammers guide our way because it’s a dollar here and a dollar there for me but I know how much bread my dollar can buy here. I want to do it all but it’s too overwhelming and so just existing and becoming part of the buzz is the only way to experience Marrakesh. So we wander and get lost on purpose, and eventually find our way back again, but with many more stories to tell.

While we will have plenty of quiet pool time and nature, I hope these experiences settle into our hearts and impress the importance of patience, perspective, and acceptance upon us.