Honestly, it’s a career I would be well suited too – two weeks in Morocco has taught me that.
Why do we have to do? To achieve? To make our indelible mark on this planet?
Why can’t we just, be?
I am enjoying this ‘just being’ bit of my life. I am enjoying not making the bed. I do feel a little guilty when I come back to the room and find that not only is the bed made but my smalls (left soaking in the sink) have been carefully washed and are now hanging out to dry on coat hangers on the balcony, but only a little guilty.
I am enjoying not washing my hair every day, well it is Africa and you wouldn’t expect the hot water to work EVERY day. I do wash, I hasten to add, whether it’s hot or cold, the water I mean. I am after all still a novice on this ‘learning how to be a sloth’ study course. Perhaps next week I will feel liberated enough to dispense with the ‘washing every day’ ritual. I am even enjoying wearing the same clothes for three days, (maybe not the smalls, I’m far too repressed for that).
I love the reasons given for it not working; the hot water that is.
‘When will we have hot water?’ I ask at reception, without urgency or malice, three weeks in India taught me that water (of any kind) every other day, is a luxury.
“When the guests have gone, Madam.”
Of course, silly me. Why would ‘guests’ need hot water?
‘How do you fill your time?’ David asks one afternoon over mint tea in the ‘men only’ cafe across the road. David realises I am not in the least bit phased by men only establishments of any description.
We had gone there to seek refuge as President Chirac is in town and our quiet little oasis has been invaded by burly, sunglass wearing ‘suits’, and the car park commandeered by limos with blacked out windows.
“I mean we have to have structure in our lives.”
It’s true we do, and my new sloth life is perfectly structured.
I wake with the sun, a habit that has been with me for decades, and means that when I reside in northern climes I can sleep away most of the morning.
I go to breakfast taking my adored kindle as my companion. The chef seems to have become fond of me and the head waitress believes I am ‘simpatico’ (perhaps she has ambitions of becoming a sloth herself).
While the rest of the guests plough their way through Moroccan pastries (I have tasted better) and mountains of bread, I am presented with an omelette, a yoghurt and fresh fruit. Ignoring the germanic glares, I politely thank the chef and, once finished, adjourn to reception for a couple of hours on the computer.
I have to confess, I have yet to look at anything of substance on the computer or to consider editing the work I promised myself that I would. No, instead I catch up with Facebook, play a few games of scrabble, see how badly hated teams are doing in the premier league, check the weather forecasts in London, Marrakech and Taroudant, allow myself a quiet smirk and two hours later go back to my studies of slothfulness.
Three hours on the pool deck, there are two (pool decks) but only one where lying almost naked is tolerated, thankfully it is the one below my Moroccan blue balcony, then it’s time to hit the town.
I do walk into town, which is more than David and Jonathan do, they take a horse drawn carriage, but they are several modules ahead of me on the sloth degree course.
There really isn’t much to do in town, apart from marvel at its ageing beauty and loathe the invasion of 20th century motor bike fumes.
There is a modicum of danger in the walk. I am aware that in Morocco the rule is to drive on the right and that, as a pedestrian, I should therefore walk on the left – into the traffic. I am aware of this but, a bit like getting to grips with French verbs, I am not good at it. Stepping off the pavement invariably causes much screeching of brakes and hand gestures and loud words in Arabic – I will master this art before I leave.
The souk is deliciously cool in the middle of the day, and I wander around with absolutely no intent and marvel at the cobblers, the tailors, the candlestick makers.
Then it’s time for lunch in the square whilst I explore the latest book on my trusty kindle (thank you for the best present ever, Offsprung).
After lunch, I pick up a bag of dates (50p’s worth lasts at least 3 days) then, risking life and everyone’s limbs, head back to the hotel for more sloth activity by the pool.
6 pm and I finally drag a brush through my hair and put a bit of makeup on (mainly to cover the sunburn) and head to the bar.
Two hours of intermittent internet, 2 beers and one chicken sandwich later, I’m exhausted and happily retire to my room to continue my kindle love affair.
What isn’t there to like about life as a sloth?