Posted on July 30, 2007 by James Robbins
…you swim, and eat, chat, drink wine, crash out, wake refreshed in the cool afternoon breeze, read your Ian Rankin, and repeat all these gruelling activities until the fear that you may soon expire from sloth persuades you to explore the region.
This cheek-by-jowl combination of the most fundamental, breadline village existence and the most hedonistic luxury is a little unsettling. Nursing a cocktail by the wall overlooking the fading sunlight on the village can make you feel under siege from the uncomprehending eyes of the locals, who must wonder what, in God’s name, fat-cat tourists are doing in their village. But in the brief week we were there, it felt like a bracing adventure in stripped-down living. plunging into the madness of souk and shopping mall, then retreating from it, to the quietest, simplest hours of passing the time, in a [hotel] made simply of mud and imagination.