Roman footprints in Morocco (vignette from Volubilis)
Approaching the ruins of the ancient Roman city of Volubilis means an almost three hour bus ride from Rabat, through several smaller cities and scenic landscapes that blend into one another, making it seem like a coherent journey. On the road to Volubilis, there are olive trees that look older than the earth itself, twisting and stretching up to the sun, with branches reaching out to touch hands with the horizon. The trees precede even the first sign, indicating that the ruins are approaching. The signs themselves are aged white rectangles, sitting on top of rusty silver poles stuck in the ground, reading the name, and nothing else. When our van pulled into the dirt, but not dusty, parking lot, we were met with large tour buses, lined up in rows. People sat in large groups, chatting back and forth in several languages at once. We stood out, being the only teenagers in sight, as most were in school.
The ticket desk was wooden and shows only a few hints of age, with a piece of glass separating the customer and the ticket seller. He ripped a ticket off of an entire pad of them, and then stamped it with the date. I distributed the tickets, and we handed them off to be ripped along the perforation and handed back. I shoved mine in my pocket and walked down the awkwardly sized stairs, noticing that the ‘handicapped ramp’ didn’t look any better designed.
We were surprised to note that there was a museum that you could walk through before approaching the ruins, though its bright colors didn’t match the feeling of history. The visit was short, and we spent more time looking at the carved stones just outside of it. As soon as we regrouped, we were ready to experience the actual site.
Ascending up a set of modern stone stairs, we made it to the top of the hill, where three taller and straighter than normal pine trees stood marking the tourists entrance to the city. Immediately, we saw stone spread across overgrown grass, and vague, tall, structures in the distance. On the ground in front of us, we saw a circle carved in stone. We learned that it must have been for olive oil, and that this site was used for creating the stuff in large amounts. A few of us took a smaller dirt path around the site, and the rest took the main road, but we all had our minds sent on getting to the arches in the distance.
The sun overhead made it bright and brought attention to the few shiny wrappers left in the dirt. The temperature was bearable, but there was little shade to be found, and the sun stood directly above us. We walked for a while, forgetting that this used to be a city, and that, of course, not all of the extremely notable things would be located within feet of each other. We found a heavily recreated olive press, again hinting at one of the old city’s purposes.
We walked through old houses, and old public baths, noting where new stones had been placed in quest of ‘restoration’. Among the ruins were a few modern pipes and electrical boxes , hooked up to nothing, but I took at as part of the experience, and not a blemish. When we made it closer to the arches, we realized that the site was even larger than we had re-evaluated it to be. The site extended nearly large enough to touch the horizon.
The arches themselves were flashbacks to a different time. They retained a bit of detailing, especially at the top of the columns, and had some clearly added in. When I ran my hands across the stone, I couldn’t help but think back to the decades and decades of people living here that must have done the same. As I did my best to translate the Latin carved in stone, I thought of the hours taken of careful chiseling away to create it. The memories of the place weren’t ours, but we imagined them all the same. We spent hours there, with less conversation than typical, truely wandering, and exploring, which is a unique experience these days.
By the time we got back, it was almost time to leave. However, we spent our last few minutes in the café near the parking lot. They serve fairly cheap coffee, sandwiches, and soda in glass bottles. The tour groups sit here while waiting, and sit legs crossed, facing outwards, and sipping orange juice. We watched the ruins from afar, and thought about all the history in one place.
I keep my ticket in my jacket pocket still, hoping that one day, when I have momentarily forgotten the experience and the awe, I will remember the feeling of the stone, the colors of stones and flowers, and they day I spent in Volubilis.
