Volubilis

CHAPTER 14

After leaving the Blue City of Chefchaouen behind, we headed south-west to Casablanca. Looking at the map, I noticed an archeological site that was somewhat on our route. If I was traveling on my own, you can be sure that I would be ping-ponging across the map, soaking these places up like a hearty piece of bread to a plate of marinara, but alas, I would never arrive at my destination. So it’s good that my traveling companions usually keep me on course- and only consent to the occasional frivolous archeological side trip. This makes me be quite judicious of the sites that I propose visiting, as I know that most will fall far short of the bar that would elicit a “wow, that was cool” response. And, as the boy who cried wolf, I have to be very careful of overplaying my hand.

As it was, Volubilis, an ancient Berber, then Phoenician, then Roman, then Muslim site, was well worth the visit- and I think my companions would agree. On a slight rise of a hill overlooking a picturesque bucolic valley, the ruins of Volubilis sit partially reconstructed- just enough for the imagination to fully reconstruct what life 2000 years ago would have been like. We clambered among the tumbled stones unhindered for most of the morning, with the place basically to ourselves- reminding me of why I like to travel in out-of-the-way country, free from the throngs of tourists that would be assaulting these ruins if they were a few hundred miles north, or a few thousand miles west, anywhere that wasn’t the middle of nowhere Morocco. The huge triumphal arch, the colonnade of the basilica, and the colorful mosaic tile floors still intact in many of the town’s villas, impressed upon you how amazing this place would have looked in its heyday.

After a few hours of exploring, the noon-day sun was getting hot. Casablanca beckoned. Cold drinks beckoned. Dusty was rearing to go. And Taylor had an unfortunate encounter with a can of tuna fish in tomato sauce. It was clearly time to leave.

Back on the highway, one small incident did distract us- a truck heading the opposite direction somehow crashed, and was engulfed in an enormous column of flame and black smoke. The traffic on their side of the road was backed up for hundreds of cars, and everyone was standing outside of their vehicle watching in shock at the raging inferno. But the craziest thing was that not one police car, or firetruck, or ambulance, was there yet, but this conflagration had to have been going on for quite some time judging by how much traffic was stuck there. Luckily the driver of the truck appeared to be ok- we saw him sitting on the curb shaking his head in disbelief. It just made me realize that if we were in a similar calamity, I should not hold my breath about being quickly rescued by calling 911, or whatever the number is in Morocco. I drove a little slower the rest of the way to Casablanca.