Again, the full moon in due course sets over the turbid waters. The luminous glow of the cold complexion dances off the shimmering waves. How many days has it been since this sojourn on the waters’ edge? Measure by measure our days are metered out. And time and tide bide no man. On this penultimate night on this drifting abode, the setting moon yet reminds me of the transience of all things. Beginnings end, and each ending leads to beginnings anew. So with this, the gentle waters do their currents ebb, and the calm wind ever whispers into the night. I will remember fondly those days spent floating on this humble home.
This weekend prior, I spent some time catching up with a friend whom I had met in central China. She, being one of few who has had more travel experience than myself, proceeded to engage me in various stories of her wanderings. To this, I as oft reciprocated my own tales. But, as with all things, travel is poison and cure.
Travelling. This makes men wiser, but less happy. When men of sober age travel, they gather knowledge, which they may apply usefully for their country; but they are subject ever after to recollections mixed with regret; their affections are weakened by being extended over more objects; & they learn new habits which cannot be gratified when they return home. Young men, who travel, are exposed to all these inconveniences in a higher degree, to others still more serious, and do not acquire that wisdom for which a previous foundation is requisite, by repeated and just observations at home. The glare of pomp and pleasure is analogous to the motion of the blood; it absorbs all their affection and attention, they are torn from it as from the only good in this world, and return to their home as to a place of exile & condemnation. Their eyes are forever turned back to the object they have lost, & its recollection poisons the residue of their lives. Their first & most delicate passions are hackneyed on unworthy objects here, & they carry home the dregs, insufficient to make themselves or anybody else happy. Add to this, that a habit of idleness, an inability to apply themselves to business is acquired, & renders them useless to themselves & their country. These observations are founded in experience. There is no place where your pursuit of knowledge will be so little obstructed by foreign objects, as in your own country, nor any, wherein the virtues of the heart will be less exposed to be weakened. Be good, be learned, & be industrious, & you will not want the aid of travelling, to render you precious to your country, dear to your friends, happy within yourself. I repeat my advice, to take a great deal of exercise, & on foot. Health is the first requisite after morality.
Serene gardens deck the palatial grounds.Portal archways in series leading to the main courtyard.The utmost intricate inlaid carvings adorn the fable palace.
I’m perched street level on Calle Tablas, within eyeshot of Plaza de la Trinidad, GraNada, and for the first time in almost a week an idle moment presents itself. The late afternoon sun of Andalucia is still intense into September; per tradition the locals avoid the heat, deserting the streets for some ciesta nap. Along this main pedestrian thoroughfare all the shops have shuttered their doors save for the corner cafe at which I’m perched with coffee in hand. A low trickle of locals pass by going about their daily routines. Nothing unusual is happening… But glorious it is to enjoy this blink in time.
Accounting the last few days, it is certain I’ve passed through many a city gate and port, so much distance traverse in hasty pace. I’ve descend the Hight Atlas, passed through the former imperial cities of Fes and Meknes, walked the Roman ruins at Volubilis, dined at night by Tangier’s waterfront, ferried across the Straight of Gibraltar, bused from Tarifa to Granada hugging the Spanish southern coast — all to catch the early rays at the fabled Alhambra! Although the grand architecture is truly impressive, it has been tremendously taxing on the body. Certainly, it is not the preferred pace, but with time being such a crucial constrain, it is the best one can hope for. As such, these idle moments alone bemused among the locals is appreciable.
As such, having been invited to visit by a young woman native to Meknes (whom I had met at the Merzouga sand dunes), a visit to Volubilis is compulsory as it is roughly 30 km away. Getting to the site was no trivial task as Meknes is not the most tourist friendly city in terms of transport facility. After wasting half the morning wandering around this bustling city sorting out contradictory transport information — and trying my best to negotiate assistance in broken French and Spanish — I recoursed to hiring a taxi to and from. This is contrary to my preferred mode of exploration as it necessarily precludes direct interaction with the local public.
Striding by the ancient columns and arches.
Admittedly, I have an unusual fascination with ruins; but, particularly predisposed to the grandeur of architectural/archeological ruins. Majestic ruins always evokes a feeling of awe, wonder, sense of timelessness, and yet, concomitantly, ever a present reminder of the pressing impermanence of all things. Ancient Volubilis is no different. This sprawling ruin of a former municipium had once been part of an independent Mauritanian kingdom of various indigenous Berber tribes before the Romans marched in and staked it as their western-most frontier.
What was known as Walili to the locals became Latinized as Volubilis, replete with triumphal arches, Roman roads, basilica and all. Much has change in the sweep of two thousand years, and yet the remnants of this Roman colonial town outpost still remains scatter across a vast sloping field overlooking the dried out pastoral planes of summer. Having occupied the region for roughly two and a half centuries (40-270 CE), the Romans eventually retreated back east, unable to fend off constant pressure from the Berbers trying to reclaim their land.
When the Arabs arrived in the latter 8th century to herald the beginning of Islamic North Africa, the Romans had been gone 500 years , yet Volubilis remained inhabited; with the locals speaking still a dialect of Latin. Indeed, at its peak evidence suggest that many different ethnic groups lived side by side here. In fact, Morocco’s varied history is readily reflected in the faces of the population today; the population is discernable as a motley history of who conquered whom on the faces of those one meets.
View of the scattered ruins at Volubilis.
Volubilis was finally abandoned probably sometime in the latter 18th century. Perhaps the great Lisbon quake of 1755 contributed to it’s final destruction as much of the structures and masonry were demolished to build the palaces of Moulay Ismail in Meknes. Had it not been for this plundering, Volubilis would survive today as one of the best Roman ruins anywhere. As it remains, it is but a mere semblance, a faded semblance of an once-glorious city.
It’s wondrous to walk pass the columns, roads, and inlaid mosaics still… all echoing footsteps of the pass trodden by succeeding civilizations that have supplanted each other. Time hastens the passing centuries and firmaments roll; one conquering civilization displaces another in due time. This is the course of human history as laid out in stone on the vast plane stretching beneath Jbel Zerhoun mountain.
The road winds along the ochre cliffsides of Berber country between Marrakech and Ouarzate. This countryside landscape is dotted with sparse vegetation contrasting the barren sloping rocks. Somewhere, hours ahead down the quiet road, lies the vast expanses of the forbiddingly hot Saharan sands. Again and again the switchbacks exchange one parched vista with another.
Roadside camels resting in the heat somewhere along the lengthy road to Ourzazate.
Unlike Marrakech, the heat here is dry and searing, forcing me to resort to dousing a scarf and occasionally dabbing my skin to cool off. It’s obvious that the locals and some other visitors are much more adapted to this extreme climate than myself. The members of this caravan chatter incessantly in a dull drone, their articulations are indistinguishably drowned out by the blaring Arabic music. As the only lone traveller in the group, at times the silence is poignant and at times I’m consumed by the random musings of my internal dialogue, lost in the remoteness of this forgotten landscape.
Local Berber astride a donkey deep into Moroccan countryside.
Sweat drips off my chin, the shirt on my back is saturated. Yet no amount of water seems to slake my growing thirst. Intermittently, the intense heat lulls me to a lethargic doze; until either a bump in the road or some sharp note jolt me from stupor.
The landscape grows ever forlorn. We’ve long passed the Berber towns, from here out only sparse villages hug the low hillsides. Now and then a lone local will stroll pass in his long flowing gown, leisurely stepping towards the slanting sun. In the far distance trails, a few women folk stand chatting in their shimmering robes; or possibly a merchant astride a donkey (too far to discern) descening a hill. Regardless, the heat is stultifying to all, numbing the mind to the edge of delirium.
Towards the eastern Atlantic at Essaouira, MoroccoThe deepest blues at the town’s old anchorage.Down the main street within Essaouira’s medina.Losing my way, again, down some random alley.Azur, comme la couleur de la mer.
