Big Footprints - Volubilis, Morocco

…The highlight of the tour is the brothel, and the famous phallus stone. It’s not too clear what the stone’s purpose was, but it is leeringly suggested by the guide to be a sort of bench mounted dildo…

It’s a typically hot and sunny, Moroccan autumn day. From the foot of the hill I can see the arches of the ancient city rising above the scrubby woods.
Sweating, I climb the hill to the site of the ruin. I hide my bags under some bushes and look around.

(Top pic: the phallus stone.)

Volubilis is even more impressive than I imagined. All the great marble sculptures have been removed to museums, but that has not diminished the impact of walking through the ruin. All over the site are massive stone plinths. In the top of them are the footprints where the marble statues once stood. There are streets, houses, merchant’s shop-fronts, bath houses, even a brothel. The walls are tumbled, and the roofs are gone, but many buildings still
contain beautiful, intact mosaics.

Walking around the Volubilis site, I feel a powerful sense of what it was like to live in the ancient city. I stand at the crest of the hill, and look down the main street toward the triumphal arch and the horizon beyond. From this place a powerful and wealthy people looked down on Rome’s African conquest. Volubilis was well worth the walk.

I spend more than two hours wandering through the ruin. I love it’s bigness. The massive, perfectly shaped masonry. The open, comfortable layout of the city. The sense of the luxury the ancient citizens enjoyed in this outpost, so far from the security and familiarity of Rome.

There is clearly little money available to maintain the Volubilis site. It is overgrown with weeds and grazed by goats. When Volubilis was declared a world heritage site, international funds were supplied for it’s restoration. A grand, post modern visitors centre was built. Since then weeds and vines have reclaimed the site. The post modern visitors centre, itself, is now well on the way to becoming a ruin. The information plaques on the site have been bleached white, and made unreadable. There is a small shack nearby with a coffee urn, some chickens running around and a pet monkey.

Some visitors hire self appointed “guides” to show them around. I follow one group for a while and listen in on the commentary. The highlight of the tour is the brothel, and the famous phallus stone. It’s not too clear what the stone’s purpose was, but it is leeringly suggested by the guide to be a sort of bench mounted dildo.

I recover my bag and sit on a stone wall to eat my afternoon tea. The resident monkey sidles over, wide eyed and charming. I reach over to give the guy a pat on the head, and the bugger makes a grab for my sandwich. I hold it out of his reach and scold him sternly. He backs off. The superior primate triumphs. I finish my sandwich, watched resentfully by the monkey.

I walk down the hill to hitch back to town. There is little traffic. Half an hour goes by and the only people to pass are a group of farmers with a mule.

An hour later, the sun is edging toward the horizon.
Peta, a Belgian ex-pat olive farmer, stops for me. I throw my bag in the back of her truck and climb in.
“I’m only going about one and a half kilometers down the road”, she apologises.
“That’s OK”, I reply, “every bit helps.”
A couple of minutes later she turns into the driveway of her olive plantation, and lets me out.
“Sorry I can’t take you all the way to town”, Peta says, “I have to meet my daughter and I am already late.”
“No problem”, I say. “Thank you for the ride.”
Peta smiles.
“We have a proverb in Belgium – only he who appreciates the small things can enjoy the great ones. Good luck on your journey.”
I wave to Peta as she drives away.

I roll out my sleeping bag under the olive trees and watch the sun set over the valley. The stoney red soil, the khaki foliage of the olive trees, the craggy hilltops stabbing at the ruddy sky. The Romans really knew how to pick real estate.