(Content or language may offend)
EXTRACT: ……. There is nothing remotely impressionistic though, about the following anecdote from the environs of Meknes – it is a short story in itself. The details remain as clear to me as the day they happened, buried permanently in my psyche.
I remember my Meknes hotel room, with its chunky burgundy furniture, burgundy walls and Islamic designed burgundy rug. At the start of my first morning, I dash off a couple of dispatches from my hefty burgundy desk then venture out.
Twenty miles outside of Meknes, down a long and winding sand blown rocky road are the ancient Roman ruins of Volubilis. Enjoying UNESCO heritage status, it dates back from the first century AD, and was a settlement of sorts until the 800s. I arrive there on the four times daily bus service from Meknes.
The bus terminates at a small settlement that is a few minutes outside the sprawling ruins. What remains of Volubilis is a vast array of crumbling columns and arches, which compete for views with the poppies and spring fauna that runs amok amongst them. But is it a series of impressive, almost perfectly preserved, mosaics that sit in the middle of the ruins, which are the most striking. Walking across them is not encouraged and a twelve inch high chain runs around their perimeter to discourage this. With such limited protection, it is hard to imagine how they managed to retain much of their original beauty across the millennia. Although I didn’t spot any other visitors to the site, which must have helped.
It is very arid. The whiteness of the stone walls and columns are intensified by the rays of the midday sun. I have to take regular shelter in their shadows. The peace and tranquillity are a world removed from the swarm and banter of the souks of Meknes.
After taking a few photos, I sit down, with my back against a crumbling wall, making the most of the solitude. I jot a few notes. I look out across a sea of poppies and into the late afternoon haze, making out the foothills of the High Atlas Mountains, maybe a hundred miles in the distance. I will spend time there in a few days. They are to Marrakech, what Volubilis is to Meknes – a bolt hole, which can provide an escape from a frantic existence. Or maybe that idea hasn’t caught on in Meknes yet and the day they opened up some toilets, cafes and basic visitor accommodation nearby would signal an ominous future for those intact mosaics.
Then my mind starts to drift into the not-too-distant future, I am back here, sat by the same wall.
Around the corner, a sizeable three-star hotel, part of a national corporate chain – Atlas Lodges, or something like that – has opened up. A few metres away from me, loud youths shimmy up those ancient columns. Dogs piss against the side of arches. Over the other side of my wall, the grass is littered with crisp packets, cola tins and the remnants of chicken drumsticks. I wander over to the mosaics, on top of which kids are playing hopscotch. Blocks of the mosaics have now been removed by souvenir hunters. And then, things start to get worse, a coach has just pulled into a large nearby car park and disgorges thirty backpacked Westerners. Best snap out of this vision quick, I tell myself, before it reaches its logical conclusion – a complete implosion of the site five years from now.
I certainly am not in a hurry to get back, but the last bus is due to depart from the nearby terminus in half an hour, and so I wander down to the bus stop. It seems to be a focal point for local residents to gather for an early evening chat.
The onset of dusk is now approaching. I keep looking down the distant track, hoping to see my bus edging its way ever closer from Meknes. The timetable pinned against a wooden post clearly indicates it is due, well, about now.
Half an hour later, I am still waiting.
The Crimson sunset and scorched sky stretch out above us, giving the distant ruins an added amber glow. I take more photos, but the approaching darkness Is now beginning to trouble me. It will soon be pitch black ……
For full story see Into the Lonely Heart of Darkness.
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