Ibn Battuta, Alive and Dead

A Road to Qalhat – Ibn Battuta Alive and Dead

The First Scene: Sur Coast, September 1331

Ibn Battuta said, “When night fell, he said to us: The city is close to us, so let’s walk until morning when we can camp outside of it.” But the traveler, whom the small, visible schemes of the guide had afflicted with the paranoia of thieves, added: “…

No sooner had Ibn Battuta’s feet touched the coast of the city of Sur, south of Oman, near sunset, when he saw from there houses whose lights twinkled at the foot of a mountain about 5 kilometers from the coast. He imagined it was a village belonging to Sur, and asked: “What are these lights?” He was told it was the city of Qalhat. Ibn Battuta wished to go there and spend the night, as he disliked spending the night with his travel companions due to their unsavory habits, including eating birds without roasting or cooking them!

When he asked about the way and the time it would take to get there, he was told that if he moved promptly, he would not reach Qalhat before afternoon.

Ibn Battuta says: “...So I hired one of the sailors to guide me, and the Indian Khidr accompanied me (...) I left my companions with my belongings in the caravan, for them to catch up with me the next day. I had some clothes, which I gave to the guide to relieve me of the burden of carrying them. That day, I carried a spear in my hand. When the guide arrived, he was flushed. He intended to cross a bay that emerged from the sea, where there was ebb and flow, with his clothes on. I told him: ‘You shall cross alone, and leave the clothes with us. If we are able to cross, we will.

Otherwise, we will climb and seek permission.’ He returned.” Here, Ibn Battuta suspected that the guide had a trick up his sleeve and intended to steal the clothes. The traveler adds: “Then we saw men who swam across it (the bay). So we realized that his intention was to drown us and make off with the clothes. At that point, I showed determination, took firm action, tightened my belt, and would shake the spear, and that guide feared me. We exited...” We climbed until we found a passage.

The coast was packed with ships and passengers, and the long street, which stretched uphill and was overlooked by the Hama, or the old city, had a series of cafes and restaurants along its facade, pushing waves of smoke, fragrant with the smell of BBQ, fish BBQ and meat BBQ, into the air.

The matter did not end there, as the guide's attempts to acquire the clothes and escape with them during the journey to the city did not cease. Ibn Battuta says: “When evening came, the guide wanted to lead us towards the sea, where there was no path, as its coast was rocky. He intended for us to become stuck there, and he would take the clothes.

I told him: ‘We shall only walk on this path we are on, and between it and the sea is about a mile...’.” Again, Ibn Battuta's shrewdness foiled the guide's attempt to steal the clothes, and the traveler, the Indian, and their guide continued their journey along a rough path to Qalhat. But the guide did not give up his attempts.

Ibn Battuta says: “When night fell, he said to us: ‘The city is close to us, so let’s walk until we spend the night outside it until morning’.” But the traveler, who had become afflicted by the guide’s small, obvious “conspiracies” with a thief's paranoia, added: “...So I feared someone might assault us on our way, and I did not ascertain how much remained to it (the city).

So I told him: ‘Indeed, it is right for us to leave the road and sleep, and when we wake up, we will go to the city...’.” The fact is that Ibn Battuta, who was suspicious of his guide, was in the most intense state of tension and alertness to what was happening around him. And here, his sense of danger alerted him to the presence of “a group of men at the foot of a mountain,” and he imagined them to be thieves.

He says: “...So I feared they might be thieves, and I said, 'Let's hide first.' But 'thirst overcame my companion, and he did not agree to that, so I left the road and headed for a tree of the Um Ghailan type. I was exhausted and weary due to fear of the guide, but I showed strength and endurance.”

The Omani guide, on Ibn Battuta's journey from the coast of Sur to the city of Qalhat, had turned into a nightmare. Every movement his guide made, however innocent its motives, became a source of tension and anxiety for Ibn Battuta, and at the very least, a reason for caution, even in a moment free of purpose, for relaxation, and while the guide was reclining. The traveler sat sleepless.

Ibn Battuta says: “...As for my companion, he was ill and lacked strength, so I placed the guide between myself and my companion, and I placed the clothes between my garment and my body, and I held the spear in my hand, and my companion slept, and the guide slept, and I remained awake.” As for the most amusing aspect of the traveler's conduct, fearing for his clothes from theft... it is in his saying: “And I remained awake. Whenever the guide moved, I would speak to him and show him that I was awake.” And so he remained awake until morning. The three then set out on the road and reached the city of Qalhat.

Between it and the coast from which they came were precipices and ditches, and Ibn Battuta's sandal had constricted his foot so much that blood was almost oozing from it, as he described. The scene of the road between the coast of Sur and the twinkling city of Qalhat at night, of which no trace remains today, concluded.

The Second Scene: Tangier Coast, July 21, 2002

We arrived in Tangier at noon. The coast was teeming with ships and passengers, and the long street that stretched uphill, overlooked by the Kasbah, or old city, was lined with a series of cafes and restaurants that filled the air with waves of smoke fragrant with grilled fish and grilled meat. From here, in a square or something similar, the road branched: one continued along the port and remained wide, while the other narrowed and climbed to the Kasbah, at the top of which was a small shrine of mud and bricks with a small white dome, where Ibn Battuta was laid to rest.

At the beginning of this small road, there was a travel agency bearing the traveler's name, and a little further on, a restaurant also bearing his name. Then, in the labyrinth of small souks hanging in the forest of the old city, there was an even greater number of shops and stalls bearing his name: Ibn Battuta. After half an hour of climbing, we reached the first water tap, which was dry. A ten-year-old girl, playing with her friends, said: “There he is... Ibn Battuta,” pointing to a shrine whose empty white wall rose above the water tap. We moved on and climbed more steps to reach its door at the other end.

The door was closed. I gripped the doorknob and rattled it. But the girl disappeared into a neighboring door for a moment, only to return and reappear, followed by a bulky, slow-moving old man, breathless. He came to us, a large key in his right hand. With difficulty, he inserted the key into the lock, and we entered. Here lies Shams al-Din al-Tanji, known as Ibn Battuta. We recited al-Fatiha for him. I looked around; the place was simple and barely big enough for five people sitting closely together.

I asked the old shaykh: “How long have you been residing at this shrine?” He replied: “From generation to generation.” I looked around for the scribe. A great traveler, judge, and intellectual of the caliber of Shams al-Din al-Tanji must surely have a library in his shrine containing at least his books and those written about his journeys. Ibn Battuta's library was hanging on the wall and contained some Qur'an books, books of remembrance, and prophetic praises. I searched among them for his travelogue, but it was not there.

So I asked the shrine attendant: “Where is his travelogue?” He replied apologetically: “There was a manuscript of his travelogue here, and it was stolen two years ago.” Before I could ask another question, the shaykh continued, saying: “...And last year, the only rug spread on the floor of the shrine was stolen. It was stolen by someone from the neighborhood.” Here, I remembered the traveler’s story with his Omani guide and his clothes threatened with theft, and I recounted it to the shaykh, and he laughed until tears welled up in his eyes.

Perhaps he, like me, thought of the irony: a neighbor in Tangier succeeded where a guide in Oman failed! After a tour of the walls and the verses and silent dialogue with the deceased, the visit ended. It remains for me to add that the new rug we sat on next to the tomb was a gift from a French writer who felt sorry for the traveler and his visitors in the cold, and donated it!

Nouri al-Jarrah