The Caravanserai, Middle East

A Resting Place in the Desert

These were the true hostelries of the desert, the havens toward which caravans plodded after long, slow-moving days beneath a merciless sun. Pilgrims, merchants, learned wanderers — each perched uncomfortably on the swaying backs of their camels—followed with unwavering fidelity the ancient routes linking one great city of the Orient to the next. These paths, etched into the sands by centuries of footsteps and hoofbeats, had scarcely altered since antiquity.

Sad Al-Saltaneh, one of Persia’s best urban caravanserai and the largest indoor inn in the world.

It was the Persians who first conceived the caravanserai, many of which still rise today — lonely, time-worn sentinels — across the arid landscapes of the East. They stand as tangible relics of a vanished world, a world now preserved only in the writings of Arab chroniclers and European travellers, or in the canvases of painters who once sought exotic vistas as fuel for their imagination.

Caravanserai of Qazvin by Eugène Flandin in Persia.

I have wandered through several caravanserais in Syria and Anatolia. My first impression, as I approached these austere refuges, was one of melancholy — a quiet ache for something lost. Yet curiosity soon stole in, and as I studied their architecture, I began to appreciate how perfectly form met function. The ground floor, cool and cavernous, served as a storehouse, while narrow stairways led to tiny chambers above—spare little cells opening onto an interior courtyard where the camels were tethered.

Entrance gate to the Sultanhani caravanserai in Turkey.

Gazing into one such courtyard, now swept clean and eerily still, I found my thoughts slipping effortlessly into the past. I pictured a caravan emerging from the desert after battling sandstorms and fierce winds, its supplies of water and grain reduced to the barest minimum, its travellers weary and dust-pale. No sooner had they dismounted than a throng of vendors surged in after them: Arabs wrapped tightly in thick, striped robes; Turks in vivid garments; Ethiopian slaves; meticulous scribes with inkpots clinking gently at their belts.

Zei-o-din Caravanserai in Yazd, Iran.

In my mind’s eye, this silent quadrangle sprang suddenly to life, its tranquillity replaced by the bustle of commerce, the hum of bargaining voices, and the shifting mass of men and beasts. The deserted courtyard of today transformed itself into a vibrant, many-coloured bazaar—one brief, flickering glimpse of the world that once was.

Travel with my Books in English