THE CARAVANSERAI IN PERSIA.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 772, 17 December 1886, Page 8

THE CARAVANSERAI IN PERSIA.

St. James’s Gazette.

After a march of some four-and-twenty -miles we come upon the caravanserai. To European eyes it seems more like a fortress than a refuge for travellers. At each corner of the huge square stone building is a round tower loopholed at the top. The crenellated wall is also loopholed at regular intervals. At either side of the huge gate are similar -fcowers ; above the doorway is an incised inscription, beautifully cut, which states that ‘Shah Abbas the Great built this caravanserai and dedicated it to the use of travellers, in the name of God and the prophet Mahommed.’ There is plenty of accommodation in the caravanserai, for on a pinch it can house and shelter comfortably two thousand men. Close to the caravanserai is the ab umbar or covered reservoir. It is supplied from a kannat or underground -channel that has been excavated, at times at a depth of many feet, for some miles ; it is always full ; the surplus water runs off in a tiny brooket, the stone dome that covers the reservoir keeping it cool. Unfortunately these -water-cellars are a favorite place for hiding the bodies of murdered travellers. There is no other building of any kind within a circle of twenty-four miles of our caravanserai. No food for man can be obtained there. Perhaps, in quiet times, the doo/keeper may have barley and chaff for the

horses for sale, and a little fire-wood or even charcoal. But these things cannot be depended on. We have sighted our haltingplace some three miles off at a turn of the road—that road that was never made or repaired, but that centuries ©f traffic have marked out. Our horses, directly they see the place, prick up their ears, and, neighing, mend their pace. The lagging mules no longer need the awful curses of the charwardors (muleteers) nor the frequent application of the cruel chain-whip. The leader of the caravan, always a horse (not a mule), quickens his pace, proudly jangling his bells and tossing his gaily bedizened head, which is decked with woollen and leather ornaments and a scarlet headstall on which are sown many rows of cowries. The muleteers begin to sing, the servants to smile. The cook urges his mule to a canter, and, amid many clanking of pots, hurries on to prepare his master’s dinner. He will supply a good dinner of perhaps four courses and a sweet, his kitchen being four bricks in the corner of the stable. As wo enter the frowning gateway—which is very similar to that of the stage baronial castle, and at times the size of old Temple Bar—a dervish humbly presents a flower, an unripe plum, or a blade of grass. Nearly naked, his long hair hanging unkempt about hi 3 shoulders, liis eyes sparkling with hope and the combined effects of bhang and religious meditation, a panther-skin over his shoulders and brandishing a spiked club, the mendicant looks sufficiently formidable. ‘ Ya huk !’ (‘ Oh my right !') he cries, as he asks for alms. A few coppers satisfy him, and he magnificently deigns to indicate the cells chosen by our servants. Around the square enclosed by the four sides of the caravanserai are forty-eight deep arches of heavy stonework. In each archway are piled the impedimenta of its tenants : their road kits, their bales, their panniers, their merchandise. Separate piles of boxes and bales flung down in the spacious courtyard have formed the loads of several hundred mules, of peihaps a dozen different caravans; the mules are away grazing around the caravanserai. Our servants have taken possession of three of the archwajs. No man demands hire of them, no man says them nay. First come first served, such is caravanserai rule. From one of the archways come clouds of dust : the doorkeeper is preparing it for our reception. At the back of each recess is a doorway (a hole in the wall) some four feet by three. This loads to a windowless room of stonework, which has a fireplace and perhaps a chimney—nothing more. The walls are immensely thick. The place is cool in summer, warm in winter ; the walls and domed roof are black with the smoke of ages. Behind these rooms runs the stabling—stabling for a thousand animals. As the mules enter the courtyard their loads . are hurriedly slipped off and piled in a heap ;the servants drag out the carpets, the portable beds, the bedding, the table, and the two chairs. The groom takes our horses, the table-servant hands us the fragrant kalian (or hubble-bubble) ; we squat on the square raised stone platform that is in the centre of the courtyard, 3nd enjoy the finest mode of smoking in the world. The mules in a long string, each bearing his jangling bell, canter off under the care of an assistant muleteer to be watered at the rill running from the water cellar. The place gets quieter as the caravan settles down. We see that many recesses are occupied by various families ; some are poor, even beggars ; some wealthy merchants ; perhaps there is a prince and his suite. The accommodation is exactly the same. First come first served. No man is ejected. If you arrive too late to find a vacant room, you must sleep in the stable, on the roof, or on the platform—or buy some poor man out. Our special recess and room have been swept and carpeted. Our chairs are set up. We partake of tea under our own special archway. In the inner room there is a remarkable transformation : in the recess stand our lighted candles ; in the corners are our beds ; there is our tub, of which we gladly avail ourselves ; a heavy curtain over the doorless doorway secures our privacy. Tired out, we lie down for a welcome nap. We are awakened at five by the jangling of bells and the shouts of the muleteers. The various beasts of burden are returning from pasture. In the courtyard there are rows of mules tied up to ropes pegged to the ground. Each has his nosebag. There are circles of squatting camels, all chewing at once at a heap of cut straw. In a corner are our own horses. We see them fed and examine their backs, being old hands. The cook is toiling, all booted as he arrived, over his fire. ‘ Dinner, sahib,’ announces our table servant. The man, as is the custom in this country when travelling, bristles with arms—a long straight Bword, two pistols, and a dagger. We adjourn to the welcome meal. It is sunset —the gates are closed, the travellers drink tea together and chat in groups. An occasional neigh or squabble among the numerous beasts tells us that we are on the road. A mule breaks loose and runs a-muck. He is secured ; all is quiet save an occasional bell, and the constant bubble of the water-pipes. Some enthusiastic Mussulman intones the call to prayer. ‘ In the name of God, the mighty, the merciful. There is no God but God. Mahommed is the prophet of God.’ Many kneel in prayer, as many more go on with their pipes. We dine. Dinner over.

we hasten to rest—a rest often broken by the incident of a loosed mule or the departure of a caravan. At dawn we reluctantly awake to partake of tea and bread and butter. Lazily we mount our horses. Our caravan has left an hour or two ago. Followed by the faithful cook, the table-man, and the groom, out we ride at a solemn walk, and we bid the caravanserai farewell. We have another twenty-four or even thirty miles before us, and we await with ardour the capital hot breakfast which our paragon will give us in three hours’ time upon the road, at a little stream some twelve miles off. And so ends a not unpleasant night in a Persian caravanserai.