Imaginary interview with Ibn Battûta
by Charactorium · Ibn Battûta (1304 — 1368) · Exploration · 5 min read
That morning, two young visitors of 12 years old push open the door of a room draped with carpets. An old man in a white turban awaits them, his eyes twinkling. He has traveled more than 120,000 km — and he is eager to tell them everything.
—How old were you when you first left home?
I was 21 years old, my child. Imagine a boy barely taller than you, leaving his home in Tangier one morning in 1325. I set off alone, without a friend, without a caravan to follow. Just a desire that had been burning in my heart for a long time: to see Mecca. It's called the hajj, the great pilgrimage every Muslim dreams of making once. My parents were jurists, serious people. They thought they would see me back in a year or two. They didn't know — and neither did I — that I would only return old, almost thirty years later.
I set off alone, without a friend, just a desire burning in my heart.
—Why didn't you return home after the pilgrimage?
Ah, that's the real madness of my life! In 1326, I finally reached Mecca. I prayed, I wept for joy. And then... I looked back at the road behind me. All those lands I had crossed were so beautiful, so different, that my heart refused to turn back. You know what it's like when you finish a book and immediately want another? It was the same. Each city hid another behind it. So I continued. And every time I told myself "this time I'll go home," a new caravan set off into the unknown. I followed it.
Each city hid another behind it.
—Is it true you became a judge in a foreign country?
Yes! In Delhi, India, Sultan Muhammad bin Tughluq appointed me qadi — that's a judge who settles disputes according to Islamic law. Imagine: a young traveler from Tangier finding himself dispensing justice in a huge Indian city! The sultan offered me a salary, lands, a prince's life. I had studied law back home, so I knew the rules. But judging people is heavy, my child. You hold their fate in your hands. In the morning I was rich and respected; in the evening, I worried about making a mistake.
—Were you afraid of that sultan?
Very afraid, I admit. Muhammad bin Tughluq could shower you with gold in the morning and make you tremble in the evening. Generous one day, terrible the next. Imagine living with someone you never know whether he will smile or get angry — you walk on eggshells all day. I brushed disgrace several times, and even death. Yet I stayed: it's hard to leave a king without offending him. Finally he sent me far away, as an ambassador to China, in 1341. An elegant way to save me, perhaps. The journey was terrible: storms, pirates... but at least I could breathe.
He could shower you with gold in the morning and make you tremble in the evening.
—How did you actually travel? On foot, on horseback?
In every possible way, my child! In the desert, I joined caravans — long lines of camels, because traveling alone meant getting robbed. In the evening, we stopped at a caravanserai, a large fortified inn where merchants and animals slept safely. At sea, I boarded dhows, those triangular-sailed boats of the Indian Ocean, and farther on, huge Chinese junks, as tall as houses. To avoid getting lost, I read the stars, like all travelers. Imagine a night with no light on the ground — just the sky to tell you where to go.
—What surprised you the most during a journey?
The cold! You'll laugh: I, who crossed the burning deserts of Arabia, nearly died of cold in Crimea, on the Black Sea. It was winter. They put me in a cart covered with furs, pulled by horses and camels. I wrapped myself in the skins and still shivered. I wrote that I had never experienced anything like it. You see, one always imagines that a great traveler fears nothing. But the world always surprises you. Sand can scorch you, and snow can freeze you. You must adapt to each land.
Sand can scorch you, and snow can freeze you.
—Did you go all the way to Black Africa? What was it like?
Yes! In 1352, I crossed the great Sahara desert to reach the empire of Mali, ruled by Sultan Mansa Sulayman. Imagine weeks of sand, then suddenly a rich kingdom, full of merchants and gold. What struck me most was the safety: you could travel there without fear of thieves. I wrote that the sultan loved justice and did not forgive dishonest people. A country where you can sleep peacefully is rare and precious, you know. I had crossed dozens of kingdoms; this one taught me that a good king is known by the peace of his roads.
A good king is known by the peace of his roads.
—Were there customs there that shocked you?
Yes, and I'll be honest with you. At the court of Mali, some women appeared without veils. Back home, in the land of Islam, this was not done. I showed that it bothered me — perhaps too much. Sultan Mansa Sulayman then corrected me: these customs were ancient in his country, long before my visit. I never forgot that lesson. When you travel, you sometimes think your way of life is the only right one. It's false. Every people has its reasons, its habits, its history. A wise traveler looks first, and judges later — or not at all.
A wise traveler looks first, and judges later.
—How did you feel when you returned home after all that time?
Joy and great sorrow mixed together, my child. I returned to Tangier in 1354, after almost twenty-eight years away. But upon arriving, I learned that my mother had died a few months earlier. My father, long before. Imagine: you come back to hug someone, and the place is empty. All my treasures of memories were not worth those missed reunions. That is the price of travel, you see. You gain the whole world, but you miss the people you love. While I was discovering empires, time was also passing at home.
You gain the whole world, but you miss the people you love.
—And your book, how did you write it in the end?
I didn't write it with my own hand, believe it or not! Sultan Abu Inan wanted to preserve the record of my adventures. So, in 1355, he set me up with a scholar named Ibn Juzayy. I would tell; he would write with a qalam, that cut reed dipped in ink. Day after day, I emptied my memory of thirty years of roads. It produced a book called the Rihla, which means “the Journey.” You know, my legs will never again walk to China or Mali. But thanks to these pages, my journey continues still — all the way to you.
My legs will never again walk, but my journey continues all the way to you.
This imaginary interview was generated by artificial intelligence from sources documented in Ibn Battûta's profile. It dramatises what the figure might have said based on what we know about them, but does not constitute attested historical testimony. For primary sources and factual documentation, refer to the full profile.