A power bank, a passport and a pair of shoes: essentials for Hajj

SLOUGH, ENGLAND:

Last week, I warned of the dangers of overpacking and painted an accurate picture of what to expect, absolutely, if you choose to embark on that most sacred of journeys: the Hajj.

Nevertheless, our pilgrimage was as spiritually refreshing as promised, with the bonus of new friendships that can only emerge when you have to spend the next twenty-four hours with someone in a tent, united against the women on the other end who complain that the AC is very cold.

Today, I’m back with more tips. From keeping your phone charged to knowing what not to do outside the Haram, here are some clear dos and don’ts to avoid falling into the same trap I did.

I am doing: Plan your trip at least six months in advance. This time frame will give you time to sort out the logistics, like thinking out loud, “Maybe now would be a good time to check when my passport expires.”

Do not: Decide to go six weeks before the Hajj begins and then discover your passport is about to run out. This will mean connecting to a government website that promises an urgent passport, defining “urgent” as “four weeks”. This course of action is only for those who enjoy self-torture through cortisol spikes.

I am doing: Go with a small operator. A large operator with enough customers to fill forty buses will not care if you are waiting for your “emergency” passport. A small operator desperate for your business will swear to you that he knows a man in Nadra who can expedite your “urgent” passport and – this is the true miracle of the Hajj – he will actually meet a man and the guy can actually expedite it. your passport.

I am doing: Buy comfortable shoes. You will be walking whether you like it or not. When the roads are closed to traffic and the nearest taxi is an hour away, you’re not going to be sunbathing on the pavement. You’ll walk, because that’s the only way you’ll get one step closer to leaving the rural dystopia behind. Last year’s trainers where the laces mysteriously untied every five minutes aren’t going to cut it.

Do not: Leave your new shoes unattended. Leaving shoes outside the Haram, for example, is like throwing an impala into a pride of lions at dinner time. Carry around a drawstring bag to put your shoes in so they’re never out of your sight. Care for them as you would your biological child or beloved pet.

I am doing: Use industrial grade sunscreen, cap and sunglasses. Being without them would be as foolish as visiting the South Pole wearing a sweatshirt for warmth.

I am doing: Bring the electrolytes to mix in your water bottle. In this baking heat, water alone is as effective as mopping your house with a damp paper towel.

I am doing: Position yourself strategically in front of the AC when entering your tent. If you don’t like being cold, go backstage. Don’t sit near the AC and then push the AC guy to turn it up to 24C. That will make people want to throw a shoe at you.

Do not: leave your charger at your hotel when you arrive in Mina or decide to become a faithful pilgrim whose Hajj will only be accepted if you are offline. You can’t complete the Hajj without a decent amount of battery and a good data plan, unless you want to spend the next week wandering around Mecca like a lost sheep. The Hajj operator will be communicating via WhatsApp and if you don’t have an aversion to voice memos, this is the time to strap yourself in, because the Hajj operators love voice memos and will use nothing else to convey their highly specific instructions , such as where to meet for the bus, which roads are closed and what time dinner is served.

I am doing: get a power bank. And when you find yourself in a tent full of people who can’t find a working outlet, you can either embrace the pilgrimage spirit and share your power bank with your new friends on stage, or you can hide it and (charge) phone in the backpack your. This may go against the spirit of the pilgrimage, but the alternative is to get lost in the streets without Google Maps as you walk for two hours. I will not publicly confirm what course of action I took.

Do not: you harbor the happy delusion that all that walking will mean you’ll come home two dress sizes smaller. The operator provided us with three meals a day and unlimited ice cream. And those meals, by the way, weren’t a cheese sandwich and a banana. The meals were biryani, pulao, chicken karahi, bhindi, daal, chawal, karhi, achar, aloo matar, and Lord only knows what else. If all those road closures didn’t force you to walk, you’d be coming home two sizes heavier.

I am doing: assume that your fellow human beings during Tawaf are terrible guides. Just as they complete their final circuit, they will attempt to bulldoze from far left to far right at an ambitious 90 degree angle. These are the same people whose driving repertoire includes turning right from the left lane. No amount of huffing and puffing and praying for divine intervention to set them right is going to work here. You will be poked, trampled and coughed on, no matter how sure the sun will come out. After my ten days of absence, I can only conclude that those embarking on the Hajj consider it a divine obligation to cough directly in front of their competitors. They aim it like an Olympic archer. It’s part of the package.

Finally, if you boarded that plane in Jeddah and miraculously stayed bug-free during your stay in Saudi Arabia, don’t congratulate yourself just yet. Your colleagues in the Hajj have tried so hard to spread their germs everywhere, and their efforts will not have been in vain. Keep your medicine cabinet stocked. It will be raided upon your return.

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