As I start to write this post on the night of Wednesday, November 17, 2010, Muslims in Mecca are currently completing the last stages of the rites of the Hajj or pilgrimage (see Part 2 below at about the 4:17 to 5:34 minute marks for a description). Two days ago on Monday afternoon -their time -the “hujjaj” or “hajjis,” (people making the Hajj), were perched atop or around Mount Arafat.  They were completely engrossed in prayer, beseeching their Lord for forgiveness, hoping that each blameworthy action will peel like dead skin into the nethermost reaches of oblivion. Our tradition holds that each sincere penitent would return home like a baby, as blameless as the day each was born. (see Part 2 below between minute 2:46 to 4:15 mark).

In the two part Youtube video below, Ted Koppel opens with an excellent introduction and Michael Wolfe takes you along with him to view the complex rites that constitute one of  Sunni Islam’s 5 bases or pillars and Shiite Islam’s 10 basic practices, called the Hajj or the Muslim Pilgrimage. When the hajjis return home, Muslims compete amongst themselves to invite the “born agains” to dinner parties, and listen to their stories and adventures. When I returned from the Hajj three years ago, I must have attended at least ten of these dinner parties, where international cuisine seemed to take a back seat to incessant questions about every single imaginable detail and countless re-tellings of memorable experiences.

And what an experience it was. With our wives’ and families’ approval to make the trip without them, my best friend and I set out on a three week adventure mid-to-late December 2007, with ample time before and after the Hajj to visit historical sites that were important to the founding of the religion. We resolved to spend as much time on foot as possible. Between the two of us we had mastered classical and colloquial Arabic, and Urdu, and while it got us out of a few scrapes, all we really needed were the universal languages of the finger point, head nod, and an unconditional positive regard for all who we met. The following are only a few of those memorable events:

1) While our group waited for the buses to take them to the first stage of the hajj, as resolved, we walked. Quite a number of the hujjaj did not have the luxury of air-conditioned buses. Walking in a group ahead of us was middle-aged with a noticeable limb, a deformed right foot, and an extremely worn out slipper on this foot. I went up to him and offered one of my two extra pairs Croc knock-offs. He looked at me quizzically and asked why I was extending the offer, half irritated that I’d interrupted his conversation. I replied that his was broken. He replied: “My slippers are broken, I am broken, you are broken, we humans are all broken, only God is perfect.” I cried.

2) Upon arriving at the vast tent city that would house the two million plus pilgrims for the first few days, we were met by a grumpy, borderline hostile police force, shouting at everyone within earshot, and maps that were only intelligible to the person who designed them. It became crystal clear why we had been warned not to separate from the group. It took us only an hour to get a good lay of the land, and by the time we reached the serene confines of our tent and group, we had already decided to head back outside to the mayhem and lend a hand where we could after rehydrating. Had our lungs not grown tired of imbibing oily fume-soaked air, we would have remained at our self appointed roles for a while longer. Before I retired I had met, chatted, nodded and hand gestured with people from almost every continent on the globe. Except maybe Antarctica. Most were surprised that there were Muslims living in “Bush country.” Nigerians, Senegalese, Ghanians, and even a Chadian, called out to me as a countryman. When they learned that I was born Jamaican and living in America, they all asked me when I was coming home. I cried a few times.

3) When it was time to set off to Mount Arafat, we ignored the cautions and set out early on the long trek, again on foot, this time with a convert to “no-cushy-bus-ride-ology.” We saw some of the most amazing human displays of love and determination, that still boggles my mind three years later. We saw a thin, sprightly man of about seventy years old, pushing his mother, who was considerably older, in an old wheelchair. The right wheel of this relic from the 1970s wobbled severely and as he swooshed by, the wheel almost flew off. We helped getting it back in place and secure the wire that kept the wheel in place, and he set off again on his break neck pace. We tried to keep pace with him. We really did, but were totally outmatched and outclassed. We would see them every few miles or so, being helped by others along the road, but finally lost sight as we approached the outskirts of our destination, as they disappeared among the log jam of buses, trucks, and cars. By the time we found our group a few hours later, my blisters had blisters. We were dusty and hungry, but spiritually refreshed. After a bite and some rest we proceeded up the mountain, seeking forgiveness. Thinking about the blisters now still makes me want to cry. Mostly though, I just wonder about what happened to the sprightly chauffeur and his joy ridden mother.

I have a lot more stories, but no space to put them here. I also seem to have developed an acute case of failure-to-put-stories-into-words syndrome. I mean how do I describe the many times when I was, but wasn’t, until I came to be again. See what I mean?  Mostly though, reflecting on my Hajj adventures tend to make me cry. But they’re more laughs than cries.