A Pilgrimage to Mecca

A PILGRIMAGE TO MECCA

Published by J R Birnie at Smashwords

To the long suffering and late lamented Jo Mabey and her faithful colleagues.

Copyright J. R. Birnie 2011. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author

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INTRODUCTION

Every year at the appointed time a seething mass of humanity crams into and around the sacred mosque at Mecca. All roads to the town are jammed for days before the ceremony of Haj el Fitr. Beyond the walls of the mosque, the earth is black with pilgrims for as far as the eye can see. In the middle of the great courtyard of the mosque, amidst the sweating devotees, stands the object of the pilgrimage: the Khaba. This huge black stone, which must never be exposed to the gaze of the Infidel, is to be seen and perhaps even touched by every devout Moslem at least once in his lifetime and the Faithful push and strain to get as near as possible to this holiest of places.

As one of the five pillars of Islam; the pilgrimage to Mecca is central to the religious belief of every Moslem and also to the life and regulation of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. Ibn Saud, the founder of the kingdom was a leader of the zealot tribe that proudly bears the role of Hereditary Guardians of the Shrines. In fact, long before oil became the mainstay of their wealth, the Saudi royals sheared off a tidy income from the Faithful who flocked to Mecca every year.

These pilgrims still come from nearby states on donkeys, camels, lorries and in buses and by sea from neighbouring shores. But it is air transport that has dramatically swelled the hordes of pilgrims. Now over five million foreigners annually cram into the Kingdom and make their way to the shrine. And every year the numbers increase as jet flights bring the pilgrimage within the reach of even the most distant of the Faithful.

The ordinary scheduled airlines that operate into the airport at Jeddah cannot possibly cope with this sudden increase in extra flights. The gap is filled by charter flights and every year huge numbers of aircraft, never otherwise seen there, converge on King Abdul Aziz Airport. Air Buses and 747’s, the wide bodied whales of the air, vie for landing slots with Boeing 737’s and other minnows. Famous companies like Libyan Arab and Air Canada jostle with South American airlines, unfamiliar far eastern airlines and totally unknown airlines. Like marine predators, they join the frenzy for the business glut that is the Haj.

Many of the tail fins display the insignia of national carriers like Egypt Air and Air France. They park alongside lesser known airlines and even white tails with no sign on the fin at all. During the Haj, there are many of these sharp unmarked fins gliding down the taxiways amongst the shoals of smart aircraft. They are the shark fins of the airline world.

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CHAPTER ONE

An ageing DC10, the pride of the Ghana national airline, in fact it’s only long haul jet, let down its undercarriage with a whirr and a thump. The aircraft made a slow left turn and Roberts could see little toy houses on the plain below. The roads meandering between the settlements were untarred dirt roads standing out red against the bush. He saw what he thought was the runway, running straight as a die beneath them. Then he realised it was the Tema to Accra motorway, looking incongruous as it sliced across the empty terrain. There was hardly a car on it.

The Ghanaian hostess gabbled something into the intercom. The distortion of the ancient PA system finally destroyed her already mangled English. But from the activity around him, he gathered that they had been told to fasten their seat belts.

A few moments later, they were winging over a row of approach lights and then with a bump and a roar of reverse thrust, they were down. As usual, Roberts was amused by the spontaneous round of applause from the passengers at this wonderful achievement.

It seemed to be ages before they brought the steps. There was another irritating wait while all the large black ladies gathered up the mountains of hand luggage that they had brought on board and then waddled towards the door. Roberts was uncomfortably aware that the temperature had risen considerably since the door was opened. Welcome back to bloody Africa! he thought.

At last he stood at the top of the steps and looked out at the white airport buildings – blinding in the sun. The atmosphere was like a warm face cloth wrapping itself around him and gluing his shirt to his back. The air was heavy with the smell of the tropics; that musky aromatic mixture distilled from decay and regeneration. It is a smell that is ever present but unnoticed, except to the novice or the unwary nostril; a scent that almost overpowers on first acquaintance, but that you soon grow insensitive to, until a long absence dulls the memory. God! Assaulted by the old body odour of Africa again he thought. It’s just one gigantic compost heap!

Roberts descended the steps and followed the straggling line of burdened passengers across the tarmac. He wondered why there was no airline bus to meet them until he saw all two of them parked against the terminal with flat tyres. Milling around on the tarmac there was a multitude of obvious friends and relatives of the passengers. There was much back slapping and noisy greeting going on and Roberts was scandalised that so many had somehow gained access to this restricted area. He was even more annoyed that his local right hand man was not amongst them. If this rabble can get past security, he thought, where the hell is Anthony?

Inside the terminal, there was chaos. People swirled around in an apparently aimless fashion. As Roberts pushed his way in, he was grabbed by a sweaty hand and he turned, expecting Anthony. Then he looked down to find an urchin tugging at his sleeve and pointing towards a little cage marked 'HEALTH'. He shook him off as another urchin pressed a crumpled form into his hand and shouted You feell, you feell! Wondering what he was supposed to feel about what, Roberts glanced at the form and saw it was a disembarkation form to fill, not feel. He got into the queue for the health formalities and then realised it wasn't a line, it was a scrum around the little cage. Formerly sedate passengers were barging and shoving each other to get their health documents through the window in the cage and one man actually jumped on the back of a large lady to pop his papers over the top of the cage. His ingenuity was wasted; they were promptly thrown back over.

Another hand tugged at Roberts. Your passport please. He looked down at the outstretched hand and almost gave it over. Then he realised it wasn't an official and drew back. He was still trying to say No thanks effectively when the young lad of the immigration forms moved in and shoved the other off his client. A pushing and shouting match developed, which was lost in the general din.

Roberts began to feel very irritated at the whole noisy, stupid, sweaty, seething scene. Where the hell was Anthony? He could at least have sent someone else to meet him. In these days before the internet and email, telephone communications with Africa were very poor. But in his London offices, Roberts had recently installed an expensive telex machine to improve the situation. Before leaving, he had himself seen the secretary typing the message and had waited while she got through to the operator and sent her tape to Accra, so they must have known he was coming.

Just then a surge in the tide around the cage pushed Roberts against the window and showing the mettle of an old Africa hand, he had his papers in like lightening. At length they reappeared and merely by letting himself go, he was swept along to the cage marked 'IMMIGRATION'. There he expected a longer wait because he could see more passports going in around the back than through the window. He quickly filled in the landing card and psyched himself up for a front row forward act. But the young lad of the form came smiling to the rescue. You geev your passport now, he advised. Roberts resigned himself to Africa and watched it being whisked around the throng and in at the back door.

Shortly, the young manager came back looking very rueful. He say you go see him. Make you dash him small. Roberts gathered that the customary small bribe was being suggested. It hadn’t been like this when he was here before, he thought bitterly. In those days he got a bit of respect as a lecturer, somebody from the university to tug the forelock, pick up your bags and pay the bloody bribes. He grudgingly handed over a pound to the urchin and told him to sort it out. He was back in a trice with the stamped passport and said; Now we go find your bag.

Roberts and guide now entered the baggage hall, where a pitched battle was in progress around the luggage conveyor. The din was terrific, the heat intense. There were even more urchins here, pulling and shouting at the passengers or fighting over their suitcases. Across the hall there was a row of benches with ill-kempt Customs officers in no recognisable uniform lounging about - awaiting their victims. Beyond them a line of soldiers kept back a dancing, cheering crowd of several hundreds. These were the less privileged who could not afford to pay their way on to the tarmac to welcome the travellers or into the Customs hall to help their relatives with their baggage.

Roberts groaned and undid his tie and collar button. He was not just damp, he was awash with sweat. Once again he cursed Anthony for not being there or sending one of the office staff. If he's waiting out there in that mob, I'll play merry hell! he thought. Then he remembered that the purpose of his visit was to make the local staff redundant and although he had not had much of a conscience about it anyway, he thought grimly that he now had an excellent reason for sacking the lot.

The conveyor was not a circular carrel, but a straight line that led no where. As a result the baggage was zooming along the conveyor and crashing off the end. Roberts now had his jacket off and his sleeves up and was becoming quite grateful to have the pest of the immigration form in attendance. He directed his young minder into the melee and even helped him shoo off another prospective porter as he emerged, staggering with the bag. The little lad struggled to get the case on his head for the short walk to the Customs and then stood up quite happily once the heavy case was balanced. Here we go again, thought Roberts, me bwana! and followed his bearer.

At the nearest desk a large matron was well into a huge row with a Customs man over some disputed imported goodies and they skirted the verbal torrent to the next desk. A lounging nondescript Customs man climbed to his feet and snarled something at the small porter. He struggled to get the case down and Roberts gave him a hand.

Passport! demanded the nondescript. What the hell for? thought Roberts, who foresaw another long, torrid delay. Sure enough, the unkempt Customs man indicated the bag; You open please. The nondescript then began rummaging sweatily through Roberts' clean clothes with gusto. Roberts set his jaw and counted to ten. At that moment the neighbouring mammy screeched unintelligibly and tore her hair dramatically. Just how Roberts felt. He failed to see the funny side of any of this.

The Customs scruff now held up a new shirt, still in its packet, in triumph. His young bearer rolled his eyes at Roberts in reproach. Aha, this be new! crowed the scruff, scrabbling around for more. You will pay! You will pay for this!

Rubbish! snapped Roberts, intervening to stop the man messing up his case completely. They're all for my personal use. I'm sure there can't be any duty on clothes for personal use. He seemed not to have been heard; They be new. You will pay! The scruff was gleefully pulling out more togs as Roberts tried to push them back in. Behind him, his guide anxiously hissed You dash him master, you dash him!

Roberts finally lost his temper; Visitors don't have to pay duty on such trivial stuff and I'm not going to be browbeaten into bribing anyone! he thundered. Then, in a parade ground roar, Don't you realise what a bad impression of Ghana you're giving? You’re behaving like a damned dishonest peasant! Like a bloody bushman!

They were standing gaping at him in the little circle of silence he had created. Even the mammy's melodrama was stilled and the general hubbub seemed far away, like a troubled sea. It was like a Moss Bros advert. He began to feel rather foolish and then an urchin's titter seemed to unfreeze the Customs scruff, who began to look malevolent. Calling someone a bushman in Africa is a really bad insult.

Before he could say anything, a curt voice snapped something in the local language. The Customs man swung round and then jumped to attention. Behind him had stolen up an immaculately uniformed officer of the Ghana army. He now said something else and the Customs man started pushing down the lid of Roberts’ case and chalked on it in a hurry. You go, you go! he said, without looking up.

Dr Roberts isn’t it? asked the soldier in excellent English.

Er, yes, yes muttered Roberts and started to thank the soldier for his assistance, while wondering who the hell he was. The officer brushed aside his thanks and said to Roberts; I hope you remember me. I’m Kofi Boamah. I was in your class at university with your friend Anthony.

Oh yes, yes of course, lied Roberts. It’s just that er, I’m a little surprised to see you in uniform.

Oh, come, come sir. For someone who has been in Ghana for as long as you, you should know that lots of graduates go into the army. The pay is good and after all, we haven’t fought any wars in living memory. The only excitement is the odd coup and we regard those as opportunities for career advancement. Roberts laughed ingratiatingly but he still hadn’t a clue who this guy was, so he changed the subject. So you know Anthony? I was rather hoping he would be here to meet me.

But did he know you were coming? I know he has not left town because I saw him this morning and he didn’t mention that you were coming.

That’s very strange because my office sent him a telex.

Yes, that is indeed strange. I would telephone him for you, but you know what our telephones are like. I’m afraid they’re all out of order at the airport again.

Typical! said Roberts. I’ll just have to take a taxi to the office, I suppose.

No, don’t do that sir, he might have gone out and the traffic in the centre of town at this time of day will be very heavy. Where are you staying?

I usually stay at the Ambassador.

Well why don’t you go there by taxi and I’ll send one of my men in my jeep to the office to track Tony down and inform him that you are here. Roberts expressed his gratitude and much heartened by this stroke of luck, took his leave of his long lost and unmemorable student. Followed by his vastly impressed bearer, Roberts wound his way through the throng of shouting relatives.

Outside, Roberts sank back into a decrepit taxi. There had been the usual huge row about the fare as Roberts knew there would be. Fortunately, he had thoughtfully overpaid his guide cum bearer and had let the young lad do the shouting with the driver. Now everyone seemed satisfied and his suitcase was being banged into the boot. Roberts was still pleased that he had run into his unmemorable alumni who had certainly cut a lot of ice at the airport. He smiled to himself at the notion of ice in this sweat box and even ignored the excruciating bumps as the ancient cab tottered from pothole to pothole in what passed for the main road into town.

His bonhomie was soon dissipated at the hotel. No sah, there is no reservation for you. I am very sorry sah, we have no rooms at all, at all. We are very busy.

Like hell! thought Roberts, judging by the reception lounge that was virtually deserted. He knew what the clerk wanted, but he just could not be bothered with the usual charade of the dash, followed by the surprising discovery of a vacant room. So he stalked off and persuaded the doorman to look after his suitcase while he had a beer in the garden until Anthony got there.

Sure enough, Anthony came hurrying across the garden to him before he had even downed his first beer. He was full of apologies and sorted out the room in a trice; the reservations clerk was from his tribe and a distant relative.

Some time later a somewhat mollified Roberts sipped his beer and screwed his eyes up against the tropical light. He scratched his sandy head. He was thinking hard. Anthony, sat waiting expectantly. He quickly leaned over to refill the glass as soon as Roberts put it down. Roberts spoke: I don't know, it's a bit risky and after the way the thieves have stolen half the business, I'm not sure we are in shape to take such a risk.

Anthony looked disappointed. He shifted in his cane chair and wiped the sweat off his brow. He could never understand why the whites enjoyed sitting in the sun. Well, you're the boss, but didn't you say to me that we couldn't survive with the little bits of the travel business we've got left? Roberts looked morosely across the hotel garden and agreed. Yes, that's true as well. Our turnover has gone down from forty thousand to ten thousand a month since they stole the business. I'd like to kill that bastard Dowuna.

Oh, don't mind him, said Anthony, lapsing into the ‘bush’ English he sometimes slipped into. His ill gotten gains have not done him any good. Roberts brushed a fly away from the bottle top and put the cap back on. I don't know about that, didn't I hear that he was running around in my company car?

Yes, but they are not doing any business. I went past the old office the other day and there was nobody in it at 11 o'clock. It was still locked up. Anthony laughed maliciously. He thinks you put a juju on the Minister to ban all charter flights. Roberts swigged his beer, a look of contempt on his face. What rubbish! That's typical of bloody Dowuna. He's as racist as hell, but he accuses a white man of African practices when it suits him. If I still had any influence, why would I want charter flights banned? It was charter flights that built the bloody company. Just because Dowuna was able to steal the operation in Ghana from me - thanks to this stupid Africanisation law – I wasn’t going to just give up. And in the long run it won’t stop me wiping the floor with the thieving swine.

Anthony cleared his throat and said quietly Yes, well there's no point in dwelling on the past. And that law was bought in to protect us against exploitation by multinationals, which isn't a bad aim. At this, Roberts cooled off suddenly and laughed. Yes, you're right. I shouldn’t be siding with the economic imperialists. Anyway, it's my own fault for entrusting the shares in the Ghana company to the wrong man. The lawyer did warn me about that. I should have divided the shares up between you, Louis and Dowuna . Then we could have sacked the bum. Anthony continued with the soothing words. Yes, but Dowuna was also a student of yours and he'd been with you longer than Louis and me. You couldn't have known he would double cross you and join up with your rivals in England.

Roberts was irritated at the memory of his misplaced trust and changed the subject. Yes, well we can't run charter flights between Accra and London any more so we've got to increase the business somehow if we are going to keep a presence here in West Africa. Now about this Haj you have been bending my ear about for the last ten minutes - you reckon this guy, what's his name, Malam Belly?

Yes, that's right.

Jesus! That's an inauspicious name for a start. But you reckon he controls all the Muslim business in Togo? Anthony nodded his head in agreement.

But how? said Roberts. I don't understand how a Ghanaian can be in charge of Muslims in another country.

Well, John, you must remember that Togo is only 93 miles from Accra. It's a very small country, and it has always really been just an extension of the Volta Region of Ghana. The border is an artificial colonial creation.

Yes, but they speak French there, not English, he objected They're not like us, they're well they are bloody black frogs. Anthony rolled the whites of his eyes heavenwards, but explained patiently. No, that's the official language. They speak Ewe as a mother tongue like Malam Belly and the Volta Region of Ghana - and me he added pointedly.

Oh, I see.

And if you really want to know, most of the Muslims of the whole of West Africa speak Hausa as a lingua franca; so national or even tribal boundaries don't apply.

Oh really! How come?

I don't know for sure, Anthony admitted. But I think Mohammedism was brought around the edge of the Sahara desert by Arabs. Then they intermarried with the Hausas; that's probably why the Hausas were such good horsemen; and they carved out an empire with their cavalry. It stretched from Senegal in the western Sahara as far south as northern Nigeria, I believe.

But that's over 2000 miles!

That's right, it was a huge empire. It covered the northern parts of half a dozen modern countries above the forest belt. Senegal, Mali, Upper Volta, Ghana, Togo, Dahomey...

Ok, ok. I get the message!

But Anthony had