The only thing in the world I hate more than packing a suitcase is unpacking it, and to date, no unpacking expedition has been more detestable than upending our suitcases when we got back from Hajj last week. 

“Why do we even HAVE this fan?” I would ask myself as I threw out everything we didn’t use. “WHY did we take along a cooling towel? What was the point of this umbrella? WHY did I take all these clothes? And what idiot falls for the promises of a super easy blow-up mattress?”

Less is more 

The reason we had laden our luggage with an insane amount of things – some voluminous, some heavy, nearly all useless – was that we had faithfully followed instructions from kindly souls who had done it before. 

“I have done my research and prepared a list,” said the husband gravely. He adores lists and research the way Kardashians adore trillion-dollar conditioner. “I have bought an extra ihram, two rechargeable fans, these two easy-to-use blow-up mattresses for our night in Muzdalifah, two cooling towels, and four bathroom hooks. Oh and don’t pack too many clothes. Just one set per day will do.”

I was less excited about this list than its creator. I will spend half an hour looking for a balloon pump during birthday party season in this house before attempting to do it the traditional way. There was no way I was going to blow up a mattress, ever. I informed him of this. 

“Nonsense!” cried he. “Let me show you. It’s super easy.”

He proceeded to blow up the mattress in about two seconds in that deft manner that made it abundantly clear it would take me half the night to blow it up before throwing it away. However, I was told to stop being a baby and start packing. So I threw in my clothes (counting out one per day as instructed). 

“How’s your packing?” everyone would ask me in the weeks leading up to our departure. Everyone in my contact list had developed a mania about my packing. “Are you all set? Are you prepared?”

“Oh, excellent,” I would answer with the bravado of a politician during an election year, despite not even having selected which suitcase – or indeed, now many suitcases – to take. “Couldn’t be better!”

From their awed tones, it struck me that Hajj packing for normal people requires military-grade precision and takes at least a month to execute. Mine was completed in five minutes the night before our flight. I refrained from mentioning this to anyone. (Until now, obviously.)  I can tell you right now that even those five minutes devoted to packing were four minutes too long 

Take the one-a-day clothes rule. I reckon you need no more than two for a week. Even if you are in the 7-star hotel version of tents, there is not the tiniest chance you will be inspired to partake in a costume change. If you identify as female, anyway) the line to use the loos in a Mina or Arafat campsite is about a thousand miles long. When you have eventually inched your way to your toilet (leave approximately 45 minutes for this exciting adventure), you will find waves gently lapping at your feet, along with the requisite used tissues and other unmentionable objects floating in the water like lily pads. Also, the bathroom hooks you so lovingly packed will have the suction power of a cornflake. Now tell me. If you are hoisting your abaya up with one hand, are you going to use the other hand to manoeuvre into a different outfit? No, because you are not a magician’s assistant. 

If you are a male, by the way, ditch the spare ihram before you leave. There is a lot of lugging things around on Hajj, and the last thing you want to do in the pounding heat is to carry an extra ihram in your backpack. A spare ihram defies the laws of physics and with every step you take, increases in weight until it assumes the mass of an adult rhino. An ihram is a sturdy, resilient item of clothing. You are unlikely to spill a tin of paint on it or have it mauled by a tiger on your journey. If you do, there will be fifty other men who will also be lugging it around in their backpacks and will be only too happy to throw theirs at you. You already have a fan that doesn’t work in your bag, a cooling towel that stays cool for three seconds, and an umbrella that slows down your progress as you bump into the 2 million other people in your way. You have enough going on. 

A word on bathrooms

This bathroom situation could have ended on a happier note for me personally if we had booked with a large operator. Our operator was a delightful man who had promised us top-quality bathrooms in Mina, but he was no match for the dragon women guarding the good bathrooms. The dragon women were employed by a much bigger, much more expensive operator, and guarded both the loos and their canteens like an elephant with a newborn. We were redirected to the hole-in-the-floor-style loos, where you can choose between crying or holding your breath. (It is difficult to perform both of these actions simultaneously). I dare not name the expensive operator lest they send their team of dragons to my personal home bathrooms and station them there. 

The male bathrooms, by the way, were dragon-free. 

“Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?” the husband would ask when we would have a mini-conference outside our tent in Mina to exchange bitter notes on how our fellow campers wanted to ramp up the AC to 24 in 50-degree heat. “Our bathrooms were empty.”

I always hear reports of deserted bathrooms from the husband whether we are at an airport or a museum or, it transpires, a campsite in Mina or Arafat. But all was not doom and gloom! Justice was served when upon arriving in Muzdalifah, the husband journeyed off in search of a bathroom and spent an hour in line, and the next thirty seconds not breathing when he finally reached his destination. To end on the perfect note, after the hour-long bathroom expedition, he had to spend half an hour blowing up the two super-easy mattresses, and another half hour stuffing them back in their bags. After sixteen years of marriage, you learn to treasure these small victories.

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