To be a pilgrim

Farhang, Quentin and I are transformed beings. We have just been on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Not only are we transformed spiritually, but physically as well. Because some goon , whose name begins with F, instead of bringing the factor 74 lotion necessary for the scorching Israeli sun, brought along a jumbo tube of haemmorrhoid ointment without its label on. So not only did we all get hideously burned on our first day, the skin on our faces shrivelled up like organic apricots. We spent the entire trip resembling those iron age shepherds whose bodies, after being garrotted in ritual sacrifices, are dug up intact thousands of years later from peat bogs by amateur archaeologists on Channel 4.

I have to say we were nervous about going to the Holy Land in the current climate - 38 degrees in the shade and no breeze is a daunting prospect for palefaces like ourselves. Quentin is so pale he’s often spontaneously picked up by ambulances on the street and offered an emergency blood transfusion. That’s what a diet of mung bean and watercress juice does for you. Farhang fares a little better because of his swarthy complexion. But that got us into trouble at the airport. I repeatedly warned him about wearing his latest fashion accessories - the red and white spotted Arafat-style bandana and wraparound sunglasses. ‘You’re asking for trouble,’ I told him as we stepped into the airport terminal to check in. But would he listen to his always-right flatmate? Sure enough, faster than a Rafael Nadal ace shot, four security guards with what looked like Kalashnikovs had him pinned to the floor. ‘Get off, get off,’ whined Farhang, his face pressed to the tiles so that he resembled a strange Hall of Mirrors distortion of himself. ‘You’ve squashed the Snickers bar in my pocket, you brutes. I’ll sue!’

‘What’s your name, terrorist scumbag, and where are you from?,’ shouted one of the guards. ‘That’s Mr Scumbag to you, mateychops,’ retorted my fearless flatmate, provoking one of the guards to engage his wedding ring with Farhang’s flaring nostrils.

After several hours in custody, we managed to convince the guards that yes, this was our flatmate, yes he is an upright citizen (except when he’s being pinned to the floor) and the only thing he knew about explosives was how to microwave popcorn. Farhang’s shoelaces were returned and we were freed to get on the plane and wend our way to the land of milk and honey. Or the land of falafel and…well, falafel.

I have of course been to Haifa before having done a year of service in janatorial before I went to uni. Much has changed in the last two years, not least that whoever took over my duties employs a totally different method of cleaning the chandelier in the reception concourse of the Seat of the Universal House of Justice. How dare they leave a clockwise smear? That wouldn’t have happened in my day.

Needless to say the nine days passed like a dream. The shrines, the terraces, the gardens, the beautiful pilgrim from Bolivia who selflessly shared her orange segments with me in the Ridvan garden.

It was in the Monument Gardens that I remembered the prayer which says your wishes will be granted. I, of course, wished to be able to speak Spanish instantly so I could speak to the beautiful pilgrim from Bolivia (and tell her I am not that fond of oranges - next time try lychees - now that’s a fruit). Farhang looked very perturbed as we left the Monument Garden. ’How many wishes do you think God will grant?’ he asked.

’Just the one I guess,’ I replied, actually doubting the power of the prayer since my ability to speak Spanish wasn’t noticeably improved.

’Well that was a waste…’ said Farhang, ‘There was this mosquito bugging me the whole time in the garden and I thought, I wish you’d go away. And it did! Now I’ve wasted my wish and I can’t have another pilgrimage for ten years!’

We consoled ourself in a sidewalk cafe, with several sizzling balls of, you guessed it, falafel and some radioactive green peppers which brought even more colour to our already sun-scorched faces.

Apart from that little spiritual test, and the familiar large spiritual test of travelling with the two urchins I call my flatmates, pilgrimage was great. It gave us a glimpse of what a future Bahá’í world will be like - all the peoples of the world walking up and down staircases on a mountainside, smiling through their teeth as their calf muscles scream for blessed relief.

’When do you think we’ll meet the Queen of Carmel?’ asked Farhang earnestly on the last night as we mingled outside the Pilgrim House with our new friends.

’Go to Terrace 19…’ I pointed to the top of the mountain, ‘and call out to Zion. I’ve heard that’s when she appears.’ Later, when Farhang failed to return to our seedy hostel room in the Hadar, we assumed that his night-time intoning had probably alarmed the neighbourhood and he was now once again at the mercy of men in uniforms. When he rolled in at dawn he told us that the Queen of Carmel had indeed arrived - he had met the beautiful pilgrim from Bolivia and they had spent the night talking in a café, saying prayers together at the top of the mountain and watching the sun rise over the plain of Meggido. They are now fervently ‘investigating each others characters with marriage in mind.’ I felt sick.

‘It was very mysterious,’ said Farhang, ‘I suddenly found I could speak almost perfect Spanish!’ And then I realised for the first time I had been in Israel I hadn’t been bitten to pieces by mosquitoes. I am now writing to the Universal House of Justice to see if there’s such a thing as getting a crossed line while praying.