Hajj & Seek

Summary

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Comedy of the Week – “Hajj & Seek” (BBC Radio 4, May 25, 2026)

Episode Overview

In this episode, comedian, actor, and content creator Ali Shalom (aka Ali Official) delivers a rich, hilarious, and deeply personal account of his journey to Hajj, Islam’s holy pilgrimage. “Hajj & Seek” humorously explores the logistical, spiritual, and family obstacles of fulfilling this religious obligation, blending sharp social commentary with heartfelt reflections. Ali deftly balances stand-up-style storytelling with cultural insight, making this pilgrimage accessible, relatable, and riotously funny—even for listeners unfamiliar with Hajj.

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Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. The Meaning & Myth of Hajj

• Ali’s Comedic Introduction (00:00–02:00):

  • Ali initially describes Hajj as “basically halal Glastonbury” but is quickly challenged by co-host James to provide real detail.
  • He frames Hajj as the “fifth pillar of Islam,” a life-changing annual pilgrimage—a mix of “finding yourself but losing your patience and if you’re my dad, your shoes as well.”

• Notable Quote:

  “Welcome to Hajj and Seek—a journey where you find yourself but lose your patience and if you’re my dad, your shoes as well. True story.”
  — Ali (01:42)

2. Islam and Modern Life

• Ali discusses growing up Muslim “in a non-Muslim space,” joking it’s like “trying to be halal in a casino.”
• Shares how his faith influences life and even career choices—refusing roles and deals involving gambling, pork, or other non-halal elements.
• Commentary on the shifting social awareness of Ramadan and other Islamic practices.

3. The Logistics & Chaos of Planning Hajj in the Digital Era

• Nusuk Platform Woes (06:00–11:00):

  • Describes the modern, often frustrating digital process for booking Hajj via the Saudi government's Nusuk platform.
  • Jokes about banks flagging large money transfers to “Middle Eastern e-wallets” and the paranoia it invokes.

• Quote:

  “Nusuk is basically depression you pay for. It’s like buying emotional turbulence in bulk.”
  — Quoting Sonia on TrustPilot (07:52)

• Highlights the massive costs (£10,000 per person), the necessity of digital wallets, and losing life savings to fraud in the old days.

• The group’s journey is tracked and turbocharged by a Hajj-focused Telegram channel, where every message is a mix of pilgrimage prep, random ads, and multitasking chat.

• Discussion with Bank Fraud Officer (04:58–05:52):

  • Banks questioning his transfer for Hajj:

    “Was that transaction for crypto?”
    “No.”
    “NFTs?”
    “No.”
    “Terrorism?”
    “What? No, it's for Hajj.”
    — Bank call (05:18–05:24)

4. Convincing the Family and Early Hurdles

• Passports, Packages, and Pep Talks (12:00–16:00):
  • Shares a “team talk” to convince skeptical parents and wife despite challenges like expired passports and financial worries.
  • The rush for digital booking is compared to the “Trauma Olympics,” with the family waiting for their chance to secure a slot among only 5,000 UK pilgrims.
  • Quote:

    “Money comes, money goes. Life is short, life is long. All of this is just dunya. But what we have right here is an opportunity to invest in our afterlife. This is our time, this is our year.”
    — Ali’s team talk to his family (15:03)

5. The Withering Wait, Booking Ordeal, and Hajj Begins

• Booking Madness & Airline Anxiety (16:00–22:00):
  • Ali recounts anxiously awaiting the “checkout button” to book Hajj—like a digital version of “Who Wants to Be a Haji Haji.”
  • Family flies to Saudi, arriving in Medina and experiencing awe at Islam’s second holiest site, Masjid Al Nabawi.
• Emotional moments described with light-hearted cricket references and heartfelt tears.
• Quote:

  “There were moments when tears would just gush down my face... To be fair, [Bangladesh] do lose quite a bit.”
  — Ali (22:56)

6. The Physical Ordeal & Rituals of Hajj

• Ihram & Heat Survival (23:00–25:00):
  • Outfits, rituals, and the extreme heat (“felt like hiking inside a McDonald's apple pie”).
  • The family joins a sea of pilgrims in matching white garments, sharing communal tents, meals, and sleepless nights.
• Practical Comedy:

  “Little tip for any hajis—make sure you whack some Vaseline between your thighs or chafing will have you walking less like a pilgrim and more like a penguin.”
  — Ali (24:45)

7. Lost in the Crowd, Family Drama, and the Power of Tech

• Losing & Finding Family (26:00–29:00):

  • Recalls using Apple AirTags to track down his lost wife and mum among two million pilgrims.
  • Quote:

    “I have a secret weapon—skills I’ve acquired over a very long career. I will look for them and I will find them…because I made sure we all put AirTags in our bags.”
    — Ali (27:05)

• The high drama of missing sandals, fainting spouse, and banana bag vomit.

  “My wife loses consciousness and collapses in my arms. She’s out cold. I start screaming over the crowd. Everyone make some space!”
  — Ali (37:40)

• Comedy Callback:

  “You can take my sandals, but you’ll never take my bananas!”
  — Ali (39:30)

8. Spiritual Climaxes and Reflections

• At Mount Arafat & Beyond (29:00–42:00):
  • Deepest spiritual moments described: the feeling of open vulnerability during supplication, the connection between hardship and reward.
  • The chaos, physical challenges, and emotional highs of completing the rites.
• Quote:

  “Hajj taught me that patience has a pulse, hardship has reward, and Allah is the greatest.”
  — Ali (47:30)

• Family survives, reconnects, and even handles “banana bag” incidents with humor and resilience.
• The episode closes with the significance of the Telegram group as a reminder of the “version of myself who said yes to an invitation from Allah and watched the impossible fall into place.”

9. Final Reflections and Recommendations

• Ali expresses ongoing spiritual impact and camaraderie among other Hajj-goers.
• Urges listeners not to wait until old age to go to Hajj—and to bring “two banana bags.”

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Memorable Moments & Quotes with Timestamps

• “Hajj has two Js.”
  (00:57) — Playful approach to a common confusion, sets the comedic tone.

• “Nusuk is basically depression you pay for. It’s like buying emotional turbulence in bulk.”
  (07:52) — Quoting user Sonia about booking difficulties.

• Ali tries to explain Hajj payment to his bank:

  • “Was that transaction for crypto?” “No.” “NFTs?” “No.” “Terrorism?” “What? No, it’s for Hajj.”
    (05:18–05:24)

• Ali’s team talk:

  • “Money comes, money goes… This is our time, this is our year. We gotta trust in Allah, but tie our camel too.”
    (15:03)

• On travelling with family:

  • “My dad’s on his feet applauding, my wife’s crying, and I’m feeling like I just scored a penalty in the last minute. And then my mum says: but mine and your dad’s passports have expired.”
    (15:44)

• Heat & exhaustion:

  • “It felt like we were hiking inside a McDonald's apple pie.”
    (26:26)

• Technology to the rescue:

  • “I made sure we all put AirTags in our bags… now who’s laughing, eh?”
    (27:12)

• Handling rituals and mishaps:

  • “My wife is skinny, but for some reason that day she weighed heavy. As I'm climbing these steps, my knees are popping like bubble wrap. Left, right and center. …I don't want to traumatize two million Muslims and I definitely don't want them to think they've sighted the moon for Eid.”
    (40:05)

• Banana bag horror:

  • “She could have chosen to be sick anywhere on the floor, but did it in my banana bag.”
    (39:15)
  • “Ali, I’m gonna be sick. Where’s that banana bag?”
    (44:40)

• Final wisdom:

  • “Hajj taught me that patience has a pulse, hardship has reward, and Allah is the greatest.”
    (47:30)

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Segment Timestamps

• 00:00–04:58: Opening banter, what is Hajj, personal context
• 04:58–07:52: Fraud call with the bank, cost of Hajj, booking challenges
• 07:52–12:00: Telegram groups, preparing the family, application process
• 12:00–16:00: Team talk, emotional family preparations
• 16:00–22:00: Final booking rush, securing tickets, arrival in Medina
• 22:00–26:00: Entering a new spiritual context, rituals begin
• 26:00–29:00: Losing/finding family, tech as saviour, intensity of Arafat
• 29:00–44:00: Field sleeping, fatigue, banana bag, wife’s collapse
• 44:00–47:30: Final torments, completion, reflection on Hajj’s meaning

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Tone & Style

Ali’s tone throughout is brisk, irreverent, and warm—peppered with self-deprecating humor and vivid, often poignant, storytelling. The blend of British and South Asian cultural winks, cricket references, and Muslim in-jokes make it approachable and engaging for a diverse audience.

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Summary for Non-Listeners

“Hajj & Seek” is a uniquely relatable, hilarious, and heartfelt journey through the challenges and triumphs of performing the Hajj pilgrimage in the age of digital bureaucracy, family drama, and extreme weather. Ali Official’s storytelling marries deep spiritual insight with sharp modern comedy, leaving listeners with both laughter and inspiration.

Transcript

[A]

Ali, mate, what is Hajj? It's basically halal. Glastonbury. No Ali, don't dumb it down for me. What actually is Hajj? The fifth pillar of Islam. An annual pilgrimage. Ali, stop pandering. I don't want textbook definitions, I want nuance and detail. I've watched Slumdog Millionaire, I drink masala tea and I've been to four entire Asian weddings. Tell me about hij luck. It's never been spoken about before. Alright James, here goes nothing. That is the sound of intense worship from Mount Arafat. Millions of Muslims gather every year to perform their spiritual obligation known as Hajj. In 2024 I was somewhere up there on that mountain. Hajj, a word you may remember from re lessons and still not know. It has two Js. Hajj has been top of my bucket list since I was a kid. Just above learning how to juggle and solving a Rubik's cube. I know banging bucket list bruv. I always thought I'd do Hajj much later in life. Like properly old and grey type situation, you know, like when they finally fixed the potholes in my area, when Fast and Furious stop doing sequels or when people shut up about air fryers. But then you live a little and see a lot and you're thinking matures. What if I never reach old age and I'm gone before I can complete the last pillar of Islam? What will I tell my creator Ya Allah? I didn't go Hajj but I can juggle. Come on now. Welcome to Hajj and seek a journey where you find yourself but lose your patience and if you're my dad, your shoes as well. True story. Let's get into it. Hajj and seek with Ali Sharnal. Salams and salutations. My name is Ali Shalom, AKA Ali, official comedian, actor and content creator. I'm a Muslim in a non Muslim space trying to be a Muslim, which can be tricky. It's like trying to be halal in a casino. I shouldn't be here. But then slowly I realized that yo they sell curry here and that waiter serving it is Asian and he's my cousin. And then together we take over the casino and turn it into a mosque. Relax James, we only turn churches into mosques. To me, Islam isn't just a religion, it's a way of life. We call this life Dunya. This Dunya has many trials and tribulations. Islam helps inform even the decisions in my career. You didn't know March is Ramadan oh, my God, are you gonna miss it? Oh, Ramadan's in April. I've turned down action roles where on page one, everything seems halal. But then page 10, big fat kissing scene. I've been offered brand deals from gambling companies and sponsorships from pork products. I can't do any of that. Although if you're listening in the future and I have done, just know it's only because my career is going really bad or the money is really good. Hajj happens once every year. It involves long periods of walking throughout the sacred sites in and around Mecca. The physical journey is an act of devotion filled with worship, remembrance and patience. The reward for an accepted Hajj is paradise. So, you know, no pressure in it. Two years ago, I was one of 5, 000 UK pilgrims granted a Hajj ticket and I'll tell you now, securing that spot was harder than booking Glastonbury. Back in the day, you'd ring a Muslim travel agent, ask for a Hajj ticket and some uncle would sort you out like a meal deal. I've even heard stories from my elders who just rocked up in Saudi during Hajj season and booked their hotels whilst being there. That's like turning up to India vs Pakistan final and expecting to join the team on the pitch. Mind you, things weren't always better in the old days. Our top story, police raid a travel agent in a crackdown on fake pilgrimages to Mecca. Now, every year, hundreds of Muslim pilgrims lose tens of thousands of pounds through Hajj fraud. They buy trips to Mecca, often costing their life savings, which then fail to material. Today is very different since 2023. To go to Hajj, you gotta go through Nusuk. When I first heard this, I thought, who the hell is this Nusuk guy? But turns out Nusuk is an online platform run by the Saudi government, designed to digitalise the Hajj experience. It's safe to say not everyone's a fan. In fact, a lot of people feel like Sonia, who wrote on trustpilot, Nusuk is basically depression you pay for. It's like buying emotional turbulence in bulk. Jeez, doubt Nusuk is on Sonia's EID list. Hate the platform or not, the reality is your visa, permit, flights, hotels, accommodation and transport must be booked via nusuk. It's basically Jet2holidays, Muslim edition. It's not straightforward, though. There's a strict quota allocated to each country and you have to pay all the money for your trip into a digital wallet before you even know Whether you've secured your place. Banks get twitchy about people stashing bags in Middle Eastern e wallets. I had to ring the fraud team today. This could be the greatest day.

[B]

Afternoon, Mr. Official. You've passed a security check for Bankity bank of Banking. I'm Brian. How can I help?

[A]

Brian, you, man, have frozen my account. Can you, like, unfreeze it, please?

[B]

Oh, yes, I can see you've been a victim of fraud. Some absolute prat moved your money into some sort of foreign wallet.

[A]

No, Brian, that's why I'm calling. That prat was me. I moved the money.

[B]

Oh, was that transaction for crypto?

[A]

No.

[B]

NFTs?

[A]

No.

[B]

Terrorism?

[A]

What? No, it's for Hajj.

[B]

Hajj? Oh, the religious pilgrimage. Never knew it had two GS. Don't you put this stuff through like a travel agent?

[A]

Not anymore. Now you have to go through Nusuk.

[B]

Right, so you definitely know this Nusuk guy.

[A]

Nusuk's not. Yeah, me and him are best mates.

[B]

Perfect. I'll unfreeze your account. Have fun in Hajistan. Goodbye.

[A]

You know, I don't blame the banks for being cautious because, plot twist. My Hajj ticket cost me £10,000. Not for four people. Ten grand. For one person, it cost us 40 grand. For four of us, 40 grand is life savings, a deposit on a house or a very, very cheap Asian wedding. At the time I wanted to go, I was broke. More broke than Woolworths in 2008. I kept thinking about Hutch, researching it and praying for it. Lo and behold, I landed two well paid TV commercials in the same year. Good news, money sorted. Bad news, I'm 60 days away from that money landing in my account. The money then has to go into this e wallet. At this point I'm thinking, can I do hudge on Claude? Now remember, Hajj happens once a year. What month all, eh? Well, it changes. Muslims live by a lunar calendar, so the dates for hajj vary. You gotta sight the moon for that, don't ya? Exactly, James, I'm impressed. I'm high on my third karak chai. When I had the itch to go hajj, I reached out to an acquaintance, Yusuf. Yusuf has been to Hajj 10 times. How come bloody Brian from Fraud never called this dude? Yusuf's from Glasgow. He's proudly Scottish and proudly Muslim, meaning he's basically hated by everyone. Yusuf knows the ins and outs of Hajj, having been both pre and post Nusuk working as a guide for a Hajj travel agent. In short, my man's got a P. Hodge D in this ting. The best advice Yusuf gave me was to join the Hajj telegram channel. So I did. And straight out the gate, I'm getting hundreds of messages a day. Believe it or not, I'm reading every single one. My screen time is through the roof. I'm making Mark Zuckerberg look like he's off grid. This telegram channel is essentially a forum. Members ask questions and guides that work in the Hajj industry. Answer questions like, what will the food in Hajj be like? What sandals are best for Hajj? Why can't I mute notifications for this group? Free Palestine, everyone, whilst I'm here, anyone from Luton need a new sink? DM for price, cash only. But one message from the group admin sprung everyone into action. Hodge packages drop soon. We advise those interested in purchasing a ticket to make an application complete with passport details on Nusuk as soon as possible. Oh, my days packages will drop soon. I don't want to miss this booking window. Plus, I haven't actually properly told my wife and parents about this plan. When I did, I witnessed a real life telegram chat in my living room. How will we get the money for Hajj? How am I supposed to get time off work? I don't even have walking sandals. I'm diabetic. What if I collapse? Am I even ready for Hajj? Who the hell is Jusuk? They're looking at me like I've lost the plot. But with my newfound telegram research, I feel like the Martin Lewis of Hajj quoting numbers off the Dome. But my family weren't convinced. So I channel my inner Gareth Southgate, look my family in the eye and deliver the team talk of my life. Guys, listen. Money comes, money goes. Life is short, life is long. All of this is just tunya. But what we have right here is an opportunity to invest in our afterlife. This is our time, this is our year. We gotta trust in Allah, but tie our camel too. And that is exactly what we will do. How can we accept defeat when we haven't even tried yet? That's not us. Out of that 5,000 quota, we will be four of them. Am I right? And just like that, my dad's on his feet applauding, my wife's crying and I'm feeling like I've just scored a penalty in the last minute. And then my mum says, but mine and your dad's passports have expired. I don't really swear. And even if I did My mom's listening. But it's safe to say the words going through my mind right now would make Gordon Ramsay sound extra halal. I'm in full panic mode. Will I have to RSVP to my divine invitation with a soz? Mum and dad can't come due to a technicality. No. Frantically I do two online renewal applications. The website says it could take up to three weeks for them to arrive. Radha I'm now in a race against the Home Office, the Saudi Ministry of Hajj and my bank balance. They're all halfway down the track and I'm still trying my shoelace. Hajj tickets are divided into economy, premium and luxury packages. The biggest difference between the tiers is where your accommodation is located. If you pay top dollar, you'll likely end up just a couple of minutes from each ritual site, while the cheaper packages will have you training for London Marathon. In a nutshell, same Hajj, different step count. Telegram will tell us when the packages will drop, then it's fastest Fingers first to purchase. Forget who wants to be a Millionaire. This is who wants to be a Haji Haji. I gotta click that checkout button before tens of thousands of other British Muslims. Bro, do I need to up my broadband speed? Imagine your place in paradise is jeopardized because Virgin don't do fiber optic in your area. Thankfully, I'm at least able to cross one problem off my list. My parents passports arrive. That felt like the best thing to come out of the Home Office since Priti Patel's P45. Now we wait for the packages. Days become weeks and weeks become a whole month. Still nothing. It's now Ramadan. I'm trying to fast read Quran and go mosque all while glued to this telegram chat. I got invited to Parliament for Iftar but said no, that's not me flexing. I just can't risk it. What if I'm eating a samosa in the House of Commons and I miss the booking window to the House of Allah? My priorities are straight cars. A ticket to paradise is more important than a selfie in Parliament. In hindsight, I could have actually gone because the booking window wasn't that day. I missed out on free biryani man. But then a few days later, Inshallah becomes Alhamdulillah. Bookings will open in 24 hours. Put your preferred package in your basket by 12pm and look out for the checkout button. It's finally happening. I wake up at 7am Telegram is busier than Green street on a Sunday. 12pm comes and no checkout button. 1pm nothing. Still. 2pm still nothing. It gets later and later. I'm breaking my fast with my laptop on the dinner table. I'm even taking my phone to the toilet. Okay, that's not a big deal. I do that anyway. But the point is, I've spent the whole day staring at three devices trying to locate a button that's harder to find than a halal meal in a service station. The guides also clarified that they're unsure where exactly the checkout button will appear. So I'm basically playing a 40 grand game of Where's Wally Now. The website's placed me in a queue, my password's not working and the platform crashed. All this before I've even packed a suitcase. I'm tired, frustrated and impatient. Then, out of nowhere, boom. I see it. Check out. I smacked that button with Abyss Miller. And then. So clocks me out. Congratulations. This email is to confirm that your booking has been secured on the Nusukh Hajj platform. Allahu Akbar. I'm crying tears of joy. I cannot believe we got in within minutes. All the UK packages sold out. I tell my wife the good news, she cries. I tell my parents. They don't believe me. Together, all four of us are excited. And for once, no pizza is involved. It's the 10th of June and we're all on a plane to Saudi. I'm 35,000ft in the air worrying about two things. Things. One, can my mom and dad do this? I'm basically asking my diabetic parents to complete an Iron man in scorching heat with sandals on. Secondly, is my wife going to annoy me? Before I could finish that thought, she already did. After six hours, we land in Medina and head towards Masjid Al Nabawi, the second largest mosque in Islam, built by Prophet Muhammad himself. Himself, peace be upon him. For the first time, I'm seeing, touching and feeling these remarkable places that are symbolic to my faith. Immediately, my anxiety melts into amazement. This was better than watching Shakibul Hassan hit a six. Everything clicked like I just solved a spiritual Rubik's cube. Our hotel stood in the shadow of Masjid Al Nabawi. I would literally be sleeping. Sleeping next to the second holiest site in Islam. I'm used to sleeping next to three broken charges, so this was a massive upgrade. The reward for praying in Masjid Al Nabawi is equal to a thousand prayers. So me and my family wanted to maximize our short time here by gaining as many heaven points as we can. There were moments when tears would just gush down my face. And let me tell you, bro, I'm not a crier. The only time I cry is when Bangladesh losing cricket. To be fair, they do lose quite a bit. Point being, this was all very emotional stuff. And the maddest part, this was just the beginning. We spend the next few days in Medina, praying and absorbing the sights. Medina has this calm serenity unlike anything I've experienced before. It feels like a home for your heart, which is probably how middle class white people feel about John Lewis. This stage of our journey ends with the final preparations for Hajj. Me and dad each wrap ourselves in two pieces of white cloth known as ihrab, which looks and feels like two soft towels. One for your upper body, one for your lower body. At a glance, you'd think we're heading to a sauna. We weren't, but outside did feel like one. Other than sandals and a backpack, you wear nothing else? Yes. Not even boxers? Bruv, we go full Scotsman on a stag do for this ting. The ihram will be my garment for the next few days. Little tip for any hajis. Make sure you wax some Vaseline between your thighs or chafing will have you walking less like a pilgrim and more like a penguin. At last, we jump on the Haramain bullet train and head to the city of Mecca. Our official Hajj pilgrimage is about to start. First impressions of Makkah Hot. Immediately, you feel your foot fry in nature's oven. But past the blinding sun and the sea of pilgrims, something black and majestic slowly comes into focus. There it is, right in front of me, the holiest site in Islam, the Kaaba. Every day, billions of Muslims lay their prayer mat to face this black stone. And here I am seeing, circling and touching it to perform what's known as Umrah. Alongside the three most important people in my life. Mecca was mad busy, man. I can't even see the floor. To take my next step, the place is rammed with pilgrims. It's basically a field of whiteness. Squint and you could be in a reform voter's dream. Almost from start to finish, this ritual took nearly three hours. That's almost as long as one Bollywood film. At the end of this, me and my dad shave our heads for the first time as a symbolic act of purification, humility and submission to Allah. Now, not only am I feeling different, I'm also looking different. Sort of like a Bangladeshi Dwayne Johnson, but without the muscles, tads or tequila. I don't want to sound like a Broken record, but I cannot overstate how hot it was at the time. This was the hottest Hajj in history. The weather hit 50 degrees and and we had just walked over 20,000 steps under the unforgiving sun. It felt like we were hiking inside a McDonald's apple pie. Everywhere you look, people are struggling. We then migrate to Mina, the city of tents, where we are met with the most amazing sound air conditioning needed. That Now Mina is 20 square kilometers of high tech tents. More than 100,000 marquee light canopies host two 1.6 million pilgrims. That's the equivalent of 13 Glastonbury festivals happening at once. The tents vary in size. Some hold just a few people, others host hundreds. But everyone who books a Hudge ticket gets a designated spot. Men and women stay separately. In Minna, my dad and me are sharing with 20 men of mixed ages. Each of us is allocated a small area with pegs for our rucksacks to go overhead and a single sofa bed we can fold out, which as it turns out, is a pretty risky process in a room full of brothers going commando. We're given three hot meals a day, cold drinks, snacks and ice creams whenever we want. It's basically a massive Muslim sleepover. Everyone's in matching white pyjamas, no one's getting any rest, and we've all got brain freeze from eating too many chocolate magnums. At last, we've reached the central plank of Hajj. In the coming hours, pilgrims will gather for intense prayer, supplication and repentance at Mount Arafat. This is the pinnacle of our journey. Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, said, hajj is Arafat. Today we'll be reminded of the Day of Judgment when mankind will be resurrected and gathered in crowds, stripped of worldly status and attachment and left with nothing but our deeds. But we have a problem. To get to Arafat, we need to catch a coach, but my mum and wife are nowhere to be found. You're probably thinking, Ali, how do you lose two ladies in a crowd of 2 million people? I'll tell you how easily. They're not answering my calls. They haven't sent any messages. Now I'm starting to worry. The heat wave is deadly. Or if something terrible has happened. That's when I remember. I have a secret weapon, a very particular set of skills, skills I've acquired over a very long career. So I will look for them and I will find them. Because I made sure we all put airtags in our bags. That's right. My wife rolled her eyes and called me extra months ago when I pitched these stalker style tracking devices. But now who's laughing, eh? Okay, we're not laughing. But still. Sure enough, I open the Find my app and it shows my mum and wife still in camp. At last, an anxious voice answers the phone. I just about make out what my wife is saying.

[B]

Ali, we've lost a tramp.

[A]

Yeah, the signal wasn't great. She said, ali, we are lost in camp. And my heart sank. But the coach driver is about to set off, so I make a split decision. We ditch the girls and do it alone. Lads on tour, all aboard the banter bus. Oi, oi. Did you actually. Ali. No, James, I'm kidding. But the coach driver was seriously about to leave. So I tell dad to stay on board and head to Arafat while I go and find the girls. A few of the brothers on the coach offered to keep an eye on my dad and I see off on my Mission Impossible Mina Edition. I'm navigating this maze as if my life depended on it, like a stressed and sweaty Pac Man. My wife says they're near their clinic. I speed walk there whilst keeping them on loudspeaker. I turn a corner and boom shakalaka, there they are. Relief washes over me. I'd say they feel the same, but they know they're going to endure my airtag smugness for the entire coach trip to Arafat, so I sense they're a little less enthusiastic. At last, we make the journey together and reunite with my dad. The biggest day of Hajj began with panic and we're all pretty shaken. But now we're together at Mount Arafat. We're filled with gratitude both for this incredible journey and also for Steve Jobs innovation. Mount Arafat is this high hill upon which the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, delivered his final sermon. While you're there, you feel this powerful stillness in the middle of millions. All the noise of the world disappears. Every step, every hardship and every tear has been leading to this single conversation with Allah. I pulled out my list of things I wanted to ask my Lord and slowly read them. Time feels suspended. The past, present and the afterlife all seem closer than ever before. I feel completely exposed, yet completely held. Nothing could ruin this pure moment. Until some auntie elbowed me for some more space. That experience didn't end when I left Arafat. Rather, it continues to live inside me every single day. After a long day at Arafat, we now move onto the next part of our Hajj called Muzdalifa Here you sleep in an open field under the stars. Sounds romantic, but it's chaotic. Imagine having to sleep on the floor alongside 2 million people. There are rocks on my back, a foot in my face, and some dude snoring like he's sound checking Wembley Arena. And to top it all off, Ere Ali. I can't find my sandals. I didn't think I'd have to airtag footwear, but dad lost his shoes. Luckily though, I listened to a telegram user who said, pack a pair of backup shoes just in case. We found out what just in case means in real time. Before we can attempt any sleep, we have to collect some pebbles for the next part of our hutch. Spoiler alert. It's not a hot stone massage. Once that's done, I jostle my way into some space on the floor with the aim of sleeping, defending my family from the Sando snatcher. As I'm about to drift off, it's fajr dawn prayer time. I'm so tired, man, I can barely see. But one look at my wife tells me we've got bigger problems. Her face is whiter than my Ihram. She's hardly eaten, surviving on adrenaline and Zamzam water. There are two ways to go back to Minna. You either walk, which is over an hour in the heat, or you take the bus. Now we're packed inside this crowd like sweaty sardines and everyone's trying to get to the front. My cute etiquette disappears faster than the Vaseline between my thighs. Elbows are flying, toes are getting trampled, and every time a bus appears, the crowd surges forward. It's madness. Suddenly I feel the carrier bag of bananas I'm holding get smashed, snatched from my hand. I spin to face the culprit, ready to give it some brave heart. You can take my sandals, but you'll never take my bananas. Only to see a woman open it and vomit inside. We were in an open field. She could have chosen to be sick anywhere on the floor, but did it in my banana bag. Nothing in the telegram chat prepares you for that type of horror. Then out of nowhere, my wife loses consciousness and collapses, is in my arms. She is out cold. I start screaming over the crowd. Everyone make some space. I have an emergency, bruv. No one moved. I look around desperately and spot a brother who has a wheelchair but isn't using it. He was literally stood up. I don't know if Hodge healed his limbs or he's taking a break from benefit fraud. Either way. I shout, brother Is it okay if I use your wheelchair? My wife just fainted. Yeah bro, take it. I just to want wanted good parking in it. My unconscious wife is now in this wheelchair and all four of us slowly get to the front of the queue just as a bus pulls up. Now, in true Bollywood style, I have to carry my wife up these mahusive bus steps. My wife is skinny, but for some reason that day she weighed heavy. As I'm climbing these steps, my knees are popping like bubble wrap. Left, right and center. I'm there praying and hoping that my haram doesn't come off. I don't want to traumatize 2 million Muslims and I definitely don't want them to think they've sighted the moon for Eid. Finally, I lay my wife down on the bus and hear the doors slam shut behind me. And that's when I realize my parents are not on the bus. Panicked, I start banging on the window but it's useless. I'm shouting at the driver, where are my parents? But the guy doesn't understand. The crowd has swallowed them. I can't see them anywhere. My wife wife's lying there unconscious. My parents are missing and some random woman has been sick. In my banana bag. Everything goes from 100 miles per hour to super slow motion. For the first time on this entire journey, I'm truly feeling hopeless. But then out of nowhere. Ali, you stupid. We're here. Alhamdulillah. Mum and dad appear through the back door of the bus and give me a huge hug. I'm overcome with relief. Everything's going to be okay. I sit them down just as my wife starts to regain consciousness. I gently brush the hair from her face and smile. She then looks up and says a phrase I'll never forget. Ali, I'm gonna be sick. Where's that banana bag? Somehow we've made it to the final stage of our Hajj Jamaraat where thousands of pebbles shower down on these enormous rock structures. We're pouting the devil fan. When Prophet Abraham was on his way to sacrifice his son upon Allah's command, Satan tried to stop him not once, not twice, but three times. Kas Satan basically invented pop up ads. Each time Prophet Ibrahim rejected the devil by throwing stones at him. Now we reenact that moment by casting stones at the three pillars in Jamara. It's like the most organized and dangerous group therapy in history. Thousands of us pelt these pillars with full force. It's an incredible sight unless you're a health and safety officer. I shave my head again and remove my ihram, changing back into my normal clothes. Over the next few days, our journey draws to a close. We pelt pebbles twice more and circle the Kaaba for the last time. Hajj is now officially complete. Alhamdulillah. What a rollercoaster of a journey with the most steps my phone has ever seen. We're exhausted, happy and amazed we haven't all fallen out. Family trips usually end in arguments, but this was an exception. Maybe because we didn't have to order pizza. Kali, mate. What a journey. Two years on. How do you feel? Well, the coughs have gone and the blisters have healed, but part of me still feels like I'm in Hajj, still walking between the tents, still looking up at the sky in Muzdalifa, still not wearing any underwear. What? No. Still feeling like I'm in Arafat. Even now, when I meet someone who's performed Hajj, we immediately connect and trade stories. We laugh about the stress of trying to navigate Nusuk. I'm telling you, Muslims compete over who waited on Nusuk the longest, like it's the Trauma Olympics. And that telegram group, I still haven't left it. You know, don't get me wrong, I've defo turned the notifications off, but I like to lurk and scroll in there every now and then. I'm basically a retired pilgrim checking in on the new recruits, watching the chaos from a safe distance and liking any comment that says take a spare pair of sandals. Having that group on my phone reminds me of a version of myself who said yes to an invitation from Allah and watched the impossible fall into place. Hajj taught me that patience has a pulse, hardship has reward and Allah is the greatest. If you're thinking about going Hajj, I say do it sooner than later. And when you do, go, bruv, take two banana bags. Hajj and Seek was written and performed by Ali Shalom and produced by Victoria Lloyd. It was a Mighty bunny production for BBC Radio 4.

[C]

Political language can seem archaic.

[A]

It's like the light from one of those stars that actually died.

[C]

Sometimes bamboozly.

[A]

It's a theme park with a five foot log flume. From one thought to another and very often beyond words. I don't know how to describe the language I use.

[C]

I'm Amanda Iannucci. I'm all reset and turbocharged to stress test, to destruction. Used and abused buzzwords and phrases from the world of politics. I come with a dazzling array of guest presenters and I'll be exploring the verbal tricks of the political trade, the intentions behind them and the effect they have on all of us. The new series of Strong Message. Here with me, Amanda Iannucci from BBC Radio 4. Listen now on BBC Sounds.