A pilgrim fends off temptation with pebbles and prayers

I haven't listened to music, watched television, or read a novel since last Thursday. My hajj so far has been three days of sermons, lectures, and rites; a bit like religion camp.

After dawn prayers Saturday in Mina, the 10 of us squeeze into the four-wheel drive heading for Arafat, where we will spend the day in prayer until sunset. We're seated in the back and I ask my sisters Reem and Taghreed if, like me, they find our guide attractive. Reem's answer is a smile. She intones the Talbiya (the oft-repeated hajj prayer): "Here I am God. Here I am. Answering your call. Here I am, God, at your service...."

"What? You mean I shouldn't even think that?" I ask.

"You can think it, but then take it out of your mind," Taghreed says. "And not share it," adds Reem.

I look out the window. The three-lane road from Mina to Arafat is covered with men and women in white walking, riding doubledecker buses, or sitting on top of buses where the baggage is supposed to go. Cops in fluorescent vests and face masks keep traffic circulating and huge police tow trucks are parked at intervals.

The line of people moving toward Arafat stretches as far as I can see and the five-mile journey takes us a little over an hour and a half.

The Plain of Arafat is where Adam and Eve were reunited after leaving Eden. This is meant to be the apogee of the hajj. We are to spend the day supplicating God and begging for His forgiveness. By the end of the day, all our sins will be forgiven.

At the camp in Arafat, our tents are the real thing - cloth, pitched in sand, with rugs on the floor and low cushions lining the walls. In keeping with the spirit of things, minarets are printed on the inside of the tent.

My nephew Saleh and I go exploring. Men in the back of a large truck are tossing off boxes of free water and free meals. A couple of adolescents are calling out "Sabeel " (charity), and offering apples and tangerines. A Pakistani pilgrim makes a beeline for a handicapped African man on crutches and slips money into his hand.

An old woman sits on a collapsed cardboard box begging in the middle of the road.

I walk behind a group of women with small Iraqi flags sewn on the back of their white head scarves. Hajjis From Iraq is stitched underneath it in black.

We head for the Namira Mosque, where the prophet gave his last sermon. It's so crowded with people that the two- or three-block walk takes us half an hour.

The Day of Arafat is officially over at sunset, and so shortly before the last rays paint the sky everything comes to a halt. People lay their mats on the road and start praying, their hands in the air. The rows of petitioners spread out on the asphalt road are so tightly packed that even walking past them is difficult.

Saleh and I navigate our way back with the help of the three huge balloons flying several hundred yards in the sky marking the three largest camps.

I go with my sisters to the prayer tent where a Saudi scholar is giving that day's sermon and prayer session.

"Today is the day to ask God for everything you want, in detail, nothing is too small or too insignificant. He hears everything you say. He will answer all your prayers. He has promised. He loves you. He wants to make your every wish come true but He wants you to ask."

A chorus of "amens" goes up as many of the women raise their hands in supplication. Some are crying.

"There are three conditions," she continues. "You must be patient. Your hajj should not be made with money gained unlawfully or sinfully. And you must believe in His good intentions. You must have faith in Him."

She tells the story of a woman who tried to conceive through artificial insemination 19 times. On the Day of Arafat, she spread her prayer rug and insisted. "God, I want a child. I want to be a mother. You are going to give me a baby because I'm asking you here in Arafat, on the day of Arafat."

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