Around late February a kind of mania hits the Catholic churches of Trinidad. I have no information about our sister isle, though I suspect Tobago may be free of this condition, due to the limited number of church buildings there. I am talking of course of the nine-churches phenomenon.

Approaching Lent a kind of restlessness develops in Church members over 60. Those who had been quite lethargic, falling asleep during Sunday sermons, complaining of arthritic knees and glaucomic eyes, suddenly become highly animated.

They sing more loudly, pray more fervently and arrive at church earlier than usual. It is a sure sign… the dreaded nine-churches season is upon us. For the next five months or so, all maxis in our beloved country will be booked solid. Our roads will be clogged with all the bands – yellow, black, red and green, seeking out churches in straight lines.

The possibilities are endless. You can virtually start and end anywhere. The organisers have a math of their own. Three old ladies once called me on the phone from Cathedral parish. They all had the same starting and finishing point, Cathedral and Moruga, but amazingly, seven completely different churches in between and they seemed to take delight in the fact that they were going to avoid each other on the way.

There is an unwritten law in nine-churches practice that two pilgrimages must not arrive at the same church at the same time. I am not quite sure whether it is because of bad luck or something, or whether God's grace is parcelled out in measured amounts, so that there is enough for only one group at a time.

But I have seen the dismay, nay the horror, on some old ladies' faces when they pull into a church yard, only to discover that another group is already there. I saw this woman pause over her peeled half orange, jaws agape, eyes wide with rage as her red band maxi came off the bypass into the La Romaine churchyard.

A green band pilgrimage got there before her group. She flung her orange out the window at the rival maxi and muttered some strange words along with her colleagues. They then averted their eyes and started the five sorrowful mysteries waiting on their rivals to leave.

As the number of pilgrimages grow each year the archdiocese will have to develop a system of traffic lights which will serve to keep maxis in check, so that they don't encounter each other.

Maybe there should be a control tower somewhere in Central, like the one they have at the airport, where pilgrims could call in and report their location. From there our Episcopal Vicar for Communication could direct all maxis. Conversations will go like this:

“This is red band CX4 proceeding south at 65 mph along Solomon Hochoy, requesting clearance to exit at Chagaunas North flyover.”

“Red band CX4 this is control tower, please lower speed to 36 mph and proceed to south flyover exit, do not, I repeat, do not use north exit, black band MH7 has been reported in that vicinity, over.”

If this is not done soon I shudder to think of the consequences and the report in the following day's papers.

“Green band Catholics attack Black band Catholic group in church yard with rosaries, archbishop to investigate.”

Of course all this could be avoided if a pilgrimage association were to be formed, though I think, this is hardly likely to happen, not because of the seasonal nature of the nine-churches phenomenon, but because of the pilgrimage gurus who run the entire operation.

These organisers are held in high esteem by their devotees. Contrary to popular thought, they all travel in the third bus of the pilgrimage. You can spot them easily, they emerge from their bus surrounded by the throng, who part as if by magic. They make their way slowly to the front door of the church, up the aisle and straight to the nearest microphone, as tension mounts.

To see them operate is a privilege. They rouse the crowd to a frenzy and have only to lift their right hand to command silence. They use both hands to point out exits and the location of toilets. They admonish those who did not place candles in designated areas, or who kept the bus waiting. The rules of “pilgrimagedom” are brutal – “If you are left behind, don't wait for us, make your way home, we wait for no one.”

An elderly man went to use the toilet in New Grant, only to find that the pilgrimage had long since gone when he emerged 10 minutes later. With tears in his eyes and an empty bladder he made his way home by taxi.

What impresses me most, however, is the fervour and near hysteria of pilgrims. They wake early on the chosen morning, waking the younger ones. Bags are packed with their pilgrim meal – a functional and practical repast of oranges, sandwiches, sweet breads, pelau and stewed chicken.

“Frilly” stuff – macaroni pie, callaloo, beans – is avoided. A thermos of juice or hot black coffee may be included. Some pilgrims fast for the entire day. They then congregate at the starting point armed with novena and hymn books, rosaries, flat shoes and a look of determination on their faces. This is what the crusaders of the Middle Ages must have looked like.

At the exact time buses begin to pull out – a marvellous sight – groups of more than ten maxis are not uncommon. Pockets of grace heading out to convert the heathens.

By the time they arrive at designated churches excitement is at fever pitch. They emerge from buses, walking sideways down those steep steps maxis are known for.

They kind of lurch off the final treader unto the pavement, armed with candles, one for each intention, money clutched around the candle, heads tied with scarves or hats firmly in place. Never cross a newly alighted pilgrim intent on reaching favoured positions first. You can be maimed for life.

Gender and age have no privilege. As they enter the church door the interior is scanned for devotional locations, at the first opportunity they will head for these spots. A moving pilgrim with candle lit is not to be trifled with.

Pilgrims take delight in asking for the parish priest who will be asked to “say something” or give benediction. The reaction of some priests is sometimes strange.

A priest from a southern parish was once found under his bed hiding and trembling in fear. Another climbed a tree at the back of the presbytery. Some priests head off in the opposite direction or lock and bolt their doors peeping out behind drawn curtains.

Why they do this, I am not quite sure; pilgrims love their priests and merely want to look at Father's tired face at 2 p.m. when he normally takes a rest.

So priests beware, as certain as the second coming, another nine-church pilgrimage will soon be upon us. There is no evading it.