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Like most holidays here, or any outside of my Christian upbringing, I become enchanted with the mysticism and exoticism of it all. Ramadan included. The past two years, I sat and listened to the mosque attentively, slowed down to feel the fasting of the people, conducted myself with the utmost respect - foregoing even a drop of water in public and wearing the most conservative pieces of my wardrobe.

This year, I was more carried away with my return and blossoming social life than I was with Islam. On the first evening of Ramadan, I went to the local market with some friends, and was shopping quickly, knowing that they’d probably close their stalls early to break the fast at sundown. Darn. I had shopping to do after all! At the end of the line of stalls overflowing with fabrics, faux-addidas pants and shoes, lingerie and kitchenwares alike, we came upon men with upturned palms and outstretched arms. They were swaying a bit and looking toward the west - watching the sunset, and observing the first sliver of the new moon. I was welcomingly jolted out of my ego and enjoyed the moment with them - only to continue my walk and conversation with friends on more personal topics than the arrival of Ramadan.

To top off my selfish shopping agenda on such a holy day, I had gone out in a slightly short dress - and being one is supposed to be extra conservative during Ramadan, well, I blew it. But I had a good practical reason - I needed to buy some long skirts for ironically the very reason that it was Ramadan - and had to be able to try them on in the market. Oops.

Then, instead of breaking fast with some dates and hot beverages with Senegalese friends - I chowed down at the newest novelty in Dakar, the Mobil gas stations’ ‘On the Run’ stores. Essentially, think rest stop on the jersey turnpike. Several fast-food joints under one roof, with a small boutique of basic snacks, too. I hadn’t stepped inside one before that night - but was ravenous and knew it was a place that could satisfy all of my friends’ dietary needs and cravings (geez. I bet they say that in their commercials!). Anyways, so I celebrated my first night of Ramadan with a German carton of O.J. and a locally baked sugar cake, at what is a disgustingly western fast-food joint selling ‘steer’ burgers and French fries…sitting outside in my inappropriately-hemmed dress laughing at disrespectful decibels with my friends.

There were some fancy Senegalese there, too, though. So I felt a bit redeemed. I had similar feelings of relief when earlier that day, the first morning of Ramadan - I rode in style to work. A colleague living close to me in the village offered to let me hitch a ride with her. Her brother drives a very nice, very new car. Being with rich Senegalese does alleviate the low-lying, constant level of guilt I feel in fulfilling my toubab [white person] needs. Strange though how here in Senegal, the money isn’t necessarily divided among people according to a strict caste system - not sure if that confuses the issue, or makes it better (in my American optimistic mind it makes it better so I can convince myself everyone has a chance to improve…). And so I guess, though disguised as a fast-food-indulging, consumer-minded toubab in a short dress, I did after all spend some of Ramadan reflecting on the daily life and religious tenets of my neighbors. And so the next day, I listened for the mosque, felt happy for my friends as the sun set, left the house covered extremely well, hid my water bottle in my bag, and jumped into my friend’s fancy car, feeling good.

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