When I woke up for school yesterday morning nobody else had gotten up. After more than three weeks people don’t fight the fatigue anymore, they simply submit. I, however, struggle tremendously when I go to school without having eaten in the morning and thus forced myself to get up. Although awake, I felt just as asleep as everyone else. There was no bread which meant that I would’ve had to go to my room, get money, go to the boutique and return. A simple, two minute trip increasingly seems like an arduous task. In the pitch black of five o’clock, I had no idea where the breakfast tray was. I waited for my eyes to adjust but before they could I heard the scurrying feet of a mouse. I followed the sound and found the dates which he was inevitably feasting upon. I shoved one handful into my pocket and another into my mouth. You know you’re tired when chewing is hard. (I’ve also found it very interesting that as soon as I break fast or eat after a prolonged period of not eating I start sweating profusely. I literally feel my body burning the energy that it so desperately needs).

However, the general lethargy that has descended upon everyone didn’t seem present when I arrived at school. There was a certain vibrancy about all the professors. People seemed alive after three weeks of restraint, sacrifice and struggle. People in the street walked a bit faster, there was more conversation and people generally seemed to be in better good spirits. Class ended at 6:30 and I rushed home to break fast with my family. I arrived to a full house. Not only was there a constant flow of women moving quickly in and out of my house but there was electricity for the first time in more than a week and the undeniably delicious smell of food cooking in the kitchen.

I ran up to the rooftop and looked down upon on ceiling less outdoor kitchen. There were huge vats of pastries being fried in oil, dozens of whole chickens being brined in brown and yellow liquids alike and additional smaller preparations of beignets, thaikry (millet, powdered milk and sugar) fruits, and vegetables. Today was a very important day of prayer during Ramadan during which all the family gets together and asks for forgiveness for their sins. Of course, I was oblivious to this before returning home. I shared our first meal at eleven o’clock with all the males of the house. Exhausted, I fell asleep on the roof until 2 when I was summoned by my cousin to come eat the second dinner. Downstairs plates of beignets (sweet and savory), friend chicken, vegetables and bread were being covered in Styrofoam and sent to the mosque across the street. The only thing more incredible that the amount of people squeezed into our house was the amount of food be prepared and eaten. From for seven hours these women had worked to prepare enough food for the entire neighborhood.

My favorite thing by far and away was an oversized sweet beignet. Beignets here are always flavored with rose water which adds a delectate, perfumed dimension which balances the overwhelming heaviness of the oil that they’re fried in. Nearly everything that we ate was deep-fried. After hours of soaking in brines the chicken, although tough, was flavorful and actually tasted like chicken.

(Side note: I think the paradoxes of the developed and developing world are hilarious. In the United States the new first world trend is a culinary focus on organically and locally produced food. We pay significantly more for grass fed beef and free range chicken than we do for mass produced meats. Back home it’s what’s cool. It’s a classicized assertion of identity. People shop at whole foods, eat Fiji apples in January and wear shoes fabricated from reclyed products because it’s political, it’s cool and it’s the “right thing to do.” I think we do it so other people can see us doing it. Do I think the average family can distinguish between farm raised and wild salmon? Absolutely not. In fact, if blindfolded, I don’t think the average human being’s palate is developed enough to tell the difference between a carrot and their own thumb but that’s beside the point. They eat locally and organically here because that’s the cheapest, most practicle and sometimes only way to eat. These ironies are omnipresent. All people on Senegalese billboards have light complexions. My host sister uses a soap that is supposed to whiten her skin. My sister at home spends her summer in the sun to darken her skin. This world is a very entertaining place).

The savory beignets were really interesting too. There were two types, one stuffed with a chorizo like sausage and another with offal. Eating the less sought after parts of the animal is a necessary survival skill over here. These empanada like beignets were stuffed with liver, kidney heart and some other identifiable organ or tendon that crunched when eaten. Sound is a sensation that one rarely experiences when eating (unless addicted to Pop-Rocks) and although strange it was enjoyable.

At this point I was ready for sleep but I knew the night wasn’t over. I fought a resilient battle against fatigue and a full stomach on the couch. Every minute of so my eyes would close, the muscles in my neck would relax and I would enjoy a blissful second or two of sleep until my head dropped and my neck would snap back up into consciousness. Every time I came to it seemed like there was someone different offering me something to eat or drink. At this point it’s all a blur but I do remember Attaye (Senegalese tea), coffee, pineapple juice, and gingerbeer. I also remember a giant bowl of cellophane wrapped mints mixed with fried chicken gizzards and livers being passed around.

Those two hours that I spent on the couch can serve as a microcosm of my Ramadan experience. A single night and an entire month of being not quite awake but not quite asleep, very far from home but very much at home, physically exhausted but emotionally satisfied, completely overwhelmed yet strangely at peace…these paradoxes will not be forgotten any time soon and nor will the experience of last night. At some point after 5 I must’ve some how made it to my bed although I wouldn’t be surprised if people had to carry me. I woke up two hours later, feeling as if I had been hit by a truck. I took a quick cold shower, grabbed my backpack and headed downstairs. Our living room which had been converted to a dinning room the night before was now doubling as an enormous bed. On chairs, on the floor and on couches all the guests from the previous night slept. I carefully stepped over bodies, wishing I could join them. Its 3:20 the next day and I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all still there. Sleeping. Soundly. Together.