On Fasting and Feasting

Yesterday was Korite, which essentially means that I ate more food than the normal four giant man-sized meals that have become my normal diet.

I arrived in Senegal midway through Ramadan, which meant that of Senegal’s 95% Muslim population, anyone eating or drinking between sunup and sundown would be an extremely rare sighting. Instead, people satisfied themselves by chewing on sticks, staying out of the boiling heat, and counting the days until they can finally indulge in their ceebu jën when they’re actually hungry. Ramadan equaled a very quiet first impression of Dakar; because of the fasting, most restaurants and stores were closed down, all activities that condoned any less-than-conservative behavior were shunned, and to avoid the short tempers of everyone else, most people tended to keep themselves as long and often as possible.

All that changed with Korite. Once the new moon was finally sighted, the fête had already begun. Out came the varieties of brand-new boubous in all colors, shapes and fabrics, hand-tailored for this day of celebration. Food was of course a central theme of the day, which began with sweet milled-flour porridge, drowned in runny yoghurt, and was followed with countless beignets (basically donut holes) and massive platters of meat, potatoes and rice throughout the day. The women had long prepared for the event, as was evident in their newly coiffured tresses and elaborate manicures, and as soon as everyone was dressed their best, the tours began. In the morning, all the men and boys visited the mosque for prayer and then went around to the homes of all of their neighbors, near and far, requesting pardon for any offence they had unconsciously committed and offering food as a token of peace and community. In the afternoon, after taking their turn at welcoming the men, the women went out and did the same.

My host-family is surprisingly in the teeny-tiny minority of non-Muslims here in Dakar. Therefore, I have had the welcome luxury of being served generous portions (a little TOO generous in fact… these people are bent on fattening me up!) alongside my family for each meal of the day throughout Ramadan, while around the rest of Dakar, each CIEE student is enviously eyed as he scarfs down his meager, individually-prepared egg as quickly as he can and with the least amount of pleasure as possible, lest the hunger pangs become too strong for his Muslim brothers and sisters to bear.

Despite, then, the fact that my family has not been partaking in the fast, we were by no means left out of the events of yesterday’s celebration. What I figured would be a typical day off from school turned out to be a hand-shaking extravaganza; Endless parades of people would enter the front door, offer a dish to share, make a peace-offering, hand-shaking tour of the house, and leave, just in time for the next group to come in. I particularly enjoyed it whenever a toubab came in with their host family, having fairly little clue as to what they were doing, and being rushed in and out of each house without knowing where they were, but typically with a confused smile on their face and always sporting an ill-fitting boubou that made them look more toubab-y than ever.

Of course, now that Ramadan has ended, it will be much easier to find lunch (since the Muslim-owned restaurants [which, if proportionate to the population, is 95%] will finally be re-opened,) and much easier to sleep (now that the Ramadan prayers will no longer be echoing through the loudspeakers of the local mosque at all hours of the night.)