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It is a little after 7 o'clock pm in Dakar, Senegal. I know this not because of a watch or clock, and not because the sky over the city is turning a dusky shade of bluish pink (or pinkish blue if you prefer), but because deeply intonated prayers are gushing from the loudspeakers mounted on the towers of every mosque in the city (including the one adjecent to this internet cafe). The chanting Arabic words mesmorizing the evening on this the 18th day of Ramadan are the official notification that the day's fasting is over. Breakfast in this world happens twice, once at 4 am (when the soul-piercing sounds from the crackling loudspeakers explode on the early morning's calm) and once at 7 pm. Now in the cooling evening, the Muslim world that moved slowly and lethargically during the day awakens and comes alive, filling its belly with bread and water of a more tangible, physically nourishing nature. Although it would be a true cultural experience, I do not have the will power or discipline or strength to undertake Ramadan - I know because I've inadvertantly tried for a single day on several occasions. I take water and a little food during the day in an attempt to combat the relentless, oppressive sun of Senegal that slowly sucks the body's energy like the mosquitoes do the body's blood. I am however living for my brief stay in this city with a Muslim couple that are kind enough to share the second of their two breakfasts with me. If I don't hurry back now before the invisible imam that in this moment is only pious voice and vibrating sound waves falls silent, I'll be late for dinner - breakfast that is.
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