How to Fight Loneliness: Ramadan in Morroco Part III

The wind howled past my ears, nearly pushing me over. I squatted down on the windsurfing board and strained to yank up the heavy sail. My grip slipped, the sail splashed, the board tipped, and I fell into the ocean. The cold was shocking compared with the heat of the day.

I shivered to the surface, grateful for my rented wetsuit. “Move more gently, Lauren. Take your time with it.” Hassan called to me from the water behind.

I blushed. I wanted him to like me. I squatted in a very undignified manner, wondering what my butt looked like to him. I heaved up the sail again. It stayed upright and immediately caught wind. I was suddenly flying across the water, and I was able to balance! For once my short stubby legs were an advantage. The only problem was that I had no idea how to turn.

“Watch out!” I shrieked.

A swimmer sprinted out of the way just in time to avoid a collision.

I white knuckled the sail. I was going so fast I could have killed someone. How do I slow down? Much of the protected bay was behind me, the angry Atlantic boiled darkly ahead.

I looked back at Hassan. He was so far behind me. He was shouting. What was he saying? “Turn, Lauren. Turn!”

With all my strength, I leaned on the bar of the sail. It resisted, then it suddenly shot forward to the other side of the board. I held my grip hard and felt a pop, followed by a wave of heat in my shoulder. I groaned and fell off the board.

“Smack!” the collision with the fast-moving water numbed my face. Coughing, I surfaced and clung to the board. Hassan looked like he was at least a quarter mile away from me and swimming towards me fast.

“No,” I cried desperately, worrying about the fact that he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything all day in the heat, “you’re fasting. I don’t want you to drown! Let me come to you.”

Hassan was swimming hard and deaf to my pleas. I started to swim towards him, dragging the board with me with my right arm. It protested with searing heat. Damn, what did I do to it?

I moved to the back and swam behind the board. It was easier to swim that way, pushing it like a massive kickboard. But right then Hassan had caught up with me.

“Let’s try again,” he said cheerfully, seemingly not annoyed at all.

I hesitated, my shoulder really hurt. But I had paid for two hours.

“Okay,” I said.

After another hour of water-eating-shoulder-torture, I was roaming the streets of Essaouira alone again. I was disappointed. I had really liked Hassan and hoped he would have suggested meeting up after the lesson. But I was just his client, and I could only afford to rent his friendship for two hours.

I was lonely. The seaside town was gorgeous with its narrow streets, brightly painted doors, Moorish tiles, and gas-lit medina. Everywhere European couples on holiday where holding hands. I was alone. And hungry.

A friendly-looking girl about my age passed me.

“Excuse me, do you know what time it is?” I asked her.

“Sorry, I don’t,” she replied without stopping. Did she really not know, or was she avoiding me? Could she sense that I didn’t really care about the time? That I was just trying to talk to another human?

I decided to focus on food.

“Excuse me,” I asked an older British lady, “Can you help me find this place?” I pointed to the cheapest take-out spot in my guidebook.

“Sure, it’s just down that street. But it is a tourist trap. If you want authentic Moroccan food, you should go to this restaurant here, it is owned by a dear friend of mine” she pointed at a restaurant in a lovely yellow brick building.

“Oh, I’m not looking for a sit-down place.” I shuffled awkwardly, “I’m just by myself.”

“Don’t be silly, love. You can come eat with me.”

Was I being swindled? But she called me “love” so she seemed harmless. And in my lonely state, I’d take dinner with just about anyone rather than dinner alone.

“Thank you! I’m Lauren, by the way.”

“What a lovely name. I’m Evelyn.”

I followed her inside, and immediately rejoiced in the air conditioning. I was struck by how fancy the place was: expensive furniture and meticulous artwork on the walls. then I noticed something unsettling: although the place was packed, nobody was eating or drinking anything. The sparkling silver and glassware all laid untouched. Not a speck of food was on the hand-painted china dishes.

Evelyn spoke with the maître’d in Arabic and we were led to a table.

“Why isn’t anyone eating?” I whispered to Evelyn.

“It’s Ramadan, everyone is waiting for the sun to go down.” She laughed, “you haven’t eaten been to very many authentic restaurants I suppose.”

I blushed.

Our waiter, a handsome older Moroccan man, approached the table, then to my surprise, he leaned down and kissed Evelyn’s cheek. I was shocked, then immediately embarrassed.

“Lauren, this is my husband, Youssef.”

My face felt hot. Why had I assumed he was a waiter?

He smiled at me and asked, “Parlez-vous francais?”

“No, sorry. Only English and a bit of Span-

I was cut off by a loud blast of sung prayer coming from mosques in every direction. Youssef and Evelyn closed their eyes and appeared to be praying, small smiles on their faces. I looked at the restaurant and everyone else was doing the same. The call felt so different than it had in Marrakech: there it only reminded me of my loneliness while here it was bringing people together. It was peaceful.

As soon as it was over, the waiters sprang into action. A huge platter of food appeared on our table, our glasses were filled with water and orange juice.

I was overwhelmed by the food in front of me. Where do I start?

Evelyn noticed my confusion. “This is a typical fast breaking meal or iftar. Here, we first eat a date.”

I wasn’t too excited as I picked up what looked like any overgrown raisin you might get from Costco, but as I bit into it I was surprised by how flavorful it was.

“Mmm,” Evelyn murmured, “dates always taste sweeter after the fast.

Youssef passed Evelyn and me bowls of soup. It smelled savory, spicy and sweet. I dug in immediately. It was even better than it smelled. Bite after bite, I tried to figure out what made it so good. There were definitely lentils, but what were the spices. Cinnamon? Saffron? Ginger?

My bowl was empty. I looked up. Youssef’s and Evelyn’s were practically full.

“It seems you like harira?” Evelyn asked, her eyes twinkling.

I shifted in my seat. “Sorry, it’s rude to eat so fast. I don’t know why I’m so hungry. I haven’t been fasting all day. How are you both able to eat so slowly? Aren’t you hungry?”

“Fasting helps me to feel more calm and centered. Eating feels less urgent than usual.”

“And Youssef?” I asked.

“I feel closer to Allah and more empathy for the poor.” Evelyn translated for him. “But do not feel bad. I have been fasting since I was thirteen, but Evelyn only started when she was thirty. It was very hard for her at first.”

Youssef and Evelyn laughed.

“So, did you come to Morocco when you were thirty? When did you meet Youssef?”

“I came to Marrakech on holiday when I was twenty-five and immediately fell in love with him. We were married that year.”

“Did you convert right away?”

“No. I was stubborn at first. I grew up in an atheist household and thought that religion was foolish. But then I saw how much peace Islam gave my Moroccan neighbors, how it inspired them to charity and kindness. Not to mention all the holidays that could be celebrated with the community. I was eventually drawn in.”

I looked at her neatly brushed silver hair. “Did you ever feel like you had to cover your hair?”

“No, I was teased about it, but Morocco is fairly liberal and it’s not a requirement. I only wear hijab when I go to mosque.” She laughed and touched her chin waddle, “although it would have been better for my wrinkles if I had.”

A waiter came and picked up our empty soup bowls. Youssef passed around triangular pastries.

“What is this?” I bit down eagerly before the answer.

I was delighted to find tangy goat cheese inside. “Birouats bil jben,” Evelyn answered, “they are my favorite.”  

Youssef murmured something to Evelyn. “And what about you, Youssef wants to know.” She translated. “Are you religious?”

“I used to be a Christian, but then I found that I could only dwell on the bad parts of the religion. It just made me feel guilty all the time. And it made me feel like I needed to talk to people about Jesus, to save them from Hell. Now that I’m not religious, I feel a lot happier, more able to connect with people who are different.”

“And are you happy now?”

“I’m happy to be here with you.”  

An hour, three cups of mint tea, and four pastries later, I was back on the streets alone again. Youssef had insisted upon paying for my meal. Evelyn had left me with a warm hug. The narrow winding streets glowed golden in the lamplight and the sound of ocean waves echoed off the buildings. I felt full and warm. Like a date after a fast, good company after loneliness was even sweeter.