Over the course of my first 32 trips around the sun, Ramadan came and went 32 times without my really noticing. Of course, I knew the general gist — that Muslims fasted during daylight hours for a month — but as far as its effect on my life, there was none. In 2025, that changed. I just spent the entire month of Ramadan in Muslim-majority countries — first Morocco and then Senegal. It’s an interesting and confusing time to be a visitor.

As the calendar flipped to 2025 and Ramadan approached, there was a general buzz among the foreigners in Morocco. “Are you staying for Ramadan?” you’d hear casually dropped into conversations among the visiting Europeans in the surf cafes of Taghazout. When I bought my one-way ticket to Morocco, it didn’t even cross my mind that the dates of Ramadan would likely overlap with my stay.

I broached the topic with Yassine, who you’d know if you are a regular reader of this blog as the cafe waiter who helped me (unsuccessfully) retrieve my stolen phone. While watching Premier League soccer over a mint tea, I asked him if they’d keep the cafe open during Ramadan. The businesses in Taghazout are so reliant on tourism — and the tourists just as reliant on the businesses staying open — that I figured they would keep their doors open for Ramadan. But he responded in a manner that suggested the old adage ‘there are no stupid questions’ is not always true. “Of course we are closing,” he said. “Just coffee and tea in the evenings.”

Some quick ‘spark notes’: For those who don’t know what Ramadan is, it’s the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. During this time, Muslims fast from dawn to dusk and focus on strengthening their connection with God. The Islamic calendar is lunar-based, so the period that it corresponds with in the Gregorian calendar shifts each year. It starts and ends with the sighting of the crescent moon.

Ramadan begins

My first day of Ramadan was spent in the sleepy beach village of Mohammedia north of Casablanca. I went there on a whim because a friend in Portugal had told me there were good waves in the area. I arrived late in the evening, aware that it would be wise to stock up on food and water. I was unsure what the food/drink situation would be the first morning of Ramadan. I drove around looking for food, but the only place I could find open at that late hour was an informal, poorly-stocked vendor stand on the side of the road. I was able to secure water, but nothing with calories. If I were to eat, I’d have to navigate the unknowns of Ramadan the following morning.

When I woke up, I went for a surf that was cut short by my annual case of back spasms, and hobbled to the beachfront restaurants to check if they were possibly open for a gringo like me. They were all closed. I was thirsty as hell after a surf workout and eyed my thirst-quenching canteen of water sitting in my car’s trunk. I looked left and looked right, seeing if the coast was clear to take a sip. But there were too many people around. “They wouldn’t mind…right?” I pondered to myself. “Or would they…?” I decided to resist the liquid urge until I was back in private.

That day in Mohammedia I went to the only open place: the Carrefour supermarket. I got my provisions and then began what would become my Ramadan routine — buy food at the supermarket and eat it at home, out of the public eye. The days of socializing over a late breakfast at Cafe Yoba in Taghazout were gone. That evening, I waited for the sunset, heard the final call to prayer that marks the time to break the fast, and headed out to get some dinner at one of the restaurants that had been closed in the morning, only to find that they were still closed. I walked down the street to another restaurant to find it wasn’t serving food, just drinks. I got in my car and drove around looking for something to appease my hunger, only to find lots of cafes serving tea and coffee, but nothing that could pass as dinner. I clearly had a lot of learning to do about how to operate during Ramadan. Day one was a learning experience.

Two days later I drove north to the Moroccan capital of Rabat. I suspected that a big city would be different — perhaps a bit more vibrant and foreigner-friendly. There were indeed more foreigners in Rabat. Not a lot compared to the tourist hot spots of Morocco, but enough that the odd cafe was willing to open during the day to serve them. I saw the occasional gringo drinking tea during the day, or eating breakfast on the street, but it was not the norm. I thought back to a discussion with a taxi driver where he thanked me for not eating in public around other Muslims, and decided that I would just continue my strategy of only eating in private during daylight hours.

Even in the capital, the streets were pretty dead during Ramadan. The mornings, in particular, when I like to be outside and active, resembled a ghost town. Things started to pick up in the late afternoon, around 4 or 5 p.m., when Muslims would start flooding the streets to do their shopping for that night’s ‘iftar,’ which is the meal to break the fast. The markets would become lively and loud — people bartering prices, lugging around grocery bags, and stocking up on sweets like chebakia, deep-fried strips of dough coated in honey and sesame seeds.

There was a certain energy in the air before the iftar that I would liken to a jolly pre-Christmas atmosphere back home. Once the sun starts to go down, the people vanish, and the streets empty as everyone goes home to eat their haul from the markets. Then, an hour or two later, the bountiful cafes overflow with men socializing, drinking coffee or tea.

I went out to eat my iftar meal at a local Moroccan restaurant one of those first evenings. There was an iftar special combo that included chick pea soup, a mesmen pancake, dates, sweets, and tea. I noticed that everyone in the restaurant had been served, but no one was eating. Their soups were getting cold. I checked my phone and saw that the sun had already set, so I had no idea what they were waiting for. I dug in. After I was enjoying my soup to myself for a couple minutes, the prayer rang out from the nearby mosque, and all the patrons ravenously began munching their meals with the appropriate furor of someone who hadn’t eaten all day. I learned another Ramadan lesson that day: It doesn’t really matter when the sun sets. This queue to eat is when the official prayer rings out. The next time I waited like a seasoned pro.

All in all, being a foreigner/solo traveler/non-Muslim during Moroccan Ramadan was isolating. Without an ‘in’ to experience the Islamic celebrations and traditions in someone’s house, I was rather excluded. It was like I was living in overlapping, yet separate dimensions from the locals. The energy and excitement felt in the streets before the iftar would magically vanish, sucked into a vortex as everyone returned to their homes and the streets became deserted. I made a routine of drinking a mint tea in the evening with Babacar, a young Senegalese man who worked at the restaurant across the street. Like me, he was alone in Morocco and, aside from the fact that he was working during iftar hours, had no family in Rabat to celebrate Ramadan. We became our own Ramadan family, two outcasts.

My first true Moroccan iftar

Serendipitously, my invitation to the other dimension, inside a real Moroccan iftar, came on my penultimate day in the country. I woke with the urge to shave all the hair off my head, something I hadn’t done since I was 19 years old. I had already explored the old town of Rabat quite thoroughly and knew which barber shop I would go to. Most of them were on the main streets, which I wanted to avoid because I didn’t feel like dealing with the thousands of staring passersby who weren’t used to seeing blonde hair removed from someone’s head. I knew of a spot on a side street where I could avoid rubberneckers.

What I didn’t realize about this more discreet location is that their storefront sign was painted onto a surfboard. The shop was owned and operated by two brothers, both surfers, and we instantly hit it off chatting about all things surf. When my cut was finished, Hamid, the barber, asked me what I was doing the next night. “Please come to iftar with my family,” he implored. It was my last day in Morocco, but I finally had my invitation to a Moroccan home during Ramadan.

The next evening, I met Hamid at the barber shop and helped him close it up. We walked down the street, no more than 200 feet, and arrived at his mother-in-law’s house. I entered the house and saw a living room centered around four bedrooms and a kitchen. On the table was an elaborate spread of food and sweets. There was a chicken/vegetable tajine, harira soup, ham sandwiches, avocado juice, dates, tarts, croissants, bread, and several types of sugary treats (Ramadan is definitely not a time to lower your cholesterol). Now able to get through the first round of pleasantries in Arabic, I greeted everyone at the table: Hamid’s wife, his mother-in-law, his brother-in-law, his son, and his daughter.

Hamid’s wife made me eat everything. It was a lost cause to mention that I had been strictly vegetarian throughout my three months in Morocco. I couldn’t say no. We conversed about each other’s lives and Ramadan, mostly in French, while Moroccan television played in the background. I hadn’t watched TV at all during my three-month stay in Morocco, so it was interesting to see the programming interrupted to broadcast the prayer. I had just met these strangers moments before, but they didn’t look the least bit phased by the random gringo who had walked into their meal. It took me some time to infiltrate an iftar, but I finally felt the magic that had been distantly teasing me during the pre-sun down shopping frenzies.

Iftar = ndogou in Senegal

The next morning I had a flight to Senegal. I prepared for the trip, bringing a contraband bag of dates and a full canteen of water that I secretly consumed in an airport bathroom stall before passing through security. Once I actually got to the gates, I realized that my covert meal was completely unnecessary; the airport was fully open for business, with foreigners packing all the restaurants. The confines of the airport were like a Ramadan DMZ. The rules did not apply here.

When I arrived in Senegal, I paid close attention to my surroundings to see what the Ramadan customs were because the Senegalese have their own interpretations of Islam. The vast majority of Senegalese are Muslim, yet there is still a not-insignificant number of Christians. In fact, the country officially recognizes holidays from both religions. I noticed that during one taxi ride in stopped traffic, my Christian driver openly munched on dates, spitting the seeds out the window. No one batted an eye; they were used to a culture of religious coexistence.

In Dakar, many restaurants were closed for Ramadan, but plenty were still open and happily serving meals to non-Muslims. Dakar is a very cosmopolitan city, and it showed. I slowly let down the defenses that I had built up in Morocco. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder before drinking out of my water bottle. And I didn’t have to plan my day around when restaurants were open. I could always find something to eat somewhere if needed.

My Airbnb hosts were a French and Senegalese couple, so my first night in Dakar, they invited me to their ndogou — the Senegalese equivalent of iftar. They served dates and prepared baguettes filled with noodles and shrimp. They poured me a cup of a traditional Senegalese drink called café touba, which is coffee steeped in a Senegalese type of pepper called selim. Even when I moved out of that Airbnb, they still invited me for subsequent ndogous. It was nice to have that ‘in’ to the Senegalese Ramadan celebrations.

After a month of Ramadan, I must admit, from a completely selfish point of view, that I was ready for it to end. It’s a special time of year for Muslims, but it wears on you as a non-Muslim (some Muslims confided to me that it wears them out too). I was looking forward to Dakar returning to its full level of vibrance post-Ramadan — the food, people, music, and array of businesses that complement a visit.

Another interesting quirk of Ramadan that I learned is that no one really knows how it ends. When I would ask Muslim friends when Ramadan ends, they’d say, “Maaaybe Sunday.” When I pushed them for answers to the “maybe” part, no one seemed to fully grasp the process. The month ends and begins with the crescent moon, but there are Islamic committees in each country that determine if/when the moon is seen. Thus, Saudi Arabia, for example, finished on Sunday, March 30th, while Morocco and Senegal tacked on an extra day. My left-dominant, analytical brain had a hard time accepting this when the lunar phases can easily be predicted, but I learned that it was best not to think too hard; just listen to the Islamic committee, and you’ll know when Ramadan ends and the celebration of Eid can begin.

On the morning of Eid, the post-Ramadan celebration, I wanted to go for a surf. During my two weeks immersed in Senegalese Ramadan, I hadn’t seen much activity in the mornings. In fact, nothing could really get done in the city until the afternoon (laundry, shopping, etc). But here I was at 8:30 in the morning, and the streets were packed. The Senegalese were dressed in their most elegant, colorful fabrics, flocking to the closest mosque. A scent of strong cologne and perfume wafted through the air. It was actually an impressive sight as people poured out of every alleyway, house, and building. And there I was in a t-shirt and shorts with a surfboard under my arm, walking against the flow of the traffic and standing out like a total tourist (what I do best).

I went to the boat launch to look for a ride to the island to surf, but I confirmed what I already suspected. No one was working this morning. It was a holiday and everyone was at the mosque. The waves weren’t good enough to commit to the quarter-mile paddle, so I returned home among the last stragglers en route to the mosque.

After Ramadan, life continued and, honestly, didn’t seem all that different from my perspective. Surely in Morocco the changes were more noticeable. But as I was walking, I saw a man, presumably Muslim, walking the opposite way with a sandwich in his hand, taking bites as we crossed paths. It was something so simple, yet so bizarre. It had been a month since I’d seen anything like it. It felt like I had witnessed the first open blossom that signifies the coming of spring. Ramadan was actually over.

Reflection

When I look back on this Ramadan experience, I know I will value it. But I also won’t forget that, at times, it wasn’t easy as a solo traveler and non-Muslim. There were moments when it felt like the days were dragging on. I think it’s a unique experience that everyone should get as far as gaining a deeper cross-cultural understanding of other humans. But if you want to spend your annual two weeks of vacation in Morocco, for example, I wouldn’t recommend visiting during Ramadan. It would be an entirely different experience. I have to say, I am ready to go enjoy a morning coffee at a local joint — something I haven’t done in a month.