A moveable fast

Only mad dogs and English (cricketers) go out in the midday sun, as Matthew Hoggard and Richard Johnson are all too sweatily aware. For the remainder of England's visit, however, this adage promises to be all the more appropriate. For Monday marked the start of the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, and from now on, life in Bangladesh begins when the sun goes down.

Ramadan is what might be described as a moveable fast. Like the Christian period of Lent, its timing is determined by the lunar cycle. Unlike Lent, however, the date on which Ramadan begins cannot be known in advance. All across Bangladesh, millions of Muslims had been preparing to keep their fast from Sunday night, but it wasn't until the skies cleared on the following evening, and the new moon was officially sighted, that the holy month could begin.

Ramadan's impact on the English contingent has been less apparent than anticipated. To the outsider, its most notable feature (but, of course, by no means the central one) is the abstention from food and water during the hours of daylight. While none of England's players, fans or media were expected to follow suit, they all knew not to indulge in any blatant open-air quaffing either. And yet, the relaxed attitude in Bangladesh has taken all the visitors by surprise. In every stairwell, vendors stand waiting with drums full of daal, while the Barmy Army's sensibilities have been sorely tested by a huge and tempting sandwich stall in their midst.

It had been a very different story when an England series last coincided with Ramadan, in Pakistan three years ago. On that occasion the teams had been required to retreat to the boundary's edge to partake in drinks breaks, while a tent had been erected on the media-centre roof to allow the journos to quench their thirst away from the gaze of the TV cameras. As for the English fans, they had just sat and sweated in silence.

But, as David Gower would agree, a relaxed attitude is not the same as indifference. When the day has drawn to a close and the Azan has sounded from Chittagong's minarets, the streets and bazaars come alive with all the sounds and smells of iftar, the fast-breaking feast that comes as a reward for the day's privations. On every street corner, bubbling cauldrons of samosas are snapped up almost as quickly as they can be cooked, along with the signature dish of Ramadan - those sticky brown mountains of dates, squashed square from the boxes they came in.

It is a time of year when Muslims come together in prayer and celebration. In every boutique and on every workshop floor, tools are downed as colleagues sit cross-legged amid twisted sheets of metal and silenced hulks of machinery, sharing great platters of fish and rice as the daylight fades and the crowds flock to the bazaars. And with Eid, the major festival of the Islamic calendar, just around the corner, those bazaars are even more compelling than ever.

A casual stroll becomes a full-blown investigation, as I am drawn deeper into the maze by the sights and sounds on offer, and the friendly beckoning of eager salesmen. The finest wares are on display now - brand new clothing with all the colours of a fruit and veg stall; cakes and sweets with sumptuous and intricate designs; book stalls and bike stalls; and festive lighting that would put Oxford Street to shame.

At some stage during Ramadan, one assumes that the country sleeps. But with Chittagong in full swing, such things can clearly wait.