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Inside, shrines and raised flooring prevent the eye from reaching the farthest walls.

Outside, courtyard views are often confused by fountains for ablutions and, here, both by two domed structures – one a former treasury, the other once a clock store – and two columns holding lanterns.

I’m often confused by the architecture of the grander mosques.

There are these huge spaces – towering pillars holding high ceilings spanning broad floors – and then stuff gets rather plonked in the middle, intentionally interrupting the longest perspectives.

The broken-up spaces of the mosque have a person-centred quality.

They lack human imagery but beside the abstract wall decorations, humans, together, stick out. This isn’t to dismiss church architecture as unhuman.

I am regretting this enormously, because the wet scratchiness of spf’ed under-arms dipped in sand is surely worse than the itchy red thighs which, the last few days, I’ve secretly sported beneath my gross teacher’s slacks.

These thighs have, thankfully, become less painful since a few days ago, when I fell asleep on the roof.I hear a young, East coast American voice, a woman: “I’ve been up and down, and up and down, and they just follow.” An Arabic accent, a woman, more quietly: “But your father can parade you, no?” I turn my head, and see that, indeed, the two women behind me are accompanied by half a dozen men, dawdling perhaps eight metres from them, standing facing the women but feigning to look in another direction.The girls in bikinis are – invariably – surrounded by men staring at their breasts.Sometimes the men chat at them, sometimes they find some activity to occupy them nearby – paddling, throwing themselves into the waves with oppressive bravado – whilst staring at the beasts.Soaked in sweat and factor 40, and sprinkled with coarse sand, I am trying to finish another argument between the positivist and the Jesuit.

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