Ker Sadaro

The past few days have found twenty SIT students lounging on the island of St. Louis, once capitol of all colonial French West Africa. While our academics have continued, our time here has served as a sort of cultural respite after our first village stay. Lodged in a cushy, air-conditioned hotel overlooking the eastern arm of the Senegal River, I consider the experiences of the past week.

Saturday last week we arrived in the little village of Ker Sadaro, just a bit of a drive outside of Thies. Our arrival was everything one might imagine--hordes of curious children ran alongside our bus as we approached our destination. The commotion that welcomed us consisted of tiny hands beating out complex rhythms on a large, overturned metal bowl, excited shouts and greetings, and an incredulous voice in my mind that kept asking, "am I really here right now? Is this really where I am??" Other than the children, it was the women of the village who welcomed us. Each was dressed in brightly-colored fabric, loose enough around the arms to be considered indecent exposure. Many had infants secured to their backs, worn so naturally as to have been accessories to their fabulous outfits. As each of us was called by name, we were presented to a matriarch who, dancing to the beat of the metal bowl, took our hands and led us each away. I was one of the last ones called, and a rotund and contagiously happy woman wrapped her arm around mine ane took me home, surrounded by an entourage of little ones. She gave me the name Bousso Seck.

After making introductions and settling my luggage into my room, my family was anxious to set out for the night's big event: Ker Sadaro's soccer team was playing a nearby village rival. The whole village was there, with all the other SIT students dispersed about the crowd. It was the perfect introduction to the community. Sitting on the sidelines, I watched with surprise the young girls dressed to the max, many in tight Western clothes with silver dangly earrings, cheering on the team. I watched as all of the men in the village rushed the field after a goal while the married women danced in celebration on the sidelines, shouting and laughing. I watched as four goats wandered innocently onto the playing field to the entertainment of all on-lookers, and were frantically chased away before interrupting the game. It all ended somewhat suddenly as the sun began to set, with a final score of Ker Sadaro: 2, other village: 0.

The next morning, after my first-ever successful bucket shower, my host mom indicated that I was to go to visit a nearby family member. As an escort, I was accompanied by Bubu. I'd guess his age to be about three. I felt a little more than slight apprehension when I'd realized he alone was to lead me to my destination, especially since I had no idea where it was. Additionally, chivalric little Bubu insisted on carrying my 1.5 litre water bottle for me, which was half of his entire body mass. We left the compound and crossed the main road, but my little guide was indeed competent; he led me to the house of my host father's brother, in a neighboring village. The scene that greeted me as I entered the compound involved a man, a chicken and a knife. I have gained new insight into the phrase: "running around like a chicken with it's head cut off." In the hours that followed, I was also taught how to say "I am plucking a chicken" in Wolof. That's right, folks. I was lucky enough to arrive on the day of the slaughter. The rest of my morning involved the aforementioned chicken and about one hundred of her friends, boiling water, lots of feathers, and getting my hands good and dirty with village life.

The remainder of my stay at Ker Sadaro passed quietly and vividly. Time passed differently in the village, and I actually chose to leave my watch behind during the trip. As a result, I have no idea how many minutes it took my host mother to put all those tiny braids into my hair. I do know that I had enough time to read about 100 pages in my book. Likewise, my mid-day nap lasted about a 20 degree change in the angle of the sun. Our dinner and following discussions were set to the pace of the Milky Way's voyage across the sky. Two full days and three nights later, I feel as though I have visited another world, removed from the life I know not only by thousands of miles, but by time and development, and something else not quite describable.

My host mother took great delight in teaching me a few words that I took to be some ancient traditional chant:

Ker Sadaro neex na la!
Bousso Seck beggul nibi!

As it turns out, it really means:

Ker Sadaro's really cool!
Bousso Seck (my village name) doesn't want to leave!