I've long wanted to go to southern Mali because I'd heard about the architecture--cities entirely made from adobe with 200,000 people in them.
Because it was the month of Ramadan, schedules were variable. Instead of taking a ferry across the Niger, I had to drive through the river, guided by children who hopped from sand bar to sand bar. I stayed six days in Kouakourou, where the Natomas live.
Its labyrinthine alleys vibrate with a constant background noise of animal cries and the thump of women pounding millet and the sound of drums and Ramadan songs. Boomboxes, too, unfortunately; in a town with no electricity, cars, or paved streets, I was surprised to see so many men lounging around listening to music or the soccer games.
I was with Soumana when he found that someone had stolen the mangoes from his trees. I thought he might swear furiously and vow to put up fences or get his ancient musket fixed, but he just shrugged and said that was life. The closest I ever saw him come to losing his temper was when Mamadou ("Mama the second," more or less) kept bothering him during a particularly crucial soccer game. I want to go back--when it's not so hot. The heat and dust in this part of Mali are unremitting, but it is also a beautiful place whose inhabitants deserve more than they are getting.
