From Segou, we drive back to the capitol, Bamako. We stop at villages on the way. Each village has its own uniqueness, even though they are very similar as well. On the road, we stop suddenly, because Ogo tells us that once a year, the local villagers fish a pond. They jump shoving their inverted baskets into the water, sticking their arm through a hole at the top and feeling for fish. It is an extraordinary site.
Bamako is what passes for a city in this west African nation that seems abandoned by Africa and the rest of the world. Mali celebrated 50 years of independence from France last year. Its economy is entirely agrarian and the evaporating tourist business, mostly French, is essentially the only means of creating any economic activity.
I will remember Mali for its vast Sahel landscapes, its dusty and impoverished villages, its multitude of tribes and utterly dissimilar languages, people who have never seen anything of modern life other than our cameras. They call outsiders Anisera -- "people without a village" -- they think we are nomads who have no homes because we move from hotel to hotel and never stay anywhere for more than a day or two.
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