Since 2007 I have been listening to Tinariwen, a band of Touaregs from the Sahara, and to Amadou et Mariam, a couple of blind musicians that I admire and whose music I enjoy like few others. It was purely by chance that I discovered both of them while living in Shanghai. The two served as an introduction to Mali's exquisite and diverse musical tradition that dates back several centuries. Followed by them I learned of Ali Farka, Toumani Diabaté, Boubacar Traoré and many others. Today, 9 years later, I am entering Bamako by bicycle, so the first thing I do when I get to the outskirts of the city is to put on my favorite Amadou et Mariam album: Dimanche à Bamako (Sunday in Bamako). Taking advantage of the beautiful coincidence that today is Sunday, I am cycling to the rhythm of the chorus of the song "Beaux Dimanches" (Beautiful Sundays). So I roll into the capital of the country with a smile ... "Le dimanche à Bamako c'est le jour de mariage" ...

Music helps me to withdraw from traffic. Dozens of motorcycles, cars and vans pass me within a few inches, spraying me with dust and sand. Some go in the right direction but many others go against it. Sunday is not only a wedding day, as the song says, but a market day, which is why a sea of people is added to the traffic jams. Everyone has to dodge each other, but in order to avoid running over anyone or being hit myself I must wield them all at the diabolical crossroads. I am grateful that at least it is Sunday traffic and not Monday's, and I keep singing… “Le dimanche à Bamako c’est le jour de mariage”…

After about two hours of vehicular combat added to the more than 1400 km that I have with me without a day of rest, my internal battery indicator has no bars remaining, it is red and flashing. In this condition, I arrived at the house of Ariadna, a Venezuelan girl who works for the United Nations media department, whom I arrived at on the recommendation of Ricardo, a Brazilian cyclist friend. What a blessing to meet her right at this moment of exhaustion, when I most need rest and the good company of a person who, with her Latin warmth, takes care of me like a brother. As if something so exceptional were not enough, the flat where she lives is on the banks of the Niger, the legendary river that crosses West Africa in the shape of a crescent, bringing life and livelihoods to dozens of villages and cities, from the heart of the Sahara to sub-Saharan Africa through the Sahel.

Bamako enjoys the traffic noise inherent in every African capital, which stands in direct contrast to the village spirit with which the Malians move through the city, not far from that of the Sahelian villages. The landscape of traffic jams in the thick of its boulevards and along the bridges that cross the Niger, contrasts with the urban farmers who plant and fish on its banks as if they were in the rural desert world. Once outside of them, I lose myself in the underworld woven by streets and alleys that stretch indefinitely to the horizon. I stroll along women wrapped like candy in exquisite colorful dresses, children playing ball, and men doing business. Music is the omnipresent background that fills the experience of every corner of Bamako and the melodies are those that set the rhythm of my walk…. “Le dimanche à Bamako c’est le jour de mariage”…

During these days of rest, Ariadna suggests that I give a lecture to the students of the Bamako University of Audiovisual Media about my experience as a photographer. Since I never turn down an opportunity to share my knowledge, I accept immediately, even though I know I'll need to make an extra effort to articulate my ideas in French which I still consider quite limited.

In the African world, improvisation reigns supreme, and in just a couple of days, I am standing in front of a class of about 20 students who are looking at me trying to decipher what I have come to tell them. In Mali, even belonging to the tiny social group that has access to tertiary education, the idea of ​​traveling the world alone and even more so by bicycle escapes the imagination and perhaps the wildest fantasies of all. For two hours, through a collection of images and stories accompanied by theoretical and practical information, I open a window to a totally unknown universe. Not even a distant world, but a world that starts in the very outskirts of the city where they were born and yet, many of them don't even know. Their level of reaction is a direct consequence of the level of surprise. I have come to convey what I know, but also to take them on a trip and invite them to imagine the unimaginable. By the end, their questions are the signal that my intention has the effect I was looking for. With a final group photo, selfies and hugs I say goodbye to them with my heart overflowing with joy.

I am also fortunate to meet several UN officials, Ari's co-workers. Given the proportions of the social and political difficulties that Mali is going through, the United Nations has a presence of 12,000 active employees in the country, including civilian and military personnel. Through them I see a part of the harsh reality that the country is going through in terms of conflict, such as the insurgency of rebel groups of Islamic extremists that are sowing panic in the traditionally volatile north. The attack on the Radisson Blue Hotel, a handful of months ago, is one of the recent examples, as is the growing list of kidnapped foreigners and the imposition of Sharia Law on the local population. Added to this, environmental problems such as prolonged droughts have led to the internal displacement of tens of thousands of people to refugee camps.

The UN has an active role in helping to mitigate the catastrophe, but the accounts of its own employees paint a different and discouraging reality of the institution. The vision of many of them with whom I talk throughout the days is that the majority of those who work at the UN are not there in order to help anyone but because of the prestige that working for the UN represents and even more, for the immense benefits they enjoy. Their firsthand accounts paint a demoralizing portrait of one of the institutions that was born to serve those who need it most. After hearing the stories of people spending their days in pools in the sun drinking cocktails instead of going about their chores, my heart sinks. Ultimately, and perhaps as a false consolation, I decide to believe that the ultimate reality can't be just one. I want to believe that it is divided between those who actually give everything for the altruistic conviction of serving others and those who say they work to serve only to be served with luxuries and benefits. At the end of the day, I perceive that at least the people who paint this bleak panorama for me are the very ones who enter in that first group, thus proving that at least some people are in for the good reasons.

I spend 10 very prolific days in Bamako. I eat well, I sleep on a comfortable mattress, I bathe more times than I bathed in the last few years, I cut my hair, I socialize with super interesting people, and I recharge my energies. They also confirm firsthand that it would be stupid of me in these times to go out and travel to the most dreamed corners for which Mali is known. For this reason, with pain but also learning to accept that not always everything goes as one wants, I decide to go west towards Guinea thus, putting behind the dream of the Dogon Country, Djenne, Mopti and Timbouctou.

Leaving Bamako

Long periods of rest are great, because after having been accumulating fatigue for a long time, they make me feel that life returns to my body. Throughout the days I recover the energy that I will need to continue, while the relaxation allows me to appreciate in retrospect the dimension of what I have achieved so far. The trade-off, however, is that one quickly adjusts to the simple pleasures of comfort on the one hand, and becomes attached to the affection of the wonderful people one meets on the other. This raises the conflict that the difficulty of the moment of departure is inversely proportional to the ease with which one settles on arrival. Nonetheless, over time I have learned that one does not leave anyone, but rather take with oneself forever all those who have added value to our lives. This reflection is much more than simple comfort. It is the argument that always helps me to part with a smile because I know that final goodbyes do not exist.

Early in the morning I cross the Niger at rush hour. The traffic does not prevent me from taking the last view of Bamako bathed in the golden color of the sun reflected in the river like a mirror. The organic (unplanned) growth with which many African cities were formed, Bamako in this case, makes the boundary between the urban and the rural world so blurred that it is sometimes even imperceptible. In this way, while still within the official limits of the capital, in a few streets I already find myself dodging goats as in the Sahelian villages and advancing alongside donkey carts. By the time I'm finally on the road, the transition has gone unnoticed. Now, the animals pass from one side of the road to the other seeking shelter from the sun, like the villagers, in the dry pastures under the shade of the mango trees. I still regret passing through here not much longer than 2 weeks before these giants start to bear enough fruit to supply the entire world.

A few hours later, I see a rocky massif looming on the horizon above the tops of the mango trees. As I get closer, I see it grow in dimension, emerging from the plain with a rigorous verticality, returning the lost drama to the landscape. For a moment, the resemblance to certain sections of the Ethiopian Tigray overwhelms me to the point of sending chills down my sweaty back, but fortunately, I am in Mali, where the people are friendly and do not entertain themselves by throwing stones at me for fun, as in Ethiopia. Villages and people disappear in the shadow of this massif. It is difficult for me from afar to distinguish between the brown textures of the huts and those of the rock wall that flanks them. At its feet, women congregate around a well where they arrive with empty jerry cans and dirty dishes. With each pull of the rope, the log beam that supports the pulley creaks in the wail. Shoulders, biceps, and triceps inflate with each pull. The sweat on their torsos, black as shoe polish, gleams in the sun. The intensity of the echo made by the drops when splashing at the bottom of the well informs both the proximity of the bucket and the depth of the dark tunnel through which it rises. Such is life in Mali, where the simplest tasks of one's daily life, here represent the hard work that takes most of the Malian days.

The massif is behind me disappearing as fast as it appeared. The mangoes once again dominate the landscape in the plain that extends to the limits of my eyes' visibility. The leafiness and green of their tops revive the anemic tones of the ground. After midday, now I am the one who needs to take refuge under their shadow. There I find relief and respite in these days of suffocation during the dry season.

I arrive in Kouremale a few minutes after the sun sets behind a horizon clouded by dust particles and a languid sky. It doesn't take long for darkness to take over this border town without electricity. I decide to spend my last night in Mali instead of crossing to Guinea at this very moment. The stove that my friend Jiang Lei gave me in Cotonou, is giving me a lot of problems, so I decide to stop next to a shed under construction where I find some men gathering around a campfire. It’s quite odd to sit around the fire when it’s not cold at all, but that actually shows how badly hot it gets during the day. I ask for their permission to boil the water on it to cook my noodles. Although the fire light barely allows me to distinguish their facial features, we have a pleasant conversation during my dinner.

With a full belly, now I only have to find a place to sleep. Since I feel very safe in Mali and I don't feel like doing more socials today, I decide to go a hundred meters away and inflate my mattress and hang the mosquito net under the tin roof of an abandoned building. There I surrender to a night of sleep so deep that if someone had stolen all my possessions I would not have noticed. When the first rays of the sun that show on the horizon illuminate my face strongly enough, I gradually begin to regain the consciousness lost during the night.

A reluctant farewell

Like every place I visit, I dreamed and imagined many things about Mali for many years before arriving. Given the current social and political circumstances, I wasn't able to see more than a very limited portion of this huge country, but what I did get to see, met and exceeded my expectations. I take the gift of the warmth and simplicity of the Malians. In the villages of Mali and to some extent even in its very capital, I once again enjoyed the beauty of life in slow motion. Taking the time to get things done, living without rushing instead of always running. Spending your days in the Malian villages is a journey back in time. A trip to a world without time, at least not time in the terms that we Westerners have developed.

I also take the music with me, the wonderful Malian music that is always present in everyday life. From now on, I know that this music will always be part of my albums' collection. I started writing these posts about Mali listening to Malian music and this is also how I end them.

Finally, I take with me the enthusiasm, the curiosity, the need and the desire to return to Mali. I need more because if so little had such a beautiful impact, I can't only help but wonder how much I could've enjoyed, had I been able to get to the corners that I wanted to get to. It is for this and much more that I am leaving wanting to return to Mali, perhaps in better times, or not, but surely at the right time.