We left Bamako in a cloud of dust Wednesday morning, striving to extricate ourselves from the benefits of commercialism. The cloud followed us eastward, in the direction of the Niger's flow, toward Mopti, toward Mecca. Like much of Africa—indeed, like much of the world—Mali is a Muslim country, in name and number if not in studied practice. But the men's long, simple gowns and skull caps attest that the message of Muhammad is deeply wired in Mali's population.

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In every town we pass through, we come upon the wattled mosques of the Sudan. Emulating the country's largest mosque, at Djenné, our destination at the end of this two-day drive, the minimosques are built of mud, wood, and more mud. Squat spires top their walls as if soldiers standing guard. Like the cathedrals of Europe and Latin America, these places of worship virtually define the villages. No town without one is worth living in or being from or going toward.

Mali is often likened to a butterfly, and the Bambara villages of the western wing follow

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the Niger's course, the traditional trade route from Sahara to sea. For the past decade a two-lane blacktop has linked these small villages as it never did in Mungo Park's day. It is with relief that we leave the smooth road at Sansanding, where Mungo began his final river journey in 1804, and head across country toward Djenné. Slowly the Bambara villages, with their square houses in small, walled compounds, give way to the low circular homes of the village of the Fulani, or Peuhl, who inhabit much of West Africa. The Fulani are primarily herdsmen, and our progress along the dirt track is often interrupted by a goat crossing, a herd of zebu, or the proud saunter of a lone Fulani, his arms draped over the herding stick atop his shoulders.

The horizon surrounds us. The land is flat, without feature save the low brush and occasional acacia or rare baobab rising in stately display. This is sub-Saharan sahel, a vast and arid savanna with sparse population and spiny vegetation. What villages there are tend to look alike—clay in shades of gray and taupe. Everything is earthen, clayey, just a leap of faith above the soil. Within every pool of shade a man seems to squat or recline as if having given up on the inspiration to travel and the motivation to do so. One can almost imagine our man Mungo wandering through this arid landscape, sick half the time, dodging Islamic sharifs after his hide, wondering whither flows the Niger and whether such a liquid dream exists at all.

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We, of course, bomb through here as if there's no cause for concern, trailing that cloud of dust with us like a swirling appendage. There are five of us in the white Land Rover—your two intrepid Mungo Park correspondents; our guide Alberto Nicheli, Italian-born and overflowing with extravagance; and his two West African assistants, a trusted and rotund aide-de-camp named John and a lean, perennially confused trainee named Amen. Between Amen's name and mine, one would think our progress would be blessed, but apparently we're in the wrong heavenly kingdom, because we soon become lost.

Alberto pulls over often to ask directions, calling over one of the solitary herdsmen or stopping beside the wells to speak with the ever-laboring women. The encounters begin with greetings in rote French phrases—"Bonjour, ça va, bon"—and gentle handshakes. Then Alberto gets down to business. He pulls out a small notebook and asks in a querulous tone for the name of the next town. "Kara?" Or "Matome?" Or "Senousa?" As often as not, the Fulani gestures vaguely in the direction we are going, vaguely toward the horizon, and nods in the affirmative. "Oui, Kara!" And off we go, momentarily reassured.

But this is the river road to Timbuktu, and like a river it branches and brachiates and spins off into dusty eddies and side currents. The forks in the road appear with bewildering regularity, and Alberto's choices seem arbitrary. He seems to stop a bit too frequently, in a few too many villages, to consult one too many times his scribbled route list. To my consternation, he doesn't react with his usual histrionics when I suggest we are lost. "There are fourteen different roads to Djenné through here," he says. "We are taking the fifteenth."

The sun sets on the money at six. It is dark within minutes. We find ourselves just outside of Matome and choose the first wide point in the road as our camp. For a few moments, I wonder if the traffic will keep us awake. Then I realize we haven't seen another car for hours. The road itself is more a goat cart track, and the sound that descends when the diesel engine shuts off is primordial. The sky fills with stars as we unload the baggage, John fixes a seafood spaghetti as we set up the tents, and we dine alfresco with a fine Barolo. Life in the bush isn't what it was for Mungo, and by the second bottle we're all pretty content with that.

The next day is easier, perhaps because we have just accepted the sinuous route through the landscape as our established mode of travel. We come upon one village's market day and wander among tumultuous color, an abundance of produce, and the rich stew of a foreign language. The women laugh and the children point, whereas the men pretend there is nothing extraordinary about encountering two dazzled tubobu with digital and video cameras. A beautiful young woman with a thick black tattoo around her lips fixes us with a doelike stare, then waves me away when I try to film her. But I cannot be disappointed. There are so many beautiful women in this sea of Fulani. Amid this dusty dry wilderness, the brightest colors in the spectrum are found on the low-growing herb blossoms, the flowers of the trumpet vine, and the vivid cotton dresses of these bold and compelling women, and it strikes me that the purpose is much the same.

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Not far from our destination, we reach Senousa, one of the biggest Fulani villages on the route. The women are drawing cotton and stringing it along a wall. Some of the younger ones are bare-breasted and completely unabashed at the attention they get from certain members of our party. Bearing water from the river in buckets balanced on their heads, their posture is striking, hypnotic. Alberto quickly befriends the locals and leads us through the village in coincidental pursuit of one of these maidens. That is, until we reach her father's house. There Alberto leads us into a mocking negotiation, offering first three, then four, and finally five zebu to the patriarch in exchange for his daughter. Of course no one takes such ribald jesting seriously. We clearly have no cattle to trade, and the only barter we might possibly possess is more interested in photography than starting a new life bearing water and Fulani children.

Dusk is falling as we leave Senousa. All that lies between us and Djenné is a shallow river. The locals wade cautiously across the water, and carts pulled by zebu make their way sluggishly through the bog. But Alberto, who is full of enthusiasm for all things perilous, drives into the pond with little hesitation. We slide a couple times, but pushing a wake to either side the Land Rover reaches the far shore. At once Alberto leaps out and examines the front of his truck, tracing the silt line as it underscores the Land Rover's headlamp. "You think it reach the light? You think it can go deeper?" He runs around the vehicle looking for evidence of a record-level submersion, then proposes to do it again. "You film it this time, OK? I want film!"

While Denise, Amen, and John wait, Alberto and I get back in the Land Rover and cross to the far side to ford the mire again. The light is failing, and I have some doubts whether our cameras will get any images. Alberto has a head full of steam, however, and will not be

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dissuaded. It is not until we enter the river for the third time and come to a complete and muddy stop 15 feet from shore that his enthusiasm is checked. He sags a bit at the wheel, then pulls off his shoes and socks and slips into the slush.

Fortunately, a zebu cart nearby is also stuck. Trading labor for labor, Alberto prevails upon a crew to push us out of the ooze. When we finally cross the river it is almost completely dark, and Alberto's record submersion goes unrecorded. We collect our gang of five. Driving toward Djenné in the last light, we pass a clan of the devout bowing to the east, brows to the earth, keeping the faith between the heavens above and the mud below.

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