A Dogon dancer wears an antelope mask in the traditional funeral dance. Performed to send the deceased's spirit on to the next world, it has attracted anthropologists and tourists, who can now pay to see a reenactment. Dogon women, however, are still forbidden to see the masks. It is said that long ago, women were the more powerful sex, after one stole a mask from the mythical Tellem people. Then, because of a mistake by the women, or the cleverness of their husbands, the mask fell into the hands of the men. Now there are a variety of masks, depicting different animals and ethnicities in the Dogon region. (Below) Amid the dust and dirt of downtown Bamako, the Coulikoro gardens offer a lush, green respite.

During my last week in Mali I tried to make up for lost time: confident and bold, I talked to strangers, greeted them in Bambara, and sat with them drinking cup after cup of strong green tea. I raced around the city, photographing my favorite spots along the way to school, but was unable to find a herd of cows grazing on a garbage pile. I tried to tell my host parents how much they meant to me, and how they had changed my life, and inspired me. It was hard.

While I had no trouble talking to Dante and Rokia about development, Malian customs, and American idiosyncracies, there seemed to be no easy way to express my strongest feelings. I did not want to leave; I felt I had only begun to learn about the place I had traveled so far to see. Mali had burned in my consciousness throughout my four years in college, and now, after only nine week s, I was being torn away. That last week, I gripped the handrails in the sotrama tighter; my eyes devoured everything that crossed my path. I could not take pictures of everything, but I could try to make indelible memories.

The last day I woke up early to make Bisquick pancakes for my family. Our flight home left in the late evening. I then left to say goodbye to Cherif and his wife and kids, who were staying an extra two weeks. A few of us got a lift across the new bridge, and dropped us off at a spot completely out of our way. There were no sotrama going towards Rail-da, and we had no money for a taxi. We walked two miles into centre-ville, and I went my own way, towards the Grand Hotel. A mile later, I arrived, hot and sweaty, and took advantage of the air-conditioning before continuing towards Rail-da. At the Shell Station, I bought water, and decided I would walk the rest of the way home. It was only another couple miles, and along the way there were these immense gardens: green fields of lettuce and vegetables. I turned off the main road to wander through the curving paths, sidestepping past women carrying water and laundry and rice in buckets on their heads. I greeted them, and they smiled as they passed.

Eventually I reemerged onto the main road, and turned up the street to my house. As I passed the two nightclubs, the pizza parlor, the Iranian Cultural Center and Cote d’Ivoirian Embassy, CARE headquarters, and finally the Toubab store on the corner, I tried to remember each step, the way the dust puffed as my Tevas displaced it. I dragged my feet, prolonging the moment, but rushed at the same time, knowing I only had a few hours left until I had to say goodbye to my family. I hadn’t necessarily intended to walk all the way home, but I knew it was the best way I could have spent those last hours. Once again traversing the city, winding among the crowded streets, among the people. Was I feeling a false sense of community? I don’t think so. There is no pretense in Mali. People may laugh at you, and call you toubab, but they take you as you are, and give you the utmost respect. Invitations to drink tea and sit and talk are heartfelt; nothing is offered or given insincerely.

At the airport I cried; we all did. Mali had profoundly touched us, and had given us so much that we could never repay. I felt astoundingly lucky to have participated on the program, to have been placed with my host family, to have met the strangers who became my friends. As we boarded the plane to Brussels I knew I wasn’t leaving for good. There is still too much to learn, to experience, to see. There are too many people and places to visit. There are still too many stories to be told.