Bamako

Bamako lies along the Niger where Malians call it the Djoliba — the river of rivers — and carries, pound for pound, more musical genius than any city on Earth: this is the town of the kora masters and the Songhai blues, of Salif Keita and Oumou Sangaré and Toumani Diabaté, where griot families have kept seven centuries of memory in strings and praise. The pirogues still fish the river at dawn; the mud-cloth makers still paint bogolan by hand; the music still decides when the night ends.

The sensible traveller starts at the National Museum, quietly one of Africa's best, for the textiles and the masks in proper context; crosses the river bridges at dusk when Bamako gilds; hunts bogolan at the artisan village, from the makers; climbs Point G for the whole river bend; and gives every evening to the music — a courtyard concert, a wedding band spilling into the street, a kora player who will explain, between songs, exactly which king his family has praised since the 1300s.

The Guide's honesty, gently: Mali's north and center carry a hard decade and the winds reach far — chancelleries counsel caution and the prudent traveller checks current conditions and stays within counsel —; Bamako herself runs on cash, French and Bambara greetings — learn 'i ni ce' and doors open —; the heat from March is structural: live by mornings and evenings; and if a griot sings your name, the correct response is gratitude and a modest note. That is how seven centuries of memory are funded.