This town is at the crossroads of many cultures and languages. Therefore, different ways of transmitting the word were offered by a range of griots, local poets, music and dance groups. Above the makeshift stage in the sand, the moon slips into full. At midday we cross the border from Senegal to Mali. We wait hours at customs in the dreariest of places.
People just sit in the heat.
Not sitting and fanning themselves, or sitting reading, or sitting talking, or sitting listening to a radio, or sitting working. Simply sitting, with clear clean eyes as if we can walk through them. A veil of flies rises from the counter. Not the heart of darkness at all, but the heart of fuck all perhaps. The accountant of the institute refuses to bribe officials, so we wait.