My fourth full day in Bamako. Malians in general, and especially the staff at our hotel, seem very friendly. Every one I meet, after the usual bon jours and ca vas, begins the same conversation: Welcome to Mali! (Merci.) Is it your first time here? (Oui.) Pretty hot, isn't it?

Surprisingly, it wasn't extraordinarily hot the first few days. The sun was strong, yes, but one could walk around the city and even, say, play ultimate frisbee with a gang of American expatriates on Saturday morning until 10:00 a.m., without feeling like one was in danger of heat stroke.

Yesterday, though, was absolutely humbling. Let me put it this way: Cab rides normally bring relief from the heat, when the car is moving, the windows are rolled down and the breeze is blowing. Yesterday, as the cab stood still at the traffic lights, we were miserably sweaty hot. And when we were moving, it was worse; it was (as E noted) like we were standing in front of an oven. Hot blasts of dusty air buffeted and choked us in the backseat.

I'd also been feeling smug about my gastrointestinal health, which was quite sound at first. Then that, too, came back to bite me in the ass. (So to speak.) But I'll spare you the details. "Welcome to Africa," everyone says.

The expats I meet -- and I've meet many -- engage me in similar conversations as well: Is it your first time here? (Yes.) Where are you staying? (The Grande Hotel.) I thought the Grande Hotel was closed for renovations. (Just the front building; we're staying in the back behind the pool.) So, what are your first impressions?

The smell. It was the first thing to hit me, on the ride from the airport Thursday night. Automotive fumes, automotive fluids, exhaust from little two-stroke engines. Even in our air-conditioned hotel room, I sometimes catch a whiff from the street. Cab rides on busy streets can be choking.

The women. They wear brightly-colored dresses of a similar cut (low neckline in the back, ruffled sleeves, ruffled waist), but no two use the same fabric. They ride scooters with excellent posture and poise, strap their babies on their backs with a wide swath of fabric, carry great platters and buckets and baskets on their heads. I watched one woman yesterday, baby on her back and an enormous basket of bananas on her head, stop and lower herself slowly to pick up pieces of fruit she had dropped.

The chaos. There is constant noise and motion, and incessant small commerce. Boys stand in the middle of the street, selling phone cards to stopped cars. At every intersection, an elderly blind person led by a younger person begs for change, as do small children in matching outfits. Young men sit in the shade by the side of the road selling soda bottles of gasoline. Young men sit in the shade by the side of the road at Coca-Cola stands (Refreshez-vouz ici!). Women spread oranges and mangoes and tomatoes on cloths for you to pick over. When you step out of a cab, more men press baskets, magazines, CDs, souvenirs on you, any kind of junk you can think of.

Oh, and the bats. At dawn they swarm and screech outside our window. They swoop and drink from the pool at dusk.

That's all for now. More later, but probably not for another week, since Wednesday we hit the road for Segou, Sevare, Djenne, Mopti, Bandiagara. Au revoir!