My husband got back Tuesday night from the United States with an extra-heavy suitcase packed with goodies like books and magazines and new clothes and maple syrup, a fishing rod and lures, Barbies™ (for a friend), and Jif® peanut butter.

There is lots of peanut butter here in Mali, the natural un-American kind, which, when I lived in America, was my favorite kind. But here it’s darker and grittier and different, and after a while one begins to crave things one didn’t like, once. Me, I’ve been craving some all-American peanut butter: salt, sugar, additives, preservatives, partially hydrogenated vegetable oils and no-refrigeration-necessary. I just now opened the first of three beautiful 40 oz. jars of Jif® and ate the best peanut butter and strawberry jam sandwich ever. I only used one slice of bread, so as not to dilute the Jif-fy goodness with two much starch.

I just had to tell you about that.

About the drive home from Timbuktu. We wanted to go back the way we came, but when we got to the ferry on Friday, the river had gone down even further, the sandy bank leading down to the water was longer and steeper than before, and a truck was stuck halfway on the ferry, halfway on the sand. Its motor was off. A crowd was gathered, but nothing seemed to be happening very quickly.

So we changed our plans, and went the long way. The first day of the long way is not too bad, only about four hours of driving through sand. The external temperature was 39 degrees Celsius. We saw nothing but sand and scrubby vegetation until we got to Goundam, on the Bani. Leaving town, we went over the river on the scariest bridge I have ever crossed. I should have taken a photo but I was too busy trying to guess which rotting plank was going to give way beneath our 4x4. At the same time, I could not help but admire the sudden shock of green that sprung up on either bank.

We drove across the Niger floodplain, which had only recently come out from under water. To the left we could see the receding river, and large flocks of long-legged white birds wading in the mud.

We didn’t stop until Tonka, where our driver’s uncle lived. We sat in his courtyard, made small talk with him and his friend, who reclined on a foam mattress, watched the guinea fowl wander around, and drank ice-cold Cokes (something else I never liked in the U.S., but when I’m sweating in 100 degrees Fahrenheit and breathing sand and dust, I crave some sugar). Then we hit the road.

Before too long we were in Niafounké, and it looked, with its wide boulevards, large old trees, and river views, positively idyllic. The entire population seemed to be made up of boys playing soccer in the streets -- the girls, of course, were inside the walled compounds, working. It is the same everywhere.

We stayed at another guest house. The rooms were plain (except for my chartreuse mosquito net) and dirty, but the courtyard was comfortable. We sent someone to the market with enough money for two chickens and some vegetables. While the young women cooked, we spread out a plastic mat on the dirt courtyard, lay on our backs, and watched the stars come out. It was chilly enough for a sweater.

After a while, someone brought out a television and turned it to TV-5, which was playing long public service announcements. The first was for safe driving; two minor Malian celebrities admonished us to slow down and be careful, while they showed footage of real people who had been in real accidents. Some of the victims were covered with sheets, with only their bloody sneakers sticking out. I have no idea what the second announcement was about; it was, like the first, entirely in Bambara, and the footage was of nothing but live chickens. After that came a popular Brazilian soap opera, dubbed in French, and everyone crowded in closer to the set.

The girls, with one eye on "Family Secrets," brought dishes to our mats. I must have been hungry because the salad -- iceberg lettuce, cold French fries and canned peas arranged prettily in a bowl -- was delicious. The main course was roast chicken and potatoes in sauce, which we scarfed down with cold toh, a thick starchy porridge, and a round pita-like bread particular to that part of the country. The bread is ever so slightly gritty with sand, but in my opinion that only adds to its charm. For dessert, because we were in the land of the Peul (herders), we had fresh milk, and another pot was brought to our rooms before bed. I savored that meal, and read in bed until the electricity was shut off at midnight, because the next day would be a long one.

We rose just after 4:00 a.m. to get an early start. Our driver knocked on our doors before going down for his the morning's first prayer. The electricity doesn’t come on until 5:00 a.m. so we packed by flashlight and crept out of town.

It was dark. The darkest place I’d been before then was certain back roads on Ocracoke Island, North Carolina, when the moon was gone or hidden behind clouds. On those roads, on those nights, bikers had to sing or whistle while they rode to avoid collisions. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.

But it certainly wasn’t quiet. Who perpetrated the quaint country myth of roosters crowing at dawn? From what I can tell, they start at 3:00 a.m. and don’t let up until nearly noon. Between them and the sheep and the muezzins calling men to prayer, there was quite a ruckus before dawn.

It was a wonder, then, that we were able to hear the owls. We stopped to cut some wild jute by the headlights of the truck, and heard their faint hoo-hoo further out in the fields.

We stopped for breakfast in Léré just after dawn. The place had a bad vibe. Maybe it was the monument to the 2001 rebellion, just outside town, bristling with real guns, that set the tone. Remember that scene in the first Star Wars movie, where Luke Skywalker and Obi Wan Kenobi look for Han Solo in a Tatooine bar? When they walk in, the music stops and all manner of seedy creatures stare at them. Driving into Léré felt like that.

We stopped and chose a place to get some coffee, on a dirty bench at a dirty table covered with a dirty wet tarp. The surly man behind the table took three cups -- I don’t know if they were dirty, I was trying not to look -- and made our coffee: Nescafe, boiling hot water, and lots of Nido condensed milk. Like the previous night’s salad, it was surprisingly delicious. To go with it I bought a cold piece of sandy bread. We hunched on the bench over our coffees and I tore off pieces of bread. Everything -- the sand, the people, their clothes, our food -- looked gray. Everyone slowed down and stared at us, and not in a particularly friendly way. I tore the rest of my bread in half and gave it to the two boys waiting nearby. I have never seen so many flies in my life. I was never uncomfortable on this trip, except there. I could not get out of Léré fast enough.

(And I was not surprised to learn, after my return, that people on official U.S. government business must get prior approval before stopping in many towns north of the Niger -- including Léré.)

As the sun rose higher and higher, we drove through a monotonous landscape on rough and sandy roads. The only things of interest were the brilliantly colored birds. Finally, after hours and hours we started spotting baobab trees, and I felt happy and safe, closer to home.

If Niafounké had looked idyllic the night before, Niono was positively paradisiacal. I had only heard of Niono because of its legendary mosquito problem, so I had pictured it as a backwater dump full of stagnant mud puddles. What I hadn’t known is that the mosquitoes are a direct result of Niono’s extensive canals and advanced irrigation system. Niono, the Venice of Mali! We approached it on an earthen dike dividing paddies of rice and other crops. As we entered Niono I was surprised -- overjoyed -- to see that it was a real town, with block after block of buildings, wide paved streets, and real hotels. The first thing we did was buy bananas and eat them on the spot; we hadn’t had fresh fruit in a week. The second thing we did was have a cup of tea at a hotel café, where we met an American malaria researcher who was leaving town because there were only seven falciparum-carrying mosquitos per household.

From Niono onward, the road was paved and smooth. I dozed off for a little while.

At Ségou, we all reached for our cell phones, turned them on, and awaited a signal.

At Bamako, I chuckled to hear myself say, It’s so cosmopolitan! I’m so glad to be back!

The next place I’ll see? Madagascar, for three weeks, starting tomorrow. [Note to my husband: There better be some peanut butter left when I get back!]