But the prohibition can be worked with. We hung around outside and fell into conversation with a man who said he was the son of the muezzin. After a stern lecture on the correct protocols of entry, he accepted twenty dollars and led us inside, all the while talking loudly on his cell phone. We stumbled into a vast, unlit interior space traversed in both directions by a multitude of vaulted columns disappearing into the upper gloom. The function of a mosque—to unite the temporal with the eternal—was beautifully expressed. Made from the same earth as the floor, the columns seemed to describe the hopes of the faithful to rise above the petty concerns of the world. I felt less confidence for what awaited them above. Puzzled by a persistent squeaking, I looked up—my eyes adjusted to the darkness—to see the ceiling studded with several hundred bats.

The muezzin's son, who Loes and I both doubted was actually the muezzin's son, was nonetheless talkative, so I asked him about the relationship between Islam and animism. Without explaining much, he spoke in a way that I had heard before: respectfully about Islam and furtively, excitedly about animism. Historically, their interconnection is well documented, beginning in the thirteenth century when merchants from the north first introduced Islam to Mali. To convert was to gain membership in an elite trading club, and pilgrimages to Mecca opened up new avenues of commerce with Arabia and Asia. The pragmatic benefits of Islam occupied a different space than the beliefs of animism, with its creation myths, ancestral worship, and agrarian rituals. Mali grew into a truly syncretic society, where even today it isn't unusual for a marabout (an Islamic teacher or scholar) to consult with a village sorcerer.

What continued to puzzle me was the secrecy in which Malians hold their private beliefs. Though the country is officially Muslim, there is no prohibition against following other religions or practices. I had also begun to notice a vagueness bordering on the elusive whenever I asked Malians simple biographical questions about age or birthplace or their children's names. In a people so unfailingly polite and hospitable, it was a glaring anomaly. Little by little, I began to grasp that animism is less nostalgic folklore than a fully operational belief system that ascribes supernatural meaning to every aspect of daily life. Magical stories of river gods, supernatural visitations, and miraculous medicinal cures conjure a world of benevolent spirit allies. But in the shadows, and seemingly more potent, lurks the persistent threat of misfortune in the form of curses, spells, and sorcerer's vendettas. Sharing even minor personal details can give an enemy the necessary opening to put a curse on you. The amulets known as gris-gris that Malians wear are the first line of defense against such spells. Many also keep household fetishes, small sculptures of bone and fur and animal blood, to ward off evil spirits.