The Tuaregs have received more attention from relief aid groups in recent years-some camps use buckets that sport faded U.N. insignia-but still have virtually no contact with the Malian government.

Some nomads have Malian identity cards, usually long-expired, but they generally have never used a government bureaucracy. Most have never traveled to Bamako, the capital. Most do not know that Omar Alpha Konare is Mali's president.

A Tuareg man wraps his head and face as protection against brutal sandstorms that can rise up in seconds.

They shun government services, unless desperate. The nomads near Timbuktu will venture to the government hospital there only as a last resort. Women give birth in their tents. Men heal headaches with a spike of tobacco. Medicinal plants and aspirin donated by tourists and aid workers take care of most other ailments.

There are no schools in the desert. Children learn to read the Koran, the Muslim holy scripture, but receive no other education. From an early age, their lives revolve around caring for their families' animals.

Mohamed El Moktar, center, who is in his 70s, sits in his tent drinking tea with his family during the grueling midday sun.

Every morning, minutes after bowing in prayer toward the burst of white light that signals sunrise, Ahmid Mohamed takes his family's sheep, goats and camels grazing. Then he brings back the camels and takes them to the well for a drink. Then, eventually, he gathers the sheep and goats. The next day, he starts again.

He is 15 years old. He knows nothing else. "I enjoy my life," said Ahmid, whose family was camped about 15 miles north of Timbuktu. "I like taking care of the camels. I don't know the world. The world is where I am."

Nomad woman walks down a dune in the early morning light.

But Ahmid, with slim, serious features and a shadow of a mustache, has dreams. He wondered what school would be like. He wondered about the airplane that split the sky as he spoke. He wondered what it would be like to drive a car.

"I would like to see if driving a car is different from riding a camel," he said. Later that day, some 50 miles east, Inaka and his 10-year-old son, Mohamed, rambled together down a hill near their camp, about to gather the family's sheep, goats and donkeys. The sky, a breathtaking blue, held up a crescent moon, though the sun had not yet set.

The father carried a staff in his right hand and draped his left arm over his slightly built son. Inaka said something, and they laughed. Then, at the bottom of the hill, the father handed his staff to his son, who scampered away to find the animals.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

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