It seems never to have occurred to my Pakistani friend to get canes for his two blind children.  We're working on that.

A folding cane is an engineering marvel - a series of interlocking reflective segments, a hand grip, and a replaceable wear tip, all held together by the same elastic cord that, in a fit of brilliance, forms a wristband when the cane is open and a restraining loop when it is folded.  Like a spring-loaded umbrella, you just kind of launch it outward and it self-assembles, with a series of satisfying, authoritative clicks, demonstrating that "any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic" (Clark's third law).

A cane serves a couple of purposes. 

A cane alerts bystanders and drivers that a person is visually impaired.  Some VI folk resist this visible labeling, even to the point of expertly disguising their impairment in the classroom or when presented with occasions requiring reading.  Most, though, seem to reach contentment by acknowledging the impairment, freeing energy for other needs.

Perhaps more importantly, a cane enables mobility, which is a "gateway drug" to greater independence and confidence.

Mobility arrives in different forms - for some a guide dog, for others a human guide.  A few even echo-locate (similar to a dolphin or bat), by a stream of quiet tongue clicks.  When I was growing up, Dad was an expert with a cane, but preferred to walk with me.  Holding my elbow, a step behind and to the side, he could sense every move.  We were one, and we could fly -- it was a point of vain pride that we could outwalk those around us, even on stairs.

As such a crucial tool, there are a bewildering array of different cane types, lengths, materials, and specialized tips. And, as with any good tool, technique is everything, with various sweep patterns, and underhand/overhand grips optimized for speed or stairs.   As a carpenter with an array of special purpose saws, some VI folk have an array of canes.