Her face stayed glued to the window as we hop-scotched across the Serengeti in the dusty, ten-seat airplane, shifting only on a few occasions to inspect the disposable camera on the cord around her neck. Age eight, I guessed. Nine at the most. French. The conversation between her parents and sister confirmed that.

Despite coaxing from her father, the girl didn't smile as the plane touched down on the dirt airstrip near their safari for the week. The sight of the Masai warrior/camp escort, with his red robe and imposing spear, sent her clutching for mom as soon as the plane doors opened. Her sister, a few years older, walked down the collapsible stairs with equal trepidation.

I forgot about the French family in the coming days as my brother and I flew on to another camp and quickly settled in to one of the most addictive and rewarding lifestyles on the planet safari. Fresh coffee with a smile from a camp worker at dawn; serene bonding sessions with animals of choice during drives in the Land Rover; edifying visits to nearby villages; sepia-tone photo sessions in the afternoon; nighttimes of feasts and song, cigars and stories.

On the plane back to Nairobi, I noticed the same family huddled by the dirt strip runway as we stopped to pick up passengers and mail. Again she clung. Only this time it was to the Masai guide. Her sister cried softly nearby, not wanting to leave the camp either.

I thought about that family on a recent trip to South Africa and Botswana, two of the most striking and inviting countries on the continent. And I vowed to someday take my soon-to-be-born child in tow.

You see, Africa is in every child. It's often our fantasy and comfort, our compass and sense of humanity. As kids, we eat frosted cereals in the shapes of lions and giraffes, and craft elaborate animal migrations across our rooms. We go on backyard big game hunts, rig camps out of bed sheets and branches, and gravitate to the essence of tribal life. Even as we age, we cling to the reminders of Africa – the names of our sports teams and cars, clothes and colognes. In the back of our minds, we know that the world order begins here.

There are many levels of safari camps in Africa. For ease of travel, language, variety of animals, and accommodation, it's tough to beat southern Africa. Kruger National Park's Singita, with its string of designer lodges complete with lap pools and spas, massive wine cellars and showroom suites, and ubiquitous big game, regularly tops many a "World's Best" list.

My favorite high-end camp is the intimate Royal Malewane, located on Kruger's western edge. Here, the best of all worlds meet – five-star rooms and lounges crafted in a classically colonial style, all the trappings of a premier resort and spa amid some of the best game-viewing land in Africa, unrivaled guides and staff who will track down an elusive leopard for that all-important snapshot, then fashion a Bedouin feast in the middle of the bush. Out of Africa meets Out of This World.

But if you want to experience a different type of thrill, grab your children and venture to the camps that welcome kids. There are few sights as rewarding as watching a child spot a waking lion or loping elephant for the first time except, perhaps, you seeing the big game for the first time as well. Something happens to all of us when we reconnect with Africa. Children have a better way of expressing it, but you'll feel the same. I want to cling to my stays there as well.

Ker and Downey, one of the oldest and most reputable safari operators, runs a series of camps throughout Africa. They're a one-stop shop that specializes in crafting safari and adventure vacations to taste, desire, and affordability. In Botswana, where visitors can view game across the plains of the Chobe National Park as well as in the channels of the enormous Okavango Delta, Ker and Downey will ferry you from the airports to the camps, handle all accommodations and meals, and arrange for any side trips you desire.

Shinde is a classic, down-home safari camp on the banks of the Okavango Delta with clean, comfortable rooms and a raised lounge and dining area built amid the trees so that guests feel like they're relaxing in Swiss Family Robinson comfort. Opt for mokoro canoe rides on hot afternoons to scout birds and hippos, or the guide-led game drives in the mornings to track elephants, lions, and giraffes.

Also on the Okavango Delta, Kanana offers eight tented suites, a swimming pool, and a comfortable lounge and campfire around which to share meals and tales of the day's animal sightings.

For those who want a safari experience even closer to the land, there's Footsteps, a portable camp compound that changes location each year. Visitors sleep on cots and in tents, tour the wild on walking safaris, and experience the African wilderness up close and personal. Once you hear the hippos chomping grass outside your tent, you'll know what I mean.

Regardless of accommodation, the important thing is to go. Go feel the rhythm of the wild and our place in it. Go tap into that intuitive sense of home. Your children will thank you and your inner-child as well.

For Reservations and Information:

Ker and Downey http://www.kerdowney.com or 1-800-423-4236. For stays at their camps, arrangements in other locations, or up-to-date information on travel in Africa.

Royal Malewane www.royalmalewane.com

Singita www.singita.com

On your wedding night, your bride should wear a teddy, not clutch one in her arms as deputy marshals whisk her across the country. She should be under the covers instead of draping her face in them to hide from media and friends who've just engaged in a nationwide manhunt.

These are red flags, fiancés of the world. Big, Christo-sized red flags.

Unfortunately, we fiancés often miss any and all signs that there's something wrong in the wedding build-up. We trip over every clue to get to "I do."

The explanation is simple: we're vow-caholics. We gloss over problems and excuse omens, focusing only on that planned walk down the aisle. Trust me on this one. I know. I'm a former sufferer.

My bride-to-be gave me all the signs. She didn't wear the engagement ring most of the time. She was late with the invitations. She even "forgot" to tell her brother until a couple weeks before the wedding.

"Well, those invites are embossed," I convinced myself. "That's gotta be the reason for the delay. And that ring might be causing a rash. Maybe pick up some talcum powder for her. Note to self."

Classic, delusional rationalization of a Grade-A vow-caholic.

And, just like John Mason, my big day came to a crashing halt. My fiancée fessed-up to the red flags and dumped me the week before the scheduled weekend wedding at Sea Ranch, so close to the date that guests were already en-route. The band had cashed their deposit, the flowers waited in vases, and, most important, the wine sat in the trunk of my car.

So I decided to go ahead and have a wedding weekend anyway….just without the whole "I do" part. Don't laugh. There are advantages. You get to spend a few meaningful days with friends and family without having to sport an itchy tuxedo or listen to Vivaldi's Four Seasons ad nauseam.

The bride-less weekend was such a success, I decided to continue the festivities and go on my pre-paid honeymoon to Costa Rica. I canceled the honeymoon suites and chilled champagne, and asked my younger brother Kurt to join me. He readily agreed, but only after I explained I had no plans to carry him over any thresholds.

After two weeks of brotherly bonding and exploring the scenic country in a rented SUV, we decided to extend the honeymoon. Mucho grande. We quit our jobs, sold our houses, tossed our cell phones into the garbage, and continued the trip to 53 countries over the following two years. By the end of the journey, I thought an "engagement ring" was a Thai boxing match and a "maid of honor" was someone who left a couple extra mints on your hotel pillow.

Unlike Scott, I was completely cured of my vow-caholism. Hearing him say that his runaway bride "just needs some space and some time" makes me want to smack him over the head with a unity candle. Give her all the space and time she wants, amigo -- as in, eternally.

Cures? There are many. A month in Rio de Janeiro would do the trick. Or a Las Vegas weekend with a few bad influence/tech savvy friends who'd arrange a boatload of mischief then post it on the web. Call it a sin-tervention.

But the best remedy is also the most necessary time. Detach, as much as possible, from all the wedding plans, media interviews, and advice (including that from newspaper op-eds). Give yourself ample time to see and understand the red flags. Add them up on a sheet of paper. Or two. Or 20. Let them soak in and sting. If you're remotely honest with yourself, you'll realize that the road to the altar should be a much smoother ride, and you'll start seeking a better-suited partner for the journey.

And if John still insists on marrying Jennifer Wilbanks, as he stated this week, I'd be happy to lend him my brother.

His card read Executive Taxi Service.

"Porque taxi executivo?" I asked Victor as he shuttled us down the mountain in his 1978 Toyota to a hotel near the Simon Bolivar Airport. A yellowed air freshener in the likeness of Christ draped from the rear view mirror.

He smiled, grabbed his tie and held it out toward me.

"Executivo," he explained with a forced grin.

"Great, Kurt," I joked to my brother. "You picked a cab driver who charges a premium because he sports an ugly tie."

We agreed on $5 as the price to the hotel. The ride lasted 20 minutes from Caracas. Dumping our bags, we told him we needed another ride to the airport five minutes away. He said he'd do it for $10, knowing cabs stayed clear of the dicey area that time of night. Victor was bad, but he wasn't the worst.

We met Abdullah after a taxi dictator at the one-room airport in Bima, Indonesia refused to let us share a ride into town with the two other tourists on our plane. He had an old white van on its last legs with a cheap stereo that blared tinny Indonesian tunes. His driving style was fully up to island standards, sometimes paying attention to traffic signs, sometimes giving way to other drivers, sometimes keeping his head fixed forward. He brought one wife the first day, a second the next, then asked for a double tip to "feed both families." He was bad, but he wasn't the worst.

Haggling is mandatory for decent cab fares, especially outside Western Europe. Lessons learned: Find the going rate, aim for half price, and then always agree to a fare before entering the car. Prices are lower at the end of cab lines than at the beginning and lower still if you walk 50 yards from the official pick-up stations. Refuse offers for "free" stops at jewelry outlets, tailors or souvenir shops unless you want help your driver make a little money on the side.

We've had many overpriced rides, lost routes and poor drivers. In Russia, every car is a potential cab, in Vietnam every scooter. The taxis are a heap in Siem Reap, far from the best in Budapest and frequently full in Istanbul.

But if you're looking for the world's worst cab driver, touch your finger to a spinning globe and the world will come to a halt on the island of Trinidad.

St. James is the Port of Spain neighborhood where locals point tourists for "nightlife." Smokeys Bar serves cold Carib beers through wire enclosures. No Credit signs hang on each wall. Jerk Chicken stands dot the sidewalks. A supermarket up the street advertises "Adult Diapers $1" on a large wooden sign. St. James is the neighborhood of Douglas, the world's worst cab driver.

Kurt and I were desperately and hopelessly trying to find a redeeming side to Port of Spain. Concluding there was none, we asked a St. James travel agent for the name of a driver to take us to the beach the following morning. Tony laughed at us, saying all the cars and drivers were long taken due to Carnival.

Mid outburst, a man walked into the agency and handed Tony a card. "You guys are in luck," he said, surprised. "Here's the name of a driver named Douglas. Give him a call." We jumped on it.

"Doe-Glass," I could hear through the receiver from across the room. Kurt explained we wanted to go to the beach, and then gave instructions to meet at our guesthouse/Christian rehab center at 11:00 a.m.

"I hope he's there," Kurt said after hanging up. "I didn't understand a word he said." Dressed, backpacks loaded, ready to go the next morning, no Douglas. We waited a half-hour then gave him a call.

"Oh yah mon," he said as if we reminded him it was his birthday. "I be dare soon. Jus need to make waaan stop." Kurt went back to bed. I settled into my book.

Noon, then 12:30 p.m., still no Douglas. We called a few other taxi companies who told us they were fully booked, so we began making other plans.

At 1:00 p.m., a rusted orange Nissan with missing hubcaps and numerous dents rambled into our driveway. A chubby, 30-something man with Indian features and a splotchy black beard rang the bell. He smelled like the previous night's fete.

"Douglas," I said. "We missed you. We were so lonely."

"It's $30," Douglas answered in suddenly understandable English after Kurt probed him on the price. We groaned and told him much shorter rides were $20 at most. He relented with a sheepish grin.

"We need to make a quick stop at the Brazilian Embassy," I said, handing him a map marked with the embassy's location five blocks away. We could have walked.

"No prah-blem," he sang.

Large holes spotted the back dash. A makeshift cloth ceiling draped down, resting on our heads. Knees bent to chins, arms around each other, we barely fit into the car. Two minutes outside the guesthouse, Kurt looked at the gas gauge and saw the car was below empty.

"Don't you need some gas?" he inquired.

"Ooooh yah," he said, nodding his head. Did either of us have any money, he asked. Kurt grumbled and gave him a few bucks.

Starting out again, Douglas waved to several people on opposite sides of the street. His eyes darted back and forth like a front row seat at a tennis match, scanning for any activity other that what took place on the road.

He stopped and asked someone for directions. The conversation quickly shifted from streets to the street parties that took place the night before. After a tap on the shoulder and a couple "let's go" calls from the back seat, Douglas ended the chat and turned the old Datsun onto a one-way street heading out of town.

"Uhh, Douglas," I mentioned. "You're, umm, going the wrong way. It's just a couple blocks over there."

"Ohh-kay mon," he replied, then spun his car 180 degrees to avoid a few oncoming cars.

We directed him the rest of the way, convinced him to wait while we picked up a Visa application at the Brazilian Embassy, then pointed him on the proper road to the beach. He kept his head out the window to shout greetings to an endless stream of friends.

"This guy knows someone on every street, yet doesn't know the streets," I opined. "Amazing."

During the half-hour ride to the beach, Douglas pontificated on the must-see and do highlights of Carnival. We laughed hard from the back seat, partly at the stories but mostly because we could only decipher about one of every five words. Leaning toward him, Kurt tried in vain to play interpreter.

"Any waahn whaaant a beer?" he asked when we reached the beach. He asked for money again, but promised it would be an advance on the $20 fare.

"Maybe the beer will help his navigation skills," I rationalized. "Douglas, we'll see you here at 5:00 p.m." Or 6:00, 7:00 or 9:00, we thought.

We were so fascinated with the Douglas experience, we wound up calling him several times, doing so more for amusement than for transportation. Having no place to go and no deadline to get there, we sat back and enjoyed the rides.

They went something like this. Arriving late, Douglas would ask a ridiculously high price. We'd laugh in unison, then cut the price to something more reasonable. Journeys were accompanied by personal errands "to geeeve a mess-ahge to a freeend." Questions about local landmarks or event schedules drew blank stares, then diatribes about obscure Caribbean subjects in his unintelligible pigeon English.

"You're never going to believe this," Kurt announced late on the one day we didn't need him. "Douglas called to say hi and to see if we wanted to do anything."

"Douglas, you are the world's worst cab driver," I finally told him. He grinned and mumbled something about being "proud to hold de tie-tall."

"No, you don't understand. It's not hyperbole. We've been in 32 countries so far and used many, many cab drivers. You are, hands down, the worst cab driver in the world."

He laughed harder, and then suddenly pulled the car into a friend's driveway. "Jus waaahn mee-nut, mon."

We wanted to say a proper good-bye to Douglas. Unfortunately he never showed up to take us to the airport. He sent his brother instead, who explained Douglas had partied all night and was still too drunk to drive. Douglas instructed his brother to ask for our addresses in case he ever chose to visit the United States.

I hope he does. My house is open. I just won't have him drive.

Like stomachaches on Halloween or athletes who talk about themselves in the third person, there are constants in life beyond death and taxes. So to for life on the road, especially after extended travels. Here's an incomplete list of things you can expect during an upcoming trip:

• The Brits have a genetic disorder that prevents them from applying suntan lotion properly. Just look at those crazy Rorschach sunburn patterns on the next man who orders a Guinness in the middle of the day.
• Your best experience will be something spontaneous.
• You'll change your views on an issue thought to be previously unchangeable.
• Someone will stand up in the airplane before it comes to the gate, prompting a stern warning from the flight attendant.
• Despite the push following September 11 for major changes in air travel, you'll see that security procedures in the rest of the world have changed little.
• You'll get sick. Eventually. I lasted a year, but was finally done in by a Subway sandwich. Serves me right, by the way, for ordering a Subway sandwich anywhere on this planet.
• The longer you're on the road the less you'll stress about things like traffic jams or a lack of hot water.
• You'll feel guilty about not knowing a foreign language, yet believe even stronger that English is the universal tongue.
• Canadian flags will begin to irritate you. You know the ones. They're plastered all over backpacks and clothing by hyper-patriotic Canadians and confused Americans who somehow think they will be immune to terrorist attacks with a red and white maple leaf. Kurt got so tired of them he sewed a Canadian flag on his backpack upside-down and crooked. "Um, mister, I hate to tell you this. But your maple leaf is askew."
• You'll overpay by at least 25%, most of the time never realizing it. Once you do find out, the longer you're on the road, the less you'll care (Kurt excluded).
• After the trip, newspapers will be far more interesting. And you'll shake your head at the shortage of foreign news in all countries.
• You'll also listen with greater interest to a friend's stories about travel.
• Hotels that hoist the world's flags perpetuate falsehoods. The truth is world travelers come from a select few countries. The rest simply can't afford it.
• An American griping about something petty like bus seats that don't recline will reaffirm the notion of the "Ugly American."
• But, if you pay attention to travelers from other countries, you'll realize Americans don't corner the market on ugly.
• And if you talk to enough people, you know that "uglies" from the U.S. and elsewhere are far outnumbered by respectful and curious travelers.
• Even if the trip strays from plan, you'll usually long for the next one within 24 hours of your return.

Travel is the only investment with guaranteed returns. Count on it.