The introduction of translations into the format of these commentaries turns my thoughts to what it is like not to be able to speak the language of the people around you. Of course, the mute, and sometimes the deaf, face this problem in any culture, although differently. I remember an occasion when informal sign and body language were my only recourse in a remote district of Central Africa which had few ties to the colonial government in the distant capital.

I slept well that night, thanks to the snakes. There were two coiled side by side on rocks by the stream where I bathed before sunset. Anyone sensible would have called me a fool for daring to set foot in the water, but it was crystal clear and inviting after the dust of a long day's ride. Of course, I beat the bushes for crocs first. Crocodiles have a nasty habit of lurking in tall grass until they see you standing on the bank. They rush past you swift as the wind. A flip of their mighty tail smacks you head over heels into the drink. They're on you in a flash, sawlike teeth jerking you down till you drown. It's little comfort that you won't be the main course at dinner for quite awhile, though. Wedged among the rocks on the river bottom, you have to be aged to perfection. I wasn't actually all that worried about crocs. There was a hippo pool 'round the bend. A smart croc doesn't live too close to those big guys with the rotten temper.

The snakes were another matter. When I came out of the water and found them on the rocks, I was annoyed. This was a perfect spot for pitching camp overnight. My pup tent was already staked out. I'd already gathered wood for the fire. Darkness was almost upon me. There was no time to scout another site, and although I considered it my temporary domain, in Africa one treats a snake with great respect, at least until determining what kind it is. Deadly black mambas were known to frighten people to death just by standing up in the elephant grass (could be five feet high) and grinning at you from up there. It was in the newspapers all the time.

These serpents didn't seem to mind my presence, but the only feasible route to my campsite lay between them - only a few feet. Being that close could easily be construed as disrespectful. I began to perceive I had a problem here - with no solution in sight, until I saw the children. Half a dozen of them were clustered around my motor scooter, which I had named The Road Angel. My boyfriend in South Africa, a fine artist, had painted it all over with clouds and cherubs. It got a lot of attention in the wilds of Africa as I scooted northward toward Egypt.

Fortunately, I had gathered a towel around me when I rose out of the stream, so I was as dressed as the kids were. The smallest boy, about four, wasn't wearing anything at all. The others had on shorts. One was a girl, perhaps seven, her head and arms sticking out of holes cut in a floral-printed flour sack. It was she who saw me first and babbled with hysterical delight at the stranger rising from the waters.

As they were speaking a native language which made no sense to me, I was able to judge only from their laughter that I was not a terrifying sight. I smiled and hitched the towel tighter around my hips so as not to embarrass myself by inadvertently dropping my only garment to the ground. I stood there in profound hesitation, not knowing which way to go. The snakes blocked my way straight ahead, while boulders made it impossible for me to go around the sides.

One of the boys turned and ran into the forest, coming back a few minutes later with an elderly man who moved with unquestionable authority. He was not tall, but walked with shoulders so erect that he appeared to be taller than he was. He wore a lion skin like a jacket covering his torso, with a long mass of hair still attached to the back, showing it to be the pelt of a magnificent black-maned male. Loose cotton drawers that looked snow white against his tawny skin ended on the upper thigh. His legs were heavily muscled, as were his arms, and he carried with him as a walking stick an eight-foot assegai, the spear used in hunting and killing lions. I guessed that the skin he wore was a trophy from a glorious hunting career.