I. Rutshuru, North Kivu Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC)

"How are your gorillas?" Colonel Bonane asks. The brigade commandante of the RCD (Congolese Rally for Democracy) rebel forces terrorizing eastern Congo, he steps out of a night so complete and starless that it is as if the darkness itself has produced him. Well over six feet (1.8 meters) tall, wearing camouflage fatigues with a green beret folded neatly under an epaulette, he has the powerful, arresting physique of a warrior. All of us—including the park warden, a Congolese mountain-gorilla conservationist named Vital who is acting as my interpreter, and an RCD official assigned to monitor me—stumble out of our plastic chairs, give deferential bows, smile lavishly and painstakingly. We need the colonel to like us. This man can, with a word, save or destroy us.

Bonane is pleased by our display, entreats us to sit down, make ourselves comfortable. "And you," he demands in French of me. "Why are you here?" There is instant silence around the table; his officers level sharp, steady stares at me.

Vital jumps in, explaining that I'm a journalist come to Congo, to their war, in order to see the mountain gorillas. Or, at least, what's left of them. I don't reveal my own, deeper interest: that I'd like to know what motivates people, such as the late Dian Fossey, to save these animals in an area of the world that seems hell-bent on its own destruction.

"Ah, the gorillas!" Bonane laughs. His laugh is deep, resolute, like the crack of a whip. We all come to attention at its sound, wait for whatever is expected of us. "The gorillas!" Bonane exclaims. "I love the gorillas!" He grins and sits back in his chair. His men squeal in laughter: It is a joke. All of the men with me, many of whom have devoted their lives to saving the rare gorillas and who work for the Dian Fossey Gorilla Fund Europe (DFGFE), laugh along with him. You do not want to piss off the colonel.

Overhead, a single fluorescent bulb hums and spits out light; large moths dive into it like kamikazes. The RCD soldiers eye me, their AK-47s leaning daintily against their chairs like parasols. I glare back at them, match their filmy gazes with my own. I don't know what's a more incongruous sight in this seedy outdoor restaurant in this war-exhausted town: a white journalist interested in the gorillas, or a woman. The women in these parts are noticeably absent after dark; they hide themselves to avoid being gang-raped by drunken RCD soldiers. The RCD has almost total control of this area, and I know that only the official presence of the town mayor (a high-ranking RCD crony) and the RCD government monitor keeps me in a safe, hands-off status. My two protectors are starting into yet another large bottle of Primus beer, slurring their words, sharing mzungu (white person) jokes with some of the soldiers nearby. I look into the darkness to the south, where the gorillas are. I wonder if they are hiding, cringing in the shadows of their jungle home. I know I would be.

It is hard to talk about the mountain gorillas and not talk about the chaos surrounding them. Perhaps more than that of any other animal on Earth, these creatures' fate is inexorably tied to war. There are only about 650 of them left. Fewer than half are in Uganda's Bwindi Impenetrable National Park bordering Congo; the others reside farther south in the Virunga Mountains, on a mere 166 square miles (267 square kilometers) of protected land where Rwanda, Uganda, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo (formerly Zaire) meet. Both populations live in the heart of one of the world's most violent and unstable regions, a place rife with corruption and greed, with unchecked exploitation of natural resources and an unfathomable disregard for human life. It was in 1994 that the world got its first enduring taste of this region with the Rwandan genocide. The conflict spilled into neighboring countries as the Hutu militias, known collectively as the Interahamwe—whose war with the minority Tutsi tribe left about 800,000 dead in 100 days—fled into the jungles of eastern Congo to regroup and launch further cross-border assaults. Rwanda and Uganda sent their armies in after them in 1996, ushering in the Congolese civil war. It is a conflict that drew in the armies of Zimbabwe, Angola, Namibia, and other countries, and has created an unending nightmare for the UN. Only educated guesses about the number of dead can be made in a region that hasn't had an official census since 1984, but it is estimated that the war has claimed as many as 4.7 million people—the worst reported loss of life in an armed conflict since World War II.

Her name was Lola,
She was a showgirl.
With yellow feathers in her hair
And a dress cut down to there . . .
At the Copa! Copa-ca-ba-na! . . .
They fell in love.

—Barry Manilow

His name was Carlos. He worked in Rio. He had a beat-up foreign car and a tan like a movie star.

He drove the taxi, straight from the airport—a friendly young Brazilian in an open shirt and sunglasses, the kind of driver who likes to chat with his fares. That's me, his fare, in the backseat. Thing is, Carlos chats in Portuguese. I don't, not yet.

Every big trip starts with a ride and a driver. The cabbie is something like a poor man's tour guide, providing the traveler first crack at connecting with the locals. From the clues in Carlos's Volkswagen, I know he has a girlfriend and loves Jesus, Brazilian soccer, and fresh pine scent. We've mustered one "good morning" (bom dia), two "thank you"s (obrigado), and the fare to where I'm headed—the two-mile (3.2-kilometer) stretch of thongs, discos, and hotels called the Copacabana.

The Copacabana is an easy destination for an americano to remember. Barry Manilow's pop samba about a Brazilian-themed nightclub was as infectious as it was unavoidable, and a huge international hit. Since I'm short on Portuguese, I try disco Esperanto.

"Copa," I sing. "Copa-cabana . . ."

Carlos grins and nods into the rearview mirror. Brazilians like songs, and this seems to be one.

"You know," I say, "Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl . . ."

"Claro, Copacabana," Carlos says. He motions with his open hand, meaning "straight ahead." He has no idea what I'm talking about.

And why should he? For a guy fresh off the plane, Brazil is nothing more than a romantic idyll of seventies pop songs and Wild Kingdom reruns, its iconic metropolis teeming with discos and beaches and petty crime. But for Carlos, this is home.

Stretched across my knees is a map of his country, a bulk shaped something like a great geographical pork chop. It's a humbling sight. What I know about jungles, coffee, and Carnival can't even begin to scratch the surface of a nation that's bigger than the continental U.S., a place that encompasses almost half the landmass of South America. I've given myself two weeks to scratch further.

I've decided to travel clockwise around the chop, to four places I've never heard of—four blank spots on my personal adventure map. I'll send my postcards from this other Brazil.

Outside the window, six million people are tucked into a pocket between the blue Atlantic and bald granite mountains. To my right, high-rises meet the sea. To my left, endless hills of brick tenements blaze in morning light.

"Olha!" says Carlos. He points my tourist eyes up to one of the continent's most famous landmarks, the hundred-foot statue of Christo Redentor, standing with arms spread to the sea. In Rio de Janeiro, Christ the Redeemer is a road sign. Jesus faces east, where a Portuguese navigator mistook Guanabara Bay for a river mouth on New Year's Day, 1502, giving the city its name: January River. Christ's arms stretch north and south, separating the modern city into zones of rich and poor, downtown and shantytown. Arms wide, head up, the Redeemer also looks a bit like a giant wide receiver, open and waiting on a long pass from God himself.

His name was Je-sus, I think. He wants the foot-ball.

This, I know, is trouble. I hadn't counted on getting stuck with the "Copacabana" song. The song virus is the kind of sickness that can follow a traveler all trip. That afternoon it follows me back to the Rio airport. Then four hours west, to the city of Cuiabá in Brazil's Wild West.

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What fascinated me most about my new cell in Indonesia were the three-inch steel meat hooks mounted high on the grubby wall. I guess that's one good thing about jail: It gives you time to ponder the great mysteries of life, like the purpose of certain cell-block accessories.

I confess: I had illegally paddled a dugout canoe down the Sembakung River from Malaysian Borneo to the Indonesian side of the island to protest the sealed border. But it's not just defiant acts that can get you tossed into a foreign jail. Car accidents, financial disputes, too much liquid fun, avaricious cops—any and all can spell big trouble in a small town. And when a little sharia, Napoleonic Code, or tribal law gets applied to your gaffe—presto!—you could be looking at 5 to 20 in a kennel not fit for a dog.

The U.S. government says about 2,500 Americans are arrested overseas each year, with one-third of those busts drug-related. Dick Atkins, legal counsel for International Recoveries LLC, claims the number is three times higher. Atkins, whose outfit works with insurance companies and groups such as Amnesty International, says the discrepancy is due to those arrests that get finessed before charges are officially filed, as well as countries not reporting arrests of foreigners. As the top "who ya gonna call?" guy, Atkins provides a free initial consultation (215-977-9982; 215-869-8686) and the following jail-dodging advice.

Speed Dialing
Atkins's first rule: Solve it fast. The longer, deeper, and uglier it becomes, the less likely you can talk or "tip" your way out of trouble. Always travel with an international cell or satellite phone so you can get on the horn quickly with Atkins, who will call in local counterparts, sometimes reaching them within minutes. He once had a doctor and a lawyer at a police station in Venezuela before the sweating client was even booked. The lawyer was there to work out a solution, and the doctor was on hand to insist that it would be detrimental to his new patient's health if he were to check into the Black Hole Motel. If you do end up in the slammer, your jailers will usually notify the nearest American consulate. But in many parts of the world the call is not automatic—you must request it. The consul will, among other things, provide a list of English-speaking lawyers, handle the transfer of money and information, and intervene if you are mistreated.

Spreading the Word
If quick intervention doesn't work, get the word out, either on your own (if you have phone privileges) or via the consulate. The more pressure and people you can bring to bear on the problem, the better. Even your congressman can put the screws to the consulate to make sure you are being monitored. Contact the U.S. Capitol switchboard (202-224-3121), which will transfer your call to your representative's office.

Strictly Cash
Guilty or innocent, you often need money in a foreign jail—sometimes just to stay alive. If the consul can't play bagman, ask the lawyer recommended by Atkins or by the consul to bring you cash. But be prepared to settle in: Bail is rarely set for foreigners, because judges assume you will do just that—bail.

Me? I was able to secure my freedom from the Indonesian jail with a dash of diplomacy and, of course, compensation to the border police for the shock and emotional stress I'd caused them. The meat hooks? Prisoners hung clothes on them to dry—or so my grinning jailers said as they helped me launch my dugout canoe so I could continue downstream to the next town—and the next arrest.

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The Houdini of fast escapes from international prisons, attorney Dick Atkins advises on how to get out—and stay out—of jail while traveling abroad. Plus, six international tourist traps. Read about staying out of the slammer in our online exclusive >>