Enid the photographer miraculously manages to hold on to her bulky camera during this procedure, but by now we’ve had some practice in this rough-and-tumble game of get-the-guys-in-the-other-4x4. We’re on an Island Safari, and we’re laughing just as hard as our driver, cheering him on.

Much of Barbados was cleared to make way for sugar plantations centuries ago, which means that there’s comparatively little in the way of true wilderness left. Still, our safari takes us to some of the remotest spots on the island, going off the beaten track through sugar cane fields, up boulder-strewn trails, and out to windswept points along the coast. It’s a day of exploration and adventure, bouncing along in the back of the Land Rover, making frequent stops for photos, and bantering with Andrew, our good-natured Bajan guide, who clearly relishes showing us his Barbados.

One of our first stops is Gun Hill Signal Station, where we file up a slope to an enormous white statue of a lion set on a high promontory. Andrew, an accomplished raconteur, tells of the day the islanders woke to find the lion, a symbol of British rule, painted red, yellow, and green: Rasta colors.

Then we’re off again, whisking along the narrow, twisting roads. I’m thankful Andrew’s the one doing the driving, especially as we round a sharp curve heading toward Monkey Leap and a prankster leaps out from the bushes with a bloodcurdling shriek. Yup, it’s the guide who was on the receiving end of the log prank, out for revenge.

We pass a group of day laborers toiling in the hot sun in a sugar cane field. They straighten up slowly, one hand on the small of their backs, as we drive by. The jeep makes an abrupt turn into the field and is lashed by long stalks of sugar cane. "Be careful!" Andrew shouts. "The cane is sharp!" He stops and cuts pieces of it, distributing them to us. They're a peculiarly unpleasant texture, but the sweetness is undeniably refreshing.

On the rugged northeast coast, waves crash against the cliffs, sending plumes of spray through blowholes. Chattel houses are set higgledy-piggledy by the road, some perched precariously on stilts, in the village of Bathsheba, where we make a pit-stop near the famed "Soup Bowl" frequented by daredevil surfers.

We pass a schoolyard full of children who race up to the jeep, mugging and up for the tourists. The frisky youngsters are full high spirits. One boy swings upside down from a tree in a virtuoso display of gymnastic prowess.

"Future Island Safari guide," I think to myself.