The minivan slips away from the coast just after dawn, the ocean receding into a ribbon of blue as the road climbs toward volcanic ridgelines. By mid-morning the air smells like wet earth and cane sugar; sunlight finds gaps in the canopy and the guide points out a cragged rim where Trou aux Cerfs—an old volcanic crater—keeps its bowl of mist. You spend the day moving between landscapes that refuse to behave the same way twice: sacred highland lakes, forested gorges that dare you to look over the edge, and an amphitheater of waterfalls that thunder their own clock.