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Illustration: PIET GROBLER

I'm a Joburg girl. When I venture onto the roads, it's in a ton of steel. Children are neatly set out in rows, each with a snug three-point seat-belt stretched across the chest. We are surrounded by a nest of furled air bags, ready to inflate at any moment to cushion our noggins from the hard bits. When we cycle, which we do only on quiet roads, preferably on a Sunday afternoon when sensible people are napping, each child has a helmet.

I know that it's war out there, and all you can do is keep your wits about you, wear your flak jacket and soldier on.

Why, then, am I on a scooter on the wrong side of the road, whipping around hairpin bends, to my right, a sheer drop down tumbling rocks to the azure sea?

Why is my daughter ahead of me, perched behind her dad on another scooter, her hair streaming out behind her, unshackled by a helmet? Why is my boy tucked between his dad and the handlebars? In fact, why is my entire family balanced precariously on one rusty, spluttering machine?

We're in Greece, on the car-free (and carefree) island of Spetses. Other than the three or four large Mercedeses (one driven, I'm convinced, by Omar Sharif), which operate as taxis, there are no cars.

There's a bus - I think just the one. There are two trucks that schlep water from a water boat to various parts of the island. There are some horses that clip-clop along, pulling tourists in cheerfully decorated carts. And then there are scooters, lots of them.

The locals are pretty damn good on them . They' re a fearless people - as evidenced by the courageous way they smoke at breakfast time - and helmets are for wussies, but I am filled with panic at the sight of my children perched precariously on these machines .

I worry about my son's bare legs, his round blond head. He feels no such concern.

"You're doing well, Mum," he yells patronisingly.

I fret about my daughter, who has internalised the carefree local attitude and zips past me, both hands raised in triumphant peace signs. "Hold on to Dad!" I shout to her disappearing back.

We head out of town and onto the open road. They're out of sight and it feels as if they are in the tender care of the local deities.

Finally, our destination: the beach.

We swim. We eat. We smile, imagining what the locals would think of our beloved Eastern Cape, where you occasionally have to hang onto your bikini and flatten yourself on the sand to let a terrifying wave go by overhead.

I pack away the water, the sun block, the sea shoes, and it's back on the bikes for the ride home.

My family takes off on their scooter, kicking up the dust and swerving out onto the main road.

Hair flying, bare skin, happy faces: "Cheers Mom, see you back in town...."

Waving, they disappear around the bend. Omar Sharif goes past, and I just accept that he won't run me over. I overtake a horse and cart, nipping by close enough to see the horse's eyelashes and smell its grassy scent. Bravely, I even manage to scratch my nose, steering with just one hand.

I arrive back at the hotel, oh, let's see, 20 minutes behind the others. Remarkably, they are unscathed. The kids are in the pool with their buddies.

I can't help myself: "Guys, not so close to the edge. You'll bang your heads."