Les bus... J’adore les bus, l’ambiance dans les gares routières. Je perds la notion du temps quand les trajets sont longs. La nuit, mes sensations changent.
C’est un moment de grâce quand, seul, je peux contempler les paysages bordant la route ou, simplement, penser. Il m’arrive aussi de lire et biensûr, de profiter des rencontres. Mais ce que je préfère c’est ne rien faire... Me laisser avancer dans l’espace et le temps.
Heureux cependant quand j’arrive! La boûche pâteuse, les jambes lourdes...et le coeur battant à l’idée de découvrir enfin une ville attendue ou inconnue.
Au Japon, à ma descente de l’avion, je trouve très vite le bus pour Joyo-Shi, près de Kyoto. Je suis dans un état second, mélange de fatigue et d’excitation. La lumière est éclatante mais il fait frais. Le bus doit partir à 10h45... Je guette l’horloge! OUI, ce n’est pas une légende: l’heure qui bascule à 10h45 entraîne le démarrage du moteur et le départ. Quelle précision! Je suis bien au Japon.
En Egypte, il y a pas mal de contrôle à l’approche du canal de Suez. Plusieurs check-point aussi dans le Sinai. Je m’endors. Sans arrêt, l’assistant du chauffeur me réveille pour que je sois présentable aux militaires montant dans le bus. Rien à faire, je replonge aussitôt dans mon sommeil. Il me secoue et semble exaspéré de mon refus de coopérer.Il gueule en me disant “you’re drunk, you’re drunk”...Non, je suis juste incapable de maintenir mes yeux ouverts. Et de toute façon, aux contrôles, en voyant mon passeport français, on me laisse tranquille en me félicitant pour Chirac et Zidane.
Au Myanmar, ancienne Birmanie, la saison des pluie anéantit les routes. Le labeurs des travailleurs forcés, essentiellement des femmes, qui placent une pierre à côté de l’autre ne sert pas à grand chose. Les mosaiques recouvertes de sables sont rincées et emportées bien vite. La distance entre Yangoon et le Lac Inle n’est pas énorme...500 km peut-être. Mais les 27 heures de voyage m’ont paru bien longues. D’abord, des paysages assez monotones de rizière puis ...la nuit! Des montagnes, je n’ai pu que ressentir les innombrbles virages. Je fonds à cause de la chaleur humide.Les vitres transpirent mais les fenêtres restent fermées. Il y a eu une pause après 4 heures de trajet, puis, plus rien. Un seul chauffeur conduit. Il mâche sans cesse du Bethel. Sa joue est énorme et, de temps en temps, il crache couleur rouge sang. Au matin, la brume enveloppe les montagnes couvertes de végétation . Il fait frais maintenant, mais à quoi bon, on est presque arrivé. Le bus s’arrête... j’en profite pour dormir. Deux heures plus tard, nous n’avons pas bougé... les pluies ont provoqué la chute de rochers. Il faut attendre. Le chauffeur est hilare, il me conseille de continuer à pied. Il me récuperera au prochain village, Kalaw. Je marche une petite heure et mange quelques fritures de mais, et une soupe. Toujours ce mélange: je suis exténué, las, mais bien! Heureux d’être là.
Au Cambodge, entre Kratie et Phnom-Penh se trouve un village dont la spécialité est l’arraignée frite. C’est très apprécié mais, bizarrement, je n’ai pas faim! Tout le monde déguste ça et voudrait bien me faire gouter. Je ne suis pas courageux. Une araignée, pourquoi pas, on mange bien de crevettes. Mais cette odeur qui sature l’air du bus. C’est presque ennivrant, plutôt écoeurant.
Aller de France en Bulgarie en bus, d’une traite, a été un bonheur. je n’ai rien vu des pays, mais ce n’était pas le but! Ah, l’ambiance des frontières serbes ou bulgares... J’ai vu le soleil se lever sur les alpes slovènes, puis, me suis rendormi sur l’autoroute hongroise, entourée de plaines grises et baignée de pluie. Les faubourgs de belgrades et les montagnes au sud de la Serbie m’ont rempli de joie. Puis je suis retombé dans un demi sommeil, où mes pensées sur le voyage à venir et sur ma vie en général allaient librement.
Je croise souvent des personne qui s’ennuient lors des déplacements. Le bus est pourtant pour moi, le lieu idéal de tous les voyages intérieurs.
Houla!!! Tu commences une discussion glissante (glissante dans le sens qu'elle va vitre croître)!!! D'ailleurs, incroyable que personne n'ait encore lancé la fameuse discussion sur "les bus". Comme disait Grobi, qui n'est plus sur ce forum et c'est bien dommage, "on pourrait écrire des livres entiers sur les histoires de bus". surtout les chicken-bus. Et en fait, je pense qu'on peut écrire des encyclopédies sur les histoires de bus. Tout le monde s'accorde là-dessus: en voyage, les moments les plus épiques, les meilleures rencontres, les moments les plus durs, les plus marquants, sont souvent, presque toujours, dans des bus. D'ailleurs, il avait une blague:
Devinette: Combien de personne peut-on faire entrer dans un chicken-bus?
Réponse: voir à la fin de ce message
Alors, je suis sûr que sur ce forum, vu tous les routards qui routardisent depuis, pour certains, plus de quarante ou cinquante ans, il risque d'y en avoir, des histoires de bus. Déjà, j'adore les tiennes, et comment tu les as écrites.
Hier soir encore, alors que nous raccompagnions une amie dans la voiture, j'en suis arrivé à raconter une de mes "escapades" en bus les plus marquantes. Attendez un peu, que je retrouve mon journal, que je recopie ce qui est recopiable, et je la poste ici. Mais de toute façon, même si cette histoire restera un souvenir peu banal pour moi, ce n'est qu'une histoire de bus parmi des millions d'autres. Et une pensée pour les populations locales qui, elles, ne font jamais ça "just for fun". Elles, ça ne les amuse pas du tout de mettre 30 heures pour faire 450 km et d'avoir à descendre en plein nuit dans la boue jusqu'aux chevilles pour pousser le bus enlisé. Ca ne les amuse pas, et pourtant, ce sont eux qui se marrent le plus. Ils se marrent, dans les mares, mais n'en ont jamais marre. Chaque histoire de bus est une leçon de vie.
Finalement, en voici une autre, vécue quelques semaines avant dans la même région, plus courte, par respect pour la productivité de ceux qui bossent:
Dimanche 21 novembre 2004, 20h, hôtel Central, Wiwili, Nord du Nicaragua
(…)
Nous tentons le stop, de saut de puce en saut de puce, sur cette route que nous connaissons déjà, avec des temps d’attente prohibitifs à chaque fois, qui nous donnent de Wiwili une impression d’Eden de plus en plus inaccessible au fur et à mesure que les heures défilent. La pluie complète le tableau morose de cette journée post-défonce.
(…)
Nous décidons finalement de monter dans le prochain bus. L’attente est longue, mais nous la passons avec des enfants surgis de la demie maison située au carrefour où nous sommes échoués. Nous nous sourions, et discutons un peu. Le bus arrive finalement, cahin caha, sur cette piste défoncée, en slalomant entre des nids de poule qui se transforment progressivement en flaques. Nous montons, car, même si ce bus est évidemment bondé, une foule est fortement compressible. Les enfants nous disent au revoir mais nous ne les voyons pas entre les vitres pleines de boue. De toute façon, il y a tellement de monde dans l’allée centrale qu’on ne voit presque pas les vitres. Nous arrivons dans une ville où il faut changer de bus. Nous en profitons pour manger dans un « comedor » quelconque, gras, sale, et hostile, en essayant de ne pas prêter attention à tous ces gens qui nous prêtent attention, comme si nous étions des extraterrestres.
L’autre bus arrive trop rapidement, nous n’avons que le temps de payer, de ramasser les sacs et de courir, les mains pleines de jus de poulet. Nos sacs vont sur le toit, bondé de sacs de cafés et de travailleurs saisonniers qui vont d’une exploitation de café à une autre (nous sommes dans le cœur caféier du Nicaragua, à la période de la récolte). Nous sommes parqués à l’intérieur et le bus repart sans coup férir. Trop inquiet pour les affaires laissées sans notre surveillance dans cette jungle humaine, je finis par monter de force pour rejoindre la foule du toit. Philippe reste en bas, debout, la nuque de son trop grand corps contorsionnée pour faire tenir le tout sous la paroi du plafond, trop basse.
J’arrive là-haut en escaladant l’échelle, en évitant les grappes de gens déjà accrochés à cette échelle. Je vis un moment fort de mon voyage. Un monde hostile s’ouvre d’abord à moi. Sur ce toit, ce n’est qu’un entassement de sacs, de gens, de pneus, de vélos, de troncs d’arbres indéplaçables. Les gens, saouls pour la plupart en cette heure avancée de l’après midi, marchent sur les sacs et sur les autres gens. Ils ont une canette de bière à la main, et ne font pas attention à la tenir droit, notamment lorsque le bus roule dans un trou, ce qui arrive plusieurs fois minutes. La bière vient décorer les sacs, ou les gens. Nos sacs n’échappent ni à la règle du piétinement ni à celle des renversements. Evidemment, sur ce toit, inutile de préciser qu’il n’y a que des hommes. Ils ont absolument tous une casquette, un tee-shirt et une moustache. Ils me regardent bizarrement, ou boivent, ou se déplacent beaucoup, marchant sur ma cuisse sans s’en rendre compte. Je suis au début extrêmement stressé, et m’en rends rapidement compte. Je me dis qu’il n’y a pas lieu, et que mieux vaut, dans ces cas là, rester détendu, parce que le chemin est encore long, et qu’il vaut donc mieux qu’il soit bien vécu. De plus être stressé attire les ennuis, alors qu’être calme attire les bonnes choses. Les branches et les fils électriques arrivent parfois vite et bas, et tout le monde, comme un seul homme, se penche d’un côté, ou de l’autre. Il recommence à pleuvoir. Un des travailleurs, de ceux qui me regardaient très bizarrement, termine sa troisième bière, et me parle. Il m’invite à prendre un café chez lui lorsque nous arriverons à Wiwili. Je me détends encore un peu plus, en me disant qu’une fois encore, « ça marche, il faut rester en mode ‘’ouvert’’, c’est tellement mieux ».
Le voyage se prolonge, les heures passent, la pluie a cessé, et il y a de moins en moins de gens et de sacs, et de bière sur les sacs. J’ai de plus en plus de place, je suis installé comme un roi, vautré sur les sacs à dos, pendant que Philippe s’ennuie royalement en bas. Je vois des paysages magnifiques, et, tout comme lorsque je suis dans une remorque de pick-up en stop, je suis à l’air libre et voit à 360 degrés. Je prends parfois des branches dans la figure, avec la visibilité qui décroît avec le jour, mais étant donnée la vitesse du bus, c’est supportable. Le voyage dure trois heures. Sur la fin, les étoiles décorent la voûte céleste entre les branches, et les lucioles décorent les arbres.
Arrivés à Wiwili, le mec de tout à l’heure m’a oublié depuis longtemps, nous prenons nos sacs, et Philippe est nettement moins enchanté que moi. Nous trouvons immédiatement une chambre qui sent mauvais dans un hôtel miteux mais qui a au moins l’énorme mérite de contenir une cuisine prometteuse dans laquelle nous sommes autorisés à pénétrer. Les courses sont faites, ne reste plus qu’à « attaquer la bouffe ». Gare !
Pour illustrer, un dessin de bus, fait au Guatemala, mais ils se ressemblent
Moi aussi j'adore les bus !
Au delà de la rencontre avec les gens et la découverte de paysages en travelling comme dans un film de Jarmush, il y a les odeurs : La famille slovaque qui a fait provision de sandwitchs au salami, et qui mange pour désser des bananes (j'adore les bananes mais dans un bus cela devient une arme redoutable) les poules d'une femme peule en partance pour un marché, qui chient dans l'allée centrale l'odeur des freins qui chauffent dans les descentes vertigineuses de l'Atlas/... toutes ces effluves peu agréables sur le moment mais qui construisent des légendes
Là je pars pour 6000 km de transport en commun à travers le Sahara, je vous raconterai !
Ceux qui bossent te remercient de cette fenêtre d'évasion 😊
"Les choses nous rendent regard pour regard. Elles nous paraissent indifférentes parce que nous les regardons d'un air indifférent. Mais pour un oeil clair, tout est miroir." - Bachelard
Merci Loopkin pour ce beau récit...
J'en attend d'autres...
J'ajoute une photo de bus sur la route de Mandalay...La mousson était exceptionnelle!
Ce jour là, nous avons roulé une centaine de kilomètres dans un mètre d'eau. Les birmans, tout sourire ne semblait pas souffrir de la situation. Moi aussi, je prenais ça avec le sourire... Puis, tout à coup, il y a eu une rumeur dans le bus, des discussions... Le bus s'est arrêté et on a sorti mon beau sac à dos de la soute pour que surtout, il ne soit pas trempé! Je n'y avait même pas pensé et cette mesure d'exception, comme toujours, m'a un peu gêné. Dans le bus, les gens s'excusaient de la mousson! Incroyable...
Cela se passe aux Bahamas.
Nous prenons régulièrement un bus de ville et pure coïncidence nous avons souvent le même chauffeur. Nous sympathisons et nous avons même de franches parties de rigolade. Il m'indique mêmequ'il me voit bien avec un chapeau type colonial en paille blanche. Pour lui faire plaisir je me l'achète et nous sommes repartis pour de bons moments amusants. Je lui fais part de mon intention de visiter l'île et lui demande les coins à visiter. Il me dit d'être à l'arrêt du bus le lendemain matin. Je pensais qu'il allait demander à un copain de nous faire visiter.
Le lendemain nous le voyons arriver avec son bus de ville avec quelques dizaines de voyageurs. Il demande à tout le monde descendre et nous voilà partis pour un tour d'île en bus de ville pour 4 personnes. Il nous a emmené dans des endroits pas possible, des villages reculés, dans des écoles pour nous démontrer que bien qu'anglophone, le créole est enseigné aux bahamas.
Les Bahamas ont peu d'attrait à part les casinos et les plages. Le contact avec la population et surtout avec ce chauffeur restera un grand moment de nos voyages.
Mali, gare de Sévaré, le bus en partance pour Sikasso.
La nuit est tombée depuis quelques temps mais le contrôleur ne veut rien entendre. Moi la française je dois payer un supplément pour mes bagages car je suis "riche". Rien à faire, il est hors de question de céder à ce chantage. Mon ami malien fini de règler la chose sans débourser un CFA de plus et nous pouvons monter dans le bus.
Là ce sont des rangées de 3 places, mais pas un fauteuil n'a de housse. On s'assois directement sur la mousse quand il y en reste ! quel confort pour une nuit de bus, mais bon je souris de cela et m'assied coincée entre mon ami guide et un autre malien qui s'est déjà endormi.
Le bus doit être poussé pour démarer ! mais le problème c'est qu'une fois le moteur lancé le chauffeur n'a pas freiné a temps et a renversé l'étal d'une vendeur de cigarettes et de multiples babioles. Branle bas de combat pour voir si personne n'est blessé dehors. Un militaire de voyage dans le bus descend mitraillette au point, dis à tout le monde de se calmer. L'ordre est donné aux gens pour pousser le bus en marche arrière pour dégager l'étal ravagé. Heureusement pas de blessé. Je souffle mais j'ai eu un moment de panique tout de même.
Le bus peut enfin partir sur une route pleine de trous. Que le voyage commence.
Karine
On dit que la nature en nous donnant 2 yeux, 2 oreilles mais qu'une seule bouche a voulu nous obliger à moins parler pour mieux voir et entendre.
Très chouette sujet ca, les bus... Effectivement, on a tous des histoires de bus à raconter...
J'adoooore voyager sur les toits des bus... Il n'y a qu'en Inde ou ca m'arrive. La 1ere fois, voila:
"Lundi 1/12
Après avoir traîné toute la journée, nous avons presque raté le dernier bus pour Hospet. Le délire !
Le bus était complet, et le toit était presque rempli de bagages, mais aussi de passagers !
Une allemande qui s’installe et le bus qui avance, on crie, tape sur la carrosserie pour que le conducteur stoppe, je grimpe à toute vitesse avec mon sac par le petit escalier à l’arrière, puis Olivier, mais ensuite le bus redémarre et n’a pas l’air de vouloir à nouveau s’arrêter pour que Françoise puisse monter. Enfin après plein de cris à nouveau, le voilà qui s’arrête une dernière fois. Françoise toute essoufflée s’assied à côté de moi. Je lui annonce un « Welcome on board »! Le coucher de soleil du toit de ce bus indien est le plus folklorique que j’ai jamais vu ! Il fallait faire attention aux branches d’arbres, et se baisser souvent. Les Indiens n’aiment pas trop que les occidentaux voyagent sur les toits, c’est les places les plus mortelles en cas d’accident…
Arrivés à Hospet, on s’est trouvé un petit hôtel, Françoise à ronflé toute la nuit…Levé à 4h 30, je suis dans un état second…
Le bus de 06h n’est jamais venu, Shanti... Celui de 9 heures non plus…. Shanti… 11h, un bus part pour Hubli, nous le prenons, il est presque vide, je ne parviens pas à dormir bien sur, ce n’est pas un bus à étoiles et fauteuils inclinables, mais avec l’Indien et sa poule ficelée dans un sac d’osier hurlant des cot cot non-stop, c’est très typique comme dirait un guide de voyage… Vive les voyages… Je suis crevée, épuisée… On s’engueule avec un coolie à l’arrivée à Hubli..."
En Iran cette année...
"Le taxi collectif de Kaleybar a Ahar ne respectait pas du tout la limitation de vitesse de 60km/h max, vu qu'il foncait a du 170km/h!!! Pili coincé entre le changement de vitesse et moi, moi coincée entre Pili et la portière, m'accrochant comme je pouvais... La route longant les montagnes, une fois à gauche, une fois à droite...
Au Pakistan... 14 heures de bus inerminable, seule femme dans le bus. Trois stop. Deux pour la prière en plein désert, le 3eme pour boire un thé et manger un paquet de biscuit. Arrivée dans une ville bien musulmane (Quetta), seule, à minuit...
Encore en Inde, un des plus beaux moments de ma vie!!!
"
6/6/05
Réveil en douceur, et départ de Lamayuru en douceur.
Vers 14h, Mick et moi se mettons à faire du stop. Quelques minutes plus tard, un camion arrive et s’arrête. On monte, au-dessus de la cabine du conducteur dans une espèce de grande boite sans toit, cheveux au vent… Le délire…
La route, toujours au pied d’une vallée, est entourée de ses belles collines et montagnes solennelles enneigées, dont les sommets se découpent sur le ciel bleu…
Installés comme nous sommes, sans fenêtres autour, ni toit, quelle liberté…
Ce paysage à 360° est époustouflant…
Pendant bien trois heures qu’à pris le voyage, nous sommes restés avec un de ces sourires de bonheur sur le visage!!! Ah oui ce qu’il est donc bon de voyager pour vivre de tels moments, de telles sensations, de voir tant de beautés… J’ai trouvé mon moyen de locomotion préféré ! Je n’hésiterai pas pour la suite :D
Quel moment de pur bonheur…"
Au Kenya, de Diani Beach pour rejoindre Mombassa, j'arrive à la "gare des bus"... Du monde partout, je me renseigne et... Grève des bus...
Bon, une seule solution pour attraper mon train au soir pour Nairobi, le stop...
Parvat' faisant du stop seule au Kenya... J'suis pas à l'aise quand même... Bon, j'y vais. Direct une voiture s'arrête, et m'emméne à Mombassa. Le conducteur, du coin, m'a gentiment déposé, sans aucun problème :o)
Les matatous au kenya, c'est quelque chose quand même... Rien que monter dedans et c'est déjà toute une histoire bien folklo :)
Et puis en Birmanie pour aller au Rocher d'Or, cet espèce de camion transportant une cinquantaine de gens, touristes et locaux, obligés de garder les jambes ouvertes pour laisser un peu de place au dos du voisin de devant :D ... Inoubliable...
Fainéanter dans un monde neuf est la plus absorbante des occupations... (N.Bouvier)
Il est 18h ce 26 mai 2001 en bolivie ...nous revenons de 6 jours de reve dans le sud Lipez avec ascension du Licancabur, laguna collorada et salar d'uyuni bref encore toutes ces images dans les yeux et il nous faut rejiondre la Paz Achat des billets de bus jusqu'à Oruro et vers 18h on embarque dans un bus plus tout jeune les 2 premières heures s'installe un froid sibérien heuresement nous avions prévu nos duvets pour dormir un peu ; ma tete s'appuie contre le carreau mais quoi : il y a de la glace sur la vitre intérieure ! Vont suivre ensuite 7 heures de secousses initerrompues ...le bus tangue, dérappe, a travers les vitres gelées on ne voit rien qu'un nuage de poussière permanent : la route est une piste Parfois j'ai eu l'impression d'etre dans un avion traversant un orage sans fin, plusieures fois nous avons dit ça y est on va se renverser et avec tout ça la musique à fond... arrivés vivants à 4h30 à Oruro... 15 minutes plus tard bus de grand luxe pour La Paz arrives vers 8h du mat dormi à l'hotel jusqu'à midi En prenant la douche pour me secouer un peu j'ai compté pas moins de 4 bleus ( echymoses ) sur les jambes et les bras ...
Ca ne prend pas tant que ça, je suis un peu déçu. Je pensais que les vf-autes auraient plus d'histoires de bus à raconter.
Je relance donc par une autre histoire, toujours au Nicaragua, toujours en chiken Bus. Ca s'est passé il y a un an, dans la région des Misquitos, des indigènes qui vivent le long du Rio Coco et de la côte Caraïbe, à cheval entre Nicaragua et Honduras. Nous sortions d'un périple sur ledit Rio, de plus de deux semaines, en pirogues, où nous avions vécu des trucs durs, des expériences fortes, et avions pris notre content de baffes pour occidentaux. Bref, du sacré voyage à la root, et on aspirait désormais à un peu de repos.
Mardi 7 décembre 2004, 7h30 hospedaje Mar Azul, Puerto Cabeza, Nicaragua
La journée d’hier commence à Waspam, Nicaragua, où nous nous levons, après avoir dormir toute une nuit réparatrice, dans de vrais lits, après ces deux semaines passées sur le Rio Coco. De grands lits, avec de vrais matelas, et une moustiquaire. Mon hamac est resté dans mon sac à dos cette fois là. Nous reparlons ensemble de la veille, dimanche soir, où nous avions voulu célébrer notre reconnection à la planète. Nous avions enfin pu trouver un cybercafé, alimenté par un groupe électrogène, et connecté par une liaison satellite. Cher, mais devenu tellement nécessaire après tout ce temps passé sans Internet. La police nous avait ensuite arrêtés, fait monter sans ménagement dans la remorque de leur pick-up, et nous avaient ramenés de force à notre hôtel, nous interdisant de ressortir le soir, tant ce bourg était mal famé, ce qui était sans doute vrai.
Nous en rions encore, faisons nos sacs, et nous dirigeons vers le croisement d’où doit partir le bus pour Puerto Cabeza. Puerto Cabeza est sensé être le point d’aboutissement de notre parcours commencé à Wiwili il y a plus de deux semaines. La fin de la descente du Rio, trop méandreuse, ne se justifie plus, d’autant plus que le réseau ‘’terrestre’’ reprend jusqu’à la côte. Le bus est là, déjà bien plein et se prépare à partir. Nous remettons donc comme la veille notre petit déjeuner pour plus tard. Nous trouvons chacun un siège, l’un derrière l’autre, du côté de l’allée. Philippe s’assied à côté de Veronica, une demie pute rencontrée la veille dans un restaurant sans nourriture, qui va le harceler tout le trajet. Nos sacs n’ont pas d’autre option, comme toujours, d’aller s’entasser au fond du bus, avec les autres bagages.
Dans ce voyage, nous aurons tout eu. Cela commence avec le bus qui est, évidemment, bondé. C’est heureux que nous soyons assis. Derrière moi, un enfant à la jambe cassée, emballée dans un pansement de fortune, est allongé sur deux ou trois membres de sa famille. Sur ma droite, de l’autre côté de l’allée centrale, une vieille très vieille se recroqueville chaque fois plus à chaque nouveau cahot. Elle est vraiment très très vieille. Ensuite, il y a la ‘’musique’’, qui hurle encore plus fort que d’habitude dans des baffles qui ne sont pas faites pour cela, et qui sont placées juste au-dessus de nos têtes. C’est un grésillement insupportable, à la limite du seuil occidental de la douleur. Puis, l’évangéliste intégriste exalté de service monte. Le chauffeur coupe enfin la musique. Rapidement, j’en viens à souhaiter qu’il la remette. Le discours éraillé que le fou fait à tue tête, transpirant la haine, la folie, l’intolérance, nous casse encore plus fort les oreilles. Ensuite, vient une oasis de bonheur. Le car s’arrête pour la pause du petit déjeuner, dans un comedor où, comme d’habitude, les femmes sont extrêmement désagréables, et ne comprennent rien à ce qu’on leur dit. Il faut dire que certaines ne parlent même pas espagnol. Nous mangeons le gallo pinto habituel (riz et haricots rouges), puis repartons. La route devient véritablement mauvaise. Un môme vomit au milieu de l’allée. Personne ne réagit, tout semble normal. Chez ces gens qui ne connaissent même pas le papier hygiénique, et qui, à la différence des arabes, n’ont aucune technique parallèle, le vomi n’est pas caractérisable comme désagréable. Ce n’est pas sale. Il commence à pleuvoir à verse. Les gens remontent les fenêtres, ce qui diminue d’autant les capacités aérantes du bus. Lors d’un arrêt au milieu de la forêt, une dizaine de personnes portant des instruments de musique trempés montent et s’installent dans l’allée et au fond, à moitié sur nos sacs. Entre temps, le môme a remis ça. Tous ces gens piétinent allègrement ses exploits et les dispersent aux quatre vents dans toute l’allée avec leurs chaussures et leurs sacs. Je suis stressé. Je me retourne en permanence pour voir si personne : un, ne vomit sur nos sacs, deux, ne marche sur nos sacs, trois, ne vole rien dans nos sacs. Mais la foule est trop compacte, et il y a trop d’instruments à corde séchant de la pluie qu’ils ont essuyé. Je ne vois donc plus les sacs, ce qui me stresse d’autant plus. Philippe ne s’occupe absolument pas de cela, il doit gérer les assauts de plus en plus intensifs de sa nymphomane de voisine, qui, dommage pour lui, est excessivement laide.
L’odeur devient dure. La pluie s’arrête. Les fenêtres s’ouvrent, sauf celles du fond, qui étaient déjà ouvertes, car personne ne s’était soucié de les fermer. Les sacs doivent être totalement trempés. J’en ferai le constat amer lors de l’unique grande pause qui suivra. Après cette dernière, le bus recommence à tressauter dans tous les sens sur la piste défoncée, et la vieille vieille sort une bassine, se croyant obligée de remplacer au pied levé le môme expressif de tout à l’heure. Elle fait la chose discrètement, et la refera à plusieurs reprises le long du parcours. A la fin, la route n’est qu’une succession d’ornières gorgées d’eau et de boue, presque infranchissables. Nous avançons très lentement. Nous finissons par arriver à Puerto Cabeza après plus de cinq heures et à peine une centaine de kilomètres.
La suite de ces aventures est coton aussi; mais ce serait hors sujet, puisqu'il ne s'agit plus d'histoires de bus. Jusqu'au lendemain. Oui, le lendemain seulement, ce fut une nouvelle histoire de bus, et une sacrée histoire aussi, celle-là!
J'enchaîne, j'enchaîne, puisque peu sont ceux qui veulent bien nous faire part de leurs expériences en bus:
Voici la suite du voyage précédent, cela se passe le lendemain. C'est le trajet de 450 km effectué en trente heures dont je parlais au tout début. Donc, toujours au Nicaragua, de Puerto Cabeza, capitale des Misquitos, port laid et dangeureux situé sur la côte Caraïbe, vers Boaco, dans la région centrale, plus trop loin de Managua, la capitale.
Mardi 7 décembre 2004, 12h00 comedor du terminal, Puerto Cabeza
Je vais effectuer un voyage qui, je pense, va être plus dur que le voyage de sept jours dans le Transsibérien, même si celui-ci ne va durer que vingt-quatre à vingt-six heures jusqu’à Managua, n’arrivant que demain dans l’après midi après avoir roulé toute la nuit depuis 13h00 aujourd’hui. J’imagine d’avance la galère. Cela peut cependant donner lieu à des rencontres cocasses. Heureusement, je suis bien reposé, j’ai déjà ma place, je serai donc assis, et je vais dans l’instant me restaurer en goûtant de la tortue. Je veux bien essayer cela avant cette dure entreprise. Moi qui en ai marre des bus… Mais l’aventure en stop paraît trop risquée, étant donné le peu de trafic et de comptoirs le long de la route, où il serait possible de passer la nuit en sécurité. C’est qu’il s’agit de traverser tout le pays. Quel dommage que je n’ai plus de temps : j’aurais pu tenter, par un moyen ou un autre, de longer la côte jusqu’au Costa Rica, comme j’avais initialement, naïvement, prévu de le faire. Quant à l’avion, cela coûte tout de même 900 cordobas, soit 50 euros. Certes, ce n’est pas si cher, mais quitte à ne pas piloter, je préfère rester le plus possible en contact avec le sol de notre planète. Ce que j’aurais vraiment aimé, c’est discuter avec les pilotes, voire essayer de sympathiser avec eux. Une autre fois, peut être, mais maintenant, le bus va partir dans une demie heure et je ne veux pas laisser mon sac déjà posé à l’arrière du bus, sans surveillance, même si le terrain est juste derrière le terminal.
La tortue est bonne. Cela ressemble à du veau. C’est une viande blanche, tendre et filandreuse. Si on ne m’avait rien dit, je n’aurais pas vu la différence.
16h00 Wawa, départ du bac
Les trois premières heures sont passées assez vite, même si ce fut dur : cahots, chaleur, peu de place, jean collant à la peau sur les sièges en sky. Nous attendons l’énorme barge, qui peut contenir quatre camions simultanément, qui traverse le fleuve Wawaun, le long d’un câble fixe normalement mu par un moteur de camion installé dans une cabane en bois sur pilotis en bétons (ce qui vaut mieux). Aujourd’hui, le moteur est évidemment en panne, alors la barge avance au ralenti, par une dizaine d’hommes, debout sur la barge, tirant de toutes leurs forces sur le câble. Ces hommes en pleine action, cette barge titanesque, portant son lot de camions, ces stands de vendeurs ambulants, d’un côté de la barge, ce fleuve perdu dans la jungle, au coucher du soleil forment tous ensemble une belle image, que me suggère d’ailleurs de dessiner un des voyageurs du bus qui m’a vu terminer un précédent dessin sur mon bloc de dessins.
Pour le moment, à part cette personne, les gens m’ignorent et s’ignorent les uns les autres. Ambiance nulle. J’attends de voir comment tout cela va évoluer. Ma voisine de bus ne parle pas plus.
Mercredi 8 décembre 2004, 6h00 une rivière, bloqués
Quel beau cadeau d’anniversaire pour mes cinq mois de voyage, aujourd’hui, que ce trajet en bus. Je voulais de l’aventure, j’en ai plein les yeux, et plein le dos. C’est dur, cela ne fait aucun doute. La nuit est vite passée, ce qui est déjà bien, et j’ai même pu dormir allongé, au fond du bus, sur deux banquettes jointes par mon sac à dos posé au milieu de l’allée pour colmater le trou. Etant donnés les cahots, cela tenait plus de la fête foraine qu’à une nuit au chaud sous la couette avec une jolie fille. Je fus extrêmement secoué. Au milieu de la nuit, le bus s’est totalement arrêté, la route devant était bloquée. Dans la rivière devant nous, un camion était couché, et le camion qui le suivait, lui aussi dans l’eau ne pouvait donc pas passer. Vers quatre heures, le bus a tenté de passer dans la rivière à son tour, en contournant l’ensemble. Pour ressortir de l’autre côté, le long du camion encore debout, le bus a du franchir une ornière de taille. Un camion tiers, situé sur la rive, le treuilla. Les roues avant sortirent sans trop de difficultés, mais le bus ne put continuer, car l’ornière que sa roue arrière gauche devait franchir le faisait trop basculer, ce qui venait le coller contre le camion voisin. Ce qui devait arriver arriva, les tôles connurent des caresses un peu trop appuyées, et le bus dut s’immobiliser à nouveau. Le voisin était déjà suffisamment mécontent. L’épisode du treuillage nocturne fut en soi une sacrée aventure.
Nous sommes maintenant bloqués depuis plus de deux heures. Le jour se lève, dévoilant le chantier plus ou moins abandonné d’un vague pont le long du gué actuel. Derrière, la jungle est humide et encore très obscure. De chaque côté de la route, les files de camions et de bus s’accumulent lentement mais sûrement. Les passagers descendent et viennent regarder. Je ne vois personne s’activer, ni encore moins, se stresser.
Hier après midi, le passage du bac a fini par se faire, mais ce fut bien long. Nous sommes passés sur l’autre rive du fleuve après une heure et demie d’attente, et le soleil était déjà couché. Ensuite, la route fut aussi mauvaise. Déjà tard dans la soirée, nous sommes arrivés dans une petite ville, où nous avons mangé. Un panneau indiquait : « Puerto Cabeza : 143 km ». Nous les avions franchis en neuf heures. Je doute que nous arrivions à Managua ce soir. Je vais descendre avant, je pense. On me parle d’une ville nommée Boaco.
Plus tard, le bus s’est retrouvé planté dans une ornière dont il ne parvenait pas à sortir, avec une inclinaison de vingt cinq degrés à droite du côté planté, et tous les passagers furent invités à descendre. Les femmes et les enfants ont eu le droit de ne pas pousser. Nous avons donc conjugué les forces masculines en pataugeant dans la boue, omniprésente, et le bus est reparti. Ici, ce genre d’événements est un non-événement.
14h30 sur la route, après Rio Blanco
Nous avons fini par repartir, de nouveau treuillés, mais plus subtilement. Les tôles frôlèrent, mais tout alla bien. La lumière du jour nous aida. Plus loin, la piste était toujours aussi défoncée. Je me sentais très mal, j’avais mal au ventre, suite, très certainement, à l’abus de fruits la veille, lors de la salade de fruits géante que nous mangeâmes goulûment avec Philippe. Impossible, donc, de dormir. Je me suis découvert une infection importante à un bobo à la cheville, et les cahots sur la piste continuaient à me secouer dans tous les sens. Mon moral suivit mon physique sur le chemin vers le bas.
Assise sur la banquette située de l’autre côté de l’allée, à ma gauche, il y a Yajaya, une jolie jeune fille de seize ans. Ni elle ni moi n’avons de voisins de banquette. Nous avons donc conversé. Elle étudie à Puerto Cabeza. Je me demande pourquoi si loin, et pourquoi dans ce lieu si laid. Elle vit à Masaya, chez sa tente, et fait régulièrement ces aller-retours rocambolesques et usants emportant avec elle des marchandises issues du centre du pays (Masaya est proche de la capitale et de Granada et comporte un marché connu dans tout le pays). Elle revend ses marchandises dans la région enclavée des Misquitos, ce qui lui permet apparemment, de survivre. Je suis impressionné. Elle a deux sœurs, plus âgées, lointaines, et un père qu’elle n’a pas vu depuis deux ans, qui, certainement, ne s’est pas remis de la mort de sa femme, la mère de Yajaya, il y a quatre ans. Elle ne s’est pas étalée sur les détails, mais on devine un père alcoolique, ce qui ne manque pas dans ce pays de misère et de désœuvrement. Elle continue néanmoins ses études, cette fille est douée d’une énergie fascinante.
Le chauffeur m’a convoqué à l’avant il y a deux heures pour bavarder avec lui, la route se faisant longue, et l’aide-chauffeur (ayudante) dormant à poings fermés pour récupérer. Je lui ai donc tenu compagnie, me tenant debout à l’avant, sur le côté droit, devant la porte, à la place d’ayudante, sur le dernier tronçon non revêtu de la route, jusqu’à Rio Blanco. Je devais être le premier ayudante blanc du pays, je suppose. Tête des passants. Expérience intéressante, où j’ai appris des choses, mais la fatigue prenait le dessus sur la conversation. J’avais du mal à être prolixe. Je devais me forcer à trouver des thèmes de conversation, pour honorer ma fonction de réveil-chauffeur. Ici, on pourrait mettre des pancartes : « Il est défendu de ne pas parler au chauffeur ».
Je retrouvai ma prolixité un peu plus tard, après un soda, et une fois sur la route goudronnée, avec Yajaya. La pause déjeuner se termine. Nous allons repartir. J’imagine qu’il n’y aura plus de pauses jusqu’à Boaco, que j’estime à trois heures de route d’ici.
15h30 plus loin sur la route vers Boaco
Pause téléphone demandée à l’avis général au chauffeur, pour que tout le monde puisse prévenir du retard de cinq heures que nous aurons. Yajaya fait partie des personnes qui vont appeler au centre d’appel situé juste devant le bus. Je me demande avec quel argent. Ici, apparemment, il n’y a pas de réseau fixe, la connexion doit nécessairement être une connexion satellite.
Je viens de réaliser que l’outre en peau dont je me sers de gourde depuis le début du voyage n’a pas supporté le rôle d’oreiller hydraulique que je lui ai forcé à accomplir cette nuit, pour mettre une certaine distance entre la banquette en plastique et ma tête martelée. Elle s’est déchirée sur une couture, trop sollicitée, et se retrouve donc inutilisable. Voici un nouvel objet perdu qui vient s’ajouter à ma liste déjà longue.
21h00 pension Boaco, Boaco
La surprise est agréable. J’imaginais arriver tard ce soir dans une de ces innombrables villes laides, homogènes, et sans âme de ce pays si pauvre, et voilà que j’arrive de jour, au couchant, dans une ville assez riche, belle, et pleine de charme, au milieu des montagnes. Je m’y suis promené ce soir, et je fus véritablement bouche bée devant cet assaut de civilisation dans le sens positif du terme, après deux semaines dans la boue des cochons et la merde de tout le monde, enfants, hommes, femmes, vaches, poules… Cette ville est bien agencée, avec quelques belles maisons. Elle est étalée sur plusieurs collines, contient plusieurs églises, et il y a de la lumière la nuit. On voit une foule de personnes dans la rue, surtout de jolies filles mais souvent trop jeunes, à croire qu’elles se sont toutes données le mot, et les voitures sont discrètes et parfois belles. Je distingue des sourires, les regards sont différents. Je repense à Gracias, au Honduras, et à la bulle d’oxygène que nous y avions ressentie Philippe et moi, après des mois passés au Chiapas et au Guatemala.
De plus, après ce terrible voyage en bus, interminable, cette surprise est plus que bienvenue.
de Loopkin : Sur ton profil, j'ai vu que tu aimais bien t'"évader en somme". Y aurait-il encore des bus pittoresques dans ce plat département agricole ?
L'intérêt de ce département agricole, en somme, c'est la faune, bien sûr !!!
Ne dit-on pas : "c'est le pays des bêtes-raves" ? On les traque avec une pique-hardie !
😉 Chris (qui a vécu dans le 59, pas loin de la Somme ... dans une vie antérieure)
Je suis bien étonnée de voir les bus dans la rubrique carnet de voyage mais pourquoi pas, le voyageur aime se distinguer de l'utilisateur ahuri du car climatisé, ce qui n'a bien sûr, rien à voir !, il est définitivement admis que le bus quant à lui a le parfum de l'autochnone donc de l'authentique !
Comme je lis plusieurs textes se situant au bout des mondes, je vais modestement raconter mon bus matinal, celui qui me fait voyager chaque jour.
Extérieurement il est rouge et blanc et rutilant, intérieurement mauve et gris, tout aussi propre. Je monte et retrouve jour après jours les mêmes visages au regard soigneursement vide. Encore beaucoup de sièges disponibles et je m'assoie.
Une flagrance subtile flotte des corps mal lavés évincée par le parfum douceatre des déodorants bon marché. L'un se cure discrètement le nez puis roule sa trouvaile qu'il éjecte d'une pichenette dans la travée, l'autre gratte son bouton enflammé et le presse de deux doigts discrets.
Une escouade de jeunes filles grimpent en riant et gloussent. des petits diamants étincellent sur leurs narines, la légère musique des baladeurs coincés dans l'oreille s'élève dans le silence compact. Il fait nuit et les regards des assis sont tournés vers la fenêtre. Les magasins ont encore leur grilles, il n'y a rien à voir dans la rue morne. Tous se regardent dans leur reflet ou regardent aisément leur voisin. la vitre fait office de miroir est c'est une rencontre de glace qu'ils se permettent ainsi.
Une vieille femme monte tenant sa canne comme un stick, sure de la respectabilité de lâge, l'oeil mauvais derrière ses lunettes, elle attend qu'on lui cède une place dûment due. Poliment et à contre-coeur, un homme, le visage encore rayé du pli de l'oreiller cède sa place.
Monte alors une jeune femme au ventre doucement arrondi de l'enfant à venir : instant de légère panique ou chacun se questionne, qui va se dévouer? Personne ne bouge, le bus chuinte, accélère et rétrograde, dans le mouvement, la future mère s'équilibre posant une main protectrice sur son ventre. Soulagement, arrêt, descente. La jeune femme enfin s'assoit. La honte peut s'envoler, s'est déjà oublié.
Une jeune musulmane ajuste son foulard, resserrant l'oval parfait de son visage, un bébé crie son agacement et perturbe en même temps qu'il distrait les passagers. Crier de bon matin, quel déagrément mais que fait la mère?
Le bandeau lumineux affiche l'heure et les arrêts. Quelques uns vérifient leur montre, aussitôt rassurés sur l'exactitude et la concordance des temps.
Le bourdonnement du silence est rompu par le froissement léger des feuillets du journal que lit le sportif assis. C'est dans "l'Equipe" qu'il vient trouver le matin, l'énergie de sa journée. Du fauteuil où il a regardé le match, il passe au fauteuil du transport en commun, celui des gens du commun.
Ainsi, jour après jour, se déroule le voyage du travail, si loin des voyages pittoresques du bout des mondes.
Shufffffff, la porte s'ouvre, l'air froid me saute en bouffée au visage, je descends. Voyage terminé.
Ffffou... C'est trop ça!!! Désolé, mais je crois que finalement, je vais retourner dans la boue! Brrrrr... comme tu l'as bien décrit, c'est pas vrai, c'est incroyable!
J'y suis.
Tellement vrai...tellement plein de vie..celle qui est trop grande et trop dense pour être traduite par des mots..mais que les mots suggèrent en creux comme en plein...
Whaou.
Merci.
Encore !!!!!!
Bluebird
"Les choses nous rendent regard pour regard. Elles nous paraissent indifférentes parce que nous les regardons d'un air indifférent. Mais pour un oeil clair, tout est miroir." - Bachelard
Ah ! Mais je préfère 1000 fois le bus parisien, on s'y amuse plus finalement...Ou alors je monte dans le bus de Loopkin !
Il y a une telle tristesse dans ton bus à toi, une telle lassitude, une espèce de désespérance.........
Qui parlait ailleurs de l'agréable vie provinciale 🤪 ?
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
Non, non, je racontais une histoire de bus d'avant-aube, ils sont tous pareils, à Paris en province et même ailleurs.
Je te dis maintenant un autre bus.
Début d'après-midi, l'air est vif, le ciel à peine voilé, je monte.
Le bus ralentit et freine souvent. Par la fenêtre, on voit la rue moutonnante de passants affairés, des mamans poussent des poussettes pleines d'enfants emmitouflés et vont vers le square aux arbres déplumés, un adolescent slalome entre les voitures qui klaxonent. Dans le bus un groupe de jeunes aux sacs à dos plein de cours entassés, rient et chahutent. Deux jeunes femmes pouffent et chuchotent leurs secrets d'alcôves. Deux autres, en retete, profitent de leur journée de liberté et clament fort les mérites comparés de leur crème de beauté. Un père montre du doigt à son fils tout en fossette le manège sur l'esplanade au loin dont il lui promet un tour après la visite chez le médecin. Une vieille dame dodeline de la tête, son dentier sortant un peu de la machoire, elle a oublié sa sieste et peut-être se rend t-elle chez son ami. Montent deux amies qui piaffent d'excitation encombrées deu leur achats dans des sacs crissants. une dame serre contre son flanc son sac à main en imitation cuir. Un homme encostaré, maintient contre son ventre sa malette. Un homme d'affaires sans aucun doute, il n'a pas l'air d'un habitué et se demande pourquoi sa voiture et en panne, le voilà ainsi obligé de frayer avec la valetaille.
Une petite fille tire les cheveux de sa soeur et la mère gronde mollement. Un vieillard monte, hilare, l'haleine chargée d'alccol à deux sous, chacun se pousse pour éviter ce fumet désastreux. Des miettes de pain au chocolat s'éparpillent sur la manche d'une jolie adolescente qui ne le voit pas tout à son texto qu'elle envoie à son amoureux de son petit mobile dernière génération.
Du bus monte un bourdonnement de voix assourdies et de rires réprimés. Un tout jeune homme tient fermement la barre de sa main aux ongles rongés, il cache son anxiété par son air rêveur et remonte ferment son pantalon qui menace de glisser sur ses hanches maigres.
C'est un temps de liberté, les gens préparent les fêtes de fin d'année, le bus transporte une promesse de félicité à laquelle chacun rêve.
C'est mon arrêt. Schufff, la porte s'ouvre et la rue jaillit dans son concert de bruits disparatres.
Je descends.
Pas d'accord, chère Dolma. C'est la vie, c'est tout, avec son lot de petits bonheurs et de désespérances, tous ces petits instants persos qui sont si beaux à imaginer ou à deviner, ici ou ailleurs. Je crois que les gens décris là, nous les avons tous déjà vus. Moi en tous cas, je les vois, là, maintenant. Ne me dis pas que quand tu joues à deviner qui sont les gens, à quoi ils pensent, dans les transports en commun, tout le monde nage dans le bonheur (ou alors envoie moi 1kg de ta récolte perso, je te file mon adresse en MP 😉).
Certes, ces petits instants de vie nous les reconnaissons et il est vrai que je ne rencontre pas que des gens qui nagent dans le bonheur, mais c'est peut-être tout simplement que le texte me rend mélancolique et que je ressens plus de désespérance que de gaité...🤪
Quant à ma récolte perso : ne dit-on pas "On récolte ce que l'on sème" ? (ou quelque chose comme ça) 🙂
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
Le bus nous emmène le long des baies du lac Titicaca: le bleu clair du ciel; la terre rouge, sombre; les herbes hautes vert-jaune, un peu brûlées par le soleil; le bleu profond du lac, magique; le soleil, fort. Un dernier regard sur ce lac sublime et la piste poussiéreuse nous ramène vers Huancane, point de départ de notre incursion dans cette région irréelle.
Entrée en ville. La route retrouve son goudron délaissé là, l'animation des rues est à son comble, bruits, agitation, bavardages, femmes sur la pas de leur petites boutiques, étals des rues, passants, combis, bus...
D'ailleurs, un combis stoppe net au carrefour pour laisser passer notre bus. Tout juste le temps de l'apercevoir. Un combi péruvien comme tous les autres, petite estafette supposée blanche sous la poussière ambiante, contenant à grand peine tous ses passagers bien nombreux et leurs bagages. Bagages entassés jusque sur le toit... non, pas cette fois. Sur le toit c'est un enchevêtrement de pattes, de laine, de têtes, ça bêle, ça a l'air effaré, une patte qui déborde sur le pare-brise comme un gros essui-glace, des yeux globuleux ahuris...
Cette fois sur le toit, c'est le troupeau de moutons entier et bien ficelé qui part en balade!
Le carrefour est déjà derrière, l'appareil photo est resté au fond du sac (dommage, vraiment dommage), on se regarde: fou-rire jusqu'à Juliaca 🙂
Il n'y a pas de gaîté dans un bus, il y a des gens pressés ou compressés, des gens occupés ou préoccupés, des gens qui ne font que passés ou sont compassés, des gens qui mettent leur rire et leur gaïté entre parenthèse, le temps de leur trajet. Dans nos pays, ne n'est pas un espace de vie, c'est un espace d'attente ou chacun patiente attendant son arrêt.
Il n'y a pas que les bus lointains. Je suis sorti récemment du coin reculé où j'aime vivre pour me rendre dans une ville voisine. En trajet direct, 30 km. Mais ce bus, passant par les villages a mis une bonne heure. Venant d'arrivé dans cette région, je n'en connais presque rien, et ce court déplacement est devenu un voyage exotique!
Le chauffeur, saluait chacun des 4 passagers d'un jeux de mot douteux. Tout le trajet, il le passa à discuter avec le passager avant, jeune homme squeletique, déjà diminué par l'alcool. Ils parlaient avec un accent qui rendait presque incompréhensible la conversation. Je n'avais d'ailleurs pas compris la question du pilote, à ma montée dans le car: " Gôre ou l'plôsse".... je pensais à un autre jeu d'esprit, le fît répeter. Après trois essais, enfin, ces mots devinrent compréhensible "Gare ou la place?". Les deux destinations possibles. Il voulait simplement savoir où s"arrêter!
Après dix minutes de détours pour sortir de ma ville, nous avions presque découvert toute la voirie municipale. Mais aucun nouveau candidat au voyage.
Enfin, les dernières maisons passées, un autre monde. A vélo, je n'étais jamais passé par là, grande erreur. L'immensité, la steppe. Tout autour de moi, des champs noirs, verts parfois blancs cassé.
Jamais je n'avais eu conscience qu'un tel espace existait ici, en France. Le bus, seul, et tout autour, à perte de vue, un damier gigantesque de cultures à venir.
En fond sonore, une radio nationale passant chaque jour les mêmes tubes vieux ou plus récent. Toujours dégoulinants d'amour niais et impossible. Entre les "vendanges de l'amour", "Capri" et "Céline", le chauffeur salue les quelques agriculteurs sur leurs tracteurs. Il connait leurs noms, sans doute même leurs histoires.
Tout à coup, un évennement: la barrière du passage à niveau coupe la route et le train passe. Ce train qui fait le même trajet quatre fois plus vite.
Une grande joie m'envahie. Je me sens réellement en voyage...à 20 km de chez moi! Je découvre des choses, imagine ces espaces avant les grandes monocultures, les bocages, les villages avant la guerre, avant qu'ils ne soient rasés. Je ne me force même pas à m'émerveiller de tout cela. Durant tout le trajet, je n'ouvre pas mon livre, pourtant passionnant. Je reste le nez collé à la vitre avec un sourire un peu bête.
Tout le monde descend à l'arrêt de la Place. Je rest seul avec le chauffeur jusqu'à la gare. Nous discutons. Il me pose les même question que celles qui harcèlent parfois, les voyageurs: d'où je viens, ce que je fais, si j'aime le région....
Opai, tu confirmes qu'il n'est pas nécessaire d'aller au bout du monde pour être dépaysé... Les steppes françaises (si près de Paris) c'est quand même quelque chose 😮...
Je suis écroulée de rire rien que de t'imaginer lors de ce trajet si "exotique" !!!
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
Merci à vous pour ces histoires qui plus est superbes ... et tout particulièrement à Loopkin.
Ha les bus, je les adore, le temps nous y parait différent, un peu comme suspendu au début on truve cela long puis on y prend gout et cela finit par nous manquer. Bus ou même gare routière sont des endroits où je passe un temps record en voyage à regarder la fourmilière crouillante de gens vacant à leurs occupations, les marchants, désambulants entre les rangées de sièges, les enfants jouant, les différents comptoirs où chacun hurle de plus belle afin d'attirer les clients, cette espèce de torpeur qui prend au fur et à mesure des heures ... souvent longues puisqu'au pérou les horaires sont plus que relatifs.
Mon plus beau voyage fut justement dans un de ces bus, au pérou, entre Ayacucho et Abancay ... quelques 22 heures de pistes défoncées, poussiéreuses, où le bus n'a guère plus de place que la largeur de ses roues. Un départ tôt dans la matinée, dans un bus locale, sans touristes, sans toilettes... un départ sur les chapeaux de roues, parce que tout simplement le paysage fut somptueux, mélange de vert, ocre et rouge mélé au bleu des toilettes en tôle toujours un peu à l'écart de ces maisons en briques de terre seches. Le bus monte des cols avec comme compagnons la poussières, les cactus, puis descend dans la vallée jusqu'à enjambé le rio et ses plages de sables clairs ...et nous au milieu si frèle, tellement insignifiant dans ce paysage. Nous, des hommes et des femmes, si différents mais tellement identiques. Les rencontres y furent magiques, que d'aide, de soutien, d'émerveillements, de curiosité j'ai pu partager, enfin m'ont ils fait partager. Un peu de leur vie, de leur sourire, de ces mères qui changent leur enfants puis jettent les couches par les fenètres, un mode de vie si différents, de ces femmes au deux longues tresses noires reliées entre elles à leur extrémité. Une seule pause pipi-repas, des gens qui montent et qui descendent au milieu de nul part, de smains qui tendent de la nourriture et des boissons à chaque village, ce soulèvement du coeur à chaque tournant lorsque les ma tête soudain se retrouve au dessus du vide, le sourire rassurant de mon voisin, sa main qui prend presse la mienne, ses yeux qd il me dit que les calvaire à coté des routes sont autant de bus "échoués" plus bas ... et son rire devant mon stress apparent. Epique je crois que c'est le mot qui caractérise ce voyage .. sans doute le plus beau de ma vie, on a perdu les bagages situé en soute, celle-ci étant défoncé par un gros choc ... alors marche arrière et récupération de ce qui peut l'être, puis la route de nuit, si près des étoiles alors, magique, gravée au plus profond du coeur .. d'apres mes voisins encore heureux que je ne puisse pas voir, la route y était parait ils encore plus étroite et escarpée! Cette femme d'un age certain qui me mit sa couverture pendant que je dormais, et cette impression si paisible au réveil me rendant compte qu'elle caressait mes cheveux ... le bus est un concentré du pays, de tout ce qui fait sa force, ses joies ... un moment à ne pas louper !
Je suis heureuse de n'avoir pas suivi les conseils avisé et donc de ne pas avoir pris l'avion Lima Cuzco .. j'aurais loupéà cout sur tout cela
"Aimer est un mot qu'il faut vivre
retour de Sydney ... prochaine etape bientot !
Ca s'est passé près de chez moi, aujourd'hui... Je rentre du boulot...
Je vais à la gare, zut, j'ai raté mon train de 10 minutes... Le prochain est dans 50 minutes... Tant pis, je tourne en rond et me décide pour une petite bière... Miam la leffe blonde :)
A côté de moi, un monsieur me libère de la place au comptoir. Je ne sais plus la première phrase qu'il m'a dite, mais dans la deuxième, il me parla de sa passion, les voyages... "Ah tiens?" (c'est pour faire parler Parvat ca...) Et hop blabla voyage, Iran, Birmanie etc... Il rate exprès son train, et prendra le suivant, c'est tellement rare de rencontrer quelqu'un qui a aussi été en Iran etc.
L'heure de mon train arrive, salut Pierre, et n'oublies pas de venir voir sur VF😛
Je monte et cherche le chef de train... En effet je cherche toujours un moyen d'économiser qques piéces quand j'en ai pas beaucoup, donc je cherche le chef de train, montre ma carte TGV, je sais je ne suis pas dans un TGV (un ancien boulot dont j'ai gardé la carte) mais hop, merci monsieur, et je vais m'assoir. (chouette, j'avais pas payer l'aller non plus)
Sur un siège pas loin, un (bel) homme m'adresse la parole... Et hop, ce (bel) homme est mix chilien- italien, une chevelure bouclée noire lui tombant dans le milieu du dos... Un beau visage aux traits fins, il a quitté le Chili il y a 8 ans, il avait 33 ans. (... Tiens il a juste un an de plus que moi...) Il me raconte sa passion, la sculpture sur bois, sur marbre, le travail du metal etc... Demain il va scier un arbre qui est tombé dans le jardin d'un copain, il pourra récuperer le tronc et en faire ce qu'il veut. "J'ai un peuplier qui est tombé dans mon jardin" Et voili le bel homme me telephonera-t-il pour scier le tronc? On verra. Ciao Pablo.
Arrivée à la gare, je monte dans le bus pour quelques arrêts, seule passagère re bla bla, avec Albert, le chauffeur de bus, tellement sympa que je lui ai fait la bise en sortant 🙂
Aie, le plus dur... Dernier trajet avant mon chez moi... Le stop...
Je lève le pouce mais il fait nuit noire déjà... Sous un réverbère, avec mon drôle de manteau bordeau coupé à la farfelu comme un lutin, j'espère qu'on me voit.
Une voiture passe, des autres passent, plein d'autres voitures passent... Je reste là dans le noir, snif.
Ouaiiiiiiiiiis mon voisin!!! Je reconnais sa camionette avec le nom de son entreprise dessus!!! Je fais des grands signes, génial! Il m'a vu!
Je monte, mais le siège passager est occupé par sa fille, alors je vais derrière... Accroupie sur le plancher, j'ai l'impression d'être dans la même camionette qu'au ladakh, dans le nord de l'Inde, ou je faisais aussi du stop, assise exactement comme dans cette camionette qui me ramène à la maison...
Encore 150 mètres à pied le long d'un champ, et me voila chez moi.
Demain, rebelote, stop jusqu'au boulot, puis train et stop jusqu'ici. (pas de bus, il n'y en a pas le weekend...)
Vive les voyages! 😏
Bien le bonjour de mon trou perdu! 😎
Fainéanter dans un monde neuf est la plus absorbante des occupations... (N.Bouvier)
Y a pas à (re)dire....quand tu rencontres un homme c'est toujours un bel homme et il y a toujours quelque chose qu, il pourrait faire chez toi...Un homme à tout faire quoi....😉
Cette histoire de stop quotidien, y a pas à dire, ça m'impressionne toujours autant. Pourtant, je ne suis pas le dernier à faire du stop, mais là, c'est la loterie tous les jours, avec son lot de magnifiques rencontres. Tu habites chez toi, tu as un travail, des déplacements quotidiens, et pourtant, tu es loin du classique schéma métro-boulot-dodo, routine usante des jours gris qui se suivent. Merveilleux. Tu es en voyage permanent. Ca se sent dans tes histoires. Tu es en voyage permanent, tout en profitant de la Leffe (qu'est ce que les bières belges m'avaient manqué pendant un an, surtout que j'avais fini toutes celles que tu m'avais apportées!!!). Continue comme ça!!!
Merci Loopkin 🙂
C'est vrai que soit il faudrait que je t'en apporte à nouveau, soit que tu viennes les déguster au plat pays ces bonnes bières belges...
C'est tout à fait vrai que je suis encore en voyage, même "chez moi".
Hier, je faisais la connaissance d'Alfred, le copain d'Albert qui lui habite à 500m de chez moi et qui m'avait déjà embarquée pour deux ou trois kilomètres. Donc hier matin, je suis partie au boulot avec ces deux pensionnés qui se connaissent depuis 1954... Jusqu'à la capitale j'ai eu droit à toute l'histoire du village, avant que l'autoroute ne soit construite, quand il faisait encore partie du Hainaut alors que maintenant c'est le brabant flamand etc...
Au retour, Jean Marie m'a déposé pile devant chez moi et à fait pour ca un grand détour (5km)...
Ce matin, j'ai fait la connaissance du fermier propriétaire du champ en face de chez moi, et ensuite, voyage avec un marocain qui écoutait de la musique de son pays d'origine...
Et puis le boulot... Je tiens un stand de Noël avec des articles...Indiens évidemment...
Des touristes asiatiques passent, regardent les statues de Tara, Bouddha ou Avalokiteshvara... Je leur lance "excuse me, can I ask you where do you come from?" "Burma" "Oooooh Mingalaba!" (bonjour en birman) "You've been to Burma?" "Yes, twice!!!" et bla blabla... (1ere fois que je vois des birmans en Europe...)
Et au retour, j'ai rencontré mes voisins dans le train, pas ceux en camionnette, ceux en mercedes, et donc arrivée à la gare, je suis rentrée avec Maurice et Greta dans leur belle allemande...
Demain congé, patience donc pour la prochaine histoire de stop 🙂
Fainéanter dans un monde neuf est la plus absorbante des occupations... (N.Bouvier)
Il n'était pas trop bondé et j'avais même pu avoir une place assise. Quelques passagers debout n'avaient en revanch pas eu cette chance. Pour passer le temps, l'un d'entre eux entreprit de vomir par terre, histoire de se venger peut-être. La receveuse se mit alors à lui hurler après en shanghaien et en lui tendant un balai (mais que faisait ce balai dans un bus?). Le pauvre type ne comprenait sans doute pas le shanghaien, car d'après son look, il n'avait pas vraiment l'air du cru, mais il se mit à rire, comme savent si bien le faire les chinois pour masquer leur gêne.
La receveuse ouvrit alors une trappe au milieu du bus, et notre homme put donc tranquillement évacuer le fruit de ses entrailles grâce au balai gentiment mis à disposition par la receveuse.
Apparemment, je fus à peu près le seul passager à avoir l'air amusé par cette scène.
Je viens de lire tout vos récits d'aventure en bus... Quel régal...😇
Je n'ai que très peu voyagé encore, mais bon sang, ce que vous m'en donné envie !!!🤪🤪🤪
Mon souhait actuel est d'aller en Ethiopie. J'hésitais jusqu'à maintenant, à faire un maximum de visites, en louant un 4x4, etc... mais là ça y est vous m'avez convaincu, ce sera : transports locaux ... LE BUS...
Je crois comme tu le dit Sasmira que "le bus est un concentré du pays, de tout ce qui fait sa force, ses joies"...
D'abord, ça arrangera mon porte monnaie.
Et surtout, tant pis si je ne suis pas passé partout... De toute façon, on ne passe jamais partout... Alors autant prendre le temps de goutter à la vie là-bas. De savourer les paysages qui défileront sous nos yeux, de se rapprocher de la population locale (même si j'ai déjà un peu donné, là, le père de mes enfants étant un Afar 😊).
Merci encore pour toutes vos histoires qui me font rêver en attendant de partir.
Esychasme
Rare voyageur à dire clairement votre recherche d'un certain vide -mental - qui n'est pas le vide mental mais le moment où la loghorrée intérieure cesse, l'attention devient flottante, en fait meilleure.
J'ai découvert cela en voyage il y longtemps déja
cela aussi doit être codifié dans sa version indienne sous le nom de discipline: sunia-ta ou sunia -ka Si quelquefois vous l'auriez étudier, ce que je n'ai pas fait
Vous lire à ce sujet méditatif.Bien à vous et à vos réfexions
Arcanoe
Alright, this year, we're heading back to South America!
The initial plan was to retrace the route we imagined in the summer of 2020: a trip to northern Argentina starting from Córdoba.
Unfortunately, the flight to Córdoba no longer exists, and airfares to Javier Milei’s country are both outrageously priced and involve multiple layovers.
So, I tweaked Google Flights every which way and finally found a flight within my budget—departing from Clermont-Ferrand!
Not to Argentina, though...
Our transatlantic flight will cross the snow-capped Andes, landing in Santiago, Chile, with a return from Lima!
In between, two domestic flights and a big road trip loop starting from the coastal city of Arica to explore the treasures of northern Chile.
Our mode of transport: a pseudo 4x4 that won’t take us through sand dunes or devilish tracks but will let us tackle the entire secondary network, including unpaved main roads, while still being insured.
Is the suitcase packed with all-season clothes?
Are the driver’s license and passport ready?
Bank cards and a few euros too?
Off we go for just over 3 weeks of southern wanderings!
--/--
To keep all my esteemed readers on track, here are a few maps outlining the Arica-Arica loop!
1- From Arica to San Pedro de Atacama via Pica and the Salar de Huasco
2- Around San Pedro
3- From San Pedro to Cariquima
4- From Cariquima to Putre
5 - From Putre to Arica
Gas stations in this part of Chile are located in Arica, Iquique, Pozo Almonte, Pica, Calama, and San Pedro de Atacama.
So, a new year has begun. It’s time to reconnect with the VF buddies and wish you all my best for 2026—a year I hope is obviously full of travel, since, as I just made up:
"If travel’s good, everything’s good" 😄.
To celebrate, I’m inviting you into my new "travel journal," the one from our latest trip in November 2025, a little two-week adventure.
This time, we headed to The Gambia, a tiny country tucked right in the middle of Senegal, before making our way to Casamance.
The Gambia is English-speaking, Senegal is French-speaking, but the locals? They couldn’t care less—because in this part of the world, they mostly speak Wolof, Fula, Jola, or Mandinka.
Hence the title: Senegambia 😉.
As usual, I’m sharing the live updates I sent to friends and family—super casual, of course.
I know this isn’t the kind of destination that draws crowds, but if you love adventure, laughter, and emotion, it might just be your thing 😊.
"So, my little wanderers, back at the decks? What’s this mystery destination you’ve got in store for us at the start of the year?"
Yes, the schoolyard bell’s ringing again! We’re hitting the road... or rather, the skies! At first glance, our destination might surprise more than a few. First off, simply because I was here exactly twenty years ago, and I don’t usually like retracing my own footsteps. Secondly, because the name of this place screams mass tourism—basically the opposite of what Flo and I look for.
Despite that, in this land of backsheesh, I’d promised myself I’d come back one day to experience it my way. And since Flo told me, during our wanderer chats, that this destination straddling Africa and the Middle East was in her top 2 travel dreams, the stars aligned for this roots-style trip to quickly make it onto our pharaonic festivities program! Unless you’re totally clueless in general knowledge, you’ve probably guessed by now—we’re off to Egypt! Of course, a few classics will be on our itinerary, but above all, we want to soak up a culture that can’t be appreciated in four-star resorts or on a Nile cruise boat. And let’s be clear, these next two weeks won’t be a walk in the park—neither for our two daughters who are joining us, nor for our bodies!
And that’s clear from the get-go: after our first flight, eight hours of trying (and failing) to sleep on Milan airport’s metal seats, our second flight, landing, passport stamps, our Uber ride, and our first Cairo kilometers, we finally drop our exhaustion at the little guesthouse we booked in Giza. Doesn’t all that energy deserve a little reward?
Oh, absolutely! And here it is: a full-on slap in the face for everyone! But just look at this view from our hotel terrace? For 20 € a night for four, even with this incredible view, I figured the room must be pretty shabby, right? Nope... Is the staff rude, then? Nope... Okay, so what’s the catch? You’re gonna tell me breakfast is included too? Well, yes! Honestly, this Egypt trip is off to a great start.
And the rest of the afternoon, spent rubbing shoulders with locals, only confirmed this vibe. After digesting our pyramid view, we dove into the hustle and bustle of our neighborhood with the goal of exchanging money, eating at street stalls, and testing the hospitality of the locals. Ten out of ten!
Eight little sun breads with baba ganoush and falafel? 80 pounds, or 1.5 €. A dozen Middle Eastern pastries? Same! 80 pounds! Two hawawshis, those little pita breads stuffed with meat and spices? 10 pounds each, or about twenty cents! Not to mention all those smiles and free "welcomes" left and right!!!
What a welcome! We end this first day with a sunset over the three sisters of Giza—where we’ll obviously be gawking tomorrow...
And we still haven’t seen everything!
Before setting off for new horizons at the end of this year, it’s time for me to share my trip to Cape Verde this summer 2025.
I particularly love these spontaneous trips, and our stay in Cape Verde is one of those because it was only at the beginning of April that we decided on this getaway, which had been catching our eye for a while, given our love for the mountains.
As always—well, when it’s open—I turned to VF, and I want to immediately thank Marie, aka ptitortue, who helped me a lot in planning this trip through her travel journals and our exchanges!
Because Cape Verde is both small and vast! We decided not to rush from one airport to another, to enjoy the places and the people, but also to relax, since the work backlog from being stuck in May (see my previous travel journal 😅) had to be caught up on in June.
So, 4 islands will be our winners from 06/28 to 07/19:
Santiago first for logistical reasons, as round-trip flights from the capital Praia were the cheapest (650 €/person from Lyon via Lisbon with TAP, still!)
São Vicente, because it’s the gateway to the next one but ultimately more than that...
Santo Antão, pretty much the main goal of the trip since Marie (and the photos) had really sold it to me.
And finally, Sal Island, for some rest—a non-negotiable condition for my other half—and we’ll see that I should’ve listened to Marie...
That said, what a chatterbox I am—buckle up, flight attendants at the doors, off we go on new beautiful escapes! (Thanks to Sophie for the easy loan)
Last note for my eager fan club 😏: yes, there will be alcohol—how could there not be in the land of grogue!
Hi everyone, we're back from a DIY USA road trip we organized from July 31, 2026, to August 26, 2026.
The destination: The Southwest USA, including Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. Roughly 7,000 kilometers covered.
The car: A Chevrolet Equinox for two, rented through BSP Auto and Avis. Inside, we had 2 suitcases, a travel bag, two carry-on bags, a Walmart cooler, photo gear, and water bottles (a 40-pack).
The route: Dallas DFW, Fort Worth, Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso, Tucson, Sedona, Albuquerque, Amarillo, and back to Dallas to finish with a departure from DFW.
The travelers: Two seniors well advanced in years (73 and 75) but still active (nothing too physically demanding—to stay alive and fund our trips), fully independent physically, though a bit less so mentally. Big USA fans, a country where anything is possible. More walkers than hikers, preferring 3-star hotels over roadside motels, Italian restaurants over US food, frequent stops for photos, museums over nothing, naps over forced marches. Not too whiny, just enough to stay French in the land of the "great Satan," as they say.
Not great with languages—street English (but handy), and my Spanish is non-existent except for: "Hola! Una cerveza por favor!" That’s about it. My wife understands everything but refuses to speak.
The cost of the road trip: Around 12,000 €, including AF flights, the car, gas, gifts, visits, and everything else. Well managed, since we’d budgeted 13,500 € initially.
The positive side: A delight, with those endless open roads. Museums to discover. The realization of the Hispanic presence and its important history in this part of America. Lovely locals. Tourists who were more or less friendly. A terrible Texan accent that was hard to understand. Gas stations that were like real stores, with prepared food, alcohol sold in Arizona and New Mexico, and employees who were always up for a laugh!
The negative side: The heat throughout the trip... 43°C in Dallas at the end. Impossible to walk the streets. Lots of homeless people in downtown Dallas. Hotel breakfasts that were always the same. You get used to it.
So, it was positive overall, but the concept is starting to wear us out. We might rethink the DIY road trip model for next time. If the man upstairs grants us more time.
Next up, we’ll wait for the first batch of sorted photos to go through the wringer.
Hi everyone, I’m Patrick, 67 years old, a seasoned traveler (already 22 trips outside Europe).
In autumn 2025, I took my first 3-week trip to Japan, with stops in Tokyo, Kamakura, Matsumoto, Kamikochi, Takayama, Kanazawa, Kyoto, Nara, Osaka, Koyasan, Tokyo again, and Nikko.
I wanted to go back in May 2026 and explore some lesser-known places to complement my first trip.
Last year, there were four of us traveling together to discover Japan (a fairly classic itinerary). This time, I’ll be traveling solo for part of the trip and with a couple of French friends for the rest.
The weather was gorgeous in May, averaging around 25°C, with two very hot days in Kyoto and only two rainy days.
As usual, I organized everything myself, gathering plenty of information from various sites, including this one.
Transportation:
An ICOCA card is essential.
I got a 5-day Kansai-Hiroshima pass because I took the shinkansen between Hiroshima and Osaka three times, and it paid for itself quickly.
Accommodations:
Mostly through Booking. No issues at all. Average cost was 46 € per night.
Meals:
For breakfast, I alternated between buying food at a konbini to eat in my room or on the train and grabbing something at local cafés.
For lunch and dinner, I tried to vary my meals as much as possible—lots of sashimi, sushi, and ramen.
Okonomiyaki in Osaka and Hiroshima.
Oysters in every form (raw, grilled, fried) in Onomichi and Hiroshima.
A variety of seafood (shrimp, shellfish) in Hiroshima and Matsumoto.
Fish whose names often escaped me, but notably mackerel and eel (unagi).
Tempura and gyoza.
Chicken skewers (yakitori) and one teppanyaki meal.
One omakase meal (9 different dishes).
In the end, not much meat aside from a few yakitori skewers. No splurges on super expensive wagyu or Kobe beef.
Average dinner cost: 4,800 yen, drinks included.
The Itinerary:
Day 1: Departure from Brussels
Day 2: Arrival in Osaka
Day 3: To Himeji, then Kurashiki
Day 4: To Fukuyama, then Tomo no Ura, then Onomichi
Day 5: Cycling the Shimanami Kaido
Day 6: To Takahara, then Hiroshima
Day 7: To Kyoto to attend the Aoi Matsuri parade
Day 8: To Miyajima
Day 9: Hiroshima, then Kyoto
Day 10: Southern Kyoto
Day 11: Northern Kyoto
Day 12: Final day in Kyoto, then to Nagatsugawa
Day 13: Start of the Nakasendo Trail (Magome to Tsumago)
Day 14: Second day of the trail (Kiso Fukushima)
Day 15: Third day of the trail (Narai), then Matsumoto
Day 16: To Mt. Fuji (Kawaguchiko)
Day 17: To Tokyo
Day 18: Excursion to Enoshima and Kamakura
Day 19: Flight home, with a 10-hour layover in Hong Kong
Day 20: Arrival in Brussels
I hope this travel journal might interest some people, but since we were completely self-sufficient (tent, sleeping bag, pot, cooking over a wood fire…) almost every day, I don’t have many hotel addresses or great restaurant tips to share! Sorry!
We used the Maio map at 1:50,000 scale. It’s part of the Boa Vista/Sal/Maio map. Bought on Amazon, but currently unavailable as of the latest news.
The people of Maio are extremely welcoming and warm, and we were always more than well received in the villages where we pitched our tent!
We’re usually big hikers, but since Maio is a beach island (gorgeous ones, at that!), we alternated a few hours of walking in the morning with some relaxation in the afternoon: beach, reading, fishing, resting…
1 euro = 110 escudos
Day 1 (Friday) Transfers by plane: Fogo-Praia-Maio
We opted for the plane to save some time on transfers, as the boat connections between Fogo and Praia take a while, and those between Praia and Maio are almost nonexistent.
You should budget around 40-50 euros per flight per person.
There are 2 flights per week between Praia and Maio—on Tuesdays and Fridays when we were there (January 2016), but currently on Mondays and Fridays.
A bit of a delay leaving Praia, but we arrived on Maio without any problems around 4 PM.
We took an *aluguer* (shared transport, 200 escudos per person) to the center of Vila do Maio, but it’s totally doable on foot with a backpack.
Since it was already a bit late, for this first night, we dropped our bags at Big Game Maio. A standard European-style hotel run by a very nice Italian family. It’s a bit pricey for us (5500 escudos for 2 people with breakfast), but after our 2 weeks in a tent on Fogo, we were happy to find a little comfort. And the breakfast is ultra-generous, with fresh products (cured ham, fruit, cheese, bread) and top quality. The hotel restaurant offers dishes that are a clever mix of Italian and Cape Verdean cuisine. Excellent!
Little tip: We didn’t try it, but Big Game Maio offers big-game fishing trips, diving, and quad rentals.
The hotel is 2 minutes from Vila’s beautiful beach, and we went for a dip at sunset and took a stroll around town. They’re redeveloping the waterfront with pretty sidewalks and light stone walls.
Vila beach
Sunset behind Santiago
Day 2 (Saturday): rest day + fishing
After 2 weeks of hiking and since Vila is such a peaceful place where it’s nice to take your time, we decided to spend an extra day there. We took the path heading south along the coast to reach Ponta Preta beach in 20 minutes. The path isn’t very pretty because there’s quite a bit of construction going on, which prevents you from really walking along the shore. Lots of real estate agencies, especially Italian ones, have taken over the land. But Ponta Preta beach is a stunning black-sand beach where we had the whole place to ourselves. We decided to go fishing from the rocks.
At 1 PM, the sun was blazing, so we headed back to Vila and dried the fish for the following days.
At 6 PM, we went fishing again, but this time at night from the rocks at the end of Vila beach.
8:30 PM: back to shower and eat at the restaurant.
The rocks and sea at Ponta Preta
Day 3 (Sunday): from Vila do Maio to Calheta de Baixo, via Monte Batalha (path 101) Hiking time: 5h
Since there aren’t many “summits” on Maio, we decided to head to Calheta de Baixo but via Monte Batalha. We left at 8:20 AM and somehow made it to Monte Batalha by 11 AM (2h40 of hiking). But the path is really hard to find in the middle of the dry grass and acacia trees. We kind of cut through randomly, aiming for the summit. Even though it’s not very high (around 300 m), the view is amazing—you can see all of Maio at 360°!
Short 30-minute break. The descent through the “forest” of acacias is even worse for finding your way. We oriented ourselves a bit by the sun to find the road connecting Vila to Calheta. We arrived around 1:30 PM at Calheta de Baixo. A very pretty little seaside village with colorful houses. An idyllic beach, a newly renovated square, and super-friendly people. We pitched our tent facing the sea on the terrace of an abandoned house (after asking the locals for permission).
We cooked some of the dried fish we’d caught the day before, along with fresh beans we’d brought from Fogo (and were still carrying!).
At the summit of Monte Batalha
Calheta
Calheta de Baixo
Day 4 (Monday): From Calheta de Baixo to Morrinho on foot. Hiking time: 3h. Then hitching a bus to Cascabulho, and a car to Pedro Vaz.
We left around 9:30 AM heading north (path 201), following the coastline where the beaches just keep coming—each one wilder and more beautiful than the last: Praia de Soca, Calheta Braca, Ponta de Pau Seco, Calhetina. We reached the dunes of Baia de Santana. There’s no real path, so you have to follow the coast, then go around the dunes, and when you spot the 3 coconut trees, head east toward them to find the track leading to Morrinho. Again, we discovered a village with a Wild West vibe, with colorful houses lined up on either side of a paved road. Just enough time to accept a drink offered by a local before jumping onto the passing school bus that took us to Cascabulho. There, we waited for a ride. A political delegation of 10 cars drove right past us without stopping. Luckily, one of the cars had a flat tire and came by 30 minutes later—and that one, thankfully, gave us a lift! They were heading to the inauguration of a water pump in Pedro Vaz. So that’s where we stopped too. After getting permission from the school principal, we pitched our tent in front of the village school… and became the attraction for all the kids who kept us company until nightfall! A woman gave us 2 jugs of water, but with all that company, it was tough to take a peaceful shower!!
Dinner: pasta with beans.
We were woken up by rain during the night and had to rush to bring all our stuff inside the tent!
The beaches just keep coming...
The dunes
The 3 coconut trees, a landmark to find the track
Day 5 (Tuesday): Rest day and fishing at Boca da Ribeira beach
We packed up at 8 AM because the kids had school. We filled the 2 water jugs that the woman lent us and headed down to camp at Boca da Ribeira beach, which is a bit further east of Pedro Vaz. It took less than an hour to get there. This time, we really were alone in the world! We pitched the tent and spent the day fishing, reading, playing, and swimming regularly because the sun was beating down hard!!! We caught a nice fish that we grilled over the fire in the evening. With the crabs and shellfish we gathered, we made a seafood rice! Yum! What a feast!
That night, once the tent was zipped up, we felt something like rain on the tent fabric. I decided to go out and gather our things, and then—shock!!! It wasn’t raindrops we were feeling and hearing, but bugs attracted by the light!! Not just a few bugs—a huge swarm of them!!! Thousands of bugs covering the whole tent, the ropes, slipping into the seams and hems! Everywhere! The blue tent had turned green!!! After that, it was a real struggle to get back inside without letting any in! A real challenge, and there were always 3 or 4 that managed to sneak in anyway. Total war!!!
Boca da Ribeira beach
Day 6 (Wednesday): From Boca da Ribeira to Ribeira Dom João. Hiking time: 3h30
We woke up leisurely and waited for the sun to dry our things, damp from the dew. A man passed by, and we gave him the water jugs we’d borrowed, which saved us a trip back to Pedro Vaz to return them to the woman.
We left around 10 AM. We followed the sea to Alcatraz, then headed toward Pilão Cão. The path runs alongside the small hills on our right, and we passed above Lagoa Cimidor. The terrain is arid, and the path is hard to find among the many goat tracks.
After 3h30 of hiking, we reached Ribeira Dom João with 2 young people we’d met along the way.
Since it was a public holiday in Cape Verde, the kids didn’t have school, and with the principal’s permission, we pitched our tent in the kindergarten. She even kindly opened the school toilets for us. The neighbor gave us the water we needed to wash up and cook. We cooked beef steaks on charcoal. A nice change from fish!! Charcoal is a widespread artisanal product on the island. People almost never cook directly over wood but always with these big chunks of charcoal.
The hills on our right
Ribeira Dom João
Day 7 (Thursday): From Ribeira Dom João to Vila do Maio. Hiking time: 3h30
We woke up at 6:30 AM to clear out of the school by 8 AM. The neighbor made us coffee to save time. It took us 2 hours to reach Barreiro, another Wild West-style town! Since we didn’t want to walk on the road, we took the old track and reached Vila do Maio in 1h30.
Last night before taking the plane back to Praia the next day.
Barreiro
The old track
The church in Vila do Maio
That’s where this trip ends!
Maio is truly a magical island! A remote, isolated place with incredible, wild beaches and villages with a Wild West feel—colorful houses on either side of well-paved, well-maintained, and decorated streets. And the locals are so warm and welcoming.
Even for hikers like us, it was a great discovery, and we were able to alternate hiking and relaxation with great pleasure! Too bad the area around Vila do Maio is being overrun by real estate construction—ongoing, unfinished, abandoned…
I’m sharing a little recap of this new 4-week trip to China—nothing fancy, just my experience.
We’re taking advantage of the extended visa exemption to return to China for the 4th time. I loved last summer’s trip so much that I’m a bit worried about being disappointed this year. Plus, I’ve had a few hiccups before this departure: my WeChat account got blocked, and I couldn’t recover it (luckily, Alipay still works fine); I couldn’t verify my 12306 account for weeks; Trip.com failed to book our second train; and I’ve got an injury that’ll slow me down during the trip... Ugh, I hate starting a trip with these kinds of issues. Then, oh surprise! Just before leaving, my 12306 account got verified! Super easy to use from that point on—I could book a few train tickets without fees.
We’re sticking with Free’s e-SIMs, which work great in China.
August 2–3
Anyway, on the morning of August 2nd, we took the RER to CDG. As usual, we couldn’t check in online. It’s always a bit frustrating, especially since we didn’t have any checked luggage. We flew with Air China. We arrived at the check-in counter at 9:50 AM, 2 hours and 40 minutes before the flight. The line for our check-in stretched 300 meters across the airport in both directions. What a joke!! We spent 1 hour and 45 minutes in that line just to reach the counter and get our boarding passes. By then, it was 11:35 AM, and boarding had already started at 11:20 AM. The screens showed a 25-minute walk to our gate—on the other side of the airport, of course—plus we had to go through passport control and security... Long story short, the plane didn’t leave without us 🙂 We boarded among the last passengers, and we took off at 12:30 PM. We’d flown Air China four times before, but this time, it felt *really* low-cost. The check-in chaos, the cramped seats (12 seats per row), no music by artists known outside China, mediocre food, and a boarding area at Beijing Airport with only 10 seats—worthy of Ryanair or EasyJet. And yet, the price was sky-high. Again, D.’s vacation requests were denied outside of July and August, so we’re traveling from August 2nd to 30th. We couldn’t have picked a worse time for inflated prices, and with the situation in Iran, we got hit with a 390 € fuel surcharge. I’ve never paid so much for flights—I felt like I’d bought business class, but nope, far from it!!
We landed in Beijing around 4:15 AM. It was 28°C with thick fog. We drove and drove and drove for 20 minutes, as usual in Beijing. Then we went through a first check, a second check, a third check, and waited for our connecting flight at 6:40 AM. A small Airbus A320, but way more space than in the Boeing 777 from the first flight. We landed in Kunming, Yunnan, around 10:15 AM in the rain.
We headed to the subway. You can’t pay at the machines with Alipay here either, so we set up the transport QR code directly in Alipay to scan at the subway gates. The process is a bit long the first time if you haven’t entered your info before, but once it’s done, it’s *so* much easier! We took Line 6 to the terminus for 6 yuan each.
We’d booked a hotel nearby, on the 16th floor. It’s actually studios on different floors of a huge residential building. The view’s pretty nice from here. We settled in quickly—back to those wooden beds, or rather, mattresses as hard as wood, which we *hadn’t* missed...
Then we went out for our first bowl of noodles of the trip and wandered through the shopping streets of the old town.
It was crowded, and the weather was cool—around 19–20°C. We tried a local specialty: milk skin, thick, dried, then grilled with rose jam. Yeah... we won’t be having that again. The taste and texture of the milk skin... no thanks.
We saw a lot of wild mushroom hotpot too. It’s on our list for later. We also passed through the Jinma and Biji gates, where I played with reflections in puddles. I *love* doing that 🙂
At the end of the day, we headed to a temple advertised as open 24/7 on Amap. Of course, when we got there, it was closed. We’ll go back tomorrow. That was the first of many disappointments with Amap this trip—I hadn’t had that issue on previous visits.
We were exhausted after that sleepless flight. Night was falling, and we decided to grab a quick bite without much appetite. We shared a delicious vegetable fried rice for 12 yuan—we even left half of it. The portions are *huge*.
After a couple of small purchases, we headed back at 9 PM, wiped out, after walking 17 km between the airports and these first steps in Kunming. I expected to see quite a few Western travelers here, but we didn’t spot a single one. Instead, we met lots of curious Chinese people, many of them super friendly and helpful—almost *too* eager, like when they’d run to serve us as fast as possible. It’s a bit much, but it’s great to be back!
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather,
A season that only exists in the southwest of America,
I remember very well what I told you that morning
A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago...
We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...
Traveling with just one spare pair of underwear, considering a hot shower a miracle, never staying in the same place too long by sleeping wherever night catches us, taking whatever local, improbable, and rickety transport we can find—this is the DNA of us wanderers. Except this time, the script for our movie is going to be a whole different genre. On paper, the destination doesn’t exactly scream epic adventure: Réunion! And what’s more... we won’t be two, or four, or even ten. We’ll be a solid thirty. All from the same family. Yes, thirty. At this point, it’s not just a trip—it’s a summer camp on the move! Why inflict this on such a peaceful island? Because my brother decided to get married there with his lovely bride. A great idea, you might say... especially when it involves relocating the equivalent of a small Ardennes village 10,000 kilometers from home for three weeks! So who’s stepping up to be the guide and wave the little flag?
So, for an exceptional trip, exceptional stories! Don’t worry, the debates at the supermarket over whether to choose plain chips or roast chicken chips, the beach picnics washed down with ti’ punch, and other rougail sausages to digest by the pool will only make it into the family archives. Here, I’ll stick to the tales of our beautiful escapes, the ones where we explore the wild corners of this little volcanic rock planted in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So where exactly are we headed?
For the first week—the subject of this first installment—we’re taking it easy. We’ll start by rediscovering the coastline, from the Souffleur in Saint-Leu to the Hermitage lagoon, before a little trip to the Cirque de Cilaos and its legendary road with 400 turns, just to get our legs warmed up.
"How about a Christmas market this year, huh? A little romantic weekend getaway...
- Yes! That’d be cool! Strasbourg? Colmar?
- Feels a bit déjà vu, doesn’t it? Plus, slim chance of snow there... And I’d love something a bit more exotic with a touch of originality..."
"Okay, Google, give me the list of the five most beautiful Christmas markets in Europe.
- In fifth place, the Christmas market in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania.
- Save your breath! Lithuania, here we come!"
We wanted cold, and cold is exactly what we got the moment we set foot in this new, unknown land. As for landscapes, forests and lakes stretch as far as the eye can see across this vast plain, its vegetation scorched by the frost of a winter that’s clearly already well underway here.
Lakes, in fact, set the scene for our first visit to Trakai Castle, whose brick-red towers and walls rise proudly against the azure sky of our first day. Lakes, because this castle was built on an island and is only accessible on foot via a series of walkways spanning half-frozen lake offshoots. I couldn’t have picked a better spot to build my castle! Translation: We’re totally sold! Proof is we spend two hours hiking around the area, alternating between forests, reeds, and cozy houses tastefully decorated for Christmas.
With my girlfriend Christelle, we’ve chosen South Africa for our first trip to Southern Africa, focusing on safaris—after a long debate with a Cape Town/Kruger combo.
But that would’ve meant cutting out St Lucia, which would’ve been harder to fit into another trip.
And St Lucia—thanks to Michel and all those travel journals—we really wanted to go there.
So our 11-night itinerary ended up like this, mostly shaped by school holidays:
- 3 nights in St Lucia
- 1 night in Hluhluwe
- 1 night at Mkhaya Game Reserve (Eswatini)
- 1 night at Hlane Royal National Park (Eswatini)
- 3 nights in Kruger (Berg en Dal / Satara / Tamboti)
- 1 night at Shindzela Tented Camp in the Timbavati private reserve
- 1 final night in Kruger at Lower Sabie
All of this in the off-season and rainy season, just a month after catastrophic floods that killed over 150 people and seriously damaged Kruger’s infrastructure.
I’ll jump straight to St Lucia and skip the loooong journey to get there (with a layover in Frankfurt, landing in Johannesburg, a domestic flight to Durban, and the rest by rental SUV—First Car Rental, perfect, no complaints).
To motivate readers—especially some familiar faces here—I’ll drop in a first photo.
This travel journal is therefore intended solely for my photos, to present a consistent style.
All the shots were taken with a simple Samsung Galaxy smartphone and with whatever was at hand.
All stays combined, I’ve spent the equivalent of three years at most in Thailand, and I’m not a big expert on the country.
However, after many trips, lots of reading on VoyageForum and other sites, and conversations with many locals as well as expats, my view of the country is becoming clearer, though it’s constantly evolving. You never stop discovering and learning.
I guess I wanted to piece together a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who miss it.
I don’t know if this minimalist sharing will interest anyone, but it’ll do me good to put it together. After so many months without traveling and then these other long months with VF closed, there’s plenty of material available.
There’ll be a mix of places, periods, and subjects, but it might well be intentional.
I suspect many Thais have dogs because they make excellent guards for the home. Nothing better to deter burglars or to signal the presence of a snake. You’ll often see Thais tapping the top of their dog’s head, but don’t be fooled: it’s a sign of affection from them. Judging by the dogs’ reactions, they’re used to it.
Thailand is one of the countries on the planet where rabies is still present, so keep that in mind. It’s not just bites that can be dangerous, so don’t let just any dog lick you. Especially on a wound, of course.
Even though dogs often fear humans—this dangerous and unpredictable predator—we still need to stay cautious.
Be careful when walking into alleys because the dog will defend its master’s big property, be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs.
It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t really made for walking around, and dogs are one of the reasons.
That said, it’s not uncommon to see them chasing bikes or scooters. Cars, though, are much rarer—they’re too big.
It seems Thais prefer to give their dogs freedom by not locking them behind gates. Though sometimes the gate is closed, the little side door is wide open. Oh, and sometimes there’s no gate in front of the property, or it’s been broken for years.
You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the side of the road, sometimes right on the road. When you arrive, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, which reminds visitors not to drive too fast. As a result, you’ll notice that dogs with injuries or missing legs aren’t that rare.
Since they believe in reincarnation and respect for all forms of life, they don’t chase dog packs away too much, and they don’t sterilize them enough. Seeing a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you might think it’s best not to cross paths with them at the edge of a field.
A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at temples on the brink of death, enduring terrible suffering. No one did anything about it. The image (and the smell) of one of them, dying and emitting the stench of death, still comes back to me sometimes.
Some of you may have seen the YouTube vlog of a French woman living in Phuket who was given a little pig by her Thai friends. The well-fed animal quickly became a happy, enormous beast with its own garden. Yet, it didn’t take long for it to fall seriously ill and become incurable. In her video, the French woman described how difficult it was to find a vet willing to perform euthanasia.
You’ll often see bowls by the side of the road. Thais leave food and water in them for stray cats and dogs. Overall, they have a big heart for animals.
If you ever pop into a shopping mall, you might see people pushing their small dogs in strollers. It’s not a gimmick—it’s just that these strollers are provided for customers to put their pets in, otherwise you can’t bring them inside. It looks a bit odd when you expect to see a baby.
When we started looking for a summer destination a few months ago, our first criterion was to avoid extreme heat and heatwaves. We had already been to Norway two years ago and are considering going back in the future for other occasions. So, we had some fun asking ChatGPT which destinations enjoyed a mild climate during the summer without going too far. Among the list provided by the AI were the Canary Islands... The idea of a place we wouldn’t have thought of first, both not too far away and exotic enough, appealed to us: “Hmm, why not?”
This destination had never really attracted me, though Magali was a bit more interested. Five years earlier, COVID had caused a short break in my professional activity, and I had planned a trip because the flight price was attractive, and I was looking for a destination different from what usually appeals to me, more than out of deep interest. From a distance and with a social judgment I acknowledge (it’s not great, but it’s not completely wrong), I had the image of a destination for party-goers enjoying the sun without the slightest interest in local culture, with concrete coastlines and denatured landscapes—everything I detest the most. Still, I had done some quick research on the different islands and spotted Lanzarote for its beautiful volcanic landscapes, hiking trails, beaches, and the impression of a good balance between activity and fewer crowds than Tenerife or Gran Canaria. Then I dropped the idea of going, without ever reconsidering traveling to the Canaries...
Until now! Because we started researching the different islands of the archipelago to see which ones might appeal to us the most. It was La Gomera, the third smallest island of the archipelago, more praised for its hiking trails and preserved nature than for its beaches, away from mass tourism (fifty times fewer tourists than Tenerife) but still a bit more developed than its wild neighbor El Hierro, that caught our attention. Contrary to what might be suggested later, I’m not at all addicted to AI, but I use it from time to time to synthesize quick research or simply for experimentation. Since ChatGPT had started anticipating my tastes lately as if it had become my buddy (often successfully, sometimes off the mark), I asked which Canary Island would suit me best for a trip with my family. The tool answered first with... La Gomera. So, I tested it and teased it a bit to see if this suggestion was well-founded, as the method sometimes makes it contradict itself. But no luck: “You’d appreciate the wild nature of El Hierro, but with family, you’ll find little activity for the kids. You won’t like the touristy vibe of the big islands like Tenerife, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, and Fuerteventura. You could consider La Palma, but it’s really La Gomera that will suit you best, based on your interests and the criteria given.” So, we dug deeper into our research and were convinced without a shadow of a doubt that this island was the one waiting for us.
Without knowing it, we had Canarians in our circle who revealed their origins when they heard about our travel plans. One from Tenerife insisted we’d be better off choosing Tenerife (obviously...) because it also has preserved spots and that La Gomera, “you can explore it in two or three days, you’ll get bored quickly...” The other, a colleague from Gran Canaria who had never visited La Gomera, still recommended it without hesitation because it turned out her parents had just gone there on vacation: they loved it and had encountered few tourists. She also tended to think this destination was usually the subject of short stays, but according to what her parents told her, taking your time there was also a great idea. However, in our research, the idea that La Gomera is an island you can explore in three or four days max kept coming up. So, we considered combining its visit with La Palma or El Hierro, the other two that caught our eye. But hopping between islands by ferry represents a significant budget for non-Canarians, even more so for a family of four. Then, scrutinizing Google Maps, it seemed obvious that two weeks were too short to discover two islands as they deserve, and that there seemed to be plenty to see in La Gomera, given its very unique culture. After all, we read that some people spend several months a year there, others never even leave... Finally, these landscapes and this atmosphere, which seemed to us a mix of Europe, North Africa, and Latin America, tempted us. So, it would be two weeks in La Gomera, deal!
La Gomera is therefore the second... well, the third smallest island of the Canaries since La Graciosa was recently recognized as a fully inhabited island. It has the shape of a rough circle about 20 to 25 kilometers in diameter and has just over 20,000 inhabitants, half of them in its capital, San Sebastián de la Gomera, the only real town. Like its Canarian sisters, La Gomera is a volcanic formation that rose about 10 million years ago. The island is very mountainous and rugged, covered with red and black rocky landscapes. Geological activity has shaped, between the sprawling massifs that end in steep cliffs in the ocean, six coastal valleys with tropical vegetation that have favored human settlement. They divide the island like slices of a cake; from the north clockwise: the agricultural Vallehermoso, the rustic Agulo, the green, humid, and fertile Hermigua, the sunny capital San Sebastián de la Gomera, the southern and isolated Alajeró-Santiago, and the seaside Valle Gran Rey. They constitute the six municipalities (more like cantons to our French understanding) of the territory.
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
La Gomera was populated late. As with the rest of the Canaries, human presence is thought to have begun about 2,000 years ago. Groups of animist Berbers, probably fleeing persecution, gradually populated the archipelago, especially the western islands and La Gomera, becoming its small aboriginal population: the Guanches (or later Gomeros). The animist and pastoral civilization of the Guanches thrived until the Spanish takeover in the 15th century, which, after a short period of harmony and mixing with the indigenous people, suddenly ended in bloodshed... La Gomera later became the “Columbus Island” after Christopher Columbus’s stopover, increasing the blending of populations. In the 20th century, many Gomeros emigrated to Cuba and other Latin American countries in search of a better life, bringing back a mix of cultures and traits quite palpable in today’s Gomeran culture. It is, however, in La Gomera that the vestiges of Guanche culture seem to have left the most traces, in the language, gastronomy, social practices... Moreover, most Gomeros, especially in remote villages, have a particular identifiable type and proudly claim their ancestral roots, even making La Gomera a bit exotic in the eyes of other Canarians.
Perhaps that’s why it has never really wanted to develop its tourist infrastructure too much. If we set aside the tourists who visit for the day by bus or boat from Tenerife on a marked itinerary (and whom we ultimately rarely encounter), La Gomera has remained a hidden gem, a destination focused on nature discovery that attracts hikers, nature-loving divers, and scientists for its fauna and flora, and to a lesser extent, beachgoers who don’t seek overly developed coastlines. Tourist activity is therefore limited. Roughly speaking, you’ll find a majority of Spaniards, including a substantial number of residents from other Canary Islands, many Germans who have a particular fondness for La Gomera and spend long stays there or own second homes, to the point that the German cultural footprint is clearly noticeable in some places (it’s said to be Angela Merkel’s favorite holiday spot), and still quite a few French. The presence of other nationalities seemed negligible to us. Most travelers come mainly for hiking, but it’s also a prime spot for whale watching. Additionally, the seaside resorts of La Gomera—San Sebastián, Santiago, and especially Valle Gran Rey—are well-known destinations for hippies, especially German ones, ranging from chic boho hippies to old-school hippies who’ve been there for decades, quite similar to those you’d meet in India in Goa, Rishikesh, or Paharganj. Thus, practices like naturism, vegetarianism, and local organic production are quite well established in some areas.
Some practical info:
- The round-trip flight from Paris to Tenerife cost us 365 € per person (outbound with Transavia, return with EasyJet), including checked luggage and three seats reserved side by side.
- We chose two bases to explore the island: one week in Valle Gran Rey, reputed to be the most pleasant of the three seaside resorts, and one week in Hermigua, more mountainous and close to the natural park. We booked two houses with balconies and views: the first at 120 € per night, the second at 99 €.
- The round-trip ferry between Tenerife and La Gomera cost us 270 € with the company Baleària Canarias, including discounts for children aged 4 and 12, but I don’t have the exact details. It was a bit cheaper than with the other company, Fred Olsen.
- Finally, we rented a car through the agency Cicar for 360 € for 16 days, which comes to 22.50 € per day.
- Apart from that, we didn’t plan anything and decided the day before or even the morning of what we wanted to do. We didn’t invest in any paper guide on the Canaries, as information on La Gomera was scarce, but we used the very comprehensive site La Gomera Travel, a travel guide published by the Canary Islands Tourism Council, a real goldmine of almost exhaustive information on the island.
Alright, off we go for 16 days of adventure discovering La Gomera!
If I close my eyes and think of the Sultanate of Oman, I first smell a light scent of incense, feel the warmth of a sunbeam on my skin, before sand slips through my fingers. I taste the sweetness of a date, a real candy, then the flavor of coffee with a hint of cardamom and rosewater... I hear the desert wind whistling in my ears, the distant call of a muezzin, then the murmur of water. I open my eyes to see smiles, welcoming gestures, a turquoise sea, rocks ranging from ochre to purple, deep wadis where torrents burst forth, orange dunes, white sandy beaches where tiny crabs scurry at full speed. I see incredible oases emerging between arid mountains. I see abandoned villages that I’d dream were full of life, imposing fortresses overlooking valleys, and lively souks where offers are delicate and negotiation is a mutual courtesy.
All that, and so much more.
This is what I tried to capture in my illustrated travel journal, which I’ll fill in here and there with photos.
I drew this journal “cold,” after my return (actually, I made it this summer, while our trip was last winter). It’s a pretty special format—I bought it in Japan without really knowing what I’d do with it. Well, it found its purpose! Below is a photo of this accordion-style journal: here, it’s only partially open, because when fully unfolded, it’s 5 meters long!
For drawing enthusiasts: The accordion format is both a constraint (each sheet is 9 cm x 27 cm) and a freedom (you can create a fresco). The paper is also a bit special: it doesn’t allow for fine lines, but it takes ink well (liner pen). However, everything has to be done almost in one go (with a very light pencil sketch) because it erases poorly. It absorbs too much water for coloring with markers or watercolors (unless you avoid soaking it), but it works well with oil pastels and their use with a brush and solvent. Since it’s yellowish, it allowed me to create contrasts even with white pastel.
On the right, the "welcome marker"—those dates offered everywhere as a sign of hospitality. On the left, a tribute to those stunning doors worn by time, admired all over the old quarters, including the abandoned ones.
Oman is one of the world’s largest producers of frankincense resin. Incense burners are everywhere, from the simplest clay ones to the most precious handcrafted silver ones...
Hospitality will often lead you to accept a small coffee, an "Omani coffee," very light, subtly flavored with cardamom, maybe a touch of saffron, and occasionally rosewater.
Here, I’ve depicted a man in the common everyday attire of Omanis: the dishdasha, mostly white (during the week and daytime; colors are more common in the evening or on Fridays and Saturdays). While you’ll see some men dressed in Western clothes, they’re very few. The white dishdasha is truly the shared attire of all men. The dishdasha, which has no hood, is distinguished by a small pom-pom attached to the collar, the furakha, which is soaked in perfume. And believe me, Omanis go overboard with it! "It smells like the pom-pom" is an expression that’s now part of our shared language, my husband and I.
Another must of men’s attire is the kuma, a small round head covering, usually white with brightly colored patterns. The keffiyeh is also worn (but without the cord called an agal in Arab countries), and it’s mostly worn by those with roots in the desert, from what I understood.
And what about the women, you might ask? Some are veiled, some in full black (but not a burka—more like a chador + abaya), due to the influence of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, whereas the traditional outfit used to be a layering of very colorful dresses. Most of the women we saw wore neutral clothing, a plain veil over their hair, but with their faces uncovered. We also saw many saris and colorful veils—don’t forget that 40% of the population consists of Indian, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi immigrants, who work a lot in tourism, hospitality, restaurants, services, and construction.
Just to clarify, as a tourist, there’s no pressure to wear a veil, and never any disapproving looks. Of course, you’ll save the mini shorts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders, and midriffs for the hotel terrace—but I’d say that’s the same for men and women, and with the sun being strong, it’s better for your skin too.
Here’s the introduction! In the next post, I’ll tell you about my itinerary, and we can dive in!
My buddy Christian and I (Patrick) are off for 28 days in Argentina in March.
We’ve already shared several trips as a duo (Bolivia Peru, Namibia, Laos, Costa Rica).
Since we’re starting from the idea that at our age (65) we won’t be coming back here—there are just too many other corners of the world to discover—we did the "grand tour" of Argentina, with 6 domestic flights to make the most of our 28 days.
Here are our stops:
1) Departure from Brussels to Buenos Aires via Madrid
2) Arrival and first contact with Buenos Aires
3) Early morning flight to Ushuaia. Boat trip on the Beagle Channel
4) Ushuaia: hikes in Tierra del Fuego National Park
5) Ushuaia: last hike and flight to El Calafate
6) El Calafate to El Chaltén by bus. First hike
7) El Chaltén: hike
8) El Chaltén: hike
9) El Chaltén: hike and bus back to El Calafate
10) El Calafate: Perito Moreno Glacier
11) Flight to Bariloche. Car rental and surrounding areas
12) Seven Lakes Region
13) Nahuel Huapi National Park region
14) Flight to Salta. Car rental
15) To Tilcara
16) To Humahuaca
17) To Purmamarca
18) To Jujuy via the salt flats
19) To Cafayate
20) Around Cafayate
21) To Cachi
22) Back to Salta
23) Flight to Iguazu
24) Waterfalls on the Argentine side
25) Waterfalls on the Brazilian side and flight to Buenos Aires
26) Buenos Aires
27) Return flight
28) Morning arrival
Happy reading!..
We landed in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, and headed straight to Kasane in Botswana to pick up our car.
Our vehicle is a 4x4 because in Zambia, it's practically impossible to use anything else, especially in the national parks. I’ve already had the pleasure of visiting South Luangwa National Park—it’s one of the reasons for this trip, the main one being to travel in Africa with one of my sons.
First stop: Livingstone on the banks of the Zambezi River. Along the way, we discovered a lovely restaurant at Socrates with a super-friendly owner (we’ll actually stop there again on our way back). We spent our first night in the rooftop tent after a stunning sunset, accompanied by the grunting of hippos in the river.
The next day, we set off early, heading to Kafue NP. In fact, we’ll always leave early—waking up between 5:00 and 5:30 AM and hitting the road an hour later. Kafue is a lesser-known park, mostly forested, and the animals are skittish because they’re not used to human presence. We crossed the park from south to north and came across various antelopes. Near Lake Itezhi-Tezhi, there are plains where wildlife is easier to spot.
After Kafue, we headed to South Luangwa. This journey requires stops in Mumbwa and Petauke. Two pleasant stops where we found lodges (a nice change from the rooftop tent) at affordable prices and met welcoming people.
For me, South Luangwa is Zambia’s most beautiful park—the river is stunning, the landscapes are gorgeous, and there’s a wide variety of wildlife, including, of course, big cats. A tip for those, like us, who aren’t with a guide: if you’re staying near the park for several days, don’t hesitate to do a "game drive" to scout out where the animals are so you can return the next day with your own vehicle. Of course, in the dry season, you’ll want to focus on waterholes to see the animals—and you’ll need a bit of luck too. The elephant population is growing, and we were lucky enough to see around sixty elephants crossing the Luangwa at dawn, spread across several groups. South Luangwa is the westernmost point of our trip, and we’re now heading east to Lower Zambezi.
Lower Zambezi is Zambia’s side of Mana Pools on the Zimbabwe side. We took a boat ride on the Zambezi to see elephants, hippos, crocodiles, and a multitude of birds living along the water and on the river’s islands. The sunset there is also magnificent.
To explore the park, we followed the waterways parallel to the Zambezi, mostly on the western side (see our route). Lower Zambezi is the last park we visit, and the final leg of our trip will be Victoria Falls.
Victoria Falls—or Mosi-Oa-Tunya ("The Smoke That Thunders")—are truly impressive, even during the dry season. We saw the falls from both countries: in Zambia for the overall view and the bridge that serves as the border, and in Zimbabwe to get as close as possible to the most spectacular parts of the falls.
This marks the end of our trip, which, despite a blown tire on the road, went off without any major issues. Zambia is a beautiful country that immerses you in wild, still-preserved nature.
The latest travel journal about Turkmenistan dates back to 2019. Here’s a quick update on this vast desert country, which is now a bit easier to visit than before.
This is my first travel journal. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. The country is slowly opening up, but it’s still possible to visit sites where you’ll be completely alone. In five days, I saw two Hongkongers, a few Germans, and a Chilean at the crater, ten Chinese people in a capital bazaar, and that’s it!
It’s possible to visit Turkmenistan from Uzbekistan. The easiest and most economical way is to take a taxi to the border from Bukhara. The trip takes a little over an hour.
Crossing the border takes quite a while because many Turkmen bring back items bought in Uzbekistan to resell in Turkmenistan. For example, diapers, baby products, or beauty products.
It took me over 2.5 hours to cross the border. To visit Turkmenistan, it’s mandatory to have a guide and go through a travel agency. British agencies often offer three-, five-, or seven-day trips for over 1,500 or 2,000 €.
But if your budget is more limited, you can contact a few Turkmen agencies directly by email, and they’ll make you an offer between 700 and 1,300 € for three to seven days. I took a five-day trip from Turkmenabat in the northeast of the country to Dashoguz in the north. The goal was to visit the main UNESCO-listed sites, including Merv, and archaeological sites like Nisa or Gonur Tepe.
Your guide will also be your driver. They’ll pick you up at the border. The formalities are very long because customs officers have to stamp multiple documents, and obtaining the visa you previously requested from your travel agency requires several checks. But the process goes relatively smoothly, even if each step takes a while.
Once on the other side, the first surprise is the brand-new highway all the way to Turkmenabat. A very long line of trucks stretches for several kilometers on the Turkmen side to cross the border into Uzbekistan. According to my guide, Turkmen trucks transport gas and cotton (though not this season, since the harvest is in September), but they mainly fill up their tanks because fuel is much cheaper in Turkmenistan. A full tank for a car costs about 3 €, which is unbeatable.
From the Farap border post, the goal is to reach the city of Mary, which is home to the UNESCO-listed site of Merv in its suburbs, about thirty kilometers away. This city is known as a foundation by Alexander the Great in the 4th century BC under the name Alexandria of Margiana. Several fortresses are visible.
After more than three hours on the road, we have lunch at a Turkish restaurant called Aladdin. Several quotes from the president are visible along the highway, but the road is in good condition, and we move along easily. This will be by far the best road in the country—things will get much worse later.
Roundabouts are particularly interesting because they feature emblems of Turkmen culture, like the dog, a carpet, the Ahal Teke horse, or Muslim symbols, even though the presence of Islamic artifacts is quite limited.
After as many weeks as I have fingers on my right hand, we're hitting the road again, fully recovered from our pharaonic adventure. Back in France to drop off our daughters (sorry, girls!), this time it's just the two of us, ready to be welcomed by a new destination. They say it offers one of the richest cultural heritages in the world for those willing to put in the effort. It's the land of the ancient Silk Road, where we'll follow a journey steeped in history and discoveries straight out of *One Thousand and One Nights*. A former Soviet bloc region independent only since 1991, we'll be walking in the footsteps of Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Alexander the Great, Marco Polo...
Another fun fact about this country: it's strictly forbidden to import porn on your phone. True story. The same goes for painkillers! Unless it's about sodomy—though the two don’t seem connected, that’s just how it is. Don’t ask me why! Anyway, I’m getting off track. Here’s the big question: Where do you think we’ve just landed?... To give you a hint, the locals are known for being incredibly welcoming. No sooner said than done—our first taxi driver, proud to transport French travelers, refused to let us pay for the ride. Great vibes for these two weeks ahead. So, any guesses?
Uzbekistan!!!
This time, I landed in Monastir on a direct flight from Nice, again with Tunisair. We left about ten minutes late, and the flight lasted around 1 hour 30 minutes. A meal was served on board (cucumber salad with Edam-like cheese, carrots, and two small portions of dishes I couldn’t identify—semolina with peppers, olives, and parsley, two small rolls, a square of processed cheese, and a chocolate cake). It’s worth noting because it’s not common on flights this short.
In February, France and Tunisia were in the same time zone, but now Tunisia is one hour behind. This time difference and the flight duration work perfectly for a short 15-day trip since it takes me a few days to adjust to jet lag.
Luckily, I’d asked my hotel about the taxi fare from the airport because the drivers (there were several around me) didn’t hesitate to quote outrageous prices. The actual fare is 20 dinars, but one asked for 120 dinars. I refused, and another offered 60 dinars. I replied, "That’s too expensive—I’ll take the metro!" (Having tried the Tunis metro, I had no desire to repeat the experience in Monastir with a suitcase!). I started walking toward the metro, and one of the drivers caught up with me, saying, "20 dinars is fine!" I’ll skip the details, but the negotiation took a little while.
When I arrived at the hotel, I told the receptionist someone had asked for 120 dinars. He put his hands to his head and said, "They’re awful!" He remembered our phone call two days earlier when I’d booked (he’s the one who told me I could take the metro).
The Mezri Hotel isn’t expensive. I got a sea-view room for 75 dinars (22 €). (I’d booked a balcony room for 90 dinars but wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it.) It’s well-located but noisy because there’s no double glazing.
The receptionist is a very kind older gentleman. He called a friend whose wife is from Tozeur to find out if I should take a bus or a *louage* tomorrow and what time.
I arrived at the hotel around 7:00 PM and had time to stroll along the corniche to the ribat. Despite some run-down buildings, the seaside seemed livelier and cheerier than Sousse’s.
Monastir is the hometown of former president Bourguiba. I passed his mausoleum by taxi. There are Tunisian flags along the avenue by the sea because every year on April 6—the anniversary of Habib Bourguiba’s death—the president of the Republic visits the Bourguiba Mausoleum in Monastir to pay respects.
The taxi driver mentioned other Tunisian presidents. He complained about rising prices and insecurity, blaming President Kaïs Saïed (I’d already heard that security was better under Ben Ali).
At the end of my stay, I’ll take time to explore Monastir, but tomorrow morning, I’m off to Tozeur—a long bus ride awaits me.
Here we go!!!
I left home at 4 AM on October 31st and headed to Barcelona. Driving through Barcelona on the ring road stresses me out a bit, but at 6 AM the traffic is smooth, and I arrive at the airport without any issues. I call the valet, who quickly comes to pick up my car. He takes photos of it from all angles before letting me go.
Baggage check-in hasn’t started yet, and there are already several of us waiting.
Once free, everything happens very quickly. The flight to Abu Dhabi is on time and goes smoothly. I’ve never had any problems with this airline, which I’ve been using for several years.
The flight to Bangkok arrives at 7 AM as scheduled. This is my first time in Thailand and Bangkok. I’m used to traveling in India, and I notice that everything here is well organized—the customs process is quick, and the luggage is already on the carousel.
I booked a taxi on Booking. All I have to do is find the right exit and door based on the agency’s instructions. A large sign with the names of people who booked is posted on a wall. A hostess greets me and calls the taxi, which arrives 5 minutes later. I booked one night at the Lost Inn BKK hotel in the Phra Nakhon district, and we arrive at 9 AM. The welcome isn’t warm, and I have to wait until noon, sitting on a chair, before I can check into my room. I’m exhausted, and sleeping sitting up isn’t ideal. Noon finally arrives—the room is small but clean, which is fine for one night. I quickly take a shower to wake up because I plan to spend the afternoon visiting the Grand Palace. First, I need to exchange some money, and the banks are all close together on the same street, which is very convenient. When I enter one, a hostess gives me a ticket and invites me to sit down. There are about twenty counters, and I wait quietly until my number is called. The exchange is quick, so I can head out to find the Royal Palace. It’s actually very easy, and the walk is pleasant.
Entry to the Royal Palace (500 baht).
It’s magnificent and grand, and there are quite a few of us visiting. The sky is gray, it’s very humid, and a shower interrupts the visit. It’s a vast complex of temples and palaces. The buildings are colorful and sparkling, with a great sense of serenity (without the tourists, of course). I quietly enjoy the place and try to take photos without tourists, which isn’t easy.
Very close to the Grand Palace is Wat Pho, one of the oldest Buddhist temples in the capital.
It’s very famous for its 46-meter-long reclining Buddha statue.
Walking around the temple, you can see different representations of Buddha, all covered in gold leaf.
Inside the temple, on one side, monks recite their prayers, while the other side is reserved for tourists who come to meditate in silence.
Before returning to the hotel, I have dinner at an Indian restaurant. I go to bed early because tomorrow’s wake-up call will be very early again.
Saturday, November 2nd
Wake-up at 4 AM, departure from the hotel at 4:30 AM. The taxi I booked via Booking is waiting for me and takes me to the airport. The trip is fairly quick—he takes small roads, and at this hour, there’s no traffic.
The flight to Phnom Penh is on time. Before boarding, I realize I left my fleece jacket on the carousel, but it’s too late to go back for it.
The flight goes well, and customs is quick.
At the exit, I take a tuk-tuk to Julieka’s GH near the museum. The welcome is friendly. I won’t be able to check into my room until noon, so I take the opportunity to exchange some euros on the market street. The street is lined with restaurants, and I’ll have my first meal there.
The museum is right across the street, so I don’t waste any time visiting it.
The representations of Hindu deities are very different from those in India, and I don’t recognize them. Many beautiful Buddhas are on display.
The museum is very pleasant, and there aren’t too many people, which is a plus.
At the exit, I return to the GH, settle into my room—which is decent and clean.
The Royal Palace is 1 km away. I walk along a garden, and at the end of the street is the Tonlé Sap, but I turn right. I arrive at a large esplanade and see the buildings with tiered roofs and glazed tiles. The entrance to the palace is a little further away.
At the entrance, I notice there isn’t the same crowd as at the one in BKK.
Khmer architecture is magnificent. The complex consists of gardens, palaces, pagodas with golden roofs, and slender spires.
The Silver Pagoda houses the small Emerald Buddha, which is actually made of jade. The silver flooring is covered with carpets. Photos are not allowed.
The walls surrounding the pagoda are covered with frescoes depicting scenes from the Ramayana.
My partner and I traveled from Sunday, July 5, 2026, to Wednesday, July 22, 2026.
We spent a long time debating whether to rent a car or use public transportation. In the end, after reading so many posts about travelers getting scammed by police or rental companies—even those recommended by blogs and reviews—we decided to stick with public transport. It worked out really well. Sure, we had a little less freedom to go where we wanted, but it was way less stressful for us.
Sunday, July 5:
Arrived at Cancun Airport. Withdrew cash from the ATM in the terminal just before exiting. The ADO bus counter (they pronounce it "A-Jee-O") is right behind you when you're facing the ATM. Bus to downtown Cancun cost 145 pesos per person.
Stayed at "Rose 5," booked on Booking. The studio was super clean and perfect for one night. The owner’s instructions for accessing the place were very precise, with photos included. Check-in was self-service with a code. The ADO bus terminal isn’t far, and there are shops and restaurants nearby. We really appreciated that the AC was already on when we arrived. By the way, I’d recommend always booking places with AC—it’s *really* hot in Mexico.
Monday, July 6:
Bought a SIM card with data from a TELCEL store. My partner, who’s on Free Mobile, was able to use her regular plan. Just so you know, I found the network pretty unstable. As soon as we left the cities, neither of us—me with TELCEL or her with Free—had any signal.
Another thing to watch out for: roaming charges. I had to turn my SIM back on for less than 30 seconds to get a bank SMS code, and my phone apparently connected to the internet—resulting in an 8-euro roaming fee.
Left on an ADO bus to Chiquila for 278 pesos per person. During our trip, ADO buses were always on time, comfortable, and clean. The AC is *cranked* though, so bring something to cover up with—it gets cold. Some routes were fully booked even in the low season, so try to reserve 1 or 2 days in advance either via the app (when it works) or at the counter.
When we arrived at the ADO terminal in Chiquila, the ferry company counters were right next to it. Ferries leave every 30 minutes, alternating between companies, so no need to book ahead. Just take whichever one is leaving next (330 pesos per person).
When we got to Holbox (pronounced "Hol-bosh"), we’d booked a place via Booking called "Casa de Nana." It was a huge studio with a fridge, cooking plate, and utensils. The best part? The *location*. It was 100 meters from the beach and 200 meters from a Chedraui supermarket. They provided bath towels and beach towels, and the AC worked perfectly. There’s a key box so you can leave your keys inside when you go out. The only downside was that no one was there to let us in when we arrived, so we had to wait a while. The Wi-Fi was good, which was lucky because during our 4-day stay in Holbox, the phone network *never* worked. According to locals, that’s pretty common in Holbox, along with water outages.
Luckily, I’d had the good idea to download an offline map, which helped us find our way back to the place more easily. You can walk there from the dock.
The restaurant next to our place (La Barracuda) was great if you like seafood—I’d recommend their octopus dishes.
Tuesday, July 7:
We did a kayak tour in Holbox’s mangroves at 6 AM. We were looking for a sunrise kayak tour with a French-speaking guide. That’s exactly what we got with "Kayaking Holbox," where Diego, the owner, speaks English and French. He was joined by Gustavo, another guide.
We’d booked for a group tour, but we were the only ones. Diego still went ahead with it instead of canceling due to lack of participants, so we got a private tour at the group rate—really professional of him. They showed us this amazing ecosystem for over 3 hours. We saw all kinds of birds: pink flamingos, pelicans, egrets, frigatebirds... rays, a horseshoe crab, and a little crocodile that was *so* well hidden. Diego and Gustavo have a real eye for spotting animals—I could’ve passed by the crocodile 100 times and never seen it, it blended in so well. Their explanations about the flora and fauna were super interesting. We also got a little break where we tasted mangoes and bananas that taste *nothing* like the ones in France. A real treat—those little Mexican yellow mangoes! I’d definitely recommend Diego and his agency for a French-language kayak tour (1000 pesos per person).
In the evening, we walked to Punta Coco to see the bioluminescence. No need for a guided tour—if you really don’t want to walk, you can take a taxi. At Punta Coco, you have to pass the beach bar/restaurant and then go left into a kind of inlet that forms a lagoon. You have to wiggle your feet or move your hands in the water to create movement, which makes the light appear. Just don’t expect the kind of photos you’ve seen online—they’re all edited! It’s fun to see, but you won’t be dazzled by the light...
Wednesday, July 8:
Whale shark tour with "My Holbox Tours." Why recommend this agency over others for swimming with whale sharks? Simply because Valérie surrounds herself with top professionals to make your experience unforgettable. We were with Captain Fernando, who does everything to position the boat perfectly and make your swim easier. In the water, we were with Humberto, who also goes above and beyond to make sure you have an incredible time. He doesn’t just "supervise" like some guides from other companies who leave you on your own. No, Humberto reads the whale shark’s trajectory and guides you—all you have to do is follow him. He really puts in the effort, even holding your hand to guide you through this quick but intense encounter. Humberto also films the moment and will offer to show you the videos and sell them to you. His footage is really high quality.
Fernando and Humberto also prepared food for us. Special mention for their guacamole! Valérie is there to make sure everything goes smoothly on the boat and to answer your questions in French, English, or Spanish about these animals. If you choose My Holbox Tours, you can be sure you’ll get a top-notch experience.
About the tour itself: before you go, you should know that the sharks can be *really* far away. The day we went, it took 3.5 hours by boat to reach them. The boats are small, and let me tell you—on the way there, when we weren’t going with the waves, it was *rough*. Out of 9 passengers, 4 got seasick. But once you’re face-to-face with the shark, you forget all about that. Even if swimming with a whale shark isn’t exactly a walk in the park—they swim pretty fast, so you need some endurance to keep up. You’ll usually get 2 turns. Our first swim lasted a little over 4 minutes, and the second about 2 minutes because the shark was moving fast and we were still tired from the first swim. It might seem short, but when you’re swimming, it feels *long*. Either way, it’s an experience you *have* to do—but choose your company wisely. On the way back, there’s a stop at Cabo Catoche. Honestly, the snorkeling is pretty disappointing if you’ve done it elsewhere in the world. But the lunch stop at Cabo Catoche is really nice for relaxing (white sand and hammocks).
Thursday, July 9:
Short morning walk to Punta Mosquito at 6 AM. Really nice.
Ferry to Chiquila (330 pesos per person) + ADO bus to Valladolid (300 pesos per person).
In Valladolid, we booked "Casa Lucia" via Booking. The hotel is gorgeous, with a colonial style, and very close to the ADO bus terminal and downtown. It’s super quiet and clean. There’s a shared kitchen you can use with a fridge, microwave, and water dispenser, plus a big table by the pool and a nice indoor terrace. Breakfast was simple but included. The only small downsides were the tiny room and bathroom, no mirror in the room, and a noisy fan.
Friday, July 10:
Not far from the ADO bus terminal is the colectivo station for Chichen Itza. They offer a round-trip to Chichen Itza with an option to stop at Ik Kil cenote on the way back and then drop you off in Valladolid for 370 pesos per person (Ik Kil entrance included).
For the Chichen Itza visit, we’d booked a tour with a guide often mentioned in groups—his name is Juan Pat. He’s a Maya who lives near the site and speaks excellent French. He reserves spots in advance for you and queues up to be the first on-site. It cost 500 pesos per person + entrance fees. His tour lasts 2 hours and focuses mainly on the main pyramid and the ball court. He’s passionate and fascinating, even if some of his claims, as a Maya, might be a little biased. I think it’s *really* important to have a guide—otherwise, you’ll miss so much. You can contact Juan Pat on WhatsApp at +52 985 121 2381.
Afterward, we went to Ik Kil cenote (showers and life jackets mandatory, lockers available). It’s *very* crowded, but still really beautiful with its lush vegetation.
Saturday, July 11:
Since we didn’t have a car but still wanted to visit other cenotes that seemed hard to reach by public transport, we decided to book a taxi for the day. We agreed on 1200 pesos to take us to 3 different cenotes and wait for us at each one. (To find taxis, just look where they park near the ADO bus station.)
He picked us up at Zaci cenote, which we’d walked to. We got there at opening time and were the first ones there—had the place to ourselves for a while! 150 pesos per person. A pretty cenote in the city center with lush vegetation. It’s a bit like Ik Kil but without the deep cylindrical effect.
Cenote Xcanahaltun: the most beautiful cenote we visited. Entry 250 pesos per person. It’s a closed cenote with a hole that lets light in—a cave-like setting. You can kayak inside. There are little fish at the edge that nibble dead skin off your feet. Since it’s closed, the water is *freezing*!
Cenote Palomitas: entry 250 pesos per person. Another stunning closed cenote, even more enclosed than Xcanahaltun. The hole in the ceiling is smaller, so it was pretty dark when we arrived—kind of an eerie vibe. But when the staff turned on the lights, it looked like a "Gothic cathedral" full of bright stalactites.
Cenote Sac Aua: entry 290 pesos per person. The ticket includes a guided cave tour (tip-based). This cenote is really unique with its central island and way less crowded than Suytun. Just so you know, the water is *really* cold in cenotes. In these three, in July, we had the place to ourselves for a while and never saw more than 2 families at once—so peaceful!
Sunday, July 12:
ADO bus to Bacalar (536 pesos per person).
In Bacalar, we stayed via Airbnb with a host named Luli, who offers several rooms with shared bathroom and kitchen.
The room is nicely decorated in a pleasant setting. It’s ideally located near the lagoon and downtown. The shared kitchen is handy. The mosquito net over the bed is useful because there are *a lot* of mosquitoes in Bacalar. Luli provides a water jug, which is really nice. The only big downside is the lack of water pressure in the shower—we had to rinse off by filling a bucket. Also, there’s no real door separating the room from the bathroom. We never met Luli in person, but she was very responsive via messages. The terrace in the middle of the vegetation is lovely.
From the ADO terminal to the place, we took a taxi for 40 pesos. Since this driver was honest about the price (we’d checked beforehand), we decided to use him every time we needed a taxi in Bacalar. Here’s his WhatsApp: +52 983 184 3585.
Monday, July 13:
We did a boat tour on the lagoon with "Bacalar Francophone Activities." Since we were just the two of us, it cost 3500 pesos. If we’d managed to be 4 people, it would’ve been 1000 pesos per person.
We had a private 4-hour tour on the lagoon with Steeve and his very comfortable boat. He’s from Quebec, so his French is perfect. During those 4 hours, Steeve showed us the lagoon’s iconic spots *and* places other boats don’t go. He told us about the lagoon’s history and gave great tips on where to go and where to eat. As a little bonus, he gave us a video taken with his drone during our swimming break.
Tuesday, July 14:
We went to Los Rapidos by taxi (400 pesos round trip) and entry was 225 pesos per person. It’s *very* touristy but really beautiful. You can eat there (expensive), relax, and go down the "rapids" as many times as you want. It’s worth it if you spend a few hours there. You can’t bring in food or drinks—you leave them at the entrance and pick them up on the way out.
Wednesday, July 15:
On Wednesdays, navigation is banned on Bacalar Lagoon, so we’d planned another excursion.
Visit to Calakmul from Bacalar with ABCtours (WhatsApp +52 983 319 8359).
This agency organized a trip from Bacalar to Calakmul with a French-speaking guide. Communication beforehand via WhatsApp was smooth. Mr. Checo, the driver, and Fernando, the guide (who spoke great French), picked us up on the day. Mr. Checo drove very carefully on the long road and always made sure we were comfortable. Fernando is passionate about flora and fauna—he’s a biologist with a degree in ornithology, so he knows *everything* about animals. The slightest sound or song, and he knows what it is. He’s got an eye for spotting them, from the biggest to the smallest.
During the trip, we stopped at km 27 for a short forest walk, then went to see the two main pyramids on the site. On the way back, we stopped at the bat cave for the magical spectacle of millions of bats flying out at dusk. In the end, we saw or glimpsed (some briefly) spider monkeys, howler monkeys, a toucan, 2 tapirs, turkeys, 2 deer, and lots of birds. If, like us, you’re more into flora and fauna than archaeology, I’d *highly* recommend this agency and tour with Fernando.
It’s not cheap, but the road between Bacalar and the site is *long* (3.5 hours). Price: 3900 pesos per person for 2 (3500 for 3, 3200 for 4).
Thursday, July 16:
ADO bus to Playa del Carmen (614 pesos per person).
In Playa del Carmen, we stayed in an Airbnb. The building is on the town hall square, next to the casino.
The best thing about this place is the *location*—super close to Fifth Avenue (La Quinta). The kitchen is pretty basic, but the fridge works well. There are supermarkets nearby. The rooftop pool is really nice. The two big downsides, though, are the soundproofing (you can *hear* the neighbor’s alarm and all the events on the square) and the *total* lack of water pressure in the shower. We had to fill a trash can with water to pour over ourselves. When we told the owner, he said it wasn’t normal and someone would come fix it, but we never heard back. Based on previous reviews, this seems to be a known issue that never gets resolved.
Playa del Carmen is *very* touristy on Fifth Avenue, but in a fun, musical vibe—we never felt unsafe. There are *tons* of little souvenir shops for tourists on this street. There’s a beautiful monumental sculpture on the beach (the two figures meeting in the air), next to which you can see the Voladores show (men climbing a pole, tying themselves with ropes, and descending headfirst while "flying" around the pole). The show is tip-based and happens several times a day. In our opinion, Calle 38 is prettier than Fifth Avenue—it’s lush, green, and quieter, with the sea at the end. Great for an early evening stroll. We had really good meals at great prices at "El Tio Noy" tacos, just a few meters from Fifth Avenue in a side street.
For souvenirs, we’d recommend going to Walmart instead of Fifth Avenue—you’ll find skulls, tequila, mezcal, keychains, mugs, glasses... at good, fixed prices.
Friday, July 17:
We did the excursion to Isla Contoy. Isla Contoy is an uninhabited, highly protected island. Only 200 people are allowed to land per day on a rotating basis, so only a few companies have permission to dock there. Most agencies subcontract the day to a third-party company.
We booked through VRM (Viviendo Riviera Maya), but it was Ocean Tours Mexico that handled the tour. Contoy is a little paradise. We were accompanied by multilingual guides, including French speakers, throughout the day. Steffy gave us info about the island during a short walk on the marked trails, and Leño Tlatemoa kept the mood up on the boat rides with music and dancing. Isla Contoy is *truly* stunning, and the lunch was delicious: grilled fish and chicken, guacamole and tortilla chips, rice, fruit, drinks (everything is brought and taken back by the guides). The snorkeling part was pretty disappointing if you’ve done it in Cozumel, though. The stop at Isla Mujeres isn’t very interesting either—it’s too short to explore, and the island is *extremely* touristy. Still, the excursion was very well organized, and we had a great day (2970 pesos per person).
Saturday, July 18:
We wanted to go snorkeling in Cozumel but thought the prices from French-speaking agencies were too high. Plus, for snorkeling, we figured we didn’t *need* a French-speaking guide.
So we found a much cheaper solution by taking the ferry from Playa del Carmen ourselves and choosing an agency in Playa. The round-trip ferry cost 663.50 pesos per person. Then we took a taxi to the snorkeling boat (100 pesos). The agency we chose is called Mystic Snorkel—they don’t have a physical office. The tour cost 1400 pesos per person. It was a small boat, but that day we were the only ones, so we got a private tour at the group rate. We stopped at 4 different sites, all very different and beautiful. We saw all kinds of fish, corals, a nurse shark, and turtles. El Cielo, with its huge starfish, is *exceptional*. If you’re going snorkeling in the Yucatan Peninsula, this is *the* tour to do—the other sites are pretty "poor" in comparison.
Sunday, July 19:
Morning dive with Triton Diving. I chose the Cozumel dive option. Great experience.
Booking via WhatsApp was easy. On the day of the dive, Selene, who speaks French, was our guide. She’s *very* attentive to the group’s safety. The briefings are clear and precise. In Cozumel, we did 2 very different sites: the first was a drift dive with lots of life—beautiful corals and fish. The second was a wreck, the C53, a 56-meter boat you can enter. Not much marine life, but a beautiful wreck intentionally sunk for divers—still in great condition. An unforgettable moment. Selene even took videos during the dive, which the club sends you for free afterward. I’d *highly* recommend this club.
Just so you know, in Playa del Carmen, the beaches were full of sargassum during our stay, despite barriers and daily cleanup. Locals told us the problem is getting worse and the sargassum is arriving earlier in the season. Tourism has taken a *big* hit this summer, and they’re wondering if tourism can even survive the sargassum season anymore. A lot of tourists are heading to the islands—Isla Mujeres and Cozumel—to enjoy the beaches, as the west side of those islands is sargassum-free.
Monday, July 20:
Colectivo to Puerto Morelos. First, a colectivo toward Cancun that drops you off between Puerto Morelos town and Puerto Morelos beach (40 pesos per person), then another from that junction to the beach (10 pesos per person).
In Puerto Morelos, we’d booked a room via Airbnb at "Piedra del Caribe." *Best* place we stayed in Mexico. It’s an aparthotel. Our room was ready before check-in, so they let us in early. The place matched the description—spacious, with a comfortable king-size bed. The shower had *great* pressure, which isn’t a given in Mexico. The staff was super friendly and welcoming. They let us use the pool, restrooms, and rooftop shower after check-out while we waited for our ride to Cancun Airport. They even kept our luggage. I *highly* recommend this place.
In Puerto Morelos, there was *way* less sargassum than in Playa del Carmen—it was actually swimmable.
We did the snorkeling tour with the fishermen’s cooperative for 450 pesos per person for 2 hours. The reef is close to the beach (you’re not allowed to swim there), so the boat ride is short. It’s not as pretty as Cozumel, but it’s nice and affordable. On Puerto Morelos’s page, you can also access a small, not-very-well-preserved reef. There’s also a cenote in the sea where fresh water mixes with saltwater—the water is murky there. We had a great dinner and excellent cocktails at "La Choza del Puerto."
Tuesday, July 21:
Wandered around Puerto Morelos (check out the church and read everything—it’s entertaining!), relaxed by the hotel pool, and left for Cancun Airport by taxi (400 pesos) booked via InDrive to head back to France.
Our highlights:
- Holbox
- The whale shark tour
- The cenotes
- The local flora and fauna (so present!)
- Isla Contoy
- Cabo Catoche (except for the snorkeling)
What we liked least:
- The bioluminescence (barely visible despite good conditions)
- The food—we found it not very diverse in taquerias
- The constant tipping
- The lack of water pressure in showers (fixed, wall-mounted, no hose or showerhead)
Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions while it’s still fresh in our minds.
Here we go—finally, the big day has arrived! A trip the whole family (my two kids, my husband, and me) had been looking forward to for so long.
To keep it short, we left from Nice, arrived in Namibia on June 25, 2025, and left again on the 21st—four weeks later.
We used an agency for all the camping reservations, activities, and the car rental. At least that side of things was taken care of. Michaël was our contact throughout the planning and the trip itself.
We spent our first night at Londiningi BB. A bit out of the city center but very quiet. The rooms were spacious and clean, and we could eat on-site that evening. Perfect for recovering from the flight.
This travel journal is our second on VoyageForum, following last year’s where we recounted our four weeks in Vietnam.
The goal remains the same: since some members on this site share tips, experiences, and great deals that help us prepare for our trips, we do the same after returning—both to give back a little and in the hope that our experiences might be useful to others in some way.
Our route was as follows: Bangkok, Siem Reap, Krabi, Suratthani, Koh Phangan, Koh Tao, Chumphon, Bang Saphan, Prachuab Khiri Khan, Sam Roi Yod, Hua Hin, Phetchaburi, Bangkok.
Beyond rediscovering Bangkok, our objectives were the long-held dream of seeing Angkor and exploring southern Thailand, much of which isn’t overly touristy.
A quick big thank-you to Barbot, who took the time to answer several of our questions.
12/07/2013
The cheapest flight we found earlier this year was a Paris-Bangkok route with a layover in Moscow for 1440 €, total for two people.
So, this time we tried Aeroflot. Airbus A318 for the first leg, A330 for the second. Nothing particularly annoying to report—the passengers were very calm, the cabin temperature was comfortable, and we had enough legroom.
That said, the quality of the meal trays was pretty mediocre, and the flight attendants weren’t exactly comedians.
We’d like to remind everyone that it’s best to exchange as little money as possible at the airport upon arrival, since the rate is about 5% worse than at city banks.
Of course, we made sure to take the airport exit where you can catch official taxis to avoid getting scammed. So, we queued up, a little lady gave us the ticket, and off we went with the driver.
Generally, this system works well because these drivers are registered, know their duties, and the risks they face if they break the rules. Except that day, right off the bat, we got the scammer of the day. His first move was to snatch the ticket from my wife’s hands—the one you’re supposed to keep in case of a complaint. My husband saw it, but after a full day of travel, we were a bit out of it, and honestly, there was no reason to be suspicious. But once we started driving, the guy refused to turn on the meter. We insisted more and more firmly, but nothing. So, I used the famous method of opening the door and starting to step out of the car. At 40 km/h, that scares the driver more than the passenger. He finally turned on the meter, but that didn’t calm him down—quite the opposite. For the next half-hour, he ruined the ride by demanding extra fees here and there. Having dealt with several scam attempts last year in Vietnam, this wasn’t exactly new, and we were proud of ourselves for staying pretty zen. Still, this guy was a little scary—he was completely wired and aggressive. Honestly, it was hard not to think he was on something. He’d be perfect for a *Scarface* remake. When we finally arrived at the hotel, he followed us to the entrance. We paid the two tolls (25 and 45 baht), gave him the usual 100 baht extra for the ride, and stayed polite but firm. So, meter: 245 baht + 100 baht + 25 and 45 baht for tolls—we paid the exact amount, no way we were tipping this guy. He left furious, but he was already like that before picking us up... Anyway, avoid Mr. Chartree Chidchen, number 089 826 7308, car E2663!
We were so relieved to finally settle in at Feung Nakorn Balcony hotel in the temple district. 42 € per night, great reception, all the staff is friendly. The AC works fine, the bed seemed hard at first but turned out to be comfortable. The hotel is quiet, away from the nightlife, but at this time of year, many places are less crowded than in high season. Even with a nice fish pond and outdoor breakfast area, it’s a decent hotel, though we felt we could’ve found something better.
After a night on the plane, the first afternoon is always a bit of a slog. We napped for a few hours, and when we woke up—guess what—we were starving. We visited a temple across from the hotel (nothing special) and then decided to take the Chao Phraya Express, the river shuttle that serves many piers along the river. It was a really enjoyable experience. The steel gangway wobbles when you board and disembark, the boat sits low in the water, and sometimes you get splashed. During peak times, you’re packed in like sardines, but most of all, there’s that exotic urban landscape passing by, especially the temple rooftops.
At that exact moment, the boat was packed. We didn’t see a ticket booth at the pier, and we tried in vain to pay the few baht for the ride. The cashier on the boat was too busy, and another employee we called didn’t have time to help us. Oh well, we weren’t going to force the issue. Still, this mode of transport is super practical for avoiding traffic, and at the piers, the lines with station names are clearly marked, with colors matching the flags on the boats. Combined with a map like the *Routard* guide, it’s easy to navigate.
We easily made it to the restaurant *Harmonique*, located near one of these piers. It’s a unanimous favorite on this forum, and let us tell you—it’s well-deserved. What a wonderful experience that evening! We only saw the outdoor gazebo because there was no way we were dining inside. It’s not flashy, so those looking for a luxurious setting should look elsewhere.
That night, the staff was a bit slow, and we had to track them down several times to move things along. But oh, my friends—what a feast on the plate! Start with the appetizer platter for two at 250 baht, featuring four specialties, each more tempting than the last, followed by their famous crab curry for 200 baht. There’s *so much* crab in there! The dish is so delicious and rich that when you finish, you feel—how to put it—like it was almost *too* good, to the point where you’re almost put off eating for days. And also, oh yes, we *will* be back. Their satay chicken is just as amazing, and it would be a crime not to mention their generous dessert with ice cream, warm banana, and chocolate, plus their *excellent* almond milkshake.
Later, we took a taxi to Kao San Road, mainly to book a Ko Tao-Chumphon trip for 600 baht per person at the Lomprayah counter. In hindsight, we should’ve booked all three of our trips there right away.
Kao San Road is *ultra*-touristy—better for younger crowds, but it’s still worth seeing. There’s rock ‘n’ roll, hippies, and crowds everywhere.
We walked back to the hotel, and when we got a little lost near a canal, a really nice older Thai man spontaneously appeared out of the night to kindly point us in the right direction.
Finally, a real long night of sleep ahead—we cranked up the AC. Sweet, the vacation has begun!
Hi there,
I just got back from a trip to Sri Lanka from December 18th to January 1st with 2 adults and 2 kids (12 years old).
If it helps, here’s my itinerary.
We left on December 18th from Madrid with Qatar Airways. No complaints. I booked my tickets back in March for 800 € per person. (I flew from Madrid because I live near the Spanish border and was too worried about strikes in France.)
We arrived on December 19th at 4 PM (local time). Before leaving France, I’d booked a taxi through MyTransfer for 59 € to Sigiriya. A van was waiting for us at the airport exit.
A never-ending 3-hour drive to Sigiriya. We stayed at Samana Guesthouse—very simple, clean, with a pool and an excellent Sri Lankan breakfast. Shower and straight to bed.
Friday, December 20th: Beautiful weather, but very humid and hot. We visited Lion Rock (36 € for adults) and then Pidurangala.
I loved both sites—they’re a must-do in my opinion.
Spent the late afternoon by the pool.
Saturday, December 21st: Another gorgeous day. The guesthouse manager offered us a free 2-hour tuk-tuk tour. We first visited a lake, rice fields, the temple, and the Sigiriya market, plus the usual tourist trap—the botanical garden (no pressure to buy anything at the end).
Then we took a tuk-tuk to Dambulla Temple, the Golden Buddha, and the wholesale market.
Sunday, December 22nd: Still beautiful weather. I’d booked a taxi for 8 AM. We did all the long trips by taxi to save time. I’d ask for prices from 2 or 3 WhatsApp taxi agencies 2 days or the day before—super responsive, always got replies within 5 minutes. We headed to Ella (4-hour drive) for 22,000 LKR.
Arrived in the afternoon at Rest Full Homestay—a small, family-run guesthouse. Clean, cozy, and an amazing Sri Lankan breakfast.
In the afternoon, we went to Nine Arches Bridge. It was a Sunday, a Sri Lankan holiday, so it was *packed*—mostly locals and very few white tourists! Even though it was crowded, it was cool because it was all Sri Lankans. We waited an hour for the train. It’s worth seeing, but honestly, I didn’t think it was that amazing.
Then we headed to the station to check if we needed to book tickets for the train to Haputale—turns out, no.
Monday, December 23rd: Beautiful weather. We hiked Ella Rock—a gorgeous trek. The final stretch is steep but shaded, so it wasn’t as tough as I’d read. The whole hike is stunning from start to finish. We saw the train pass twice (one blue, one red) and lots of women picking tea.
After that, we did Little Adam’s Peak. It’s not hard, but it was *packed* with tourists—meh. Luckily, at the top, you can walk a bit farther (down one side and back up) to get some space to yourself.
What I *didn’t* like was the commercial vibe at the big café/restaurant with a pool at the entrance of Little Adam’s Peak. Loud music, all that money being made right next to little souvenir stands run by Sri Lankans or tea-picking women. Felt off.
Ended the day buying souvenirs at one of the few shops we found during the trip.
Tuesday, December 24th: Beautiful weather. Took the train to Haputale. We got to the station 30 minutes before the 9:30 AM train. We could’ve taken 2nd or 3rd class—I went with 2nd (160 LKR per person).
It was crowded, but we managed to get seats—first 2, then 3. Only a 1-hour ride, but I *loved* it—windows and doors open the whole time.
Arrived in Haputale around 11 AM, and the mist was already rolling in.
We walked to our guesthouse, The Mist Holiday Bungalow. Simple but clean, with a great view of the tea plantations. The owner’s wife is Vietnamese and used to work for French tour operators, so her French is still pretty good—helpful for us since our English is terrible. They booked us a tuk-tuk for 4:45 AM the next day (2,000 LKR) to Lipton’s Seat.
Spent the afternoon wandering around Haputale. Not much charm, but there’s a nice fruit and veggie market and a short walk through the tea plantations.
Wednesday, December 25th: Beautiful weather. The tuk-tuk was on time to take us to Lipton’s Seat. We were the first ones there—the sky was just starting to turn pink. In the end, only about ten of us watched the sunrise. The guesthouse had packed us breakfast, and we walked back down (half on the road, half through the plantations). Didn’t see any tea picking since it was Christmas, but the walk was still incredible. We took detours through villages full of kids.
After that, we visited the tea factory. The tour was really interesting, and we took the bus back down to Haputale. Such a great moment—whole families were heading to mass, dressed up and made up. All so beautiful.
At noon, we left for Udawalawe National Park. Taxi for 14,000 LKR. Stayed at River Inn Safari Cottage. *Warning*: It’s the same place as Eagle Safari Cottage. I don’t recommend it. We’d always stayed with families before, but here it was just staff—totally different vibe. The pool was nice but not very clean (water was murky). The bungalow was big and fine, but it was brand new—so new the asphalt floor wasn’t fully dry. It’s in the middle of nowhere, so we had to eat on-site. Couldn’t leave a review on Booking because they never confirmed we’d stayed, and they canceled our reservation the next day.
Thursday, December 26th: Beautiful weather. I’d booked a safari through the hotel for 5:30–10 AM for 54 USD. Honestly, yes, there are a lot of jeeps, but it was great. The kids loved it—we saw everything there was to see.
Left by taxi at 11:30 AM for Welligama (12,000 LKR).
We didn’t stay in Welligama city but at Coconut Beach, between Welligama and Midigama. *Total crush* on the guesthouse: Sky Mountain Café with View. Such a lovely family. The mom makes amazing meals at reasonable prices. The view from the hill over the sea is unreal.
Spent the afternoon walking along the beach.
Friday, December 27th: Beautiful weather. My kids are surfers. Unfortunately, there weren’t any boards their size to rent at Coconut, so we took a tuk-tuk to Welligama Bay (1,000 LKR). They surfed from 8 AM to 5 PM—rental was 5,000 LKR for the day. Meanwhile, we walked the beach and swam. Water was 29°C.
Saturday, December 28th: Beautiful weather, rain from 4 PM until midnight. Same surf day. They were so well-behaved the whole trip, so this was their reward.
Sunday, December 29th: Beautiful weather. Beach day at Coconut. *Warning*: It’s a reef break. For surfers, there are three spots (Coconut Left, Middle, and Right). The boys bodysurfed (with fins) all morning, and at 1 PM, we took the bus to Hikkaduwa.
Stayed at Hotel Universal Beach. Nothing special—right on the water, but the rooms were dark even though they were clean. The manager was super nice, but the rest was meh, and breakfast was mediocre compared to what we’d had before (2 eggs and 3 slices of toast). Plus, it was late—8 AM.
First impression of Hikkaduwa wasn’t great—way too many Russians for our taste.
Monday, December 30th: Beautiful weather. Spent the whole day exploring. Turtle Beach, then the other side of the beach (toward Galle) near the fishing port. The beach there is much wider, with scattered hotels and super quiet. It’s beautiful—I should’ve booked somewhere in that area. Ended up having a great day away from the crowds.
Tuesday, December 31st: Overcast, then beautiful, rain at 4 PM. Had to end the year (and the trip) with some surf. Rented boards for the kids (3,000 LKR per board for the day). Bad luck—the waves were on a reef break but small. Not great for them, but no big deal. They still got out of the water by 2 PM. Walked the beach (which is gorgeous), had a juice, and went for a swim. Then back to surfing in the rain at 4 PM.
Wednesday, January 1st: Left by taxi at 5 AM (18,000 LKR). Flight at 10 AM. Arrived in Madrid at 8 PM.
I could have titled my travel journal like Carmen: "Some trips are born twice." Indeed, we had considered this destination back in February 2020. However, an honest tour operator advised us against traveling at that time due to the climate. So, we gave up and opted for Guatemala instead (see "On the Mayan Lands" on this site).
So, why this title? When I was in primary school, over 65 years ago, the illustrations in my history books (Machu Picchu) and geography books (Lake Titicaca) made me dream, and those images stayed in my mind. It took until 2026 to finally make this dream come true!
We prepared our trip with Tout Pérou, a French-speaking "agency." Everything was handled via email and WhatsApp exchanges with our contact: Laurent, who was both competent, friendly, and full of good advice.
For 200 €, Tout Pérou provided us with drivers and guides whenever we wanted, helped us buy our domestic flights (cheaper when purchased in Peru), booked shuttles between airports and hotels, and got us a discount on the train ride to Aguas Calientes, as well as on the buses between Chivay and Puno and between Puno and Cusco. In short, Laurent took care of all the logistics and the Machu Picchu tickets. It was up to us to book our hotels. Tout Pérou provided a list, but we weren’t obliged to follow it. Another advantage of the package: we didn’t have to pay in advance; we paid the service providers directly day by day.
We didn’t meet Laurent in person because he was on vacation in Europe. Before his departure, he gave us a briefing, provided a summary table with the entire program, the service providers, their phone numbers, their fees, the schedules, and gave us plenty of advice (money, exchange, safety, etc.). After returning at the end of our stay, he kept checking in on us.
Lastly, we had also gathered information from Arnaud Lagadec, who runs a hotel in Cusco and offers tours of the region. He gave us a lot of useful information. Another contact: Thomas Montaigne, very friendly, who runs an agency in Arequipa (Agence Pérou Exclusif).
Day 1 – Paris to Lima
Foreword
I’ll share our trip without any pretension—I don’t have the talent of some contributors on this forum—and I’ll illustrate it with a few photos (taken with an ordinary smartphone). My comments are personal and only reflect my own views. So, please be kind! Feel free to comment on my story as you like, but let’s avoid pointless debates.
Even though we live in the south of the Paris region, true to our habits when the flight is in the morning, we chose to spend the night before our departure in a hotel near CDG and parked our car in a parking lot in Garches. This way, we avoid the stress that often comes with traveling around Paris (accidents, roadworks, traffic jams, etc.).
Check-in and border control went smoothly on that Sunday morning. Our Air France flight was uneventful. In Lima, border control took a particularly long time, and for the first time, we didn’t get an entry visa stamped in our passports.
As planned, a driver took us to the Miraflores district, where our hotel was located. We were surprised by the numerous signs about possible tsunamis, having forgotten that Peru is prone to such events and regularly experiences earthquakes. We’d see the consequences of these during our journey.
Exhausted from the early wake-up, the 13-hour flight, and the 7-hour time difference, we had dinner at the hotel before a restful night.
Note that this day was Peru’s presidential election day. As a result, we weren’t served beer—the sale of alcohol was banned that Sunday.
We did the Langtang trek (hike) from September 10th to 17th, with the first and last days being the trip from Kathmandu and back—so 6 days of actual walking. It’s a fairly well-known trek but certainly not as famous or crowded as those in the Annapurna or Everest regions, which is why we chose it.
In theory, it’s mandatory to have a guide for this trek. In reality, it seems there are ways to bypass the regulations: we met at least two people hiking without a guide—a South Korean, a New Zealander, and possibly also a couple of English women and an American couple, though we’re not sure if they had a guide.
The agency we booked with had told us it was an affordable trek for relatively older people in good shape—which is our case (I’m 72 myself). I have to say upfront that we found it quite challenging, maybe because we didn’t have good weather—it was the end of the monsoon season. To be clear, no matter your fitness level, I’d say doing this trek in the middle of the monsoon season would be suicidal.
Day 1 – Journey from Kathmandu to Syapru Besi
On Monday, September 8th, there had been violent protests in Kathmandu against the government, which had, among other things, blocked access to social media and been accused of nepotism and corruption. There were 19 deaths. The situation was very tense on the day of our departure, Wednesday the 10th. The agency warned us that public transport was very unreliable. So, we decided to take a jeep, at an additional cost of $100 ($160 minus what was already budgeted for the bus).
We left a little before 7 a.m. and it took us a good hour just to reach the outskirts of Kathmandu. Along the way, we saw several houses and vehicles set on fire by protesters.
The road to Syapru Besi is only 120 km, but it’s frankly awful. It’s always narrow, winds through endless mountains, and the shoulders range from bad to confusing to nonexistent. Several sections are just dirt tracks. We didn’t regret opting for the jeep, as we could stop several times at our convenience—if only to let Y (my Thai partner) throw up everything she had. She’d taken her usual motion sickness medication, but the constant turns, accelerations, and braking eventually made her terribly carsick.
In Nuwakot, we stopped for breakfast at a nice little restaurant, Jimbu. It was around 8:30 a.m., and we’d barely covered 60 km. The restaurant has a lovely garden overlooking the Trishuli Ganga, the river flowing down from Syapru Besi. First photo: the river in the bottom right corner, mist and clouds over the mountain on the other side.
An hour later, my second photo: the hills along the Trishuli Ganga. You can see the different crops—lush green rice paddies in the lower right and corn, already yellowed and likely harvested, in the foreground on the left. And of course, the mist and clouds through which you can glimpse the mountain on the other side of the river.
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
Our first stop was just a few kilometers from Marrakech, at a lovely house perfect for relaxing and recharging before continuing. It’s called Bleu House, a little paradise on the outskirts of Marrakech. The welcome was very warm, with a beautiful pool and a lovely garden.
Next, we headed toward the Tichka Pass. The road has really improved in recent years—it’s much easier to drive now. No more getting stuck behind trucks, and today, the construction is practically finished.
Morocco has turned green after the recent rains. It’s a joy for the herds and shepherds.
I hesitated about writing this travel journal...
This summer, we only did the classics (the 3 northern parks and Zanzibar) and let a local agency take care of everything from start to finish.
No craziness, no risks, no sleeping under the stars, no self-drive, no venturing off the beaten path, no incidents, and not even any delays in the pre-planned itinerary...
But don’t think we were disappointed!
The whole family (there were 6 of us) came back with smiles and memories of great moments spent together.
So, if you're looking for a "classic" way to discover Tanzania, this is the place to be.
Our 2-week itinerary:
- Arusha (1 night upon arrival)
- Tarangire (1 night)
- Ngorongoro (2 nights in Karatu then Irmisigiyo)
- Serengeti (3 nights in Robanda, Togoro Plains, and Seronera)
- Zanzibar Stone Town (1 night)
- Zanzibar Matemwe (3 nights)
- Zanzibar Jambiani (3 nights)
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
This trip was in 2023, but when I wanted to write my travel journal, VF was still closed to contributions...
So, now that I've just finished my Japan travel journal here, I figured it was high time to honor this destination we came back from so enchanted.
Disclaimer 1: This is a written travel journal. There’ll be text! Too much, for some!
Disclaimer 2: This is an illustrated travel journal. There’ll be photos! Too many, for some!
I have to say, every time I try to discipline myself, to keep it shorter, to include fewer photos... I end up adding more. It feels like my dear Aunt Nicole, who exhausted us with her slide-show evenings in the 70s/80s, decided to take her revenge. The upside for you, readers, is that you can slip away anytime without offending Aunt Nicole. I won’t even notice!
Anyway, since I love maps, here’s one to give you an idea of where I’m taking you. As you can see, we only saw a tiny part of Laos (the areas circled in red); we only had 3 weeks for ourselves (my husband’s newly retired, I still work), and we prefer taking our time over rushing around like crazy.
In broad strokes, it was very classic:
First, we “settled in” at Luang Prabang (8 days), because we wanted and needed to.
From there, we took three days to venture a little further north—not far in kilometers, but as we know, distances aren’t just about km!
Then we flew south to Paksé, letting ourselves drift down to the 4,000 Islands while stopping by the pre-Angkorian archaeological sites.
We wrapped up with the Bolaven Plateau.
A few practical notes: We arrived via Bangkok, then took a Bangkok-Luang Prabang flight, having picked up our luggage in Bangkok to check it in for Luang Prabang. No issues—the Bangkok airport, which many of you know, is very well organized.
We got our visas on arrival in Luang Prabang. Quick, but to be fair, we were on a “small” plane, and the big flights had arrived earlier, so we weren’t too crowded in line!
At the end of our trip, we didn’t fly out of Paksé but from the nearby airport in Thailand, Ubon Ratchathani (a 2.5-hour drive from Paksé), then Bangkok and Paris.
You’ll notice we skipped Vientiane to stay longer in Luang Prabang. That said, there’s now a high-speed train between Vientiane and Luang Prabang—good to know—and soon the (Chinese) train will go all the way to Bangkok and even Kuala Lumpur!
With that intro out of the way, let’s dive into the heart of the matter.
To be continued: Slowing down the pace... in Luang Prabang
2- Around San Pedro
Vila beach
Sunset behind Santiago
The rocks and sea at Ponta Preta
At the summit of Monte Batalha
Calheta
Calheta de Baixo
The beaches just keep coming...
The dunes
The 3 coconut trees, a landmark to find the track
Boca da Ribeira beach
The hills on our right
Ribeira Dom João
Barreiro
The old track
The church in Vila do Maio
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
On the right, the "welcome marker"—those dates offered everywhere as a sign of hospitality. On the left, a tribute to those stunning doors worn by time, admired all over the old quarters, including the abandoned ones.
Hospitality will often lead you to accept a small coffee, an "Omani coffee," very light, subtly flavored with cardamom, maybe a touch of saffron, and occasionally rosewater.
Here, I’ve depicted a man in the common everyday attire of Omanis: the dishdasha, mostly white (during the week and daytime; colors are more common in the evening or on Fridays and Saturdays). While you’ll see some men dressed in Western clothes, they’re very few. The white dishdasha is truly the shared attire of all men. The dishdasha, which has no hood, is distinguished by a small pom-pom attached to the collar, the furakha, which is soaked in perfume. And believe me, Omanis go overboard with it! "It smells like the pom-pom" is an expression that’s now part of our shared language, my husband and I.
Another must of men’s attire is the kuma, a small round head covering, usually white with brightly colored patterns. The keffiyeh is also worn (but without the cord called an agal in Arab countries), and it’s mostly worn by those with roots in the desert, from what I understood.
And what about the women, you might ask? Some are veiled, some in full black (but not a burka—more like a chador + abaya), due to the influence of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, whereas the traditional outfit used to be a layering of very colorful dresses. Most of the women we saw wore neutral clothing, a plain veil over their hair, but with their faces uncovered. We also saw many saris and colorful veils—don’t forget that 40% of the population consists of Indian, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi immigrants, who work a lot in tourism, hospitality, restaurants, services, and construction.
Just to clarify, as a tourist, there’s no pressure to wear a veil, and never any disapproving looks. Of course, you’ll save the mini shorts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders, and midriffs for the hotel terrace—but I’d say that’s the same for men and women, and with the sun being strong, it’s better for your skin too.
Here’s the introduction! In the next post, I’ll tell you about my itinerary, and we can dive in!
Roundabouts are particularly interesting because they feature emblems of Turkmen culture, like the dog, a carpet, the Ahal Teke horse, or Muslim symbols, even though the presence of Islamic artifacts is quite limited.
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...