Naked, I slip toward the terrace where two men are crouched in front of the woodpile, bagging it up.
In one swift motion, I fling open a window and let out a mighty roar—the very one you need when a lioness charges at you in the Kalahari. The first guy hits the deck, the second grabs a full sack and bolts. By the time I open the door and grab a stick, I’m already in pursuit before realizing I’m stark naked. It’s the time when sporty South African women start their morning jog. Sheepishly, I give up, but not without hurling my stick at the fleeing thieves, who must be having a good laugh.
Any photos of this episode? 🤪
We hear the thunder and, at last, the water rages.
Nice!!!
It would be wise to close the valves up there.
Oh? Is there someone up there?
Miroslav Vitous jams on Universal Syncopations. I whistle a Down to Earth and puff on a Havana.
Love is a gypsy child, who’s never, ever known any law.......
I can just picture all those women around you—voluptuous goddesses—dancing the habanera!!
Then it narrows as it’s no longer maintained and starts to tackle the terrain.
Cool, I’ve become more educated: "étrécir" just enriched my vocabulary!!
Alas, no way to talk fashion with the shepherds in rags who only understand Afrikaans.
Haven’t you started learning Afrikaans yet?
The night before, alerted by jerks, I barely made it to a roadside campsite. When it came time to maneuver, I couldn’t engage any gear. I tried all twenty-eight possible combinations, but the car just crunched (crunch crunch crunch) and didn’t budge an inch.
A photo of the fugitives was unnecessary since I had recognized one of them. As for the photo of their pursuer, publishing it would violate the Forum Charter and would be censored immediately.
I can just picture all those women around you, lush goddesses, dancing the habanera!!
In the meantime, I’ve got Carmen stuck in my head.
Thanks, Madam, for this attentive reading.
In these noisy times, when those who stay silent are considered dead, I’m glad to learn that a silent majority may have survived. I hope you earned your role as spokesperson honorably and didn’t just appoint yourself.
I’ll take you to the garden to meet new plants.
I’ll tell travel stories again there—I’ll talk about Bougainville, Poivre, and Bégon.
What can I write that I haven’t already written so many times?
What can I say that I haven’t already said so many times?
Your words now ring out, stumble, swirl, resonate, blare, illuminate, darken, deafen, soothe, comfort...
Maybe I’m a silent reader, but as always, I’m a devoted and admiring one—always, I really do mean always...
See you soon for more snippets of your African life, then?
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
See you soon for more snippets of your African life, then?
I’ve just returned from ten days in Marseille and the Gard region. Lou-sorti-de-la-cuisse-de-Jupiter had already been there and recently exclaimed: « I see Africans... ».
So, a few snippets of southern France for you?
Prudence was born in Chad, yet among her dim colleagues, she’s the one who lights up the evening.
/
In the Bourse district at dawn, laid-back rats do their grocery shopping in overflowing bins.
/
The Mucem is fantastic with its temporary exhibition « Life of Trash ».
/
After the sardine that once blocked the port, Marseillais have now found a way to double the number of boats at the docks: they installed a horizontal mirror covering a thousand square meters twenty feet above the quays. Meanwhile, on Rue de Suffren, mini-croissants cost the same as standard ones. And of course, the big wheel by the port put on a rainbow show.
/
At Place du Marché, the sailors of the coast greet each other roughly before hoisting the sails. The setup will be locked down for the arrival of tourist ships.
/
At the terrace of Tchin Tchin, the mature ladies have skin like snakes. And their tongues: absent friends get a toast.
/
On the Route des Crêtes, employees of a communications company are testing the new Abarth Spider. No one told me its horsepower, but the car is gorgeous. Upon further inquiry, it’s got more bark than bite: a young rooster’s car.
/
She used to spend her summer vacations in the water. Now that she lives on the coast year-round, she no longer wants to swim in the Mediterranean, which she sees as a cemetery. It must be said she’s the adoptive mother of two North Africans who arrived through legal channels.
/
A chic, stout lady carries a curly-haired bichon like an accessory. At the end of the leash, her grumpy husband looks like a pug. You can’t tell who’s walking whom, or why.
/
In the Gard, I savored a local wine, a cabernet-merlot blend—young, modern, and well-dressed. A worldly wine. Its name: Substance. A welcome change from the usual châteaux and domains.
/
Beyond the island, an unidentified floating object (UFO) cruises by: a rigid five-masted vessel rigged with pasta shells as sails. Such a setup wouldn’t give it that speed, but no jib in the mast—these things happen on the decks of the Club Med 2. The Chinese flag doesn’t stop the delights of Capua.
Wow! We’ve got more photos of Marseille than of South Africa (especially when you consider the time we spent there ).
Anyway, I really enjoyed reading about a world that’s beautiful, wild, and harsh... something I never would’ve picked up without your recommendations 😉.
Muriel
Si tu diffères de moi, mon frère, loin de me léser, tu m'enrichis (Saint Exupéry)
When the prose is beautiful (actually, I skip the ugly stuff—you know that), I much prefer it in snippets or even tiny fragments rather than long blocks. So whether they’re from France or elsewhere, I’ll take your snippets and savor them...
Dolma
un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...
Whether they paint or sculpt, photograph or film, contemporary African artists draw their inspiration from a painful history. That of the continent. And more than drawing from it, it undoubtedly imposes itself upon them—a bitter brew.
From a dimly lit room where a stunning black-and-white video fresco unfolds across multiple screens, depicting lines of Black individuals carrying the world, to the next, drenched in gold and light, the introduction is striking. Further on, gleaming bodies, weapons, fury. As you move through the rooms and corridors—architectural constraints oblige—the experience may be uneven, but the artists always seem close to their roots, with the possible exception of the Afro-American contributors.
The Zeitz MOCAA (Museum of Contemporary Art Africa) is built within the old grain silos of Cape Town’s port, from which the country once exported its cereals to Europe. An architectural feat, the surgical hollowing out of these silos—once the tallest structure in sub-Saharan Africa—preserved their spirit while making way for their new purpose. You enter in silence, at the heart of a cathedral’s grand organ.
Black artists, White visitors, White funding, Black workers. A story of wheat, always—exported in the past, now imported. Once thousands of farmers and laborers, now one investor and ten million tourists.
The scenography could be improved. Few major individual works, but the collective intent is powerful. A youthful misstep, likely, since most of the works displayed at the opening (September 22, 2017) came from a private collection. The founder is aware of this, seeing his initiative as a platform to enrich. Yet, communication demands it, and the MOCAA evokes the MoMA or the Tate as if it already played in that league. At the same time, it aspires to welcome Africans from all walks of life and has an education centre in the basement. Considering that in a room of about 150 square meters with classic proportions, only four small photographs are displayed, serious explanatory work will indeed be needed for the residents of townships who share makeshift shacks with entire families. And since space isn’t lacking, dedicating an area to the site’s memory would be entirely fitting.
The museum shares the silos with a new, overly high-end hotel—a night of international kitsch costs six months of a housekeeper’s salary—at the top of which a bar overlooks the city. In a whirl, the ports, urbanization, the mountain, and the ocean unfold, all the way to Robben Island, where Mandela was imprisoned. They serve a strong coffee with a hint of acidity worthy of the best mochas.
Many port cities have now "rehabilitated" their disused docks (unloved?). While often successful, these new uses are always unsettling.
(strange coincidence: these fleeting notes from a first visit are jotted down in a Moleskine notebook gifted by... Nespresso)
The museum’s website:
zeitzmocaa.museum/
*
Diplomatic Luggage
With the decision to fly made late, the usual airlines’ offers seemed unappealing, while Ethiopian Airlines spread welcoming wings and upgraded for just a handful of birrs. Off we go, eastward bound, with Africa from takeoff.
At Roissy, the baggage check-in line for Paris/Addis Ababa is a slow, endless snake. Each passenger pushes a pyramid-like stack of suitcases, meticulously organized yet wobbling—something like a herd of diplodocus, back to Jurassic Park. The cargo hold will only be three-quarters full, but the weight onboard will certainly remain unchanged.
Dismayed, I express my gratitude to my roommate, who can’t give up her small import-export business and finds a thousand ways to fill a checked suitcase—just one—both ways. A diplomatic suitcase, whose essential contents I only discover late in the game.
*
Burglars
And of a kind that never read Arsène Lupin or listened to Jacques Dutronc.
Marlene lives on a small farm the size of a township, and the winter was harsh. In particular, she struggled with hungry baboons, which she wards off as best she can, refusing the only radical solution. While she was in town, the gentleman baboons broke in by smashing the windows, opened cupboards and fridges, looted everything, defecated on the excess, and trashed the rest.
*
Agriculture and Development
I stubbornly maintain a tiny patch of lawn, a legacy of the English in the desert. At the slightest neglect, it falls apart—and there’s been no shortage of neglect while I’ve been cultivating elsewhere. I reseed two or three rows of Kikuyu grass, which, according to the packet’s instructions, should be fertilized. Two schools of thought clash: compost or mineral? The former’s advocates argue for its sustainability, harmlessness, and the fact that the plant, having to synthesize nutrients itself, would grow stronger. The latter emphasize the efficiency and speed of pre-digested, easily absorbable nutrition.
Similarly, it’s better not to give those who lack everything but to teach them to fend for themselves.
I don’t recall a past life as a Kikuyu, but in this one, if I have a need, it’s not for the morality of the privileged.
*
"The best way to afford a suit is to work."
From their shelters on the outskirts, dozens came on foot to the farm. Before the sun rose, they climbed into the backs of pickup trucks. Dressed in tattered rags and wearing beanies worn thin by use, they huddled against the cold. Ten minutes down the dirt road before they could warm up all day at the end of shovels and pickaxes.
*
Denver is toothless, literally and figuratively. Yet, he has a dazzling smile—in his eyes. The only way to wipe it off is to scold him. Then, a dull gaze and a round mouth. As a result, I now only give him compliments.
*
Blonde Colleen used to wear her hair long, sometimes flowered, waving in the spring breezes. Then came haymaking season, she got it cut, and soon after, she withered.
*
According to the memory of the English and even the Afrikaners, and further back, the Khoisans confirm it: never had the rain forgotten the land with such consistency for so many years.
That the desert lacks water is nothing unusual, you might say. But now, the local gardening society received a delegation of Capetonians in grand style, searching for drought-resistant plants. Cape Town enjoys a Mediterranean climate with winter rainfall, but at the start of spring, its water reserves are at 27% when they should be around 80%. It’s said that swallows no longer fly this far.
The idea of a human sacrifice is gaining traction among those who think this newly arrived Breton would be perfect for the role. I’ll trade my divining rod for a club.
*
On the gable of an outbuilding facing the savanna, I’ve made a large opening fitted with a period sash window. Inside, I’ve placed a canvas chair, a folding table, and two mail trunks, then scattered a few fetish objects.
On a brick ledge, a perfect wooden replica of an off-road vehicle, like the ones children sculpt here. I regret it, but I won’t be leaving in a Toyota.
Hi Jean Luc,
We’ve talked a lot about your little Karoo town, and I still love your writing.
But enough joking around—I’d go back to Cape Town just to see that famous museum!
What else can I say that others haven’t already? I don’t want to weigh down your whole story, but I just love your little pieces of Africa. To me, they’re like tiles that make up a mosaic, and when everything falls into place, you start to glimpse the complexity of that world. Here in my corner of Brittany, I love reading what so vividly describes these places I discover year after year—they brighten up my everyday life on those drizzly, gloomy days. Hope our paths cross someday, here or there. Sylvie and Sylvain.
When it comes to compliments, you can never give too many or lay it on too thick. 🙂
You were really inspired to go that way. I was thinking of writing, but you’ve taught me I’m actually a mosaicist—it all makes sense now. All I’ve got to do is not mix up the tiles.
Guineafowl in Southern Africa
Oh sure, they don’t have manes or trunks, their horn reduced to a crest, their size like a rugby ball—so they rarely get mentioned in safari reports. And I’ve never seen one in a restaurant or on store shelves. Yet they trot around in numbers in the bush, always busy, even in the public spaces of upscale suburbs where no one would dream of plucking them.
But their meat is both delicate and flavorful, nothing like domestic poultry. I’m told you can sometimes find them in a remote butcher shop in the backcountry (way out there). Or you’d have to hunt them yourself.
But there’s another kind of guineafowl. That’s what a young friend who’s been living in Cape Town for ten years tells me, giggling delightfully. She’s frantically pecking through her stash—*where did I put it?*—before triumphantly brandishing the object of her hunt: a book!
A Guineafowl’s Life in South Africa, written by a French correspondent for northern newspapers, is a delicious read. Though young, the author isn’t a newbie: whether she’s visiting a sangoma or hitting the shebeens of Soweto with her rainbow crew, telling a car-jacker to fuck off, or sipping wine in a posh Stellenbosch estate, Sophie Bouillon serves up cracking, spicy portraits in her own style.
(Incidentally, this book greatly enriched my vocabulary: eye-liner, blush, nail bar...)
P.S. I was skimming the last chapter, titled « Opposite Sex » with sections like Giver of Orgasms, Flirting at the Font, Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby!, Sexcapades for Whites Only, Sappho Unleashed, etc., when—you won’t believe this—for the first time, a little flock of guineafowl crossed my slice of desert. My next read is all set: *The Jungle Book*. I’m already slipping into my mini-short made of zebra hide.
*
Dual Culture
The small town where I spend a lot of time grew up on the fertile lands of a vast farm at the foot of the mountain that waters it. This was the era of pioneers leaving cities and coasts with an ox-drawn wagon carrying all their possessions. The journey ended near a river or a spring.
Today, the town still preserves its smallholdings, properties of a few hectares where alfalfa and fruit trees grow, and sheep and horses graze. At the same time, it’s proud to have the country’s third-oldest library—proof that a dual culture thrives here.
*
The Godfather
The new neighbor from Central Europe, whose fortune’s origins are debated, was marrying off his son. The town braced for squadrons of helicopters and fleets of limousines. Instead, two wasps and half a dozen luxury SUVs showed up, the other guests arriving as they were.
And there he was—the feared man, built like an inverted pyramid, quick with his fists and trigger, now cheerfully bow-tied behind the wheel of a vintage convertible GMC, driving the newlyweds.
*
Multi-Taskers
Many here juggle several jobs (what are the unions doing?). In the morning, Sipho is a server at a coffee shop; in the afternoon, he washes cars. Brent is a hairdresser and raises chickens and sheep. Volgens writes promising wellness books, roasts the district’s best coffee, hosts open-table lunches, and sells eggs from his happy hens. Madelyn is a singer, journalist, and French tutor, but the record-holder is Herman: he teaches yoga, massage, and cooking (separately), runs a restaurant with his Indian partner where they serve mostly local produce (a challenge), and is also a real estate agent. Sometimes he even practices aromatherapy with an excellent curry.
Meanwhile, most residents of the nearby township struggle to land even one job.
*
Bush Rave
Dark, silent night except for the gentle breath of the mesquite (Prosopis glandulosa) fire, an inexhaustible sentinel that will watch over us until dawn. Suddenly, I crave different music, so Keith Jarrett lifts La Scala—restrained yet dazzling, building to chaos, ending like the first morning of the world.
Whether they play Bach or improvise, musicians spend their days and evenings tied to the piano. The former are like translators, the latter like interpreters; the improvisers, like writers, face a blank score. That’s where the difference lies between craftsman and artist.
*
Taste Week
Another British legacy: a bird-feeding platform hanging from a ficus tree. Sometimes I offer a crust of bread, hoping they’ll sing in return—no luck. They demand a contract, and I haven’t managed to ban them from my airspace either.
But I’d forgotten a small leftover seafood risotto in the fridge (not exactly locavore, I’ll admit). My dining companion bets they’ll only eat the rice, ignoring the fish they don’t know—even if it were breaded. I disagree: these fierce carnivores snatch grasshoppers and butterflies mid-flight, bigger than their beaks, and shake them until they pass out. They’ll surely try a tentacle or a saffron mussel.
A few hours later, the desert birds had made up their minds: they turned up their beaks at... the peas. No trace of seafood.
*
Another Matter of Taste
I’d been dreading this moment, but it was inevitable. Her reputation preceded her, and we’d crossed paths anonymously before. Very old local family, unlimited properties, known for being difficult.
I accepted an invitation to visit a construction site without realizing what I was getting into. Then a white 4x4 pickup screeches to a halt, and out steps a force of nature. ‘The owner,’ my architect-guide whispers, suddenly pale.
Tall and slender, salt-lake eyes swept by a wavy silver mane, leather boots, predator’s stance, cheetah-like presence. During introductions, she sizes me up as if it were a dating scenario. Finally, she relaxes and welcomes us. Then she drives off with her truck loaded, leaving me behind (as they say in poker when you fold).
*
It’s abnormally cold this spring, and climate change is to blame: battalions of icebergs have broken off from Antarctica and are half-encircling the country. The Atlantic doesn’t mind—it’s used to its northern cousin’s frosts—but the Indian Ocean shudders.
*
I wish the poet would tell me in verse (and against all odds, even though I’m on the other side of the world) why this princess in glass slippers, with whom I shared a mint julep before takeoff—a quiet woman who keeps her thoughts to herself—why is she here tonight when she lives in Vaires (Marne)? It can’t be the color of the desert.
*
Hooked from the first hit with no cash to score my fix, I mainline the travel tales of all the junkies of the southern lands. As an insider supplier, you’re top-tier.
To your gazelle with glass-slipper hooves, greetings from a local of Vaires.
What a twist of fate for a native of Vaires to find herself so unprepared!
Young grasshopper, didn’t you push past the midnight curfew your dad set?
But hey, money isn’t everything—there are other kinds of riches.
Your username reminds me of that sign at the entrance to Lesotho via Sani Pass: "Lesotho is not for sissies".
Misery (2x2)
I didn’t dare ask him under what circumstances he’d lost them, but he no longer has either. He slowly makes his way up the gentle slope of the endless Church Street—I just hope he’s not searching for a miracle.
Hobbling a few steps behind, dressed in flamboyant rags, just as ageless as he is, his wife keeps pace with the wheels. Both seem utterly spent—stripped of strength by necessity.
But how does this double amputee manage to have frayed trouser legs still sticking out from the seat of his manual wheelchair?
*
3x3, then 4x4
Leaning on his cane, he starts to leave the coffee shop with no access ramp. The path is tough but familiar. First, two steps, straight down (crack-crack-thump), then a right turn between planters and a railing he leans on. Two more steps cleared. Once on level ground, it’s painful to watch him swing one leg after the other for almost no progress.
His wife, a spry round woman, has already bounded down the stairs and been in the passenger seat for ages.
The old man circles the car and pulls himself into the driver’s seat using just his arms.
Then, the Jeep Wrangler’s V6 engine growls. He’ll be home at the bottom of Church Street faster than it took him to leave the café.
*
8x8
Per-Paol Jacq (let’s call him that) is the editor-in-chief of a magazine dedicated to off-road travel. We’ve been in touch for a few years, ever since he decided to buy a 4x4 in South Africa, but now he’s visiting me. While he waxes poetic month after month about the best the market has to offer, and his job has him testing untouchable vehicles, what do you think he bought for his vacation? A Defender from the last century! It’s baffling.
In the driveway, the two beasts parked side by side make a convincing 8x8.
*
Imagine
I was at a conference by an elderly Xhosa sage—a myopic visionary—who in his youth smoked dagga with John Lennon—Imagine!
« First, we’ll need to eradicate religions (by placing black banners on the front of places of worship: Praying kills. Excessive gullibility seriously harms).
After that, borders will be all the easier to abolish since they’ll already have little physical existence.
The longest step will be mandatory and widespread intermingling.
Finally, we’ll need to distribute resources fairly.
Then, no more bad reasons for fighting among the variants of the species. »
All the listeners, as one—and me with them, even though I knew it would just be a fresh start, a reset, and we’d have to reprogram and cultivate human nature—immediately signed up to the project. We were ready to fight to impose such a vision...
With the same sense of charity that’s inherent to him, the guy next to me on the bench jabs his elbow into my ribs, snapping me out of the daydream: I’d dozed off during the reverend’s sermon—same old tune—which is the required ticket to hear the renowned men’s choir. A two-thousand-year-old Imagine that’s still just an incantation.
*
Avoova
(Is it the Year of the Fowl in South Africa?)
In ostriches, everything is useful. First raised for their feathers (a century ago, no self-respecting Western lady would go out without them), they’re now mainly farmed for their skin, their meat (of little interest compared to local wild game), and, incidentally, their eggs (you need a hammer to crack one before cooking an omelet for a dozen people with just one).
And now, reviving the San people’s tradition of making necklaces and bracelets from them, Avoova uses the broken shells to create art objects. This community initiative employs around fifty mosaic artisans in a workshop closed to the public. Some pieces take over a month to complete: painting, composing, assembling, inlaying, polishing. Most turn out well—harmonious, with a restrained extravagance that avoids kitsch.
*
Evolution
According to the sage, to live a successful life, a man must father a child, write a book, and plant a tree. Yet here we are, raising a Tamagotchi and keeping a blog while deserts grow.
*
Little Madame Sans-Gêne
Sitting on the terrace of the historic hotel—which has heard its share of epic tales—she talks to her mirror, a silver model with an apple logo, held twenty centimeters from her face, staring intently: We saw animals by the thooousands... and all five Big Five too... and Robert almost died... (interrupted by the mirror asking a question) ... yes, the weather’s nice... well, no... it’s not like home... it’s changeable... (the mirror chimes in again) ... the car’s fine, yes... but the driving...
It’s the quiet hour, and the regulars take advantage—glances meet, eyebrows raise, then everyone goes back to their reading. I’m at the opposite end of the terrace, but I hear her epic tale as if she’s shouting in my ear, and it’s all the more annoying because this foreign language is familiar to me.
Biting my tongue, I approach their table to let them know the sparse audience might not be interested, especially in French.
The little madame pauses, then continues two notches quieter. Robert’s eyes widen as if he’s just spotted the sixth Big Five.
*
Restoration
Veld restoration is Sue’s profession. More than a job, it’s her mission, her life’s work. It involves sowing or planting indigenous plant species in the veld and eradicating aliens. Don’t mention palm trees, cacti, or mesquites to her—they’re adapted and widespread, but they don’t belong here. They weren’t brought by the wind or antelope droppings but by human will. Her own garden is a manifesto; she doesn’t intervene in it at all. Sand, pebbles, scrawny shrubs—that’s her ethos. Her ancestors arrived from Holland over three centuries ago, but she has no plans to return, as it would allow the veld to reclaim its original inhabitants.
*
Turtledoves
(It *is* the Year of the Fowl in South Africa)
The feeling that no matter where you take refuge in the world, they’ll be there. Their relentless cooing grates on my nerves. What, so little vocabulary and in just one language, yet they dominate the international stage like this?
I’ve dug out my slingshot, which has kept more than one baboon at bay at the campsite. The target’s smaller, but my aim’s improved. As for projectiles, no worries: I’ve got a pile of river gravel waiting (about 162,000 projectiles).
*
A Defender from the last century! It's mind-boggling.
It's the mythical side of the beast and its, pseudo, reliability that drew him in.
It’s now mainly valued for its hide and meat (of little interest compared to local game meat).
It’s true that finding anything other than beef in a restaurant in South Africa is quite the feat, yet ostrich meat is really good—I eat it regularly in France.
And so, reviving the San people’s tradition of making necklaces and bracelets from them, Avoova uses broken shells to create art objects.
Their creations are stunning.
Sitting on the terrace of the historic hotel that,
Is this hotel in your area?
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.
"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela
I’m also a silent reader, but full of admiration. This travel journal is gorgeous and so informative.
We just got back from South Africa—Cape Town and the surrounding area. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to visit the new contemporary art museum. Sometimes you have to make choices, and ours leaned more toward nature and hiking.
Yeah, but no.
I just got back from ten days of 2x1 (one bike for beginners), backpack on, and I can’t believe some people do this for fun 😉. Then there was the time spent figuring out the breakdown (another hose issue, surprise), finding the part (ended up in Durban), sending the payment, waiting for it to arrive, and finally fitting it.
In the end, the Defender fits my idea of travel perfectly: room for the unexpected.
Brake gnawed, I approach their table to let them know it’s not certain the meager audience is interested, especially in French.
The little lady pauses, then resumes two notches lower; Robert’s eyes go round like he’s just spotted the sixth big five.
How annoying are these thoughtless people!!! I can just picture the faces they must’ve pulled!!! I’ve had the chance to make that kind of remark in an elevator, to a French couple in the US who were commenting on my sister and me, thinking we were Italian!!!!!!!
I pulled out my slingshot, which has kept more than one baboon in check at camp. The target’s smaller, my aim’s improved. As for projectiles, no worries: I’ve got a pile of river gravel waiting for walkways (about 162,000 projectiles).
Are you sure about your count? Did you collect them yourself, or was it a bulk delivery?? Is the condition for building the walkway that there must be exactly 162,000 pebbles?? 🤪 😄
Next, I’m reporting you to BB for aggression toward those poor birds, the doves, who, on top of it all, try to serenade you!!!! They’re amazed by your presence in these southern lands..... 🤪
Oh yes, they told me so....😏
With that sense of charity that’s inherent to him, the guy next to me on the bench jabs his elbow into my ribs, snapping me out of my daydream: I’d dozed off during the reverend’s sermon—we know the drill—which is the required entry ticket to hear the famed male choir’s melody.
grrrr pschitt grrrrrrrrr pchittttt..... What!!!! You mean he didn’t appreciate the sweet melody coming from your deep reflection?
Your shamelessness, thinking you could pass for Italians—did they only travel by elevator? 😮
Are you sure about your count? ... that there are exactly 162,000 pebbles??
Considering the truck’s chute delivered a perfect cone, and we know its diameter and height, applying Professor Gelato’s famous formula gives us the pile’s volume. Since the delivered size is 20/30, it’s elementary to get the number of projectiles: 162,000, by the wheelbarrow!
« Africa, My Desire »
Every year, a festival dedicated to contemporary literature in Afrikaans takes place here. For this edition, a few English-language authors are featured, including an incorruptible judge who resembles Eva Joly—though upright—and has survived three assassination attempts.
The conferences, discussions, and roundtables fill small venues to capacity. A concert we can’t miss closes the Festival: « Africa, My Desire », written in French on the poster.
Under the auspices of the Cape Town Music Academy, a South African composer set West African and Malagasy French-language poems to music.
Intriguing.
She plays the piano standing up, white like her, accompanied by a Black rhythm section, a white bass, other black-and-white keyboards, a subdued gray drummer, and three Congolese singers—including one woman.
No African instruments, and hardly any African sounds either. There’s rhythm, but it’s not blues.
Disorienting.
She recites the texts flatly, in a toneless, heavily accented voice, neutralized by the Congolese choirs’ far more expressive French—voices we’d have loved to hear reciting their elders’ poems, even if the texts themselves were weak.
Disappointing.
In the end, it feels like instrumentalization, amplified by a staging that never quite found its footing.
For a successful intercultural collaboration (perhaps because it’s a duo of equals?), listen to Amanke Dionti (Ablaye Cissoko & Volker Goetze).
P.S. Listening to the Afrique mon désir CD leaves a better impression. The mixing is more polished, and above all, there’s a warm-voiced accordionist who passed away shortly after the recording.
*
Sundial
Their life in Johannesburg was a race against time. The house in the veld where they retreated is surrounded by terraces, pergolas, and stoeps. Moving in the opposite direction of the sun’s arc, from dawn to dusk, these two shadows circle it. Often, she precedes him by a few minutes, but in winter, their path is always shorter.
*
Time Share
For some time now, homo glandus has been trying out sharing the same living space at different times, but it seems far from a cure-all.
For them, necessity makes strange bedfellows: the porcupine and the warthog share the same crude burrow—the first shelters there from the sun during the day, the second spends the night there.
In my stretch of desert, two old buildings and one under construction. No permits.
*
I So Wanted to Hate You
This is the second time, twenty years apart, that French correspondents for a left-leaning sturgeon-like newspaper (the kind that swims with the current) in South Africa have been won over by the personality they’re interviewing—despite themselves, freed from the hexagonal prism.
*
Duetists
As often happens, the storm rages beyond the mountain range, so its heart-wrenching music doesn’t reach us. Only its aerial light show entertains us.
The unleashed pianist responds in kind. Together, they improvise happy clashes.
*
Mat-e!
Once a week, introductory chess lessons are held at the POP Centre (Path Out of Poverty), a sort of community center in the heart of the township. A small group of young people—no girls, thankfully, because how would I have written « people »? Individuals?—come to learn how to anticipate several moves (moves that are hard to predict at home).
Eight of them are selected for the South African championship, and they need fresh-blooded sparring partners, but there’s a dire shortage of white players here. For Black players, facing white opponents isn’t an everyday opportunity in this country. I take the hits, I dish them out, forehead to forehead.
In chess, at the start of the game, the white pieces have the move (they play first). That advantage gives them the choice of opening and a one-move head start. Of course, it doesn’t stop Black players from sometimes defeating them, but still. It’s high time—let’s say as soon as the primordial battle for inclusive grammar is won—to challenge this inequality-creating convention.
At the end of the evening, Shaun, the dark-skinned teacher, challenges me to a game. He drew the white pieces. With Black, I’m inevitably unsettled.
I watch his diagonals (he has a reputation as a wild player).
How many moves will it take him to checkmate me?
(Far more than I feared, and I even came close to beating him.)
*
Servant
Determinism being what it is, few readers—how many, really?—know about this servant. Yet the services she provides are invaluable, greatly boosting the productivity of the working man.
Here, she’s replaced by a male servant (everyone knows how enviable women’s status is in Africa), who scurries from the breakdown to the bakkie at the whim of the plumber, electrician, or mechanic’s terse orders: 13mm spanner! Flathead screwdriver! Multigrips!
Needless to say, the latter is often white, and the assistant never is.
The widespread adoption of rolling tool carts, like those found in modern workshops, offering all tools at hand, would destroy too many jobs in a country where one in three people is unemployed.
*
(It’s the year of poultry)
For want of thrushes, the furious wind strips the jacarandas, dressing the earth in a mauve floral gown.
He was born in the street, no more paved than the house was cemented.
Before puberty, he joined a remote farm.
Resourceful, he returned deflowered to the township and set himself up as a gardener.
First, he hired a brother-in-law, then a cousin, two uncles. Unfortunately, the grandfather was no longer operational.
Now there are about ten of them—the largest garden maintenance business in the small town, ahead of the municipality—unlike in other regions.
He just changed his car for a bakkie, the local Rolex, the thing that marks you as the boss.
Parading from one job site to another, a Samsung grafted to his ear or eye, alone in the cab, the others piled into the back with the lawnmower, shovels, and pitchforks.
He ostentatiously enjoys his breakfast on the café terrace while his guys manicure the garden.
Like a white man.
*
Nothing to do with it
Anton is a police officer and, off-duty, a metalworker. When he’s done welding up troublemakers, he welds scrap metal with the same professionalism and care for fine workmanship.
Between the crackling arcs and the scream of a grinder, I ask him questions.
His police station is the only permanent one for the entire Municipality, covering an area of six thousand square kilometers. A Finistère, also bordered by infinity, but where the ocean has receded. Fewer than fifteen thousand inhabitants. There are about forty police officers, only half of them in the field. Alcohol, drugs, domestic violence, theft, rape, sometimes a murder—that’s the daily routine.
Postscript that has nothing to do with it, though. In this same territory, on the white market (because the black market, by definition...), about fifty houses are for sale, hardly any building plots, but just as many farms, each larger than a Breton commune. This isn’t Morbihan.
*
Keep running!
Every Saturday morning, several dozen brave souls line up at seven o’clock for a five-kilometer race. This morning: fifty Black runners, twenty white, sixty young, ten older. For my part, I’m on the clock.
The route through the bush forms a figure-eight, traced like a kindergarten drawing. Shortly after the start, the line of runners forms a rainbow in the chaos on the slopes of the kopjie, before turning around the maze built atop a small structure, skirting multicolored glass-fragment fish, and finally starting the descent over the rocks.
Everyone came in whatever shoes they had: brand-name sneakers, knockoffs, flip-flops, barefoot.
The first runner finishes in 19'44''23.
First white runner in seventh place (no Kenyans here, though).
First girl, Black, in twenty-fifth place; first white girl in thirty-second.
First flip-flops in fortieth place, first barefoot runners in forty-ninth.
The last ones, who came to walk, will finish in an unrecorded hour.
Every child participant gets a ticket for a pancake to enjoy at the Saturday market, two kilometers away. The few available cars are swarmed: each day has enough trouble of its own. Record for the Land Rover: fifteen passengers, two curled up on the fridge, heads nearly touching the sky.
*
Dog’s life
Paul was the youngest born in Ireland into a family poorer than poor. His father died before he was born, in the war that followed the war to end all wars. His sisters were placed in those chaotic Catholic institutions that burned through everything—one lost her life there.
Not lacking in brains, he continued his studies in England. Needless to say, the disdain tied to his origins was in his skin. To escape that suffocating environment, he accepted a construction site management job in South Africa at twenty-five. He was set in concrete by a local woman, like rebar.
Of those who couldn’t stand apartheid, he couldn’t stand it almost physically. He believed a woman is a woman (same for men), regardless of her origins. What mattered was who she was, what he did (and vice versa).
*
Spinach doctor
For years, he’s been settled on the border between the white town and the township, behind warehouses where both sides have business. He treated those who paid and, at best, the others. On his land, he trained guys in organic market gardening and arboriculture before entrusting them with discretionary management. In exchange, he’s an honorary vegetarian.
Basket in hand, we follow Havelin through an improbable succession of paths and beds, more English-style than French. It’s an open market, but the garden decides, not the customer. A few green zucchinis, then yellow ones, two tomatoes, a white eggplant, white onions, red ones, a nice handful of spinach, a cucumber, butter beans. Then, picked from the tree: apricots, blackberries, and raspberries. A quick glance at the basket, weighing about three kilos: 20 rands!
I’ll teach them the rules of commerce: the same quantity of lower quality costs three times as much at the nearby supermarket.
Let’s move on to animal proteins: sheep, geese, chickens, ducks. But that’s a reserved domain.
Stop by the butcher on the way home.
*
A drink!
The town’s founders, the De Beers and the Lotzes, then their allies, the Cordiers, du Plessis, and de Villiers, were buried in a private cemetery. One hundred fifty graves, most of them simple cairns, which until recently disappeared into a thicket of dense acacias, blooming with succulents—but no appetite for long.
The cemetery has been cleared, stripped bare, with only a few trees left struggling to provide shade. Now the ancestors are in full sun, as if it hadn’t been enough during their lifetimes. Adjoining the cemetery, a 150-cubic-meter concrete cistern, unfortunately abandoned.
The thirty or so gravestones face east with their laments. The only one bearing the deceased’s name on the west side, located at the entrance and well-maintained, is that of an Avenant, Johannes by first name.
It’s also the last grave dug here, the year apartheid ended. Is it pure coincidence? Did these families choose exile then?
*
Aside
Apartheid: did you know this term was built from French?
In South Africa, the dividing line was based on ethnicity, skin color, and hair texture. So, rightly, we remember this political system for its racist character. But while it was racist in practice, its foundations were more complex. Its architects spoke of identity, culture, autonomy, separate development.
So here’s a vision of social and political organization that’s very current and widespread... in Europe.
(For the record, in the early nineties, opposite consequences of the domino-Gorbachev effect: South Africa abandoned separate development while the Balkans went to war over it. And now, Catalonia—a nervous breakdown.)
Now that I’ve finished filling out my reports for parent-teacher meetings, I can finally dive into reading and commenting.
Aparté
Apartheid: did you know that this term was actually built from French?
Thanks to you, I learned something new!
South Africa was abandoning separate development
But thanks to Mandela, the whites kept control of the economy, and the Black population only got a few crumbs, right?
And now, Catalonia, a nervous breakdown
Hey Voyou, forgetting your "e’s" now??
In this increasingly globalized world, I think identity crises are only going to become more common.
Just traded in his car for a bakkie—the local Rolex, the ride that says you’re the boss.
Parading from one construction site to another, Samsung grafted to his ear or eye, alone in the cab while the others are crammed into the back with the lawnmower, shovels, and pitchforks.
Savoring his breakfast ostentatiously on the café terrace while his guys manicure the garden.
Like a white man.
It’s the same here. Black people who’ve made it flaunt their success and adopt the same condescending attitudes as the *békés* (descendants of the old colonists)!!!
For my part, I’m participating on the timing side.
Oh!!! I was expecting you to be actively running in the race, with the latest shoes and a well-deserved trophy haircut. Oh well! At least were you diligent with your timekeeping?
Record for the Land Rover: fifteen passengers, two of them curled up on the fridge, their heads nearly touching the sky.
(Half-dead laptop, iPhone in a coma, car running on three wheels—I’m replying as best I can)
A fit of rage
What? You haven’t heard about the ongoing reform of French grammar (that sexist, even macho tool)? Calling a fit of rage feminine is degrading. We’re entitled to our fits of rage too. 🤪
You, who’s used to hurricanes (m.), should be at the forefront of knowing the difference between seeing your house blown away by Robert or by Angela.
Mandela
Now that’s a broad and complex question, way too risky to tackle here. For how many centuries have the *békés* lost the privileges that underpin their current wealth?
Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy. South Africans owe him this young country where there’s still so much to do—more than in France, but far less than in Zimbabwe, where a quarter of the population has sought economic refuge in... South Africa.
(Half-paralyzed computer, iPhone on its last legs, car running on three wheels—I’m answering as best I can)
A nervous breakdown
What? You haven’t heard about the ongoing reform of French grammar (that sexist, even macho tool)? Calling a nervous breakdown feminine is degrading. We’re entitled to our nervous breakdowns too. 🤪
You, who’s used to hurricanes (m.), should know the difference between seeing your house blown away by Robert or by Angela.
Mandela
Now that’s a broad and complex question—too risky to tackle here. For how many centuries have the *békés* lost the privileges that underpin their current wealth?
Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy. South Africans owe him this young country where there’s still so much to do. More than in France, but far less than in Zimbabwe, where a quarter of the population has sought economic refuge in... South Africa.
(In PE, I chose the ‘motorsports’ option.)
Lovely trills from this singer.
This singer? ... There’s something of Amélie in him...
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH you should get your South African road trip novel published!
And ahhhhhhhhh Ablaye Sissoko, a little guy who’s come a long way—
his brother now teaches kora in Paris.
I love reading your posts, and I still miss the great Karoo a bit...😐
Welcome to the three-legged car club...
(Half-paralyzed computer, iPhone in a coma, car on three legs, I’m answering you as best I can)
Don’t tell me you’re also lying there tetraplegic, typing with a spatula in your mouth!!!!!!!
For how many centuries have the békés lost the privileges that form the basis of their current wealth?
That’s exactly the problem—they’ve never lost their privileges!!!!!!
They kept all the land, all the money, all the businesses. The French state substantially compensated them for the loss of their slaves, but the slaves themselves got nothing but their so-called freedom. And they paid their former slaves starvation wages, which those workers were forced to spend on the plantation just to buy food.
Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy.
About Mandela, you’re right—better to let it go. Exhausted, worn out, drained, separated from his comrades for months, he reached his limits and gave in. Oh well!
Lovely trills from that singer.
A beautiful flight, for sure!!!
(In PE, I chose the ‘motor sports’ option.)
Ah!!! So the "P" stands for "physics" of fluids, then???
(Half-paralyzed laptop, iPhone in a coma, car on three legs, I’m replying as best I can)
Don’t tell me you’re also lying there tetraplegic, typing with a spatula in your mouth!!!!!!!
For how many centuries have the békés lost the privileges that form the basis of their current wealth?
That’s exactly the problem—they’ve never lost their privileges!!!!!!
They kept all the land, all the money, all the businesses. The French state substantially compensated them for the loss of their slaves, but the slaves themselves got nothing but their so-called freedom. And they paid their former slaves starvation wages, which those workers were forced to spend on the plantation just to buy food.
Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy.
About Mandela, you’re right—better to drop it. Exhausted, worn out, drained, separated from his comrades for months, he reached his limits and gave in. Too bad!
Lovely trills from that singer.
A beautiful flight of song, absolutely!!!
(In PE, I chose the ‘motor sports’ option.)
Ah!!! So the "P" stands for the "physics" of fluids, huh???
For Mandela, you're right, it's better to let it go. Tired, exhausted, wiped out, separated from his companions for several months, he found his limits and gave in. Too bad!
There’s the opposite example in Zimbabwe: all the land was taken from the farmers and redistributed. That country was Africa’s breadbasket... and now it’s nothing but misery. I don’t think Mandela gave in; he just thought that for the future of his country, he couldn’t follow Zimbabwe’s example—and thankfully so, at that.
"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.
"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela
From this singer... there's something of Amélie in him.
“Another manifestation of ethnocentrism”: that’s what I thought when I first read your report about Amélie (Catacomb, I presume?).
I couldn’t leave it in doubt. The idea that the murals in the township could be inspired by Belgian—or even Western—culture was unthinkable. How far back would we have to go? Could the Bushmen’s rock paintings be plagiarized from Lascaux?
I owed it to us to investigate, so I went to the site last night hoping to meet the artist. I finally found him in an unpainted corrugated-iron shelter at the back of a courtyard. He wasn’t holding a spray can or brush but a poker, which he used to poke at his headgear before answering. I confirmed it: he was wearing a stovepipe hat that was gently smoking (thicker puffs during the interview he graciously granted me). Here’s the account of our conversation, freely translated from Afrikaans.
- Good evening, sir.
- Yeah?
- (showing him Amélie on the screen) You’re the artist, right?
- Could be.
- ...
- What for?
Anyway, I’ll cut it short. He doesn’t read (Amélie O’Tomb?). Seems annoyed that a foreigner used his work as inspiration for a costume. I play along, hinting at a big payout for damages.
Turns out the painting is a portrait of his wife, who got tired of tangled roots and flew away with the birds one morning. Since she left, he claims the mural is a matrimonial ad. He’s cultivating a new ficus whose roots wrap around a black pipe, and he insists the chosen one must come with birds. I promise to bring the bride a black coat (I’m heading back soon and will make a detour through Belgium).
And in this other one, can you spot the protagonists?
oh wow, this really takes me back to my family’s history...
This super-rich cousin of mine owned 4,000 hectares of sugarcane fields—and maybe even more I’m forgetting—who kicked out the household staff from the "manager’s" house for fear they’d claim ownership. And yet, and yet, they deserved it so much. Now they live in little gray-brick shacks, but my cousin’s wife, who plays tennis with her friends in Empangeni, told me, "But they have a TV."
One day, my cousin—a big-shot lawyer fighting for the white cause—took me to his new pepper-processing plant. I saw the girls working on the assembly line, and I told him it’d be nice if they worked with music. Africa without music isn’t Africa.
That day was the breaking point.
And yet, those kids were born in Lesotho, the country where everyone sings, laughs, and eats spinach at noon. I just didn’t get it.
Still, I told him thanks—because of him, I saw the Big Five in Hluhluwe Park and Richards Bay, smoked cigarettes with his gardener, and cried a lot.
What do you mean another "nègre"? 😮
Hey there, elephants, if you only knew you're here because of the fox from Sudan...
Anyway, for the full story, you’d have to go behind the waterfall with a few cans of Loxton, alright! 😉
Bon ben voilà, déjà de retour... Le hasard a fait que, un peu comme Mme Attila, mon parcours reprenait grosso modo les circuits réalisés il y a 8 et 6 ans...…
En ces années post-covid, l'AFS m'a à nouveau attiré... Les plus anciens du forum vont dire que je zozote un peu (j'ai désormais dépassé la 20aine de voyages…
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!
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!
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.
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.
"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...
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!..
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!!!
"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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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...
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.
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!
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
It’s an ancient city that breathes, a living spring.
Here, no kitschy signs like “I miss you in Fengyu,” nor mass-produced fake antiques.
The century-old houses still bear the marks of wind and rain; in the morning, you hear roosters crowing, and at dusk, smoke gently rises from the kitchens.
This city doesn’t try to please anyone—like the spring water flowing through it, it simply keeps living at its own pace.
Located in Eryuan County, in the Dali Prefecture of Yunnan, the ancient town of Fengyu is a nationally designated historical and cultural city. It’s nicknamed the “land of scholars and ink”—during the Qing Dynasty, the Fengxiang Academy produced four *jinshi* and eleven *juren* in the imperial examinations. The Bai families made studying and farming a true legacy. Even on market days, you’ll find stalls of calligraphy and paintings, while lintels and screen walls are covered with family mottos.
Fengyu was also an important stop on the ancient Tea Horse Road. It preserves the second-largest Bai architectural complex in China, just after Xizhou. The famous traveler Xu Xiake spent seven days here and compared it to the “peach blossom paradise.”
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
Let’s start with the shotengai...
Our first "wow" moment came as we stepped out of the subway in Asakusa, the Tokyo neighborhood where we’d booked our hotel for our first five nights. Exhausted after our long flight, we finally arrived and took an exit that led straight into a shotengai—one of those covered shopping streets that pop up in city centers and flourished between the 1950s and 1980s.
It was an instant aesthetic shock, like a close encounter of the third kind between the modern city, a typical Asian market with its street stalls, the vintage vibe of the arcade, the sheer abundance of goods, and the bustling crowd—a mix of tourists, pilgrims (thanks to nearby Senso-ji Temple), and locals (it’s a very working-class area).
In the end, it set the tone for a feeling we’d experience throughout the trip. Wherever we went, shotengai turned out to be fantastic spots for finding little restaurants, shops, or even fresh produce. Some are like real mazes, like in Kyoto, where we spent ages trying to relocate a restaurant we’d loved ;-)
In Kanazawa, the Omicho Market:
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
Preamble:
Africa was calling to me, so a year ago, with our usual travel companions, we decided to return to the continent we love so much.
Where to go?
Uganda quickly caught our attention—wildlife we’re used to seeing, plus gorillas and the shoebill we missed in Zambia.
We got in touch with Paul, who’s been mentioned several times on the forum back in September, booked our flight tickets, secured the gorilla permits, and by early October, the most important things were done.
We still had plenty of time to hold our "prep meetings" for the final itinerary.
Three days before departure, I sprained my ankle (my weak spot, as you’ll recall from our Colombia trip).
I wasn’t in great spirits, but after a year of waiting, nothing was going to stop me.
We’d see how it goes!
Off we went for our new adventures
If you're looking for great tips and offbeat spots, if you love exploring uncharted parts of a country, if the exotic is your adrenaline, then move along!
Our 15 days in early May in this part of Turkey (a country I first discovered during a city trip to Istanbul in 2017) will only tread well-worn paths and revisit popular routes. Simply because I kept hoping until the very end that our flight to Jordan wouldn’t be canceled. Events in the Gulf proved me wrong, so we left with:
Zero preparation.
Not a single hotel booked (well, except the first one), no visits planned, just a flight ticket bought three weeks earlier. No guidebook, no app—just the desire to explore southern Turkey and Cappadocia, whose images and the chance to stretch our legs had caught my eye.
Oh, wait—I did bring along a new guide: Gemini! Yes, my friends, generative AI was my chief advisor throughout the trip for sites to visit, accommodations, routes, and even restaurants! An experiment I wanted to try to form my own opinion on using this new technology. And what better way to test it than a Turkish getaway?
The verdict? You’ll have to wait for the trip recap to find out!
The main idea of the trip is also relaxation.
So, the plan is Antalya for a few days, the Turkish Riviera for a few more, Cappadocia as the highlight, and a return via Antalya to wrap up the trip. And it was all planned by AI!
So, if you're ready, fasten your seatbelts—cabin crew, doors to automatic and cross check—boarding for Turkey now!
It often happens that we're asked what to visit in Belgium.
And the answers usually point to Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp, and Brussels—and rightly so, as these cities are well worth visiting ;).
However, Belgium, though small, isn’t just limited to these four cities.
I live in one of them (Brussels), enjoy spending time in the other three, but I’d like to highlight some lesser-known spots that could add to the trip for those who want to see a bit more or something different.
Between trips, I like exploring one or two corners of the country where I live.
Hence the idea for a travel journal of walks.
Most of the places I’ll talk about can be visited as a day trip from Brussels, whether by public transport or car.
In chronological order of the topics covered:
- The Gileppe Dam (Liège province) - message 2, page 1
- The Domaine de La Hulpe (Walloon Brabant) - message 3, page 1
- Mechelen (Antwerp province) - message 4, page 1
- The coast - message 5, page 1
- The Westhoek, from De Panne - message 6, page 1
- The Zwin, from Knokke - message 7, page 1
- Lier (between Mechelen and Antwerp) - message 8, page 1
- Mons (Hainaut) - message 9, page 1
- The Florenville region - message 12, page 1
- The East Cantons - message 13, page 1
- Dinant - message 18, page 1
- The Japanese garden in Hasselt - message 24, page 2
- Leuven - message 29, page 2
- Louvain-la-Neuve - message 32, page 2
- Ostend - message 42 (page 3) and message 166 (page 9)
- The floralies of Groot-Bijgaarden - message 43, page 3
- Halle Forest - message 44, page 3
- Pralines - message 54, page 3
- Charleroi - message 68, page 4
- Namur - message 92, page 5
- Le Bois du Cazier (Marcinelle) - message 95, page 5
- Couques and gosettes - message 96, page 5
- Liège - message 99, page 5
- Tournai - message 115, page 6
- Oudenaarde - message 121, page 7
- Meise Botanical Garden - message 124, page 7
- Tongeren - message 125, page 7
- Beersel Castle (Flemish Brabant) - message 126, page 7
- Brussels in lockdown (messages 150 and 154, page 8)
- Notre-Dame à la Rose Hospital in Lessines (messages 161 and 162, page 9)
- Westende (message 167, page 9)
I’ll keep updating this list as the journal progresses...
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.
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.
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...
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
A little sneak peek?