J’ai accompagné Martine et Catherine jusqu’à Khwâzakhela, plus bas dans la vallée vers Mingora, où elles veulent acheter quelques babioles. Juste au moment de reprendre le bus, une pluie torrentielle éclate et nous nous réfugions précipitamment dans une boutique où les marchands nous servent gentiment du tchaï en attendant que la pluie se calme.
Les filles sont plutôt dures avec les commerçants. Elles ont la folie de la persécution, font des têtes d’enterrement quand on arrive aux prix, et partent toujours en engueulant les types. Bon, d’accord, elles ne roulent pas sur l’or, mais qu’est-ce qu’elles s’imaginent ? Et puis, monter dans un bus avec elles, ce n’est pas cool. Elles ont des bâtons avec lesquels elles font mine de menacer les hommes. 😠 Je comprends bien que ça ne doit pas être du gâteau, pour des filles, de voyager dans certains pays où les hommes sont extrêmement frustrés, sexuellement, et se font des idées fausses sur les femmes qui voyagent toutes seules. Mais quand-même, je trouve qu’elles exagèrent un brin.
D’ailleurs, leur discours commence à me courir sur les nerfs. Elles n’arrêtent pas de se plaindre de ce qui se passe autour d’elles. Ou alors, elles se lancent dans un petit cinéma où elles se montent en vedette. Combien de fois ai-je dû entendre Martine raconter qu’on l’avait surnommée « la princesse », à Mumbay ? Pour quoi ? Pour ses belles allures ??? 😇 Et puis il y a ces allusions fugitives à un séjour en Israël avant d’arriver ici, où Catherine s’est fait mettre en cloque (elle doit bien être dans son 5-ème ou 6-ème mois). Ce ne sont que des allusions parce que je ne vaux pas de réelles confidences, allusions dans lesquelles elles laissent entendre qu’il n’y avait là que des gens très bien, impliquant par contraste qu’il n’y a ici que des gens médiocres …. moi par exemple!
Un chat vient nous visiter régulièrement. Les filles déclarent qu’il faudrait lui donner un nom. Je suggère Confucius (j’étais plongé dans mes lectures chinoises). Les filles s’esclaffent de mépris pour avoir une « pensée aussi ridicule », non, il faudrait l’appeler « Bâbâ » ou « Batcha ». Ah non, alors! Puisque nous sommes au Pakistan, il n’est pas question de sortir du jeu « moi, je me fonds dans la population locale» ! Elles souffrent d'une forme de snobisme, c'est clair.
Il est frappant de voir combien de ces fameux « voyageurs » se font des illusions sur leur valeur unique. 😮😐 Quant aux filles, avec le recul du temps, je me rends compte qu’elles n’étaient pas dans un trip facile. Peut-être cela expliquait leur arrogance à mon encontre.
Le soir, Jacques et Germaine, que j’avais déjà rencontrés dans le bus de Kaboul à Peshawar, viennent nous voir avec un tas de victuailles. Il y a aussi Philip, un Australien qui a une tête de sultan arabe ou indien et qui respire un calme et une force impressionnantes, peut-être justement parce qu’il ne dit pratiquement rien et qu’il n’a en fait pas grand-chose à dire ! Il presse toute la soirée une énorme boule de shit sur le feu, du shit excellent que Jacques nous a apporté. Nous fêtons son anniversaire avec 500 grammes de shit qu’il s’est procuré pour l’occasion. 😎 On presse, on presse….. Inutile de dire que nous sommes raides dès le départ. Il passe du monde dans la maison, comme dans un brouillard…
Un soir, la nuit tombée, je suis descendu à la rivière avec Martine pour faire la vaisselle et chercher de l’eau. J’essaie de l’embrasser, il faut dire qu’en dépit de mon irritation grandissante de ses « discours de princesse » elle est assez mignonne et j’ai des petites envies ….. 😛 Elle détourne la tête, sourit, et m’explique : « Bâbâ, tu es un ami, c’est tout ; je ne veux pas commencer d’histoires de ce genre ». 😐
Bon, ben voilà, je continue donc! J'espère que tu as remarqué que j'ai introduit la gent féminine dans mon récit, comme tu en avias fait la demande? Mais ce n'est peut-être pas suffisant? Il suffit de me le dire, j'en rajouterai, hahaha! 😉
Tout d'abord, merci à toi et aux autres qui ont réagi sur ma "question éditorialiste" (on dit ça en français?), y compris la personne qui m'avait fait la remarque initiale sur l'usage du "gras"! 🙂
Et je viens juste de jeter un coup d'oeil sur ton website au titre évocateur 😉. Quel pied! Tes photos sont vraiment superbes. Je vais y retourner et me régaler! 😎
Il n’y avait pas qu’avec les deux sœurs que j’avais des problèmes. Je me sentais écrasé, totalement annihilé par les personnalités des « voyageurs » autour de moi. J’étais tellement différent d’eux, je restais un vacancier, un touriste - l’ultime insulte ! - un jeune con vis-à-vis des filles, de Jacques, de Philip etc qui eux n’étaient pas partis pour quelques deux ou trois mois mais pour plusieurs années.
C’est en tout cas ce qu’ils disaient ou laissaient entendre. Avec le recul du temps, je me demande quelle était bien la réalité derrière ces prétentions. Je suis sûr maintenant que la majorité de ces gens faisaient alors la seule grande expédition de leur vie, celle qu’on peut faire quand on est juste devenu adulte, avant que les complications et les obligations de la vie ne referment bien vite la porte sur les possibilités d’un « grand voyage ». Je voudrais bien voir maintenant ce que sont devenus ces gens que j’avais rencontrés à Madian ! J’ose imaginer Martine redevenue caissi��re d’une grande surface, Catherine ayant végété d’un petit emploi à un autre…… Comprenez-moi bien, je ne veux en rien critiquer telle ou telle profession mais, plutôt, je questionne ces airs de grandeurs 😇 que se donnaient ces soi-disant « grands voyageurs », cette mythomanie de gens qui se raccrochaient au radeau de leurs quelques mois ou petites années d’exotisme avant de sombrer dans le morne et terne d’une vie tout à fait conventionnelle. 😐
Mais revenons sur le train-train de la vie quotidienne à Madian. Je me rappelle aller chercher de l’eau à l’ « hôpital » où coulait de l’eau potable. De l’eau potable ? Tiens donc, je jurerais maintenant que l’eau venait tout droit du torrent qui coulait à quelques dizaines de mètres à peine, avec tout ce qu’on peut imaginer comme saletés qu’elle avait ramassées en cours de route. Car il ne faut pas se faire d’illusion, l’eau était déjà polluée par des carcasses d’animaux et des déchets humains de tout genre sur les hauteurs. Toucher à cette eau, qui pourtant paraissait si fraîche, si limpide, c’était tirer un ticket de tombola où le prix principal était une hépatite virale carabinée. Et on gagnait très souvent à cette tombola ! 🤪
Un jour, au retour de la « corvée d’eau », nous redescendons jusqu’au pont sous lequel coulent les différents bras du torrent, dont l’un passe juste devant notre maison avant de se jeter dans la Swât à la sortie de Madian. Juste après le pont se trouvent trois moulins, beaux de leur simplicité, et une petite tchaïkhâneh à laquelle on accède par des escaliers glissants. C’est que nous vivons tout à fait dans l’eau, ici ! J’y laisse la jarre d’eau et vais jusqu’à la maison d’un Anglais qui vend des trips « noirs » (! 😮) à 15 roupies dont j’ai entendu dire qu’ils sont très bons. J’en prends trois et fume un bon joint avec l’Anglais. Tom arrive, un Américain vraiment très sympathique, mûr, doux et calme. On sent qu’on peut lui faire confiance.
Sur la route, je croise André, au sujet duquel je m’étais longuement disputé avec Robin, à Mingora, quand j’étais en route vers Madian. Il me sert la main très fortement et me fixe droit dans les yeux, chaleureusement.
À mon retour à la maison, je m’arrête au bord de la rivière, fasciné par le soleil qui se couche sur les montagnes. Celles du fond sont toutes obscurcies par des orages. Le soleil fait éclater de grosses lames de lumière des rivières qui coulent dans tous les sens devant moi. Je reste absorbé, assis sur un rocher …. et je me sens « bhavâgra », à la cime de l’existence…. 😇🙂
Faute de photos que je n’avais pas pu prendre - un certain Carlos s’étant généreusement servi de mes affaires personnelles la première nuit passée à Peshawar 😕 - peut-être serait-il bon de montrer la configuration de Madian sur une photo de satellite. La première jpeg montre le nord de Madian, bordé par la rivière Swât aux flots tumultueux sur la gauche et le torrent dont j’ai parlé. Je trouve extraordinaire, presque 40 ans plus tard, de pouvoir encore si bien reconnaître les lieux. Je distingue visiblement la « maison de Robin », le pont qu’il fallait franchir pour entrer dans Madian, l’ « hôpital » et d’autres endroits dont je parlerai par la suite !
Tony est très beau, ses cheveux blonds pris dans un turban bleu turquoise pâle (un tissu afghan sans doute). 😎 Ses manières sont calmes et douces. C’est un Italien qui entretient dans sa maison une dizaine de freaks complètement déchus. « La maison de Tony » désigne un rassemblement des junkies les plus lessivés en voie de guérison. Beaucoup viennent à Madian pour redescendre de la morphine ou du speed. La montagne, par le calme de la vie que l’on y mène, leur permet en effet de supporter la privation de drogue plus facilement que dans l’atmosphère excitée des villes (surtout au Pakistan !).
Comment Tony fait-il pour nourrir ces épaves ? Les légumes, il les trouve pour beaucoup dans la nature qu’il connaît à merveille. Régime alimentaire typique de Madian : soupes de cresson cueilli dans les rivières, purées de patates, d’oignons, de tomates, yaourt etc…
Justement, Tony s’est arrêté chez nous (« la maison de Robin ») et nous enseigne sur l’usage des herbes :
- contre les maux de ventre, prendre une herbe appelée Izeubgol au Népal, spêkkol en pakhto, avec du lait chaud sucré pour la constipation ou avec du yaourt et de l’eau chaude sucrée pour la diarrhée. L’ail et le gingembre sont indiqués en cas de diarrhée.
- pour les hémorroïdes, faire chauffer de l’huile de moutarde (« tshalsham » à Madian) et masser….
- pour bien dormir, boire une infusion de menthe et de ganja (« l’herbe ») : ça, je crois bien qu’il ne devait pas y avoir à trop forcer les « malades » !
- pour l’hépatite (« ziaré » en pakhto, de « ziar » = jaune), on préconise un mélange de plusieurs plantes : du « jaepal », de l’ « akkhrkara », du safran, du « kolondjian » et du « malati ».
- pour éloigner les mouches des blessures, s’oindre d’une pâte de curcuma. Il est vrai que les mouches sont abominables par ici. Au moindre petit bobo, on en souffre littéralement. Il m’arrive de croire qu’elles me mordent et de sursauter de douleur !
- à Madyan, on utilise une racine, « skhawadja », au goût très fort, pour avoir de l’énergie et un bon équilibre sexuel. On la garde en bouche comme une chique.
- la vanille (« khowagazeïla » en pakhto) mélangée avec du ghee est bonne pour les rhumatismes.
- contre les puces, utiliser la sauge sauvage, « sperkaï », qu’on trouve partout à Madyan.
- il n’y a rien de mieux pour soigner les infections des yeux que de brûler des feuilles vertes du « nazarpanya », et si on a mal au cœur, alors il faut les manger.
- une méthode pour éloigner les moustiques : brûler de l’herbe « phuti ».
Je ne termine plus mes phrases sur mon carnet de notes… Je suis déjà loin avec l’acide. 😇 Tony maîtrise-t-il bien son sujet, ou s’imagine-t-il ces connaissances? Il doit bien se mélanger les pédales un tantinet, avec toutes ces recettes recueillies (dit-il) au Népal, en Inde et au Pakistan, ce qu’il a dû supplémenter par quelques bonnes lectures. Mais peu importe la validité de tous ces conseils, c’est la musique des mots qui me captive maintenant. C’est un plaisir d’écouter Tony, un type vraiment gentil et patient, et en plus très beau, lumineux. Le pakhto est vraiment incroyable à prononcer ! Quelle vigueur, cette langue !
Je suis maintenant complètement braqué sur le problème de l’hygiène, après toutes ces explications de Tony. Comment se sortir de la saleté ? Je n’ai plus aucune mesure de ce qui est propre, de ce qui ne l’est pas. S’installer dans cette vie de rustre à Madian n’a rien arrangé. On accepte de plus en plus le contact intime de la poussière et de l’eau. On fait de moins en moins attention à la propreté des aliments, des mains … et si on les lave, c’est avec cette eau si belle …. et si riche en germes dangereux ! 😕
J’ai une plaie au pied qui date de Peshawar, où je marchais pieds nus, fou que j’étais ! Elle est loin d’être guérie. Je la frotte avec de la sauge, j’y mets de l’ail, je frotte encore avec de la menthe fraîche. Ce qu’il y a de sûr (mais je suis en plein acide), c’est que les mouches ne viennent plus m’emmerder ! 😠
Il m’a fallu des heures, prostré dans la maison, pour me décider à oser m’aventurer dans Madian. C’est une toute petite ville, pratiquement un village. Pas mal de gens me reconnaissent dans la rue et leurs visages sympathiques me rassurent. Ces gens sont magnifiques. Ils sont robustes, ont des allures d’une grande noblesse, marchant bien droits et la tête haute, habillés de shalwar kameez sobres et élégants. 😎 On croise souvent des hommes portant un fusil dans le dos ou à la main par ici, et on arrive à peine à soutenir leurs regards droits, fiers et durs ! 😮
Il n’y a pas d’habits plus agréables à porter que le shalwar kameez, le pyjama pakistanais, et cela fait déjà plusieurs jours que je me suis mis à la mode locale. Avec mon physique, je pourrais presque passer pour un local. J’arrive à une boulangerie, ouverte sur une ruelle. Comme je l’avais déjà vu en Afghanistan, ils sont trois hommes en maillot de corps à s’activer autour d’un énorme « tanoor » où ronfle un feu d’enfer. En fait, ils sont assis sur le tanoor qui occupe pratiquement toute la pièce. Deux hommes préparent la pâte avec des gestes d’une rythmique spectaculaire. C’est comme s’ils jouaient des congas et des bongos dans un orchestre de salsa! 😎 Ils me décochent des sourires magnifiques, leurs dents bien blanches tranchent sur leurs peaux tannées. Le troisième est emmitouflé de haillons et plonge presque dans le tanoor pour y placer le pain ou le retirer. C’est un spectacle saisissant, je n’arrive pas à m’en détacher.
Je me retourne et vois passer Philip, l’Australien à la tête de sultan, la tête ornée d’un magnifique turban noir à filigranes multicolores. Je suis en plein dans les 1,001 Nuits ! 😎😉
à te lire avec une petite pointe de nostalgie🙂, j'ai le sentiment que le Pakistan n'a pas trop changé. C'est toujours un pays où il faut "bâtir" son voyage. et il y a cet accueil extraordinaire et rare dans un pays où les gens morflent de ttes parts. Je ne connais pas le coin où tu es en ce moment (sais tu si elles existent encore ces maisons ? Robin et Tony) mais j'en avais eu des retours lorsque j'étais au Regal Inn à Lahore qui est un autre endroit hyper convivial.
"La nostalgie, Camarade!" (tsa-ta-tsouin 😉) Maladie bien répandue chez les vieux bourlingueurs / baroudeurs......
J'ai bien reconnu la "maison de Robin" sur la photo satellite, voir message précédent (ou deux) et je crosi avoir reconnu également d'autres maisons dont je parlerai plus tard. Madian n'a pas trop changé en près de 40 ans, vu du satellite!
récit sympa, j'apprécie toujours l'humour et le recul sur soi dans les histoires, et je suis servi😉
2 ou 3 trucs en vrac où je te cite😛 (en italique)
Je n’ai aucune idée de ce à quoi ressemble Peshawar de nos jours, mais dans les années 1970 c’était un fouillis de rues tordues encombrées par un trafic chaotique et polluant, séparant des dédales de ruelles et de bazars pittoresques. Le béton n’avait encore pas gagné une victoire finale contre les vieilles maisons en pierres ou en briques agrémentées de portes et de balcons de bois sculpté. En fait, une fois adapté au désordre de la circulation et à la saleté des rues, le voyageur en arrivait par moments à se convaincre que la ville avait un certain charme
ben c'est pareil😄; avec le développement des quartiers modernes en prime; les talibans ont détruit le mazar de baba Rahman Ziarat🏴☠️
Je fais partie de ceux qui pensent qu'effectivement, c'était mieux avant
En s'éloignant des grands axes, je suis persuadé que c'est peu ou prou pareil; l'Inde et le Pakistan rural ont très peu bougé en fin de compte!😉
Sinon le kh pashto n'est pas guttural mais palatal, désolé ça fait du bien d'être pédant de temps en temps😇
--Les sarwari qui travaillent sur la musique et le souffle, et pratiquent un dhikr (ou zikr) « violent ». Le dhikr est la répétition de certaines louanges de Dieu, souvent avec musique et danses.
Ce sont les suhrawardi, qui travaillent sur le souffle mais pas spécialement violemment, musique je ne crois pas, leur ordre est très peu représenté au Pakistan. Le zikhr, c'est littéralement le rappel, recommandé dans le Coran même; les soufis en ont fait une science ésotérique, les invocations étant couplées à un travail sur le souffle, qui traverse les chakras musulmans= latifas, lataifs (traduction de subtil, un des 99 noms de Dieu)
- - Les qâdri qui sont droits, forts, magnifiques, et qui travaillent certaines postures. (el qâdriyyah : école théologique de l’Islam d’origine, affirmant la libre volonté de l’homme ; qadr : avoir le pouvoir).
Qadr= surtout Abdel Qadr Gillani de Bagdad, il aurait inventé le dikhr collectif; la libre volonté moins😎 et es le fondateur de la Qadrya, un des ordres les plus répandus au Pakistan avec les chisti. Je sais pas s'ils sont plus magnifiques que les autres😉
- - Les chishti qui sont en relation avec les « qalandars » pakistanais, dont le mouvement est originaire d’Iran. Un « qalandar » est derviche ascétique sôufî vagabond. A la base, il y avait un homme venu à Lahore où il avait fait beaucoup de disciples. La plupart des malangs (terme presqu’homonyme) actuellement suivent ce mouvement. Comme beaucoup d’ordres ou fraternités mystiques musulmanes de l’Asie du Sud, les tchishti pratiquent une méditation calme.
Chistya, une autre école soufie répandue en Inde du Nord et au Pakistan, dont le saint principal est Khwaja Mohinuddin Chisti, dont le mazar est à Ajmer Sharif, à côté de Pushkar, en Inde; le terme de qalendar est un terme générique donné à une personne spirituellement élevée; donné à deux personnes et demie, qui sont Lal Shabaz Qalendar, dont le mazar est à Sehwan Sharif, dans le Sindh: l'anniversaire de sa mort, = urs, rassemble 1 millions de personnes en juillet; et Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, de Delhi. Le "demi" qalendar est la sainte rabbia al basra, de Syrie ou d'Irak. Ces saint sont à l'origine du succès de la chanson soufie mast qalendar (intoxiqué du Qalendar). Pour eux la musqiue soufie qawallie est un médium méditatif, ils pratiquent aussi le dikhr
Il nous parle de Shah Abdul Latîf Bhittai, un mystique sôufî et poète du Sindh, qui s’était enfermé dans un arbre creux au milieu d’un marécage, et qui était ami avec les moustiques. Les historiens du Sindh lui attribuent l’invention du tambura, une sorte de luth.
Urs vers le 30, pour ceux qui aiment l'hospitalité sindhie (mais pas crawford), la musique, le tcharrs et le bangh; haut en couleur, dans le village de Bhith Shah
- -Enfin, il y a les naqshbandi, les héritiers de l’écriture, qui séjournent dans les mosquées. « Naqj » vient de la racine arabe désignant l’inscription, la gravure.
Pareil, c'est le dernier ponte Shah Naqshband; ils ne séjournent pas spécialement dans les mosquées; par contre contrairement aux Chisti la musique est interdite; et le dikhr est silencieux.
La voie d'une manière générale, comme méthode, est tassawuf; tariqa est l'école (qadri chisti etc); silsila la chaîne des pirs, ou cheikhs; qui s'appellent pirs dans tout le Pakistan; le système de transmission patrilinéaire a progressivement vidé le soufisme pakistanais de son essence et rempli les poches des pirs-depuis longtemps apparemment; attention aux désillusions si jamais certains s'aventurent au pays des malangs, qui sont eux aussi souvent des charlots, comme les sadhus🙂, en imaginant que le plus faible contact avec l'occident a gardé le soufisme pakistanais ... pak (pur)😉
Voilou pour les précisions, désolé si j'interromps ton récit d'une orthodoxie sourcilleuse 😇
ben j'ai passé 6 mois au Pak l'année dernière pour un trip culturel perso qui me tenait à coeur; c'est la base, je n'ai pas vraiment de connaissances avancées en fait, notamment sur la manière dont est fait ce travail sur les chakras, lataifs, les vrais soufis se faisant discrets; Sur le sujet, voir le plus grand film sur le soufisme afghan (bon ok c'est le seul), Soufis d'Afghanistan, Arnaud Desjardins; pas très bien filmé et un peu emphatique, mais il avait trouvé de vrais soufis-suffit de voir les regards des mecs; on peut le voir sur daily Motion...😉
Super Julien! Merci de nous apporter tous ces déails supplémentaires. Sur certaines de tes remarques, je voudrais seulement dire (je vais faire court pour une fois! 🙂😉) que j'ai pratiquement cite texto ce que Abd-er-Rahman nous (a moi et Mhd Husseïn) avait expliqué. Car tout autant que je me sois plongé dans l'usage de certaines "médecines", j'avais tendance à garder de l'ordre dans ma tête! Bonne soirée à tous!
Possible que le Serviteur du Clément (Abd er Rahman) se soit un peu égaré... 😉
Oui il y a une forte communauté schiite dans le Sindh, Sukkur, Sehwan Sharif etc.
Dans la mesure où je participe malheureusement peu au forum, aura-t-on la suite dans les semaines qui viennent ou dans 2 ans?😎
(Quelqu'un a parlé de faire un voyage en Afghanistan; le max d'infos notamment sur la sécurité, désolé pour vf🤪 c'est sur Lonely Planet forum, en anglais)
Possible que le Serviteur du Clément (Abd er Rahman) se soit un peu égaré... 😉
Oui il y a une forte communauté schiite dans le Sindh, Sukkur, Sehwan Sharif etc.
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Oui, mais c'est quand-même le même topo, non? N'allons pas dire qu'Abd-er-Rahman était complètement à côté de la plaque!
Mais justement, voilà une bonne question: le soufisme est-il essentiellement chiite? C'est mon impression, mais on peut facilement se tromper. Je sais qu'il est présent chez les Iraniens (chiites dans leur très grande majorité).
attention aux désillusions si jamais certains s'aventurent au pays des malangs, qui sont eux aussi souvent des charlots, comme les sadhus🙂, en imaginant que le plus faible contact avec l'occident a gardé le soufisme pakistanais ... pak (pur)😉
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Tout à fait d'accord, et certainement c'est ce que je retire de quelques mois passés en Inde. Les "sadhus photo", j'en ai soupé! 😠 Il y a d'ailleurs un aspect "fric" trop fréquent dans le circuit des temples hindous qui franchement me déplaît. Ça va sans doute faire hurler certains, mais c'est mon ressenti.
Et bien vu: Pakistan = "le pays pur" ou le "pays des purs" (pak = propre, pur en hindi également)
Je suis monté rendre visite à Jacques et Germaine qui ont loué une baraque tout en haut de Madian pour 30 roupies par mois (10 Francs !). Aussitôt, Jacques m’offre un « window-open » (un trip d'acide bien connu) et nous nous mettons à presser du shit sur le devant de la maison d’où nous surplombons tous les champs de maïs qui descendent, terrasse après terrasse, jusqu’à Madian en contrebas.
Jacques, avec son assurance et son calme d’artiste expérimenté, m’apprend à presser (le tcharss, pour ceux qui ne suivraient pas), ce qui n’est pas une opération des plus faciles. On choisit quelques boulettes de pollen dans le sac en plastique, et on prend un peu de poudre de pollen - les boulettes déjà constituées permettent une prise plus rapide. On place le tout au creux de la main et on commence le labeur tout en écrasant ça entre les paumes et les doigts avec toute l’énergie possible (et il en faut !), jusqu’à ce que le pollen commence à s’agglutiner et à former une pâte de plus en plus homogène.
Mais dès que j’arrête le pétrissage et le malaxage de la pâte, elle se refroidit et redevient dure, et la reprise du travail est pénible. En fait, il ne faut pas lâcher le morceau avant d’avoir obtenu une boule assez bien agglomérée pour qu’elle ne se dissocie plus si on la roule sur une plaque chauffante placée sur le feu. À partir de ce moment, le travail devient de plus en plus facile : la boule devient de plus en plus plastique et malléable et, de la couleur jaune miel de départ, elle vire peu à peu sur un vert-brun presque noir en surface. Le shit est alors prêt à être consommé. Au bout d’une heure de travail, on peut ainsi obtenir une boule de 20 à 30 grammes – assez de quoi s’allumer quelques sérieux chiloms ! Mais comme dit Jacques, il faut y mettre des « vibes ». C’est un labeur de métallurgiste. 😮
Et bien sûr, nous fumons tout le long. Le « cri de guerre » de Jacques, c’est « Bamboulé ! », avant de tirer bien fort et long sur le chilom. Il n’aime pas tous ces produits qui ne te laissent plus tranquille, speed, morph etc…. Mais le shit, il ne veut pas s’en priver. « Je sais ce qui est bon ! », dit-il.
Je suis de plus en plus stoned durant mon apprentissage, à fumer le shit « maison » par-dessus l’effet très pur du « window-open ». 😎😛😉 J’ai l’impression de percer enfin le secret du tcharss. Les battements du tabla que nous nous passons l’un à l’autre – et Germaine vient jouer de la flûte – pulsent dans ma tête avec insistance, je sens le tcharss de tous mes sens et je le sens m’entourer dans la nature environnante où il pousse à foison, comme une présence personnalisée, une entité consciente : l’esprit du tcharss est sur moi ! 😎😇
Il est bien évident qu’il y avait là des résurgences inconscientes de mes lectures. Comme tant d’autres à cette époque, j’étais fasciné par les écrits de Carlos Castaneda et par ses expériences avec Mescalito, l’esprit du peyotl, et les pouvoirs de «l’herbe du diable » et de « la petite fumée » ("La yerba del diablo y el humito"). Et maintenant que j’y pense, même le premier paragraphe de cette page a un relent évident des histoires de Castaneda : on arrive à la maison de Don Juan, le « brujo », on s’installe sous le porche, et on a la surprise d’avoir sur le champ « quelque chose » à prendre qui envoie à 10,000 perpètes … Tout y est ! 😉
Je vois Jacques sous un éclairage de plus en plus vif, avec ses cheveux mi-henné, mi-indigo et ses vêtements aux couleurs franches. Il est flamboyant, mais n’est-il pas d’ailleurs un Lion? J’apprécie sa façon simple et objective d’expliquer les choses. Il commence à prendre pour moi la place d’un Don Juan du tcharss (référence toujours à Castaneda). Je suis tant impressionné que je finis par me demander s’il ne serait pas un vieil alchimiste du moyen-âge, un compère de Nicolas Flamel peut-être - ou de plus loin encore dans le passé! - disparu du monde officiel et poursuivant des siècles d’existence dans des pays aussi étranges que celui où nous sommes, sous l’aspect d’une éternelle jeunesse !
Prudemment, je lui demande s’il connaît quelque chose à l’alchimie, mais sa réponse est nette et courte : il ne s’occupe pas de ce genre de théories et n’ouvre pas de bouquins pour apprendre à vivre. Fait-il référence à tous ces cinglés d’en bas, à Madian, plongés dans l’astrologie, la magie, de l’ésotérisme de pacotille et je ne sais trop quoi d’autre ?
Jacques était peut-être une personne très simple. Peut-être avait-il un métier assez banal, là-bas en France, je n’en sais rien. Mais peu importe, il était un maître à mes yeux. Et maintenant que j’écris ces lignes, plus d’un tiers de siècle plus tard et (je le précise) "en pleine possession de mes moyens", je suis encore persuadé qu’il était effectivement un maître, à sa manière.
Philip, l’Australien, et John, un Anglais, sont montés nous voir vers le soir et Jacques leur administre ses bons soins. «Il aime soigner la tête des amis qui viennent le voir là-haut, qui trouvent chez lui quelque chose de plus sain que dans la vallée où les gens ne s’aiment pas assez", me disait-il cet après-midi. Pour soigner la tête, ça, j’en sais quelque chose ! 😇
Mais Philip et John restent taciturnes, drapés dans des couvertures bariolées qui leur servent de dignité. Leur silence et leur apparence dans le maigre éclairage de quelques bougies me fait penser à des trappeurs du wild-west américain. Nous passons tous la nuit dans l’unique pièce de la maison, les uns à même la terre battue, les autres sur des coussins. Pour ma part, j’ai récupéré un vieux tchârpaï et je me suis couvert de mon langi en guise de couverture. C’est plutôt juste comme confort ! Mais je suis complètement blindé contre les petites souffrances, cette nuit-là.
Chistya, une autre école soufie répandue en Inde du Nord et au Pakistan, dont le saint principal est Khwaja Mohinuddin Chisti, dont le mazar est à Ajmer Sharif, à côté de Pushkar, en Inde
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A mon tour d'être pédant (c'est là le moindre de mes défauts 🙂 .... mais je suis plus prêteur que la fourmi! 😉 j'adresse mon clin d'oeil à la mémoire de La Fontaine):
Ordre soufi fondé à Chisht, petite ville près de Herat (Afghanistan - mais soyons clairs: c'est dans le monde persan de l'époque). En persan, "tchishti" s'écrit:
- "che" - 7-ème lettre de l'alphabet persan, ajoutée à l'alphabet arabe puisque cette consonne n'existe pas en arabe: c'est le "ha" arabe avec trois points "noqta" en dessous (6-ème lettre de l'alphabet arabe - il s'agit d'un son "h" "râclé" du fond de la gorge et très difficile à reproduire pour "el fransawi moyen", et non du "he" plus doux qui vient vers la fin de l'alphabet). Il ne s'agit pas là de subtilités, et ce sont des choses à côté desquelles on passe complètement quand on ne fait pas l'effort d'apprendre l'écriture d'une langue donnée.
D'ailleurs, petite digression: le "ha" "râclé" est l'une des lettres qu'on ne trouve jamais dans un mot d'origine persane, c'est un son inconnu à l'origine en persan. Comme plusieurs autres lettres, c'est l'un des signes immédiats qu'un certain mot persan est en fait emprunté à l'arabe - et il y en a foison!
- "shin" - même lettre qu'en arabe et absolument un "sh" (ou "ch" en français), pas un "s". Il est possible que cela soit prononcé "s" dans certaines régions, mais ce n'est alors pas le son d'origine.
- "te"
- "ye" - même dernière lettre de l'alphabet qu'en arabe, sauf qu'en persan on n'écrit pas les deux "noqta" du dessous en position finale dans un mot.
Soufisme .... Sunnis ..... Shi'a il y a toute une histoire assez extraordinaire derrière ces noms / termes et on peut très facilement s'y perdre. Même parmi les Shi'a il y a un certain nombre de tendances assez différentes. Les Iraniens par exemple font partie des "Shi'a aux 12 imams" (le 12-ème étant le fameux "imam caché", mais n'allons pas plus loin dans le système iranien car c'est d'une complication à en tomber raide mort!). Mon impression générale est que les Shi'a ont plus tendance au mysticisme que les Sunnis (mais c'est une impression purement et strictement personnelle), ce qui leur rend l'approche du soufisme assez naturelle.
Je ne suis pas étonné que la lignée naqjbandi ne remonte pas à Ali. J'avais indiqué que cette lignée attache beaucoup de poids à l'écriture (racine "nqsh" en arabe) ce qui est un peu l'attitude générale du sunnisme. Mais je vais m'arrêter là car je me trompe peut-être et de plus c'est un sujet délicat et on peut vite offenser des gens en disant des bêtises (ou même des vérités).
Quant à ma mémoire, merci pour le compliment 🙂! Merci aussi pour le lien, cela me premettra de "revisiter" le Pakistan et ce qui gravite autour, après une absence de près de 40 ans maintenant. Mais mon centre d'intérêt est plus loin en Asie......
Le marchand de yaourt m’a appris les chiffres pakhto, et avec quelles intonations ! 🙂 Je reste toujours épaté par la vigueur de cette langue :
1 yòú (accent remontant sur la fin)
2 dwa
3 dre
4 salor
5 pinzâ
6 shpak
7 woh
8 attâ
9 naha
10 lâs, ou dâs (pas moyen de saisir cette première consonne)
Ces derniers jours, je fréquente plutôt Jacques et Tom, ils sont bien plus agréables que Martine et Catherine, les deux sœurs qui prennent trop souvent des grands airs méprisants.
Je suis allé à Bahreïn avec Jacques, à 5 miles en amont de Madian. Le village est situé sur la rive droite de la Swât. Il est coupé en deux par une rivière qui se précipite à angle droit dans la Swât, venant donc de l’ouest. La rencontre des deux eaux est particulièrement violente, le roc est taillé à la verticale sur une hauteur de bien 20 mètres. Du haut du petit pont qui relie les deux parties du village (qu’on voit bien sur l’image satellite, vue vers l'amont; voir jpeg), on a une vue impressionnante sur les eaux tumultueuses de la rivière qui se ruent vers la Swât, encore plus tumultueuse. Les eaux sont gonflées par la fonte des neiges et des glaciers, plus haut, là où l’Hindu Kush se noue aux Himalayas (techniquement parlant, la Swât est encore dans l’Hindu Kush), et déjà les premières pluies de la mousson viennent s’y rajouter. Il ne doit guère y avoir qu’en hiver que les eaux se calment vraiment…
J’ai acheté une soi-disant alexandrite pour 12 roupies à Bahreïn, cette fameuse pierre qui est « une émeraude le jour et une améthyste la nuit », et une demi-douzaine d’agates pour monter un jour peut-être en collier. C’était encore l’époque où je croyais en ces choses, mais déjà j’avais des doutes quant à la qualité et la valeur réelle de toutes ces pierres qui sont offertes au voyageur dans ces contrées. Pour commencer, il ne s’agit que de pierres semi-précieuses, la qualification de « précieux » étant réservée aux diamants, aux rubis et aux émeraudes, et à l’extrême rigueur aux saphirs. Certaines perles et opales sont également de très haute valeur. Mais les montagnes d’agates, de lapis-lazulis, d’ « œil de tigre », de « pierre de lune » (et j’en passe) du sous-continent indien, mmmouais…… De plus, je me rappelle avoir vu quelque part que seul l’Oural produit de véritables alexandrites. Mais l’intérêt porté aux pierres faisait bien sûr partie de la « panoplie » du « voyageur éclairé ».
Le soir, rentrés à Madian, nous avons un régal de tortillas que Martine nous a préparées. Elle est dingue de l’Espagne où il semble qu’elle ait pas mal vécu. Car tous ces voyageurs par ici ont « vécu pas mal de temps » dans des « endroits intéressants ». 😇 Sinon, ils auraient probablement une crise d’identité ! Il y a toute une collection de Français, d’Italiens et d’Espagnols qui se retrouvent assez facilement – nous sommes des Latins après tout ! et il est frappant de voir combien d’Espagnols et d’Italiens se débrouillent bien en français. J’en vois assez régulièrement se parler entre eux, les uns en français, les autres en espagnol et les autres encore en italien, et tout le monde se comprend assez bien.
Moi, par contre, qui étais parfaitement bilingue français-allemand à cette époque, le soir où j’ai eu la visite d’un des Allemands avec lesquels j’étais allé à Mazâr-e-Sharîf dans le nord de l’Afghanistan, et qui se retrouvait de passage par la Swât en route vers l’Inde, il fallait voir les mines dédaigneuses des filles à nous entendre converser en allemand ! 🙁
Revenons aux tortillas. Tom, mon ami Américain, arrive trop tard pour en profiter mais il tombe à point pour partager la salade de tomates à la menthe. Nous sommes raides comme ce n’est pas possible, et ça le met en verve. Il nous raconte les 22 mois qu’il a faits en tôle en Grèce pour quelques kilos de shit qu’on avait essayé de lui faire reconnaître par la torture, mais qui sont restés sur le toit d’un casino à Athènes. Il a 33 ans, ce qui en fait un homme d’âge bien mûr pour moi, hahaha ! Maintenant, avec le recul du temps, je me rends compte qu’il n’était encore qu’un jeune homme ! Mais il a dû en voir des solides déjà : contrebande aux USA avec deux accrochages avec la police, fusillades etc, voyage au Viet Nam …. organisé par l’armée américaine 😮😕 (aller gratuit ! retour « en option » 🏴☠️). Tom ne me donne pas l’impression d’affabuler.
J'ai commencé à parcourir ton reportage-photo et je me régale. J'apprécie ton style sobre ... et aussi le fait que tu dis des choses sensées! 🙂😉😄 Bien vu, le sous-fond du culte des saints "à l'hindouiste". Ayant vécu 8 ans dans des pays Arabes, je n'ai jamais eu l'impression qu'il y ait l'équivalent. Il y a donc peut-être du vrai dans cette façon de voir les choses.
Merci Rouxy pour ton reportage, je voyage encore par procuration
Georges, que fais tu des nombreux tombeaux de saints au Maroc ? Il y a aussi des ziaras au Maghreb ;), des ziaras que réprouvent les musulmans rigoristes d'ailleurs
Mais... le maghreb n'est pas "arabe"- en tout cas pas plus que la Turquie et ses derviches 😎😄 ...sinon les pays arabes comme l'Irak ont connu le soufisme-avec souvent une attitude d'attraction-répulsion... ; mais c'est vrai que sa prolifération en Afghanistan, Iran, et-énormément- dans l'Inde musulmane n'est sans doute pas étrangère au "vortex" yoguique indien, ni à une attitude plus directement métaphysique des Upanishads ou du Bouddhisme, qui aurait par rebond "hindouisé" l'Islam du sous-continent ; cf, à ce sujet Schuon, Le soufisme, voile et quintessence: en gros les 3 religions monothéistes, et leur sentimentalisme dévotionnel, induisent un rapport à l'Un assez particulier, il y a toujours une peur à lever le voile des phénomènes pour se laisser toucher par le Réel Ultime-tandis que les métaphysiques qu'il appelle indoaryennes, plus "réalistes", l'étalent sans complexe comme allant de soi de prime abord...
Pour moi il y a ce soufisme ésotérique, et le soufisme du charbonnier, où principalement la ziarat à la tombe sera de réclamer des faveurs en ce bas-monde; c'est là que les rigoristes interviennent😇 : d'une part ils estiment- à tort ou à raison, je ne suis pas là pour juger- que le soufisme ésotérique casse les règles de la dualité nécessaire et suffisante entre l'homme et Dieu; péché d'orgueil disent-il, les soufis se prennent pour Dieu.Ce à quoi ces derniers rétorquent que l'illumination, ne peut provenir que de l'extinction de l'égo(très bouddhiste ça), résultat du tassawuf, donc de la djihad intérieure recommandée par le Coran lui-même. Selon eux, le Coran est à plusieurs sens- Coran alternatif😉: Mohammed, le Prophète, aurait été assigné par Dieu à l'exposé public pour l'homme moyen et ne pouvait donc pas tout dire. Rappelons-nous que l'impétrant en ésotérisme judaïque ne pouvait pas accéder aux enseignements avant un certain âge (40 ans je crois); l'explication était peut-être qu'il fallait qu'il soit un peu structuré pour passer d'une religion massivement dualiste à un ésotérisme unitif ???
D'autre part, en tant que dernière grande religion, si l'on excepte la synthèse sikh (et les raeliens😛), elle insiste fortement et énergiquement sur le Tawahid, l'unité de Dieu, et la relation directe entre l'homme et Dieu. Les rigoristes disent que le soufisme populaire, en prenant un saint comme intercesseur, pratiquent le péché de shirk= association d'une entité à Dieu; certes il y a souvent dans la ziarat des paysans un élément de superstition; les soufis répondront qu'il s'agit de respect aux aulia allah, les amis de Dieu, et non de shirk.
Mon impression générale est que les Shi'a ont plus tendance au mysticisme que les Sunnis (mais c'est une impression purement et strictement personnelle), ce qui leur rend l'approche du soufisme assez naturelle.
C'est possible, je n'en sais rien; bien que la plupart des soufis soient sunnis, le soufisme est peut-être mieux accepté dans le chiisme, à cause d'Ali, et peut-être aussi à cause de leur statut minoritaire?pure supputation subjective
Je ne suis pas étonné que la lignée naqjbandi ne remonte pas à Ali. J'avais indiqué que cette lignée attache beaucoup de poids à l'écriture (racine "nqsh" en arabe) ce qui est un peu l'attitude générale du sunnisme.
Quand tu, quand on parle du sunnisme, j'ai l'impression que plus ou moins consciemment on fait référence au bloc néo-conservateur émiraoui-saoudi, non?
Je relis avec délectation ton carnet🙂 (c'est la première fois que j'en lis un sur VF); j'ai l'impression qu'à l'époque même des faits tu avais une certaine lucidité par rapport au hippies que tu décris. par contre tu n'avais pas froid aux yeux question came, je crois, même si j'ai fait plein d'expérience de ce type, que je n'aurais pas tenté l'intraveineuse de morphine😎.
A relire les passages appropriés, j'ai l'impression que la défonce était quand même pas mal motrice dans ces voyages😇... je n'ai rien contre ni pour (bien au contraire); et effectivement plus fédératrice que le mysticisme à l'eau de rose que tu décris avec une lucide acidité.
encore merci et vivement la suite🙂 (si jamais)
Je me suis absenté un peu, étant de nouveau en vadrouille..... Mais je vois avec plaisir que les échanges de vue continuent. J'avoue ne rien connaître au Maroc (le seul pays du Maghreb que je n'ai jamais visité) 😊.
Rouxy a raison, je n'avais pas froid aux yeux question came, et je n'en suis pas encore arrivé au bout! J'aurais bien des choses à dire sur les "paradis artificiels", mais ce sera pour une autre fois. Je me contenterai ici de toucher un peu à certaines expériences, en pointillisme.
Je continue mon récit:
Les relations semblent se dégrader un tantinet entre les personnages centraux de ma petite « tragédie de Madian». J’ai bien remarqué quelques tensions sous-jacentes entre Jacques et les trois filles, Martine, Catherine et Germaine. C’est sur ce tableau que débarquent Massimo et Antonio qui font partie de la clique de Robin, et plus personne n’a envie de rester à la maison. C’est la « maison de Robin », ne l’oublions pas. Je vais dormir chez Tom qui vit dans une petite maison plus haut au bord du torrent. Lui et ses voisins Anglais sont plus cools et nous passons de bons moments à fumer et écouter de la musique. Et quand l’idée me vient de me laver, je me baigne dans le torrent qui passe à deux pas de là. 🙂
Tom est extrêmement faible, il reste chez lui pratiquement toute la journée, sur son lit. Je dépense des fortunes (relatives) en bouffe. Il faut acheter des bons trucs pour nous remettre d’aplomb, et Tom n’a plus une roupie. Il espère qu’un ami à lui qui est parti vendre du shit en Europe va venir le retrouver ou lui enverra du fric. 😇
Un matin, je suis monté chez Jacques et Germaine avec Charles, un Québécois. Il y avait aussi Tom et Catherine et Martine. À part Tom et Charles, les autres faisaient vraiment la gueule.
Les vibrations ne sont pas trop claires non plus parmi le reste de la faune d’étrangers qui traîne à Madian. Comme dit Jacques, ils ne s’aiment pas assez. Il faut dire qu’ils ont plus de problèmes les uns que les autres. Hier matin, tous étaient sous un gros arbre, en haut du bazar, juste derrière le poste de police, à fumer et à jouer de la musique. Je ne sais pas pourquoi, j’ai eu cette altercation avec Jean-Pierre, un type déjà bien rongé par la came. J’ai eu l’impression d’avoir un dément à deux pas de moi, qui me fixait longuement d’un regard perdu en ânonnant toujours les mêmes mots de reproche.
L’ambiance de Madian est celle d’un asile psychiatrique. 🤪 😮 🏴☠️ Beaucoup de ces « voyageurs » se jouent un petit cinéma. Ils s’en imaginent un peu trop sur la valeur de leurs expériences personnelles et essayent d’impressionner les autres. Mais la réalité plus pauvre perce vite sous le maquillage craquelé de leurs illusions. Il y a des doux cinglés, des poseurs, des paumés, quelques rares crapules, et parfois même des gens recommandables qui ont réussi à garder leurs têtes sur leurs épaules. En plus de tout, il y a l’usage intensif de drogues diverses, comme le révélateur qui fait ressortir les traits de caractère de tout un chacun et les amplifie au-delà du raisonnable.
Un autre soir, Tom réussit à aller jusqu’à la tchaïkhâneh, juste à côté, celle des moulins. Martine y était. Elle m’a demandé si je pouvais monter ; elle et Catherine sont seules là-haut et elles ont peur des gens qui passent. C’est bien tard, en pleine obscurité, que je monte à la maison des nanas, en fait la maison de Jacques et Germaine qui sont partis pour quelques jours et où les filles se sont maintenant installées. Le chemin est en fait le lit d’un petit torrent. Combien de fois ai-je glissé sur les pierres humides ?
La montagne est coupée en étages par deux ou trois ruisseaux qui la cerclent horizontalement (un système d’irrigation), et ce n’est qu’au deuxième ou troisième ruisseau que je dois trouver le sentier qui mène à la maison des filles. J’ai failli perdre plusieurs fois mes sandales dans la boue du ruisseau où je suis à plusieurs reprises obligé de patauger pour retrouver le sentier. J’ai mis du temps à identifier la baraque dans la nuit. Les filles sont venues me chercher avec des bougies. Elles n’en croyaient pas leurs yeux, de me voir surgir de la nuit ! J’avais un peu de pollen, on s’est fait deux bons chiloms.
Il y a plein d’histoires entre les filles et la paysanne du coin, au réveil : une bague disparue et bien sûr les filles soupçonnent immédiatement la paysanne ! La bague est enfin retrouvée, mais les œufs ont disparu. Le taux d’agressivité augmente… 😕 Ces histoires sont tellement absurdes que je lance la question sur le tapis, ça fait du bien, on s’explique un peu.
Cette paysanne, qui habite juste à 200 ou 300 mètres en-dessous de chez nous, avec son frère, c’est un numéro ! C’est une jeune veuve, elle ne doit pas avoir plus de 25 ans. Elle vient traîner parfois chez nous avec ses deux marmots, visiblement parce qu’elle nous trouve chouettes ou du moins divertissants. Elle est d’ailleurs jolie et bien typée. 😛 Des traits de visage très sculptés, des lèvres qui feraient fi du botox, une peau d’un brun fortement hâlé, des cheveux noir de jais lui coulant en longues boucles sur les épaules. Son ample robe et ses foulards aux couleurs dominantes noires et rouges ne parviennent pas à complètement dissimuler une silhouette svelte. Bracelets de cuivre aux bras et aux chevilles. Si je n’étais pas constamment sur une autre galaxie, avec tout ce que je consomme comme produits « vitaminés », elle me mettrait bien quelques idées en tête. Mais ces idées m’effleurent à peine l’esprit, heureusement d’ailleurs car ce n’est pas ici le pays pour se lancer dans ce genre d’affaires! L’oiseau un peu trop audacieux se retrouverait vite avec du plomb dans l’aile ! 🏴☠️
(clin d’œil à Éric : le Pakistan, ce n’est pas Baywatch, mais j’ai fait un effort pour introduire quelques personnages féminins ! 😉)
L’autre jour, avec Jacques et Germaine, nous étions à jouer du tabla, elle est tranquillement entrée dans la maison et s’est mise à danser en nous accompagnant sur une casserole qu’elle avait ramassée par terre ! Quelle rigolade ! 😏 Mais elle n’a pas voulu fumer avec nous. C’est d’ailleurs elle qui nous loue la baraque, et son gosse aîné, de 6 ou 7 ans, vient chercher le buffalo dont l’étable est juste à côté, dans la pièce avoisinante si on peut dire – on l’entend remuer la nuit - pour le mener aux champs. Quelle grosse bête énorme, docile sous la baguette du garçonnet hilare ! Et elle prend de la place sur le sentier, gare au passage !
Je voulais inviter Tom pour manger un poulet ce soir, mais il ne peut pas encore monter. Je remonte avec du lait et mes calepins. Le temps est à l’orage. Jusqu’à présent, les pluies n’étaient pas trop importantes, mais ça a l’air de vouloir changer. Il pleut, il pleut, il pleut. Il y a du vent, nous avons du mal à allumer le feu sur le pas de la porte, toute la cuisine foire. Juste à la tombée de la nuit, on se dit que ce serait bien d’avoir du tcharss. Je redescends sur Madian. Le Bâbâ Pako chez qui je vais en acheter ces derniers temps n’est pas chez lui. Il y a là un couple de Français, John, une Anglaise et un Français qui deale du tcharss qu’il a cherché à Darra. Il veut 8 roupies pour un tola (8 roupies = 3F50 pour un tola = 12 grammes). Je le veux pour 7. Mais il n’a sur lui qu’une boule de 3 tolas. 21 roupies, trop à mon goût et je propose 20 roupies pour le tout. Le mec refuse. Va te faire foutre ! Je rentre, je préfère me passer de shit plutôt que de traiter avec un épicier …. et je suis con, et quel con lui aussi ! Quel foin pour cette dernière roupie ! 😇😐
Le soir, nous nous retrouvons avec un énorme nuage sur nos têtes, nous n’arrivons pas à cuire complètement les patates à l’eau, mais ça passe avec du vinaigre et des épices 😕. Martine se met à parler de tous les ennuis qui lui arrivent « personnellement ». Elle sent des forces non humaines autour d’elle et elle a peur 😮😐. Catherine et moi ne disons pas grand-chose. Martine vient d’expliquer ce que nous ressentons tous plus ou moins, et dont nous ne parlons jamais. La nuit se resserre autour de nous trois. Déjà les angles de la pièce deviennent des présences inquiétantes….
Ce sentiment d’enfant abandonné semble être caractéristique de Madian…
Des forces non humaines? les cours d'eau et vallées sont propices au djinns paraît-il😉
En outre j'avais eu une forte impression, pour certains pashto de la commune de Dir, pas loin de Madyan, de consanguinité...
(70 messages en 3 ans😎, et voilà que je me mets à ouvrir le forum tous les jours pour suivre🙂)
Il n'y avait pas que les djinns qui rôdaient à Madian, 😉 il y avait aussi quelques caractères humains louches! Sans compter les gens tout à fait inoffensifs mais qui, à travers les distorsions psychologiques causées par la situation précaire dans laquelle certains se trouvaient, exacerbées par des lectures "néfastes" et par l'usage de certains "produits vitaminés" 😇, paraissaient être des gens nuisibles...... 😮😠
Dans la maison ouverte sur les brumes du matin, je me suis consacré au Yi King et j’ai tiré « Lin », « L’Approche » :
« La force lumineuse prend de l’expansion. Approche de ce qui est fort, supérieur. Au-dessus du Lac est la Terre. Ainsi l’homme noble est inépuisable dans son dessein d’enseigner. De même que le Lac indique une profondeur inépuisable, le sage est inépuisable dans sa disposition à instruire les hommes... Parce que l’on possède en soi la force et la logique, on obtient la fortune. Même l’avenir ne doit pas être cause de souci…… On sait bien que tout ce qui est terrestre est passager et que toute ascension est suivie d’une descente, mais on ne se laisse pas égarer par ce destin universel ».
Comment expliquer l’influence que ces passages du Yi King pouvaient avoir sur moi ? Beaucoup de gens se sont intéressés au Yi King, l’un des plus vieux livres au monde, et aussi à d’autres livres dits « divinatoires ». Certains ouvrent la Bible au hasard et se laissent pénétrer par le passage qui leur tombe sous les yeux….. Dans le monde persan, il y a de même l’usage répandu de consulter les poèmes de Sa’âdi (et on peut le faire faire par une personne connue pour sa force spirituelle). Certains sont assez crédules pour croire dur comme fer qu’on obtient ainsi des avis précis sur ce que le futur nous réserve.
Je n’étais bien sûr pas arrivé à un tel point de crédulité, mais je me laissais imprégner par les passages obscurs de ce livre réputé pour sa sagesse. Je crois que sa valeur tient en fait à ce qu’on y a décrit un nombre de situations dans lesquelles tout le monde peut un jour ou l’autre se reconnaître. Je crois qu’on pourra toujours « tirer » le Yi et obtenir un hexagramme dont « l’exégèse » comportera un brin de signification pour le moment présent. C’est en quelque sorte une collection d’archétypes. Je ne crois pas que Jung, qui est bien connu pour avoir analysé la psychologie des archétypes, ait connu le Yi King. Mais ses commentaires sur d’autres archétypes (souvent issus de la mythologie grecque, si je m’en souviens bien) devraient jeter une lumière intéressante sur le contenu et l’usage du Yi King.
Donc, à la lecture de ces commentaires sur l’hexagramme « Lin », je me laissais aller à croire qu’il y avait là un signe que je « devais aller pêcher les hommes », rien de moins ! Mais le même jour, quelle mouche m’avait donc piqué ? Je m’étais mis à « tirer le Yi » une deuxième fois et j’avais obtenu « Ming Yi », « L’Obscurcissement de la Lumière ». En deux coups, le Yi venait de me « faire comprendre » qu’une force lumineuse allait surgir mais qu’elle serait vite obscurcie ! Il y avait là comme un présage que quelque chose de peu ordinaire allait m’arriver……. 😮
Pour ceux que cela pourrait intéresser, j’ajoute quelques jpegs montrant l’hexagramme Ming Yi, et quelques commentaires sur sa signification.
toujours très intéressant, le Yi King... , ça m a toujours intriguée ....
sinon dans le monde persan, pour Norouz, il est habituel de prendre le livre Le divan de Hafez, de l ouvrir à une page au hasard et d essayer de comprendre par le ghazal ( poème ) ce qui nous attend pour la nouvelle année mais aussi pour des choix, des directions à prendre dans l'année
Très usité dans le monde persan
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Absolument! Et on saute sur le feu pour se purifier et laisser derrière soi les impuretés de l'année qui se termine. On commence un "nouveau jour (now ruz) par extension, une nouvelle année (sâl-e-now)
Je vais rendre visite à Charles, le Québécois. Il est à moitié Indien, m’a-t-il dit, Iroquois ou Mohawk ou je ne sais trop quoi encore. Cela le rend encore plus sympathique à mes yeux, j’ai toujours eu un intérêt un brin romantique pour les Indiens d’Amérique du Nord. Il partage une maison pas trop loin de l’hôpital, à quelques pas de la Swât, avec quelques autres Québécois, des gens plutôt jeunes à l’aspect inoffensif et presque mignons. Nous sommes quelques uns assis autour d’une table, dans la cour vers la fin de l’après-midi, à bavarder, boire du tchaï et fumer du tcharss. La discussion roule surtout entre Charles, moi-même et une fille qui semble avoir une personnalité assez forte – et dont j’ai oublié le nom (cela m’arrive !). Mais pour ne pas faire trop lourd dans ce qui suit, je vais l’appeler « Marie ». C’était d’ailleurs peut-être bien son nom !
L’idée me vient de sortir les deux trips noirs et demi que j’avais encore et de les partager avec Charles et Marie. Comme il arrive si souvent, nous pensons à peine à ce que nous avons pris cette « médecine » hyper-puissante et qu’un « Hiroshima psychique » va se déchaîner d’un instant à l’autre dans nos têtes, et nous continuons à fumer. Marie sort fièrement son chilom personnel, un petit chilom noir qui immédiatement me déplaît. Cette couleur noire – dangereuse, venimeuse même !😠 Et ce manque de générosité: nous sommes plusieurs à cette table, nous ne pourrons même pas faire un tour complet avec ce petit machin !
Je sors alors de ma poche un chilom que quelqu’un, je ne sais trop qui, m’a offert il y a peu, un magnifique cône de terre cuite de bien 15 centimètres de long, simplement orné de quelques rainures sobres, et qui a déjà bien servi. 😎 Et je vois le mouvement de recul appréhensif de Marie quand je fais ce geste vers ma poche, comme si j’allais sortir une arme. Mais c’est ma générosité que je mets là sur la table ! Et je fais un bon mélange de tcharss et d’opium – j’en ai acheté il y a peu à la cahute juste à côté du poste de police, en même temps qu’une belle plaque de tcharss portant un tampon officiel – c’est un peu le bureau de tabac du coin ! 😉 J’y ajoute de la menthe fraîche pour faire bonne mesure, une petite manie que j’ai récemment adoptée.
J’ai déjà expliqué que souvent un chilom était comme un objet quasi-sacré pour son ou sa propriétaire. C’étaient des « objets de pouvoir ». Nous étions donc tous bien conscients du conflit dans lequel j’étais entré avec Marie, ayant rejeté son chilom avec dédain pour offrir le mien à la place. Je pourrais ajouter une interprétation sexuelle de cette « confrontation des chiloms » mais je la garderai pour moi-même par crainte d’offusquer certains lecteurs.
Mon chilom circule plusieurs fois. Chaque fois qu’il est fini, je le nettoie en y faisant passer un bout de tissu. La pierre ronde que je place au fond du cône pour bloquer le mélange et ne laisser passer que la fumée est luisante de l’huile que la fumée y a accumulée. Puis je le remplis à nouveau de mon « mélange supérieur », j’en enveloppe la base du même bout de tissu et je referme les deux mains dessus, et « bamboulé ! », c’est reparti pour un tour. C’est un chilom qui permet de consommer quelques grammes à chaque fois et il tire superbement bien !
Nous sommes depuis montés en plein trip d’acide, Charles, Marie et moi-même. La nuit est tombée. Il commence à pleuvoir et nous nous mettons à l’abri, assis sur un tchârpaï sous le porche de la maison, à la lumière d’une ou deux faibles bougies. Les autres occupants de la maison se sont retirés et nous ont plus ou moins laissés seuls tous les trois.
Je me suis demandé, bien plus tard et plusieurs fois, pourquoi j’avais adopté cette attitude de méfiance vis-à-vis de Marie. Était-elle vraiment si « venimeuse » que j’avais pu l’imaginer ce soir-là ? Ou étais-je un peu trop à côté de mes chausses ? En fait, nous étions bien dans le même trip et sur la même longueur d’onde, tous les trois avec Charles, et elle continuait à fournir des remarques intéressantes pour animer la discussion. Elle était peut-être même assez jolie et nous aurions très facilement pu terminer la nuit dans les bras l’un de l’autre. Ah ! Maintenant que j’y pense, encore une de manquée bêtement, mxxxe !
Sans doute, cette soirée aurait très bien pu connaître un développement intime! Mais cela ne se passe pas ainsi. À un moment, je nous vois tous les trois ayant chacun le visage à moitié sombre, couleur de terre, et à moitié lumineux. C’est une image tout à fait classique qu’on retrouve dans des bouquins d’ésotérisme de pacotille. Et bien évidemment Charles et Marie voient exactement la même chose que moi. Notre communication est quasi-instantanée et ne se fait d’ailleurs pas que par des mots. Le porche est surélevé et nous avons l’impression de voler sur notre tchârpaï. Nous sommes tous les trois les « sorciers du tcharss » et nous rions comme des fous. 😎😇 Et, comme un picotement de forces magnétiques, je commence également à percevoir l’espace entre les molécules ou les atomes de mon corps …. et je perds par là-même la définition exacte de mes limites corporelles. 😮
Mais Marie gâche tout. Elle laisse tomber cette remarque bizarre et horrible que "quand nous buvions le lait de nos mères, nous sucions en fait leur sang". « L’avions-nous aussi ressenti, Charles et moi? » J’en sursaute de dégoût. 😠 D’où ça sort, ça ? À partir de ce moment, un gouffre énorme s’ouvre entre Marie et moi. 😕 Charles, qui était jusqu’ici comme une force neutre et paisible dans notre trio, a lui aussi une aversion pour Marie, maintenant, j’en suis sûr.
Le charme est rompu et le trio des « sorciers du tcharss » se dissout. Dès que la pluie se calme, je me décide à quitter cette maison où il ne se passe plus rien d’intéressant. Je prends le chemin du retour vers la maison de Tom. Nous sommes en pleine nuit et je suis sérieusement défoncé: ça va être toute une expédition, 😇 mais quand il faut, il faut !
Je laisse sur ma gauche le pont principal, juste au coin de l’hôpital, et je me mets à longer la rive gauche du torrent. La maison de Tom se trouve bien de l’autre côté, mais il n’y a pas moyen d’y arriver en suivant la rive droite. Non, il faut trouver un petit pont de fortune un peu plus haut. Pas de problème, le voici, ce pont ! Ah, mais attention, c’est une affaire brinquebalante de planches et de branches jetées par-dessus deux ou trois rochers au milieu du torrent, à peine clouées les unes aux autres et dont certaines ont été arrachées par l’eau gonflée par les pluies fréquentes des derniers jours. Et je n’ai pour voir où je mets les pieds que l’éclairage très relatif de quelques étoiles qui peinent à filtrer à travers les nuages qui alourdissent le ciel, et des éclats fugitifs des remous de l’eau.
Je me retrouve tétanisé de peur, à quatre pattes et même à plat ventre au milieu du pont, ne sachant plus trop si je suis encore au sec ou déjà dans l’eau. 🤪 Par endroits, suivant les dénivelées du pont, l’eau est pratiquement au même niveau que lui! Je sens sous mes mains le froid glissant des pierres et du bois … et je revis le dispersement magnétisé des molécules et des atomes de mon corps dont j’avais eu un avant-goût quand j’étais assis sur le tcharpaï avec Charles et Marie. Je me sens pratiquement fondre entre les pierres, le bois et l’eau ! Je suis partagé entre la curiosité émerveillée que cause cette sensation « atomisée », et la conviction d’être poursuivi par les pensées « noires » de Marie. Pour sûr, c’est son influence néfaste qui épaissit cette obscurité dans laquelle je me débats ! Marie est « l’Obscurcissement de la Lumière » dont le Yi m’avait averti en début de journée ! 😠
Je parviens tout de même à franchir le torrent. J’arrive à la maison de Tom. Je cogne à la porte et j’appelle dans la nuit. C’est la porte de la cour, pas encore la porte de la maison elle-même, et j’ai peur que personne ne puisse m’entendre avec le bruit du torrent. De plus, il est bien tard et peut-être tout le monde dort déjà. Je ne veux pas rester dehors !!! 😕🏴☠️
On vient m’ouvrir, Tom ou l’Anglaise qui partage la maison, je ne sais plus. Dans l’état où je suis, j’ai dû leur tomber dessus comme un coup de foudre ! Je tremble de tout mon corps, de peur et de froid. L’Anglaise me regarde de son lit, les yeux écarquillés – elle n’a pas souvent vu des mecs surgir comme ça, dans la nuit, en plein délire ! Tom, lui, en a vu d’autres. Il écoute mon récit et essaie de me calmer. Il laisse tomber avec douceur, ce commentaire tout simple: « you are naïve !».
Naïf ? Comme il avait raison ! Je m’en suis bien rendu compte par la suite, mais j’avais encore du chemin à faire pour me frayer un chemin à travers une jungle d’influences diverses et de théories fumeuses et totalement inutiles, et enfin devenir un peu plus réaliste !
J’ai lu pendant des heures à la lumière d’une bougie, et ai retrouvé le calme, puis beaucoup, beaucoup plus tard, le sommeil.
J’avais dû passer quelques semaines en tout à Madian. Peu à peu j’avais l’impression d’y tourner en rond et j’étais bien conscient aussi du besoin de remédier à ma situation de sans-papiers. Il fallait retourner à l’ambassade. Qui plus est, j’avais maintenant mon billet de retour en avion, de Kaboul à Paris, que Mohammad Ali avait réussi à récupérer de Carlos, mon voleur, et m’avait remis à mon arrivée à Madian. J’avais donc un argument de force pour renouveler ma demande de passeport à l’ambassade.
Les Allemands avec qui j’étais allé à Mazâr-e-Sharîf - il me semblait que c’était une éternité dans le passé – allaient reprendre la route vers l’Inde. Je leur demandai de m’emmener. Avant de partir, j’avais emprunté l’appareil photo de celui avec lequel je m’entendais le mieux, un Olympus, pour faire quelques photos de Madian – histoire d’en garder quelques images malgré toute mes misères. Je crois en avoir encore deux, quelque part, il faudra qu’un jour je les retrouve. Il y en a une prise devant la pharmacie, au bord de la route allant vers Bahreïn, à la sortie de Madian. Notre copain le pharmacien nous faisait tranquillement à l’occasion un petit fixe de morphine, là, assis sur le tchârpaï au bord même de la route, pour quelques roupies….. Nous sommes une dizaine d’étrangers et de Pakhtos sur cette photo, mais je défierai qui que ce soit de faire la distinction entre les uns et les autres tellement les « étrangers » font couleur locale!
Les journées suivantes ne méritent pas que je les décrive en détail. Sur la route vers Rawalpindi, les Allemands faisaient la gueule parce que je m’étais invité, par l’intermédiaire de mon copain, à les joindre et ils ne se sentaient plus à l’aise avec moi. Je les entendais bien commenter sur ma situation précaire, et comme quoi il vaudrait mieux ne plus me fréquenter. Pas de papiers ? Errant au petit bonheur la chance au Pakistan ? Fréquentant la faune louche de Madian ? C’est que je leur faisais carrément peur ! 😮
J’étais autant soulagé qu’ils devaient l’être eux-mêmes quand je les quittai à Rawalpindi. À vrai dire, je n’avais pas beaucoup d’atomes crochus pour les gens qui faisaient le genre d’expédition bien organisée « à l’allemande ». J’en avais déjà croisés, quand je faisais du stop au milieu de la Yougoslavie l’année précédente, en route vers Kaboul. Une autre fourgonnette avec 4 Allemands, même topo. Ceux-là m’avaient vraiment écœuré et je me demande bien pourquoi ils m’avaient ramassé au bord de la route. Ils avaient des réserves et ne se privaient pas de descendre les cannettes de bière et de se couper de grosses tranches de pain, de jambon et de saucisse devant moi, qui avais faim, sans jamais m’en offrir. Aucune décence. Vraiment des trous-du-cul. 😠
À Rawalpindi, je suis descendu dans un hôtel miteux où j’ai rencontré Reynald, un Français à court d’argent. C’est lui qui m’a introduit aux amphétamines. Nous en sommes même arrivés à faire moitié morphine, moitié amphétamines – je ne décris pas….. Nous étions presque les seuls clients de l’hôtel, si on peut utiliser ici ce titre glorieux. Je me rappelle le couloir tout droit, une demi-douzaine de piaules sur un côté dont la notre, et au bout, à gauche, la sortie sur une courette ornée d’un puits dans un état à faire reculer même les rats les plus endurcis, d'une douche probablement (eh ! c’est loin tout ça !) et des chiottes. Nous avons végété des journées entières dans une piaule poisseuse, à nous raconter des conneries. Reynald n’était pas un compagnon particulièrement intéressant 😕, il n’avait pas le moindre point en commun avec les gens de Madian qui, quel que soit le mal que j’ai pu en dire avaient au moins le mérite d’avoir un minimum de panache, de s’intéresser aux pays qu’ils visitaient etc. Je me demande bien ce que Reynald était venu chercher au Pakistan….
Il y avait quand-même quelques bons moments. Le matin, j’allais manger (tout seul car cela n’attirait pas Reynald) un grand bol de yaourt avec des bananes, des noix et des raisins secs dans un petit boui-boui. Le patron était aimable et discret. Je savourais ce moment, assis sur le devant de la boutique d’où je pouvais observer l’activité d’une rue relativement tranquille. C’était souvent mon seul vrai repas de la journée. Connaissez-vous le yaourt, les noix et les raisins secs de l’Afghanistan ou du Pakistan ? Ils sont particulièrement délicieux. 😛
Nous étions allés au cinéma. On passait « Wuthering Heights » (« Les Hauts de Hurlevent »), un film magnifique. 😎 Nous nous demandions bien ce que les hommes du cru - il n’y avait pas une seule femme dans la salle – avaient pu comprendre de cette histoire dramatique d’un autre monde. Ils devaient baver à voir la beauté des femmes occidentales telles qu’elles étaient représentées dans ce film et aussi se faire les idées les plus bizarres de leur comportement social.
Nous avions eu cette idée saugrenue de nous trouver une bouteille de bière. Il avait fallu demander à plusieurs reprises pour trouver l’endroit sordide où nous pouvions en acheter. Il fallait voir les regards noirs des gens quand ils comprenaient ce que nous cherchions ! 😠 Riches de notre butin, il avait encore fallu trouver un endroit tranquille pour pouvoir boire un coup. Je ne sais pas pourquoi nous n’avions pas voulu retourner à l’hôtel pour cela. En fin de compte, c’est sur un terrain vague et dans l’obscurité du soir tombé que nous avions bu le contenu – tiède – de cette bouteille de mauvaise bière. Une vraie pisse d’âne.
Tous pauvres que nous soyons, nous avions encore quelques roupies à dépenser. Nous nous étions même payé le luxe de changer d’hôtel. À deux, nous pouvions partager les frais d’une chambre plus saine dans un hôtel plus « up-market », je crois que cela nous revenait à 7 ou 8 roupies la nuit, l’équivalent d’un demi-euro en tout. Avec les 4 ou 5 roupies du petit déjeuner, les trois ou 4 tchaïs de la journée, les « pills », l’excès occasionnel d’une sortie au cinéma ou d’un petit plat dans un restaurant, je devais dépenser dans les 25 à 30 roupies par jour (1.5 à 2 euros). C’était un train de vie coûteux comparé à Madian !
Nous nous étions baladés dans l’un des bazars de la ville. À un coin de rue, nous avions été frappés de voir un homme assis sur un tchârpaï, les jambes repliées: son langi était remonté sur ses hanches et il donnait l’air frais à une paire de couilles énormes ! 😮 Quel tableau étrange dans un pays si pudique ! Plus loin, nous nous étions allumé une cigarette (j’en fumais encore à l’occasion à cette époque). Nous aurions dû y penser, le ramadhan avait commencé et manger, fumer ou boire en public n’était plus du tout de mise. Les très rares restaurants qui servaient encore à manger pendant la journée avaient de lourds rideaux noirs tirés sur leurs fenêtres et les gens qui passaient devant jetaient des regards noirs dans leur direction.
Nous venions donc juste de mettre nos cigarettes au bec et étions arrivés dans le quartier des tissus et deux ou trois hommes assis (en tailleur !) à même le sol devant leurs minuscules boutiques avaient commencé à nous donner des coups dans les jambes avec leurs « yards » métalliques. 😠🏴☠️ Comme il y avait du monde partout, l’attention s’était immédiatement portée sur nous, jeunes connards d’étrangers n’ayant pas le moindre respect pour l’usage local, et ça allait visiblement tourner au vinaigre. Nous nous étions précipités dans un taxi pour nous échapper et éviter une bonne bastonnade, peut-être même un lynchage !
un grand bol de yaourt avec des bananes, des noix et des raisins secs dans un petit boui-boui
ça a l'air délicieux. après ça tu es rassasié jusqu'au repas du soir....lorsque j'étais à Bangkok le matin je mangeais qq chose qui y ressemblait🙂
Wuthering Heights ça m'a tout de suite rappelé la chanson de Kate Bush en 1979, reprise par la diva du rock des années80 Pat Benatar. 🙂
Hahaha! J'en vois qui s'impatientent! 🙂 Mais je n'ai pas l'internet au village ("du côté de Bâan Nâawk") et ce n'est donc qu'à l'occasion que je me retrouve devant un clavier!
Donc voici la suite, je suis heureux de voir que j'ai au moins une poignée de lecteurs assidus! 🙂
J'en étais au quasi-lynchage dans les rues de Rawalpindi. Avoir réchappé aux griffes de la CIA pour finir en flaque de sang sur un marché de Rawalpindi, non merci! 😕
Mais tout cela ne me faisait toujours pas oublier qu’il fallait régler mes affaires de papiers. J’avais bien sûr pris le chemin d’Islamabad pratiquement le lendemain de mon arrivée à Rawalpindi. Comme déjà dit, Islamabad se trouve à quelques kilomètres à peine de Rawalpindi, ou plutôt, comme quelqu’un l’a judicieusement dit, « à quelques kilomètres du Pakistan ». Il fallait moins d’une heure de bus pour y aller.
L’ambassade était une villa d’aspect relativement modeste, comme tant d’autres, sur l’un des boulevards assez stériles de cette ville nouvelle. En plusieurs visites, je n’avais en tout vu que les deux pièces d’entrée. Deux guichets étaient installés dans celle de droite et c’est là que je devais expliquer mon affaire.
Avec mon billet d’avion Kaboul-Paris, retrouvé grâce à Muhammad Ali, je pensais avoir avec un atout majeur en main, comparé à ma première visite plusieurs semaines auparavant. Je fus donc déçu de ne pas recevoir l’attention que j’espérais. J’étais loin d’y penser, mais je ne pouvais certainement pas faire un effet favorable sur le personnel de l’ambassade. Les quelques semaines passées à Madian, l’usage quelque peu excessif de divers produits « vitaminés » et mon shalwar kameez déjà passablement usé devaient me donner l’allure d’un illuminé ou d’un sauvage !
Ma demande n’était pourtant pas compliquée ni extraordinaire. Voilà, on m’avait volé mon passeport, j’avais récupéré mon billet de retour de Kaboul à Paris, et je voulais qu’on me délivre un nouveau passeport pour rentrer en France et y poursuivre mes études. Quoi de plus simple? Comme je n’entendais que des paroles évasives et qu’il n’y avait aucune indication que quoi que ce soit allait être réellement entrepris pour me tirer de ma situation plus que précaire, je perdis patience. Je pris une chaise et l’abattis avec fracas sur le sol pour attirer l’attention des gens qui déjà avaient remis le nez dans leurs paperasses en m’ignorant complètement, là à peine à deux ou trois mètres de moi. Et je dis avec force que je ne partirai pas tant qu’on ne s’occuperait pas sérieusement de moi. Qu’est-ce que j’avais donc à perdre ?
On appela une personne un peu plus responsable. Il faudrait aussi dire que jamais, en plusieurs visites, je ne vis quelqu’un à l’ambassade qui soit un/une Français/Française « de France ». Il ne semblait y avoir, pour des sous-fifres comme moi, que des gens originaires de l’île Maurice (je n'ai rien contre eux, je veux seulement dire qu'on ne s'occupait pas trop de moi). Je dus réitérer mon histoire pour la n-ième fois. J’insistai que j’étais engagé dans des études que je tenais à terminer et que, regardez ! j’avais bien un billet d’avion pour retourner en France. On finit par me faire une vague promesse en me disant de revenir deux semaines plus tard.
C’est ainsi que je retournai bredouille à Rawalpindi et que je plongeai dans la vie végétative que j’ai déjà décrite, où rien de bien remarquable ne se passait et où je passais le plus clair de mon temps à glander avec Reynald. Il finit par recevoir une bonne nouvelle. Sa famille lui avait payé le vol de retour d’Islamabad à Paris. Je l’accompagnai à l’aéroport et le vis partir, et je me retrouvais seul pour quelques jours encore avant que le moment soit arrivé de retourner à l’ambassade.
"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...
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!!!
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
Here we go with this second travel journal dedicated to the American West! It’s a must when you love it! 😊
We had left off in the charming town of Bisbee, which once thrived thanks to its copper mines. Today, mining is a thing of the past, and the town seems a bit sleepy.
Unfortunately, I didn’t dig deep enough on-site to answer all the questions my observations raised. Guess I’ll have to *dig* into the subject a bit more... no pun intended! 😊
Let’s hop back in the car and head a little further south to check out the esplanade that offers a view—if you can call it that—of the impressive open-pit mine.
Then, it’s off to the Lowell neighborhood.
Preserved almost exactly as it was, this area must’ve been bustling in its heyday. The vintage cars are still around, storefronts and signs look like they’re straight out of another era, and the whole place has a pretty amazing vibe. You’d almost think you were on Route 66!
Here, we’re not just discovering an old neighborhood—it’s a little slice of American history. And, a detail that’s great for my physical health: the area isn’t too spread out.
Lucky me! 😊
I won’t post too many photos here since I think I can turn them into a future photo exhibit. Between these and some shots from Route 66, I should have more than enough material! So, let’s keep a few under wraps... to preserve the surprise. 😊
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!
So, a new year has begun. It’s time to reconnect with the VF buddies and wish you all my best for 2026—a year I hope is obviously full of travel, since, as I just made up:
"If travel’s good, everything’s good" 😄.
To celebrate, I’m inviting you into my new "travel journal," the one from our latest trip in November 2025, a little two-week adventure.
This time, we headed to The Gambia, a tiny country tucked right in the middle of Senegal, before making our way to Casamance.
The Gambia is English-speaking, Senegal is French-speaking, but the locals? They couldn’t care less—because in this part of the world, they mostly speak Wolof, Fula, Jola, or Mandinka.
Hence the title: Senegambia 😉.
As usual, I’m sharing the live updates I sent to friends and family—super casual, of course.
I know this isn’t the kind of destination that draws crowds, but if you love adventure, laughter, and emotion, it might just be your thing 😊.
Off to Southern Africa again! This time, the trip wasn’t just about wildlife—it was also about the local cultures and the breathtaking landscapes Mother Nature has to offer. It was an emotional rollercoaster in every way, as you’ll see.
We visited two countries: Zambia, known for its reserves, and Malawi, which is less well-known but absolutely worth a visit. Our flight landed in Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital, where our vehicle was waiting—though with a 3-hour delay. It was a 4x4 without the rooftop tent this time, since we stayed in lodges (prices are very reasonable in Malawi). Just a heads-up: don’t exchange money at the airport or banks—the official rate was 1,750 Malawian kwacha to $1. On the black market, the rate was between 3,000 and 3,500 kwacha, making the cost of living much cheaper.
With that out of the way, our first stop was South Luangwa National Park in Zambia. The first hiccup came at the Malawi-Zambia border: we were missing a document the rental company had forgotten. After some back-and-forth, they sent it via WhatsApp ($20 to get it validated by the police). But things got worse—the car’s chassis number was off by one digit from the registered one. I thought our trip was over before it even started! After what felt like forever, we got through with a "tip" of $200. Total border crossing time: 3 hours, costing nearly $400. We arrived in South Luangwa after dark.
Thankfully, the next day made up for it with an incredible day in the park (check out the photos).
We spent two full days in South Luangwa before heading to Katete for the Kulamba ceremony.
Kulamba is an annual event held at the end of August, celebrating the Chewa people, who live across Zambia, Malawi, and Mozambique. The Chewa king attends, and representatives from neighboring nations bring offerings. Thousands gather for dances, speeches, and a massive market. There are few tourists, making it a truly authentic experience.
After a few days in Zambia, we returned to Malawi (the border crossing this time was smooth—just 45 minutes). Next stop: Lake Malawi.
Lake Malawi covers over 20% of the country and stretches 580 km. It’s home to a family of fish called cichlids, some of which are endemic to the lake. I recommend taking a day trip from Cape Maclear for snorkeling and to watch the fishing eagles swoop down to catch fish.
We hit the road again to visit Liwonde Reserve, where we had a few surprises. The lodge was on the other side of the river that borders the park, and the elephants didn’t seem to care. On the way from reception to our rooms, elephants blocked our path, and one even charged just before the stairs leading to our treehouse-style rooms.
To top it off, monkeys ransacked our rooms, tearing through plastic bags for food. A mixed experience, but no real harm done.
Next up: the mountains, specifically the Mulanje Massif. This is where Malawi’s tea is grown, and it’s also a great spot for day hikes or multi-day treks. The scenery is stunning, though sometimes the mist rolls in and hides it.
After the mountains, we visited another reserve: Majete. The park is growing and now has more wildlife. We saw lions and even caught a fleeting glimpse of a leopard. And of course, the elephants got involved again—this time giving us a real scare.
During the morning game drive with a guide, we stopped to watch a herd of elephants feeding. Everything was fine until, for some reason, a female got spooked—probably for her calf—and positioned herself in front of us on the track. After a few minutes, we thought the elephants would move on, but then a young one started provoking us. The problem? We had females and calves in front of us, but also two large adult males—one behind us and one to the side.
We were trapped, and even our guide looked nervous. After what felt like an eternity (though it was only a few minutes), the herd finally moved on, freeing the track. That afternoon, we did a self-drive safari and—you guessed it—we had zero interest in running into elephants again.
The next day, we headed back to Lilongwe for our flight home. It was a fantastic, varied trip with some intense moments (sometimes *too* intense). Malawi offers amazing opportunities for those who want more than just wildlife reserves.
Alright, this year, we're heading back to South America!
The initial plan was to retrace the route we imagined in the summer of 2020: a trip to northern Argentina starting from Córdoba.
Unfortunately, the flight to Córdoba no longer exists, and airfares to Javier Milei’s country are both outrageously priced and involve multiple layovers.
So, I tweaked Google Flights every which way and finally found a flight within my budget—departing from Clermont-Ferrand!
Not to Argentina, though...
Our transatlantic flight will cross the snow-capped Andes, landing in Santiago, Chile, with a return from Lima!
In between, two domestic flights and a big road trip loop starting from the coastal city of Arica to explore the treasures of northern Chile.
Our mode of transport: a pseudo 4x4 that won’t take us through sand dunes or devilish tracks but will let us tackle the entire secondary network, including unpaved main roads, while still being insured.
Is the suitcase packed with all-season clothes?
Are the driver’s license and passport ready?
Bank cards and a few euros too?
Off we go for just over 3 weeks of southern wanderings!
--/--
To keep all my esteemed readers on track, here are a few maps outlining the Arica-Arica loop!
1- From Arica to San Pedro de Atacama via Pica and the Salar de Huasco
2- Around San Pedro
3- From San Pedro to Cariquima
4- From Cariquima to Putre
5 - From Putre to Arica
Gas stations in this part of Chile are located in Arica, Iquique, Pozo Almonte, Pica, Calama, and San Pedro de Atacama.
I hope this travel journal might interest some people, but since we were completely self-sufficient (tent, sleeping bag, pot, cooking over a wood fire…) almost every day, I don’t have many hotel addresses or great restaurant tips to share! Sorry!
We used the Maio map at 1:50,000 scale. It’s part of the Boa Vista/Sal/Maio map. Bought on Amazon, but currently unavailable as of the latest news.
The people of Maio are extremely welcoming and warm, and we were always more than well received in the villages where we pitched our tent!
We’re usually big hikers, but since Maio is a beach island (gorgeous ones, at that!), we alternated a few hours of walking in the morning with some relaxation in the afternoon: beach, reading, fishing, resting…
1 euro = 110 escudos
Day 1 (Friday) Transfers by plane: Fogo-Praia-Maio
We opted for the plane to save some time on transfers, as the boat connections between Fogo and Praia take a while, and those between Praia and Maio are almost nonexistent.
You should budget around 40-50 euros per flight per person.
There are 2 flights per week between Praia and Maio—on Tuesdays and Fridays when we were there (January 2016), but currently on Mondays and Fridays.
A bit of a delay leaving Praia, but we arrived on Maio without any problems around 4 PM.
We took an *aluguer* (shared transport, 200 escudos per person) to the center of Vila do Maio, but it’s totally doable on foot with a backpack.
Since it was already a bit late, for this first night, we dropped our bags at Big Game Maio. A standard European-style hotel run by a very nice Italian family. It’s a bit pricey for us (5500 escudos for 2 people with breakfast), but after our 2 weeks in a tent on Fogo, we were happy to find a little comfort. And the breakfast is ultra-generous, with fresh products (cured ham, fruit, cheese, bread) and top quality. The hotel restaurant offers dishes that are a clever mix of Italian and Cape Verdean cuisine. Excellent!
Little tip: We didn’t try it, but Big Game Maio offers big-game fishing trips, diving, and quad rentals.
The hotel is 2 minutes from Vila’s beautiful beach, and we went for a dip at sunset and took a stroll around town. They’re redeveloping the waterfront with pretty sidewalks and light stone walls.
Vila beach
Sunset behind Santiago
Day 2 (Saturday): rest day + fishing
After 2 weeks of hiking and since Vila is such a peaceful place where it’s nice to take your time, we decided to spend an extra day there. We took the path heading south along the coast to reach Ponta Preta beach in 20 minutes. The path isn’t very pretty because there’s quite a bit of construction going on, which prevents you from really walking along the shore. Lots of real estate agencies, especially Italian ones, have taken over the land. But Ponta Preta beach is a stunning black-sand beach where we had the whole place to ourselves. We decided to go fishing from the rocks.
At 1 PM, the sun was blazing, so we headed back to Vila and dried the fish for the following days.
At 6 PM, we went fishing again, but this time at night from the rocks at the end of Vila beach.
8:30 PM: back to shower and eat at the restaurant.
The rocks and sea at Ponta Preta
Day 3 (Sunday): from Vila do Maio to Calheta de Baixo, via Monte Batalha (path 101) Hiking time: 5h
Since there aren’t many “summits” on Maio, we decided to head to Calheta de Baixo but via Monte Batalha. We left at 8:20 AM and somehow made it to Monte Batalha by 11 AM (2h40 of hiking). But the path is really hard to find in the middle of the dry grass and acacia trees. We kind of cut through randomly, aiming for the summit. Even though it’s not very high (around 300 m), the view is amazing—you can see all of Maio at 360°!
Short 30-minute break. The descent through the “forest” of acacias is even worse for finding your way. We oriented ourselves a bit by the sun to find the road connecting Vila to Calheta. We arrived around 1:30 PM at Calheta de Baixo. A very pretty little seaside village with colorful houses. An idyllic beach, a newly renovated square, and super-friendly people. We pitched our tent facing the sea on the terrace of an abandoned house (after asking the locals for permission).
We cooked some of the dried fish we’d caught the day before, along with fresh beans we’d brought from Fogo (and were still carrying!).
At the summit of Monte Batalha
Calheta
Calheta de Baixo
Day 4 (Monday): From Calheta de Baixo to Morrinho on foot. Hiking time: 3h. Then hitching a bus to Cascabulho, and a car to Pedro Vaz.
We left around 9:30 AM heading north (path 201), following the coastline where the beaches just keep coming—each one wilder and more beautiful than the last: Praia de Soca, Calheta Braca, Ponta de Pau Seco, Calhetina. We reached the dunes of Baia de Santana. There’s no real path, so you have to follow the coast, then go around the dunes, and when you spot the 3 coconut trees, head east toward them to find the track leading to Morrinho. Again, we discovered a village with a Wild West vibe, with colorful houses lined up on either side of a paved road. Just enough time to accept a drink offered by a local before jumping onto the passing school bus that took us to Cascabulho. There, we waited for a ride. A political delegation of 10 cars drove right past us without stopping. Luckily, one of the cars had a flat tire and came by 30 minutes later—and that one, thankfully, gave us a lift! They were heading to the inauguration of a water pump in Pedro Vaz. So that’s where we stopped too. After getting permission from the school principal, we pitched our tent in front of the village school… and became the attraction for all the kids who kept us company until nightfall! A woman gave us 2 jugs of water, but with all that company, it was tough to take a peaceful shower!!
Dinner: pasta with beans.
We were woken up by rain during the night and had to rush to bring all our stuff inside the tent!
The beaches just keep coming...
The dunes
The 3 coconut trees, a landmark to find the track
Day 5 (Tuesday): Rest day and fishing at Boca da Ribeira beach
We packed up at 8 AM because the kids had school. We filled the 2 water jugs that the woman lent us and headed down to camp at Boca da Ribeira beach, which is a bit further east of Pedro Vaz. It took less than an hour to get there. This time, we really were alone in the world! We pitched the tent and spent the day fishing, reading, playing, and swimming regularly because the sun was beating down hard!!! We caught a nice fish that we grilled over the fire in the evening. With the crabs and shellfish we gathered, we made a seafood rice! Yum! What a feast!
That night, once the tent was zipped up, we felt something like rain on the tent fabric. I decided to go out and gather our things, and then—shock!!! It wasn’t raindrops we were feeling and hearing, but bugs attracted by the light!! Not just a few bugs—a huge swarm of them!!! Thousands of bugs covering the whole tent, the ropes, slipping into the seams and hems! Everywhere! The blue tent had turned green!!! After that, it was a real struggle to get back inside without letting any in! A real challenge, and there were always 3 or 4 that managed to sneak in anyway. Total war!!!
Boca da Ribeira beach
Day 6 (Wednesday): From Boca da Ribeira to Ribeira Dom João. Hiking time: 3h30
We woke up leisurely and waited for the sun to dry our things, damp from the dew. A man passed by, and we gave him the water jugs we’d borrowed, which saved us a trip back to Pedro Vaz to return them to the woman.
We left around 10 AM. We followed the sea to Alcatraz, then headed toward Pilão Cão. The path runs alongside the small hills on our right, and we passed above Lagoa Cimidor. The terrain is arid, and the path is hard to find among the many goat tracks.
After 3h30 of hiking, we reached Ribeira Dom João with 2 young people we’d met along the way.
Since it was a public holiday in Cape Verde, the kids didn’t have school, and with the principal’s permission, we pitched our tent in the kindergarten. She even kindly opened the school toilets for us. The neighbor gave us the water we needed to wash up and cook. We cooked beef steaks on charcoal. A nice change from fish!! Charcoal is a widespread artisanal product on the island. People almost never cook directly over wood but always with these big chunks of charcoal.
The hills on our right
Ribeira Dom João
Day 7 (Thursday): From Ribeira Dom João to Vila do Maio. Hiking time: 3h30
We woke up at 6:30 AM to clear out of the school by 8 AM. The neighbor made us coffee to save time. It took us 2 hours to reach Barreiro, another Wild West-style town! Since we didn’t want to walk on the road, we took the old track and reached Vila do Maio in 1h30.
Last night before taking the plane back to Praia the next day.
Barreiro
The old track
The church in Vila do Maio
That’s where this trip ends!
Maio is truly a magical island! A remote, isolated place with incredible, wild beaches and villages with a Wild West feel—colorful houses on either side of well-paved, well-maintained, and decorated streets. And the locals are so warm and welcoming.
Even for hikers like us, it was a great discovery, and we were able to alternate hiking and relaxation with great pleasure! Too bad the area around Vila do Maio is being overrun by real estate construction—ongoing, unfinished, abandoned…
And we still haven’t seen everything!
Before setting off for new horizons at the end of this year, it’s time for me to share my trip to Cape Verde this summer 2025.
I particularly love these spontaneous trips, and our stay in Cape Verde is one of those because it was only at the beginning of April that we decided on this getaway, which had been catching our eye for a while, given our love for the mountains.
As always—well, when it’s open—I turned to VF, and I want to immediately thank Marie, aka ptitortue, who helped me a lot in planning this trip through her travel journals and our exchanges!
Because Cape Verde is both small and vast! We decided not to rush from one airport to another, to enjoy the places and the people, but also to relax, since the work backlog from being stuck in May (see my previous travel journal 😅) had to be caught up on in June.
So, 4 islands will be our winners from 06/28 to 07/19:
Santiago first for logistical reasons, as round-trip flights from the capital Praia were the cheapest (650 €/person from Lyon via Lisbon with TAP, still!)
São Vicente, because it’s the gateway to the next one but ultimately more than that...
Santo Antão, pretty much the main goal of the trip since Marie (and the photos) had really sold it to me.
And finally, Sal Island, for some rest—a non-negotiable condition for my other half—and we’ll see that I should’ve listened to Marie...
That said, what a chatterbox I am—buckle up, flight attendants at the doors, off we go on new beautiful escapes! (Thanks to Sophie for the easy loan)
Last note for my eager fan club 😏: yes, there will be alcohol—how could there not be in the land of grogue!
Hi everyone, we're back from a DIY USA road trip we organized from July 31, 2026, to August 26, 2026.
The destination: The Southwest USA, including Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. Roughly 7,000 kilometers covered.
The car: A Chevrolet Equinox for two, rented through BSP Auto and Avis. Inside, we had 2 suitcases, a travel bag, two carry-on bags, a Walmart cooler, photo gear, and water bottles (a 40-pack).
The route: Dallas DFW, Fort Worth, Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso, Tucson, Sedona, Albuquerque, Amarillo, and back to Dallas to finish with a departure from DFW.
The travelers: Two seniors well advanced in years (73 and 75) but still active (nothing too physically demanding—to stay alive and fund our trips), fully independent physically, though a bit less so mentally. Big USA fans, a country where anything is possible. More walkers than hikers, preferring 3-star hotels over roadside motels, Italian restaurants over US food, frequent stops for photos, museums over nothing, naps over forced marches. Not too whiny, just enough to stay French in the land of the "great Satan," as they say.
Not great with languages—street English (but handy), and my Spanish is non-existent except for: "Hola! Una cerveza por favor!" That’s about it. My wife understands everything but refuses to speak.
The cost of the road trip: Around 12,000 €, including AF flights, the car, gas, gifts, visits, and everything else. Well managed, since we’d budgeted 13,500 € initially.
The positive side: A delight, with those endless open roads. Museums to discover. The realization of the Hispanic presence and its important history in this part of America. Lovely locals. Tourists who were more or less friendly. A terrible Texan accent that was hard to understand. Gas stations that were like real stores, with prepared food, alcohol sold in Arizona and New Mexico, and employees who were always up for a laugh!
The negative side: The heat throughout the trip... 43°C in Dallas at the end. Impossible to walk the streets. Lots of homeless people in downtown Dallas. Hotel breakfasts that were always the same. You get used to it.
So, it was positive overall, but the concept is starting to wear us out. We might rethink the DIY road trip model for next time. If the man upstairs grants us more time.
Next up, we’ll wait for the first batch of sorted photos to go through the wringer.
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather,
A season that only exists in the southwest of America,
I remember very well what I told you that morning
A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago...
We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...
Traveling with just one spare pair of underwear, considering a hot shower a miracle, never staying in the same place too long by sleeping wherever night catches us, taking whatever local, improbable, and rickety transport we can find—this is the DNA of us wanderers. Except this time, the script for our movie is going to be a whole different genre. On paper, the destination doesn’t exactly scream epic adventure: Réunion! And what’s more... we won’t be two, or four, or even ten. We’ll be a solid thirty. All from the same family. Yes, thirty. At this point, it’s not just a trip—it’s a summer camp on the move! Why inflict this on such a peaceful island? Because my brother decided to get married there with his lovely bride. A great idea, you might say... especially when it involves relocating the equivalent of a small Ardennes village 10,000 kilometers from home for three weeks! So who’s stepping up to be the guide and wave the little flag?
So, for an exceptional trip, exceptional stories! Don’t worry, the debates at the supermarket over whether to choose plain chips or roast chicken chips, the beach picnics washed down with ti’ punch, and other rougail sausages to digest by the pool will only make it into the family archives. Here, I’ll stick to the tales of our beautiful escapes, the ones where we explore the wild corners of this little volcanic rock planted in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So where exactly are we headed?
For the first week—the subject of this first installment—we’re taking it easy. We’ll start by rediscovering the coastline, from the Souffleur in Saint-Leu to the Hermitage lagoon, before a little trip to the Cirque de Cilaos and its legendary road with 400 turns, just to get our legs warmed up.
"How about a Christmas market this year, huh? A little romantic weekend getaway...
- Yes! That’d be cool! Strasbourg? Colmar?
- Feels a bit déjà vu, doesn’t it? Plus, slim chance of snow there... And I’d love something a bit more exotic with a touch of originality..."
"Okay, Google, give me the list of the five most beautiful Christmas markets in Europe.
- In fifth place, the Christmas market in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania.
- Save your breath! Lithuania, here we come!"
We wanted cold, and cold is exactly what we got the moment we set foot in this new, unknown land. As for landscapes, forests and lakes stretch as far as the eye can see across this vast plain, its vegetation scorched by the frost of a winter that’s clearly already well underway here.
Lakes, in fact, set the scene for our first visit to Trakai Castle, whose brick-red towers and walls rise proudly against the azure sky of our first day. Lakes, because this castle was built on an island and is only accessible on foot via a series of walkways spanning half-frozen lake offshoots. I couldn’t have picked a better spot to build my castle! Translation: We’re totally sold! Proof is we spend two hours hiking around the area, alternating between forests, reeds, and cozy houses tastefully decorated for Christmas.
With my girlfriend Christelle, we’ve chosen South Africa for our first trip to Southern Africa, focusing on safaris—after a long debate with a Cape Town/Kruger combo.
But that would’ve meant cutting out St Lucia, which would’ve been harder to fit into another trip.
And St Lucia—thanks to Michel and all those travel journals—we really wanted to go there.
So our 11-night itinerary ended up like this, mostly shaped by school holidays:
- 3 nights in St Lucia
- 1 night in Hluhluwe
- 1 night at Mkhaya Game Reserve (Eswatini)
- 1 night at Hlane Royal National Park (Eswatini)
- 3 nights in Kruger (Berg en Dal / Satara / Tamboti)
- 1 night at Shindzela Tented Camp in the Timbavati private reserve
- 1 final night in Kruger at Lower Sabie
All of this in the off-season and rainy season, just a month after catastrophic floods that killed over 150 people and seriously damaged Kruger’s infrastructure.
I’ll jump straight to St Lucia and skip the loooong journey to get there (with a layover in Frankfurt, landing in Johannesburg, a domestic flight to Durban, and the rest by rental SUV—First Car Rental, perfect, no complaints).
To motivate readers—especially some familiar faces here—I’ll drop in a first photo.
This travel journal is therefore intended solely for my photos, to present a consistent style.
All the shots were taken with a simple Samsung Galaxy smartphone and with whatever was at hand.
All stays combined, I’ve spent the equivalent of three years at most in Thailand, and I’m not a big expert on the country.
However, after many trips, lots of reading on VoyageForum and other sites, and conversations with many locals as well as expats, my view of the country is becoming clearer, though it’s constantly evolving. You never stop discovering and learning.
I guess I wanted to piece together a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who miss it.
I don’t know if this minimalist sharing will interest anyone, but it’ll do me good to put it together. After so many months without traveling and then these other long months with VF closed, there’s plenty of material available.
There’ll be a mix of places, periods, and subjects, but it might well be intentional.
I suspect many Thais have dogs because they make excellent guards for the home. Nothing better to deter burglars or to signal the presence of a snake. You’ll often see Thais tapping the top of their dog’s head, but don’t be fooled: it’s a sign of affection from them. Judging by the dogs’ reactions, they’re used to it.
Thailand is one of the countries on the planet where rabies is still present, so keep that in mind. It’s not just bites that can be dangerous, so don’t let just any dog lick you. Especially on a wound, of course.
Even though dogs often fear humans—this dangerous and unpredictable predator—we still need to stay cautious.
Be careful when walking into alleys because the dog will defend its master’s big property, be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs.
It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t really made for walking around, and dogs are one of the reasons.
That said, it’s not uncommon to see them chasing bikes or scooters. Cars, though, are much rarer—they’re too big.
It seems Thais prefer to give their dogs freedom by not locking them behind gates. Though sometimes the gate is closed, the little side door is wide open. Oh, and sometimes there’s no gate in front of the property, or it’s been broken for years.
You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the side of the road, sometimes right on the road. When you arrive, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, which reminds visitors not to drive too fast. As a result, you’ll notice that dogs with injuries or missing legs aren’t that rare.
Since they believe in reincarnation and respect for all forms of life, they don’t chase dog packs away too much, and they don’t sterilize them enough. Seeing a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you might think it’s best not to cross paths with them at the edge of a field.
A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at temples on the brink of death, enduring terrible suffering. No one did anything about it. The image (and the smell) of one of them, dying and emitting the stench of death, still comes back to me sometimes.
Some of you may have seen the YouTube vlog of a French woman living in Phuket who was given a little pig by her Thai friends. The well-fed animal quickly became a happy, enormous beast with its own garden. Yet, it didn’t take long for it to fall seriously ill and become incurable. In her video, the French woman described how difficult it was to find a vet willing to perform euthanasia.
You’ll often see bowls by the side of the road. Thais leave food and water in them for stray cats and dogs. Overall, they have a big heart for animals.
If you ever pop into a shopping mall, you might see people pushing their small dogs in strollers. It’s not a gimmick—it’s just that these strollers are provided for customers to put their pets in, otherwise you can’t bring them inside. It looks a bit odd when you expect to see a baby.
When we started looking for a summer destination a few months ago, our first criterion was to avoid extreme heat and heatwaves. We had already been to Norway two years ago and are considering going back in the future for other occasions. So, we had some fun asking ChatGPT which destinations enjoyed a mild climate during the summer without going too far. Among the list provided by the AI were the Canary Islands... The idea of a place we wouldn’t have thought of first, both not too far away and exotic enough, appealed to us: “Hmm, why not?”
This destination had never really attracted me, though Magali was a bit more interested. Five years earlier, COVID had caused a short break in my professional activity, and I had planned a trip because the flight price was attractive, and I was looking for a destination different from what usually appeals to me, more than out of deep interest. From a distance and with a social judgment I acknowledge (it’s not great, but it’s not completely wrong), I had the image of a destination for party-goers enjoying the sun without the slightest interest in local culture, with concrete coastlines and denatured landscapes—everything I detest the most. Still, I had done some quick research on the different islands and spotted Lanzarote for its beautiful volcanic landscapes, hiking trails, beaches, and the impression of a good balance between activity and fewer crowds than Tenerife or Gran Canaria. Then I dropped the idea of going, without ever reconsidering traveling to the Canaries...
Until now! Because we started researching the different islands of the archipelago to see which ones might appeal to us the most. It was La Gomera, the third smallest island of the archipelago, more praised for its hiking trails and preserved nature than for its beaches, away from mass tourism (fifty times fewer tourists than Tenerife) but still a bit more developed than its wild neighbor El Hierro, that caught our attention. Contrary to what might be suggested later, I’m not at all addicted to AI, but I use it from time to time to synthesize quick research or simply for experimentation. Since ChatGPT had started anticipating my tastes lately as if it had become my buddy (often successfully, sometimes off the mark), I asked which Canary Island would suit me best for a trip with my family. The tool answered first with... La Gomera. So, I tested it and teased it a bit to see if this suggestion was well-founded, as the method sometimes makes it contradict itself. But no luck: “You’d appreciate the wild nature of El Hierro, but with family, you’ll find little activity for the kids. You won’t like the touristy vibe of the big islands like Tenerife, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, and Fuerteventura. You could consider La Palma, but it’s really La Gomera that will suit you best, based on your interests and the criteria given.” So, we dug deeper into our research and were convinced without a shadow of a doubt that this island was the one waiting for us.
Without knowing it, we had Canarians in our circle who revealed their origins when they heard about our travel plans. One from Tenerife insisted we’d be better off choosing Tenerife (obviously...) because it also has preserved spots and that La Gomera, “you can explore it in two or three days, you’ll get bored quickly...” The other, a colleague from Gran Canaria who had never visited La Gomera, still recommended it without hesitation because it turned out her parents had just gone there on vacation: they loved it and had encountered few tourists. She also tended to think this destination was usually the subject of short stays, but according to what her parents told her, taking your time there was also a great idea. However, in our research, the idea that La Gomera is an island you can explore in three or four days max kept coming up. So, we considered combining its visit with La Palma or El Hierro, the other two that caught our eye. But hopping between islands by ferry represents a significant budget for non-Canarians, even more so for a family of four. Then, scrutinizing Google Maps, it seemed obvious that two weeks were too short to discover two islands as they deserve, and that there seemed to be plenty to see in La Gomera, given its very unique culture. After all, we read that some people spend several months a year there, others never even leave... Finally, these landscapes and this atmosphere, which seemed to us a mix of Europe, North Africa, and Latin America, tempted us. So, it would be two weeks in La Gomera, deal!
La Gomera is therefore the second... well, the third smallest island of the Canaries since La Graciosa was recently recognized as a fully inhabited island. It has the shape of a rough circle about 20 to 25 kilometers in diameter and has just over 20,000 inhabitants, half of them in its capital, San Sebastián de la Gomera, the only real town. Like its Canarian sisters, La Gomera is a volcanic formation that rose about 10 million years ago. The island is very mountainous and rugged, covered with red and black rocky landscapes. Geological activity has shaped, between the sprawling massifs that end in steep cliffs in the ocean, six coastal valleys with tropical vegetation that have favored human settlement. They divide the island like slices of a cake; from the north clockwise: the agricultural Vallehermoso, the rustic Agulo, the green, humid, and fertile Hermigua, the sunny capital San Sebastián de la Gomera, the southern and isolated Alajeró-Santiago, and the seaside Valle Gran Rey. They constitute the six municipalities (more like cantons to our French understanding) of the territory.
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
La Gomera was populated late. As with the rest of the Canaries, human presence is thought to have begun about 2,000 years ago. Groups of animist Berbers, probably fleeing persecution, gradually populated the archipelago, especially the western islands and La Gomera, becoming its small aboriginal population: the Guanches (or later Gomeros). The animist and pastoral civilization of the Guanches thrived until the Spanish takeover in the 15th century, which, after a short period of harmony and mixing with the indigenous people, suddenly ended in bloodshed... La Gomera later became the “Columbus Island” after Christopher Columbus’s stopover, increasing the blending of populations. In the 20th century, many Gomeros emigrated to Cuba and other Latin American countries in search of a better life, bringing back a mix of cultures and traits quite palpable in today’s Gomeran culture. It is, however, in La Gomera that the vestiges of Guanche culture seem to have left the most traces, in the language, gastronomy, social practices... Moreover, most Gomeros, especially in remote villages, have a particular identifiable type and proudly claim their ancestral roots, even making La Gomera a bit exotic in the eyes of other Canarians.
Perhaps that’s why it has never really wanted to develop its tourist infrastructure too much. If we set aside the tourists who visit for the day by bus or boat from Tenerife on a marked itinerary (and whom we ultimately rarely encounter), La Gomera has remained a hidden gem, a destination focused on nature discovery that attracts hikers, nature-loving divers, and scientists for its fauna and flora, and to a lesser extent, beachgoers who don’t seek overly developed coastlines. Tourist activity is therefore limited. Roughly speaking, you’ll find a majority of Spaniards, including a substantial number of residents from other Canary Islands, many Germans who have a particular fondness for La Gomera and spend long stays there or own second homes, to the point that the German cultural footprint is clearly noticeable in some places (it’s said to be Angela Merkel’s favorite holiday spot), and still quite a few French. The presence of other nationalities seemed negligible to us. Most travelers come mainly for hiking, but it’s also a prime spot for whale watching. Additionally, the seaside resorts of La Gomera—San Sebastián, Santiago, and especially Valle Gran Rey—are well-known destinations for hippies, especially German ones, ranging from chic boho hippies to old-school hippies who’ve been there for decades, quite similar to those you’d meet in India in Goa, Rishikesh, or Paharganj. Thus, practices like naturism, vegetarianism, and local organic production are quite well established in some areas.
Some practical info:
- The round-trip flight from Paris to Tenerife cost us 365 € per person (outbound with Transavia, return with EasyJet), including checked luggage and three seats reserved side by side.
- We chose two bases to explore the island: one week in Valle Gran Rey, reputed to be the most pleasant of the three seaside resorts, and one week in Hermigua, more mountainous and close to the natural park. We booked two houses with balconies and views: the first at 120 € per night, the second at 99 €.
- The round-trip ferry between Tenerife and La Gomera cost us 270 € with the company Baleària Canarias, including discounts for children aged 4 and 12, but I don’t have the exact details. It was a bit cheaper than with the other company, Fred Olsen.
- Finally, we rented a car through the agency Cicar for 360 € for 16 days, which comes to 22.50 € per day.
- Apart from that, we didn’t plan anything and decided the day before or even the morning of what we wanted to do. We didn’t invest in any paper guide on the Canaries, as information on La Gomera was scarce, but we used the very comprehensive site La Gomera Travel, a travel guide published by the Canary Islands Tourism Council, a real goldmine of almost exhaustive information on the island.
Alright, off we go for 16 days of adventure discovering La Gomera!
If I close my eyes and think of the Sultanate of Oman, I first smell a light scent of incense, feel the warmth of a sunbeam on my skin, before sand slips through my fingers. I taste the sweetness of a date, a real candy, then the flavor of coffee with a hint of cardamom and rosewater... I hear the desert wind whistling in my ears, the distant call of a muezzin, then the murmur of water. I open my eyes to see smiles, welcoming gestures, a turquoise sea, rocks ranging from ochre to purple, deep wadis where torrents burst forth, orange dunes, white sandy beaches where tiny crabs scurry at full speed. I see incredible oases emerging between arid mountains. I see abandoned villages that I’d dream were full of life, imposing fortresses overlooking valleys, and lively souks where offers are delicate and negotiation is a mutual courtesy.
All that, and so much more.
This is what I tried to capture in my illustrated travel journal, which I’ll fill in here and there with photos.
I drew this journal “cold,” after my return (actually, I made it this summer, while our trip was last winter). It’s a pretty special format—I bought it in Japan without really knowing what I’d do with it. Well, it found its purpose! Below is a photo of this accordion-style journal: here, it’s only partially open, because when fully unfolded, it’s 5 meters long!
For drawing enthusiasts: The accordion format is both a constraint (each sheet is 9 cm x 27 cm) and a freedom (you can create a fresco). The paper is also a bit special: it doesn’t allow for fine lines, but it takes ink well (liner pen). However, everything has to be done almost in one go (with a very light pencil sketch) because it erases poorly. It absorbs too much water for coloring with markers or watercolors (unless you avoid soaking it), but it works well with oil pastels and their use with a brush and solvent. Since it’s yellowish, it allowed me to create contrasts even with white pastel.
On the right, the "welcome marker"—those dates offered everywhere as a sign of hospitality. On the left, a tribute to those stunning doors worn by time, admired all over the old quarters, including the abandoned ones.
Oman is one of the world’s largest producers of frankincense resin. Incense burners are everywhere, from the simplest clay ones to the most precious handcrafted silver ones...
Hospitality will often lead you to accept a small coffee, an "Omani coffee," very light, subtly flavored with cardamom, maybe a touch of saffron, and occasionally rosewater.
Here, I’ve depicted a man in the common everyday attire of Omanis: the dishdasha, mostly white (during the week and daytime; colors are more common in the evening or on Fridays and Saturdays). While you’ll see some men dressed in Western clothes, they’re very few. The white dishdasha is truly the shared attire of all men. The dishdasha, which has no hood, is distinguished by a small pom-pom attached to the collar, the furakha, which is soaked in perfume. And believe me, Omanis go overboard with it! "It smells like the pom-pom" is an expression that’s now part of our shared language, my husband and I.
Another must of men’s attire is the kuma, a small round head covering, usually white with brightly colored patterns. The keffiyeh is also worn (but without the cord called an agal in Arab countries), and it’s mostly worn by those with roots in the desert, from what I understood.
And what about the women, you might ask? Some are veiled, some in full black (but not a burka—more like a chador + abaya), due to the influence of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, whereas the traditional outfit used to be a layering of very colorful dresses. Most of the women we saw wore neutral clothing, a plain veil over their hair, but with their faces uncovered. We also saw many saris and colorful veils—don’t forget that 40% of the population consists of Indian, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi immigrants, who work a lot in tourism, hospitality, restaurants, services, and construction.
Just to clarify, as a tourist, there’s no pressure to wear a veil, and never any disapproving looks. Of course, you’ll save the mini shorts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders, and midriffs for the hotel terrace—but I’d say that’s the same for men and women, and with the sun being strong, it’s better for your skin too.
Here’s the introduction! In the next post, I’ll tell you about my itinerary, and we can dive in!
My buddy Christian and I (Patrick) are off for 28 days in Argentina in March.
We’ve already shared several trips as a duo (Bolivia Peru, Namibia, Laos, Costa Rica).
Since we’re starting from the idea that at our age (65) we won’t be coming back here—there are just too many other corners of the world to discover—we did the "grand tour" of Argentina, with 6 domestic flights to make the most of our 28 days.
Here are our stops:
1) Departure from Brussels to Buenos Aires via Madrid
2) Arrival and first contact with Buenos Aires
3) Early morning flight to Ushuaia. Boat trip on the Beagle Channel
4) Ushuaia: hikes in Tierra del Fuego National Park
5) Ushuaia: last hike and flight to El Calafate
6) El Calafate to El Chaltén by bus. First hike
7) El Chaltén: hike
8) El Chaltén: hike
9) El Chaltén: hike and bus back to El Calafate
10) El Calafate: Perito Moreno Glacier
11) Flight to Bariloche. Car rental and surrounding areas
12) Seven Lakes Region
13) Nahuel Huapi National Park region
14) Flight to Salta. Car rental
15) To Tilcara
16) To Humahuaca
17) To Purmamarca
18) To Jujuy via the salt flats
19) To Cafayate
20) Around Cafayate
21) To Cachi
22) Back to Salta
23) Flight to Iguazu
24) Waterfalls on the Argentine side
25) Waterfalls on the Brazilian side and flight to Buenos Aires
26) Buenos Aires
27) Return flight
28) Morning arrival
Happy reading!..
We landed in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, and headed straight to Kasane in Botswana to pick up our car.
Our vehicle is a 4x4 because in Zambia, it's practically impossible to use anything else, especially in the national parks. I’ve already had the pleasure of visiting South Luangwa National Park—it’s one of the reasons for this trip, the main one being to travel in Africa with one of my sons.
First stop: Livingstone on the banks of the Zambezi River. Along the way, we discovered a lovely restaurant at Socrates with a super-friendly owner (we’ll actually stop there again on our way back). We spent our first night in the rooftop tent after a stunning sunset, accompanied by the grunting of hippos in the river.
The next day, we set off early, heading to Kafue NP. In fact, we’ll always leave early—waking up between 5:00 and 5:30 AM and hitting the road an hour later. Kafue is a lesser-known park, mostly forested, and the animals are skittish because they’re not used to human presence. We crossed the park from south to north and came across various antelopes. Near Lake Itezhi-Tezhi, there are plains where wildlife is easier to spot.
After Kafue, we headed to South Luangwa. This journey requires stops in Mumbwa and Petauke. Two pleasant stops where we found lodges (a nice change from the rooftop tent) at affordable prices and met welcoming people.
For me, South Luangwa is Zambia’s most beautiful park—the river is stunning, the landscapes are gorgeous, and there’s a wide variety of wildlife, including, of course, big cats. A tip for those, like us, who aren’t with a guide: if you’re staying near the park for several days, don’t hesitate to do a "game drive" to scout out where the animals are so you can return the next day with your own vehicle. Of course, in the dry season, you’ll want to focus on waterholes to see the animals—and you’ll need a bit of luck too. The elephant population is growing, and we were lucky enough to see around sixty elephants crossing the Luangwa at dawn, spread across several groups. South Luangwa is the westernmost point of our trip, and we’re now heading east to Lower Zambezi.
Lower Zambezi is Zambia’s side of Mana Pools on the Zimbabwe side. We took a boat ride on the Zambezi to see elephants, hippos, crocodiles, and a multitude of birds living along the water and on the river’s islands. The sunset there is also magnificent.
To explore the park, we followed the waterways parallel to the Zambezi, mostly on the western side (see our route). Lower Zambezi is the last park we visit, and the final leg of our trip will be Victoria Falls.
Victoria Falls—or Mosi-Oa-Tunya ("The Smoke That Thunders")—are truly impressive, even during the dry season. We saw the falls from both countries: in Zambia for the overall view and the bridge that serves as the border, and in Zimbabwe to get as close as possible to the most spectacular parts of the falls.
This marks the end of our trip, which, despite a blown tire on the road, went off without any major issues. Zambia is a beautiful country that immerses you in wild, still-preserved nature.
The latest travel journal about Turkmenistan dates back to 2019. Here’s a quick update on this vast desert country, which is now a bit easier to visit than before.
This is my first travel journal. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. The country is slowly opening up, but it’s still possible to visit sites where you’ll be completely alone. In five days, I saw two Hongkongers, a few Germans, and a Chilean at the crater, ten Chinese people in a capital bazaar, and that’s it!
It’s possible to visit Turkmenistan from Uzbekistan. The easiest and most economical way is to take a taxi to the border from Bukhara. The trip takes a little over an hour.
Crossing the border takes quite a while because many Turkmen bring back items bought in Uzbekistan to resell in Turkmenistan. For example, diapers, baby products, or beauty products.
It took me over 2.5 hours to cross the border. To visit Turkmenistan, it’s mandatory to have a guide and go through a travel agency. British agencies often offer three-, five-, or seven-day trips for over 1,500 or 2,000 €.
But if your budget is more limited, you can contact a few Turkmen agencies directly by email, and they’ll make you an offer between 700 and 1,300 € for three to seven days. I took a five-day trip from Turkmenabat in the northeast of the country to Dashoguz in the north. The goal was to visit the main UNESCO-listed sites, including Merv, and archaeological sites like Nisa or Gonur Tepe.
Your guide will also be your driver. They’ll pick you up at the border. The formalities are very long because customs officers have to stamp multiple documents, and obtaining the visa you previously requested from your travel agency requires several checks. But the process goes relatively smoothly, even if each step takes a while.
Once on the other side, the first surprise is the brand-new highway all the way to Turkmenabat. A very long line of trucks stretches for several kilometers on the Turkmen side to cross the border into Uzbekistan. According to my guide, Turkmen trucks transport gas and cotton (though not this season, since the harvest is in September), but they mainly fill up their tanks because fuel is much cheaper in Turkmenistan. A full tank for a car costs about 3 €, which is unbeatable.
From the Farap border post, the goal is to reach the city of Mary, which is home to the UNESCO-listed site of Merv in its suburbs, about thirty kilometers away. This city is known as a foundation by Alexander the Great in the 4th century BC under the name Alexandria of Margiana. Several fortresses are visible.
After more than three hours on the road, we have lunch at a Turkish restaurant called Aladdin. Several quotes from the president are visible along the highway, but the road is in good condition, and we move along easily. This will be by far the best road in the country—things will get much worse later.
Roundabouts are particularly interesting because they feature emblems of Turkmen culture, like the dog, a carpet, the Ahal Teke horse, or Muslim symbols, even though the presence of Islamic artifacts is quite limited.
This time, I landed in Monastir on a direct flight from Nice, again with Tunisair. We left about ten minutes late, and the flight lasted around 1 hour 30 minutes. A meal was served on board (cucumber salad with Edam-like cheese, carrots, and two small portions of dishes I couldn’t identify—semolina with peppers, olives, and parsley, two small rolls, a square of processed cheese, and a chocolate cake). It’s worth noting because it’s not common on flights this short.
In February, France and Tunisia were in the same time zone, but now Tunisia is one hour behind. This time difference and the flight duration work perfectly for a short 15-day trip since it takes me a few days to adjust to jet lag.
Luckily, I’d asked my hotel about the taxi fare from the airport because the drivers (there were several around me) didn’t hesitate to quote outrageous prices. The actual fare is 20 dinars, but one asked for 120 dinars. I refused, and another offered 60 dinars. I replied, "That’s too expensive—I’ll take the metro!" (Having tried the Tunis metro, I had no desire to repeat the experience in Monastir with a suitcase!). I started walking toward the metro, and one of the drivers caught up with me, saying, "20 dinars is fine!" I’ll skip the details, but the negotiation took a little while.
When I arrived at the hotel, I told the receptionist someone had asked for 120 dinars. He put his hands to his head and said, "They’re awful!" He remembered our phone call two days earlier when I’d booked (he’s the one who told me I could take the metro).
The Mezri Hotel isn’t expensive. I got a sea-view room for 75 dinars (22 €). (I’d booked a balcony room for 90 dinars but wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it.) It’s well-located but noisy because there’s no double glazing.
The receptionist is a very kind older gentleman. He called a friend whose wife is from Tozeur to find out if I should take a bus or a *louage* tomorrow and what time.
I arrived at the hotel around 7:00 PM and had time to stroll along the corniche to the ribat. Despite some run-down buildings, the seaside seemed livelier and cheerier than Sousse’s.
Monastir is the hometown of former president Bourguiba. I passed his mausoleum by taxi. There are Tunisian flags along the avenue by the sea because every year on April 6—the anniversary of Habib Bourguiba’s death—the president of the Republic visits the Bourguiba Mausoleum in Monastir to pay respects.
The taxi driver mentioned other Tunisian presidents. He complained about rising prices and insecurity, blaming President Kaïs Saïed (I’d already heard that security was better under Ben Ali).
At the end of my stay, I’ll take time to explore Monastir, but tomorrow morning, I’m off to Tozeur—a long bus ride awaits me.
Here we go!!!
I left home at 4 AM on October 31st and headed to Barcelona. Driving through Barcelona on the ring road stresses me out a bit, but at 6 AM the traffic is smooth, and I arrive at the airport without any issues. I call the valet, who quickly comes to pick up my car. He takes photos of it from all angles before letting me go.
Baggage check-in hasn’t started yet, and there are already several of us waiting.
Once free, everything happens very quickly. The flight to Abu Dhabi is on time and goes smoothly. I’ve never had any problems with this airline, which I’ve been using for several years.
The flight to Bangkok arrives at 7 AM as scheduled. This is my first time in Thailand and Bangkok. I’m used to traveling in India, and I notice that everything here is well organized—the customs process is quick, and the luggage is already on the carousel.
I booked a taxi on Booking. All I have to do is find the right exit and door based on the agency’s instructions. A large sign with the names of people who booked is posted on a wall. A hostess greets me and calls the taxi, which arrives 5 minutes later. I booked one night at the Lost Inn BKK hotel in the Phra Nakhon district, and we arrive at 9 AM. The welcome isn’t warm, and I have to wait until noon, sitting on a chair, before I can check into my room. I’m exhausted, and sleeping sitting up isn’t ideal. Noon finally arrives—the room is small but clean, which is fine for one night. I quickly take a shower to wake up because I plan to spend the afternoon visiting the Grand Palace. First, I need to exchange some money, and the banks are all close together on the same street, which is very convenient. When I enter one, a hostess gives me a ticket and invites me to sit down. There are about twenty counters, and I wait quietly until my number is called. The exchange is quick, so I can head out to find the Royal Palace. It’s actually very easy, and the walk is pleasant.
Entry to the Royal Palace (500 baht).
It’s magnificent and grand, and there are quite a few of us visiting. The sky is gray, it’s very humid, and a shower interrupts the visit. It’s a vast complex of temples and palaces. The buildings are colorful and sparkling, with a great sense of serenity (without the tourists, of course). I quietly enjoy the place and try to take photos without tourists, which isn’t easy.
Very close to the Grand Palace is Wat Pho, one of the oldest Buddhist temples in the capital.
It’s very famous for its 46-meter-long reclining Buddha statue.
Walking around the temple, you can see different representations of Buddha, all covered in gold leaf.
Inside the temple, on one side, monks recite their prayers, while the other side is reserved for tourists who come to meditate in silence.
Before returning to the hotel, I have dinner at an Indian restaurant. I go to bed early because tomorrow’s wake-up call will be very early again.
Saturday, November 2nd
Wake-up at 4 AM, departure from the hotel at 4:30 AM. The taxi I booked via Booking is waiting for me and takes me to the airport. The trip is fairly quick—he takes small roads, and at this hour, there’s no traffic.
The flight to Phnom Penh is on time. Before boarding, I realize I left my fleece jacket on the carousel, but it’s too late to go back for it.
The flight goes well, and customs is quick.
At the exit, I take a tuk-tuk to Julieka’s GH near the museum. The welcome is friendly. I won’t be able to check into my room until noon, so I take the opportunity to exchange some euros on the market street. The street is lined with restaurants, and I’ll have my first meal there.
The museum is right across the street, so I don’t waste any time visiting it.
The representations of Hindu deities are very different from those in India, and I don’t recognize them. Many beautiful Buddhas are on display.
The museum is very pleasant, and there aren’t too many people, which is a plus.
At the exit, I return to the GH, settle into my room—which is decent and clean.
The Royal Palace is 1 km away. I walk along a garden, and at the end of the street is the Tonlé Sap, but I turn right. I arrive at a large esplanade and see the buildings with tiered roofs and glazed tiles. The entrance to the palace is a little further away.
At the entrance, I notice there isn’t the same crowd as at the one in BKK.
Khmer architecture is magnificent. The complex consists of gardens, palaces, pagodas with golden roofs, and slender spires.
The Silver Pagoda houses the small Emerald Buddha, which is actually made of jade. The silver flooring is covered with carpets. Photos are not allowed.
The walls surrounding the pagoda are covered with frescoes depicting scenes from the Ramayana.
My partner and I traveled from Sunday, July 5, 2026, to Wednesday, July 22, 2026.
We spent a long time debating whether to rent a car or use public transportation. In the end, after reading so many posts about travelers getting scammed by police or rental companies—even those recommended by blogs and reviews—we decided to stick with public transport. It worked out really well. Sure, we had a little less freedom to go where we wanted, but it was way less stressful for us.
Sunday, July 5:
Arrived at Cancun Airport. Withdrew cash from the ATM in the terminal just before exiting. The ADO bus counter (they pronounce it "A-Jee-O") is right behind you when you're facing the ATM. Bus to downtown Cancun cost 145 pesos per person.
Stayed at "Rose 5," booked on Booking. The studio was super clean and perfect for one night. The owner’s instructions for accessing the place were very precise, with photos included. Check-in was self-service with a code. The ADO bus terminal isn’t far, and there are shops and restaurants nearby. We really appreciated that the AC was already on when we arrived. By the way, I’d recommend always booking places with AC—it’s *really* hot in Mexico.
Monday, July 6:
Bought a SIM card with data from a TELCEL store. My partner, who’s on Free Mobile, was able to use her regular plan. Just so you know, I found the network pretty unstable. As soon as we left the cities, neither of us—me with TELCEL or her with Free—had any signal.
Another thing to watch out for: roaming charges. I had to turn my SIM back on for less than 30 seconds to get a bank SMS code, and my phone apparently connected to the internet—resulting in an 8-euro roaming fee.
Left on an ADO bus to Chiquila for 278 pesos per person. During our trip, ADO buses were always on time, comfortable, and clean. The AC is *cranked* though, so bring something to cover up with—it gets cold. Some routes were fully booked even in the low season, so try to reserve 1 or 2 days in advance either via the app (when it works) or at the counter.
When we arrived at the ADO terminal in Chiquila, the ferry company counters were right next to it. Ferries leave every 30 minutes, alternating between companies, so no need to book ahead. Just take whichever one is leaving next (330 pesos per person).
When we got to Holbox (pronounced "Hol-bosh"), we’d booked a place via Booking called "Casa de Nana." It was a huge studio with a fridge, cooking plate, and utensils. The best part? The *location*. It was 100 meters from the beach and 200 meters from a Chedraui supermarket. They provided bath towels and beach towels, and the AC worked perfectly. There’s a key box so you can leave your keys inside when you go out. The only downside was that no one was there to let us in when we arrived, so we had to wait a while. The Wi-Fi was good, which was lucky because during our 4-day stay in Holbox, the phone network *never* worked. According to locals, that’s pretty common in Holbox, along with water outages.
Luckily, I’d had the good idea to download an offline map, which helped us find our way back to the place more easily. You can walk there from the dock.
The restaurant next to our place (La Barracuda) was great if you like seafood—I’d recommend their octopus dishes.
Tuesday, July 7:
We did a kayak tour in Holbox’s mangroves at 6 AM. We were looking for a sunrise kayak tour with a French-speaking guide. That’s exactly what we got with "Kayaking Holbox," where Diego, the owner, speaks English and French. He was joined by Gustavo, another guide.
We’d booked for a group tour, but we were the only ones. Diego still went ahead with it instead of canceling due to lack of participants, so we got a private tour at the group rate—really professional of him. They showed us this amazing ecosystem for over 3 hours. We saw all kinds of birds: pink flamingos, pelicans, egrets, frigatebirds... rays, a horseshoe crab, and a little crocodile that was *so* well hidden. Diego and Gustavo have a real eye for spotting animals—I could’ve passed by the crocodile 100 times and never seen it, it blended in so well. Their explanations about the flora and fauna were super interesting. We also got a little break where we tasted mangoes and bananas that taste *nothing* like the ones in France. A real treat—those little Mexican yellow mangoes! I’d definitely recommend Diego and his agency for a French-language kayak tour (1000 pesos per person).
In the evening, we walked to Punta Coco to see the bioluminescence. No need for a guided tour—if you really don’t want to walk, you can take a taxi. At Punta Coco, you have to pass the beach bar/restaurant and then go left into a kind of inlet that forms a lagoon. You have to wiggle your feet or move your hands in the water to create movement, which makes the light appear. Just don’t expect the kind of photos you’ve seen online—they’re all edited! It’s fun to see, but you won’t be dazzled by the light...
Wednesday, July 8:
Whale shark tour with "My Holbox Tours." Why recommend this agency over others for swimming with whale sharks? Simply because Valérie surrounds herself with top professionals to make your experience unforgettable. We were with Captain Fernando, who does everything to position the boat perfectly and make your swim easier. In the water, we were with Humberto, who also goes above and beyond to make sure you have an incredible time. He doesn’t just "supervise" like some guides from other companies who leave you on your own. No, Humberto reads the whale shark’s trajectory and guides you—all you have to do is follow him. He really puts in the effort, even holding your hand to guide you through this quick but intense encounter. Humberto also films the moment and will offer to show you the videos and sell them to you. His footage is really high quality.
Fernando and Humberto also prepared food for us. Special mention for their guacamole! Valérie is there to make sure everything goes smoothly on the boat and to answer your questions in French, English, or Spanish about these animals. If you choose My Holbox Tours, you can be sure you’ll get a top-notch experience.
About the tour itself: before you go, you should know that the sharks can be *really* far away. The day we went, it took 3.5 hours by boat to reach them. The boats are small, and let me tell you—on the way there, when we weren’t going with the waves, it was *rough*. Out of 9 passengers, 4 got seasick. But once you’re face-to-face with the shark, you forget all about that. Even if swimming with a whale shark isn’t exactly a walk in the park—they swim pretty fast, so you need some endurance to keep up. You’ll usually get 2 turns. Our first swim lasted a little over 4 minutes, and the second about 2 minutes because the shark was moving fast and we were still tired from the first swim. It might seem short, but when you’re swimming, it feels *long*. Either way, it’s an experience you *have* to do—but choose your company wisely. On the way back, there’s a stop at Cabo Catoche. Honestly, the snorkeling is pretty disappointing if you’ve done it elsewhere in the world. But the lunch stop at Cabo Catoche is really nice for relaxing (white sand and hammocks).
Thursday, July 9:
Short morning walk to Punta Mosquito at 6 AM. Really nice.
Ferry to Chiquila (330 pesos per person) + ADO bus to Valladolid (300 pesos per person).
In Valladolid, we booked "Casa Lucia" via Booking. The hotel is gorgeous, with a colonial style, and very close to the ADO bus terminal and downtown. It’s super quiet and clean. There’s a shared kitchen you can use with a fridge, microwave, and water dispenser, plus a big table by the pool and a nice indoor terrace. Breakfast was simple but included. The only small downsides were the tiny room and bathroom, no mirror in the room, and a noisy fan.
Friday, July 10:
Not far from the ADO bus terminal is the colectivo station for Chichen Itza. They offer a round-trip to Chichen Itza with an option to stop at Ik Kil cenote on the way back and then drop you off in Valladolid for 370 pesos per person (Ik Kil entrance included).
For the Chichen Itza visit, we’d booked a tour with a guide often mentioned in groups—his name is Juan Pat. He’s a Maya who lives near the site and speaks excellent French. He reserves spots in advance for you and queues up to be the first on-site. It cost 500 pesos per person + entrance fees. His tour lasts 2 hours and focuses mainly on the main pyramid and the ball court. He’s passionate and fascinating, even if some of his claims, as a Maya, might be a little biased. I think it’s *really* important to have a guide—otherwise, you’ll miss so much. You can contact Juan Pat on WhatsApp at +52 985 121 2381.
Afterward, we went to Ik Kil cenote (showers and life jackets mandatory, lockers available). It’s *very* crowded, but still really beautiful with its lush vegetation.
Saturday, July 11:
Since we didn’t have a car but still wanted to visit other cenotes that seemed hard to reach by public transport, we decided to book a taxi for the day. We agreed on 1200 pesos to take us to 3 different cenotes and wait for us at each one. (To find taxis, just look where they park near the ADO bus station.)
He picked us up at Zaci cenote, which we’d walked to. We got there at opening time and were the first ones there—had the place to ourselves for a while! 150 pesos per person. A pretty cenote in the city center with lush vegetation. It’s a bit like Ik Kil but without the deep cylindrical effect.
Cenote Xcanahaltun: the most beautiful cenote we visited. Entry 250 pesos per person. It’s a closed cenote with a hole that lets light in—a cave-like setting. You can kayak inside. There are little fish at the edge that nibble dead skin off your feet. Since it’s closed, the water is *freezing*!
Cenote Palomitas: entry 250 pesos per person. Another stunning closed cenote, even more enclosed than Xcanahaltun. The hole in the ceiling is smaller, so it was pretty dark when we arrived—kind of an eerie vibe. But when the staff turned on the lights, it looked like a "Gothic cathedral" full of bright stalactites.
Cenote Sac Aua: entry 290 pesos per person. The ticket includes a guided cave tour (tip-based). This cenote is really unique with its central island and way less crowded than Suytun. Just so you know, the water is *really* cold in cenotes. In these three, in July, we had the place to ourselves for a while and never saw more than 2 families at once—so peaceful!
Sunday, July 12:
ADO bus to Bacalar (536 pesos per person).
In Bacalar, we stayed via Airbnb with a host named Luli, who offers several rooms with shared bathroom and kitchen.
The room is nicely decorated in a pleasant setting. It’s ideally located near the lagoon and downtown. The shared kitchen is handy. The mosquito net over the bed is useful because there are *a lot* of mosquitoes in Bacalar. Luli provides a water jug, which is really nice. The only big downside is the lack of water pressure in the shower—we had to rinse off by filling a bucket. Also, there’s no real door separating the room from the bathroom. We never met Luli in person, but she was very responsive via messages. The terrace in the middle of the vegetation is lovely.
From the ADO terminal to the place, we took a taxi for 40 pesos. Since this driver was honest about the price (we’d checked beforehand), we decided to use him every time we needed a taxi in Bacalar. Here’s his WhatsApp: +52 983 184 3585.
Monday, July 13:
We did a boat tour on the lagoon with "Bacalar Francophone Activities." Since we were just the two of us, it cost 3500 pesos. If we’d managed to be 4 people, it would’ve been 1000 pesos per person.
We had a private 4-hour tour on the lagoon with Steeve and his very comfortable boat. He’s from Quebec, so his French is perfect. During those 4 hours, Steeve showed us the lagoon’s iconic spots *and* places other boats don’t go. He told us about the lagoon’s history and gave great tips on where to go and where to eat. As a little bonus, he gave us a video taken with his drone during our swimming break.
Tuesday, July 14:
We went to Los Rapidos by taxi (400 pesos round trip) and entry was 225 pesos per person. It’s *very* touristy but really beautiful. You can eat there (expensive), relax, and go down the "rapids" as many times as you want. It’s worth it if you spend a few hours there. You can’t bring in food or drinks—you leave them at the entrance and pick them up on the way out.
Wednesday, July 15:
On Wednesdays, navigation is banned on Bacalar Lagoon, so we’d planned another excursion.
Visit to Calakmul from Bacalar with ABCtours (WhatsApp +52 983 319 8359).
This agency organized a trip from Bacalar to Calakmul with a French-speaking guide. Communication beforehand via WhatsApp was smooth. Mr. Checo, the driver, and Fernando, the guide (who spoke great French), picked us up on the day. Mr. Checo drove very carefully on the long road and always made sure we were comfortable. Fernando is passionate about flora and fauna—he’s a biologist with a degree in ornithology, so he knows *everything* about animals. The slightest sound or song, and he knows what it is. He’s got an eye for spotting them, from the biggest to the smallest.
During the trip, we stopped at km 27 for a short forest walk, then went to see the two main pyramids on the site. On the way back, we stopped at the bat cave for the magical spectacle of millions of bats flying out at dusk. In the end, we saw or glimpsed (some briefly) spider monkeys, howler monkeys, a toucan, 2 tapirs, turkeys, 2 deer, and lots of birds. If, like us, you’re more into flora and fauna than archaeology, I’d *highly* recommend this agency and tour with Fernando.
It’s not cheap, but the road between Bacalar and the site is *long* (3.5 hours). Price: 3900 pesos per person for 2 (3500 for 3, 3200 for 4).
Thursday, July 16:
ADO bus to Playa del Carmen (614 pesos per person).
In Playa del Carmen, we stayed in an Airbnb. The building is on the town hall square, next to the casino.
The best thing about this place is the *location*—super close to Fifth Avenue (La Quinta). The kitchen is pretty basic, but the fridge works well. There are supermarkets nearby. The rooftop pool is really nice. The two big downsides, though, are the soundproofing (you can *hear* the neighbor’s alarm and all the events on the square) and the *total* lack of water pressure in the shower. We had to fill a trash can with water to pour over ourselves. When we told the owner, he said it wasn’t normal and someone would come fix it, but we never heard back. Based on previous reviews, this seems to be a known issue that never gets resolved.
Playa del Carmen is *very* touristy on Fifth Avenue, but in a fun, musical vibe—we never felt unsafe. There are *tons* of little souvenir shops for tourists on this street. There’s a beautiful monumental sculpture on the beach (the two figures meeting in the air), next to which you can see the Voladores show (men climbing a pole, tying themselves with ropes, and descending headfirst while "flying" around the pole). The show is tip-based and happens several times a day. In our opinion, Calle 38 is prettier than Fifth Avenue—it’s lush, green, and quieter, with the sea at the end. Great for an early evening stroll. We had really good meals at great prices at "El Tio Noy" tacos, just a few meters from Fifth Avenue in a side street.
For souvenirs, we’d recommend going to Walmart instead of Fifth Avenue—you’ll find skulls, tequila, mezcal, keychains, mugs, glasses... at good, fixed prices.
Friday, July 17:
We did the excursion to Isla Contoy. Isla Contoy is an uninhabited, highly protected island. Only 200 people are allowed to land per day on a rotating basis, so only a few companies have permission to dock there. Most agencies subcontract the day to a third-party company.
We booked through VRM (Viviendo Riviera Maya), but it was Ocean Tours Mexico that handled the tour. Contoy is a little paradise. We were accompanied by multilingual guides, including French speakers, throughout the day. Steffy gave us info about the island during a short walk on the marked trails, and Leño Tlatemoa kept the mood up on the boat rides with music and dancing. Isla Contoy is *truly* stunning, and the lunch was delicious: grilled fish and chicken, guacamole and tortilla chips, rice, fruit, drinks (everything is brought and taken back by the guides). The snorkeling part was pretty disappointing if you’ve done it in Cozumel, though. The stop at Isla Mujeres isn’t very interesting either—it’s too short to explore, and the island is *extremely* touristy. Still, the excursion was very well organized, and we had a great day (2970 pesos per person).
Saturday, July 18:
We wanted to go snorkeling in Cozumel but thought the prices from French-speaking agencies were too high. Plus, for snorkeling, we figured we didn’t *need* a French-speaking guide.
So we found a much cheaper solution by taking the ferry from Playa del Carmen ourselves and choosing an agency in Playa. The round-trip ferry cost 663.50 pesos per person. Then we took a taxi to the snorkeling boat (100 pesos). The agency we chose is called Mystic Snorkel—they don’t have a physical office. The tour cost 1400 pesos per person. It was a small boat, but that day we were the only ones, so we got a private tour at the group rate. We stopped at 4 different sites, all very different and beautiful. We saw all kinds of fish, corals, a nurse shark, and turtles. El Cielo, with its huge starfish, is *exceptional*. If you’re going snorkeling in the Yucatan Peninsula, this is *the* tour to do—the other sites are pretty "poor" in comparison.
Sunday, July 19:
Morning dive with Triton Diving. I chose the Cozumel dive option. Great experience.
Booking via WhatsApp was easy. On the day of the dive, Selene, who speaks French, was our guide. She’s *very* attentive to the group’s safety. The briefings are clear and precise. In Cozumel, we did 2 very different sites: the first was a drift dive with lots of life—beautiful corals and fish. The second was a wreck, the C53, a 56-meter boat you can enter. Not much marine life, but a beautiful wreck intentionally sunk for divers—still in great condition. An unforgettable moment. Selene even took videos during the dive, which the club sends you for free afterward. I’d *highly* recommend this club.
Just so you know, in Playa del Carmen, the beaches were full of sargassum during our stay, despite barriers and daily cleanup. Locals told us the problem is getting worse and the sargassum is arriving earlier in the season. Tourism has taken a *big* hit this summer, and they’re wondering if tourism can even survive the sargassum season anymore. A lot of tourists are heading to the islands—Isla Mujeres and Cozumel—to enjoy the beaches, as the west side of those islands is sargassum-free.
Monday, July 20:
Colectivo to Puerto Morelos. First, a colectivo toward Cancun that drops you off between Puerto Morelos town and Puerto Morelos beach (40 pesos per person), then another from that junction to the beach (10 pesos per person).
In Puerto Morelos, we’d booked a room via Airbnb at "Piedra del Caribe." *Best* place we stayed in Mexico. It’s an aparthotel. Our room was ready before check-in, so they let us in early. The place matched the description—spacious, with a comfortable king-size bed. The shower had *great* pressure, which isn’t a given in Mexico. The staff was super friendly and welcoming. They let us use the pool, restrooms, and rooftop shower after check-out while we waited for our ride to Cancun Airport. They even kept our luggage. I *highly* recommend this place.
In Puerto Morelos, there was *way* less sargassum than in Playa del Carmen—it was actually swimmable.
We did the snorkeling tour with the fishermen’s cooperative for 450 pesos per person for 2 hours. The reef is close to the beach (you’re not allowed to swim there), so the boat ride is short. It’s not as pretty as Cozumel, but it’s nice and affordable. On Puerto Morelos’s page, you can also access a small, not-very-well-preserved reef. There’s also a cenote in the sea where fresh water mixes with saltwater—the water is murky there. We had a great dinner and excellent cocktails at "La Choza del Puerto."
Tuesday, July 21:
Wandered around Puerto Morelos (check out the church and read everything—it’s entertaining!), relaxed by the hotel pool, and left for Cancun Airport by taxi (400 pesos) booked via InDrive to head back to France.
Our highlights:
- Holbox
- The whale shark tour
- The cenotes
- The local flora and fauna (so present!)
- Isla Contoy
- Cabo Catoche (except for the snorkeling)
What we liked least:
- The bioluminescence (barely visible despite good conditions)
- The food—we found it not very diverse in taquerias
- The constant tipping
- The lack of water pressure in showers (fixed, wall-mounted, no hose or showerhead)
Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions while it’s still fresh in our minds.
Here we go—finally, the big day has arrived! A trip the whole family (my two kids, my husband, and me) had been looking forward to for so long.
To keep it short, we left from Nice, arrived in Namibia on June 25, 2025, and left again on the 21st—four weeks later.
We used an agency for all the camping reservations, activities, and the car rental. At least that side of things was taken care of. Michaël was our contact throughout the planning and the trip itself.
We spent our first night at Londiningi BB. A bit out of the city center but very quiet. The rooms were spacious and clean, and we could eat on-site that evening. Perfect for recovering from the flight.
This travel journal is our second on VoyageForum, following last year’s where we recounted our four weeks in Vietnam.
The goal remains the same: since some members on this site share tips, experiences, and great deals that help us prepare for our trips, we do the same after returning—both to give back a little and in the hope that our experiences might be useful to others in some way.
Our route was as follows: Bangkok, Siem Reap, Krabi, Suratthani, Koh Phangan, Koh Tao, Chumphon, Bang Saphan, Prachuab Khiri Khan, Sam Roi Yod, Hua Hin, Phetchaburi, Bangkok.
Beyond rediscovering Bangkok, our objectives were the long-held dream of seeing Angkor and exploring southern Thailand, much of which isn’t overly touristy.
A quick big thank-you to Barbot, who took the time to answer several of our questions.
12/07/2013
The cheapest flight we found earlier this year was a Paris-Bangkok route with a layover in Moscow for 1440 €, total for two people.
So, this time we tried Aeroflot. Airbus A318 for the first leg, A330 for the second. Nothing particularly annoying to report—the passengers were very calm, the cabin temperature was comfortable, and we had enough legroom.
That said, the quality of the meal trays was pretty mediocre, and the flight attendants weren’t exactly comedians.
We’d like to remind everyone that it’s best to exchange as little money as possible at the airport upon arrival, since the rate is about 5% worse than at city banks.
Of course, we made sure to take the airport exit where you can catch official taxis to avoid getting scammed. So, we queued up, a little lady gave us the ticket, and off we went with the driver.
Generally, this system works well because these drivers are registered, know their duties, and the risks they face if they break the rules. Except that day, right off the bat, we got the scammer of the day. His first move was to snatch the ticket from my wife’s hands—the one you’re supposed to keep in case of a complaint. My husband saw it, but after a full day of travel, we were a bit out of it, and honestly, there was no reason to be suspicious. But once we started driving, the guy refused to turn on the meter. We insisted more and more firmly, but nothing. So, I used the famous method of opening the door and starting to step out of the car. At 40 km/h, that scares the driver more than the passenger. He finally turned on the meter, but that didn’t calm him down—quite the opposite. For the next half-hour, he ruined the ride by demanding extra fees here and there. Having dealt with several scam attempts last year in Vietnam, this wasn’t exactly new, and we were proud of ourselves for staying pretty zen. Still, this guy was a little scary—he was completely wired and aggressive. Honestly, it was hard not to think he was on something. He’d be perfect for a *Scarface* remake. When we finally arrived at the hotel, he followed us to the entrance. We paid the two tolls (25 and 45 baht), gave him the usual 100 baht extra for the ride, and stayed polite but firm. So, meter: 245 baht + 100 baht + 25 and 45 baht for tolls—we paid the exact amount, no way we were tipping this guy. He left furious, but he was already like that before picking us up... Anyway, avoid Mr. Chartree Chidchen, number 089 826 7308, car E2663!
We were so relieved to finally settle in at Feung Nakorn Balcony hotel in the temple district. 42 € per night, great reception, all the staff is friendly. The AC works fine, the bed seemed hard at first but turned out to be comfortable. The hotel is quiet, away from the nightlife, but at this time of year, many places are less crowded than in high season. Even with a nice fish pond and outdoor breakfast area, it’s a decent hotel, though we felt we could’ve found something better.
After a night on the plane, the first afternoon is always a bit of a slog. We napped for a few hours, and when we woke up—guess what—we were starving. We visited a temple across from the hotel (nothing special) and then decided to take the Chao Phraya Express, the river shuttle that serves many piers along the river. It was a really enjoyable experience. The steel gangway wobbles when you board and disembark, the boat sits low in the water, and sometimes you get splashed. During peak times, you’re packed in like sardines, but most of all, there’s that exotic urban landscape passing by, especially the temple rooftops.
At that exact moment, the boat was packed. We didn’t see a ticket booth at the pier, and we tried in vain to pay the few baht for the ride. The cashier on the boat was too busy, and another employee we called didn’t have time to help us. Oh well, we weren’t going to force the issue. Still, this mode of transport is super practical for avoiding traffic, and at the piers, the lines with station names are clearly marked, with colors matching the flags on the boats. Combined with a map like the *Routard* guide, it’s easy to navigate.
We easily made it to the restaurant *Harmonique*, located near one of these piers. It’s a unanimous favorite on this forum, and let us tell you—it’s well-deserved. What a wonderful experience that evening! We only saw the outdoor gazebo because there was no way we were dining inside. It’s not flashy, so those looking for a luxurious setting should look elsewhere.
That night, the staff was a bit slow, and we had to track them down several times to move things along. But oh, my friends—what a feast on the plate! Start with the appetizer platter for two at 250 baht, featuring four specialties, each more tempting than the last, followed by their famous crab curry for 200 baht. There’s *so much* crab in there! The dish is so delicious and rich that when you finish, you feel—how to put it—like it was almost *too* good, to the point where you’re almost put off eating for days. And also, oh yes, we *will* be back. Their satay chicken is just as amazing, and it would be a crime not to mention their generous dessert with ice cream, warm banana, and chocolate, plus their *excellent* almond milkshake.
Later, we took a taxi to Kao San Road, mainly to book a Ko Tao-Chumphon trip for 600 baht per person at the Lomprayah counter. In hindsight, we should’ve booked all three of our trips there right away.
Kao San Road is *ultra*-touristy—better for younger crowds, but it’s still worth seeing. There’s rock ‘n’ roll, hippies, and crowds everywhere.
We walked back to the hotel, and when we got a little lost near a canal, a really nice older Thai man spontaneously appeared out of the night to kindly point us in the right direction.
Finally, a real long night of sleep ahead—we cranked up the AC. Sweet, the vacation has begun!
Hi there,
I just got back from a trip to Sri Lanka from December 18th to January 1st with 2 adults and 2 kids (12 years old).
If it helps, here’s my itinerary.
We left on December 18th from Madrid with Qatar Airways. No complaints. I booked my tickets back in March for 800 € per person. (I flew from Madrid because I live near the Spanish border and was too worried about strikes in France.)
We arrived on December 19th at 4 PM (local time). Before leaving France, I’d booked a taxi through MyTransfer for 59 € to Sigiriya. A van was waiting for us at the airport exit.
A never-ending 3-hour drive to Sigiriya. We stayed at Samana Guesthouse—very simple, clean, with a pool and an excellent Sri Lankan breakfast. Shower and straight to bed.
Friday, December 20th: Beautiful weather, but very humid and hot. We visited Lion Rock (36 € for adults) and then Pidurangala.
I loved both sites—they’re a must-do in my opinion.
Spent the late afternoon by the pool.
Saturday, December 21st: Another gorgeous day. The guesthouse manager offered us a free 2-hour tuk-tuk tour. We first visited a lake, rice fields, the temple, and the Sigiriya market, plus the usual tourist trap—the botanical garden (no pressure to buy anything at the end).
Then we took a tuk-tuk to Dambulla Temple, the Golden Buddha, and the wholesale market.
Sunday, December 22nd: Still beautiful weather. I’d booked a taxi for 8 AM. We did all the long trips by taxi to save time. I’d ask for prices from 2 or 3 WhatsApp taxi agencies 2 days or the day before—super responsive, always got replies within 5 minutes. We headed to Ella (4-hour drive) for 22,000 LKR.
Arrived in the afternoon at Rest Full Homestay—a small, family-run guesthouse. Clean, cozy, and an amazing Sri Lankan breakfast.
In the afternoon, we went to Nine Arches Bridge. It was a Sunday, a Sri Lankan holiday, so it was *packed*—mostly locals and very few white tourists! Even though it was crowded, it was cool because it was all Sri Lankans. We waited an hour for the train. It’s worth seeing, but honestly, I didn’t think it was that amazing.
Then we headed to the station to check if we needed to book tickets for the train to Haputale—turns out, no.
Monday, December 23rd: Beautiful weather. We hiked Ella Rock—a gorgeous trek. The final stretch is steep but shaded, so it wasn’t as tough as I’d read. The whole hike is stunning from start to finish. We saw the train pass twice (one blue, one red) and lots of women picking tea.
After that, we did Little Adam’s Peak. It’s not hard, but it was *packed* with tourists—meh. Luckily, at the top, you can walk a bit farther (down one side and back up) to get some space to yourself.
What I *didn’t* like was the commercial vibe at the big café/restaurant with a pool at the entrance of Little Adam’s Peak. Loud music, all that money being made right next to little souvenir stands run by Sri Lankans or tea-picking women. Felt off.
Ended the day buying souvenirs at one of the few shops we found during the trip.
Tuesday, December 24th: Beautiful weather. Took the train to Haputale. We got to the station 30 minutes before the 9:30 AM train. We could’ve taken 2nd or 3rd class—I went with 2nd (160 LKR per person).
It was crowded, but we managed to get seats—first 2, then 3. Only a 1-hour ride, but I *loved* it—windows and doors open the whole time.
Arrived in Haputale around 11 AM, and the mist was already rolling in.
We walked to our guesthouse, The Mist Holiday Bungalow. Simple but clean, with a great view of the tea plantations. The owner’s wife is Vietnamese and used to work for French tour operators, so her French is still pretty good—helpful for us since our English is terrible. They booked us a tuk-tuk for 4:45 AM the next day (2,000 LKR) to Lipton’s Seat.
Spent the afternoon wandering around Haputale. Not much charm, but there’s a nice fruit and veggie market and a short walk through the tea plantations.
Wednesday, December 25th: Beautiful weather. The tuk-tuk was on time to take us to Lipton’s Seat. We were the first ones there—the sky was just starting to turn pink. In the end, only about ten of us watched the sunrise. The guesthouse had packed us breakfast, and we walked back down (half on the road, half through the plantations). Didn’t see any tea picking since it was Christmas, but the walk was still incredible. We took detours through villages full of kids.
After that, we visited the tea factory. The tour was really interesting, and we took the bus back down to Haputale. Such a great moment—whole families were heading to mass, dressed up and made up. All so beautiful.
At noon, we left for Udawalawe National Park. Taxi for 14,000 LKR. Stayed at River Inn Safari Cottage. *Warning*: It’s the same place as Eagle Safari Cottage. I don’t recommend it. We’d always stayed with families before, but here it was just staff—totally different vibe. The pool was nice but not very clean (water was murky). The bungalow was big and fine, but it was brand new—so new the asphalt floor wasn’t fully dry. It’s in the middle of nowhere, so we had to eat on-site. Couldn’t leave a review on Booking because they never confirmed we’d stayed, and they canceled our reservation the next day.
Thursday, December 26th: Beautiful weather. I’d booked a safari through the hotel for 5:30–10 AM for 54 USD. Honestly, yes, there are a lot of jeeps, but it was great. The kids loved it—we saw everything there was to see.
Left by taxi at 11:30 AM for Welligama (12,000 LKR).
We didn’t stay in Welligama city but at Coconut Beach, between Welligama and Midigama. *Total crush* on the guesthouse: Sky Mountain Café with View. Such a lovely family. The mom makes amazing meals at reasonable prices. The view from the hill over the sea is unreal.
Spent the afternoon walking along the beach.
Friday, December 27th: Beautiful weather. My kids are surfers. Unfortunately, there weren’t any boards their size to rent at Coconut, so we took a tuk-tuk to Welligama Bay (1,000 LKR). They surfed from 8 AM to 5 PM—rental was 5,000 LKR for the day. Meanwhile, we walked the beach and swam. Water was 29°C.
Saturday, December 28th: Beautiful weather, rain from 4 PM until midnight. Same surf day. They were so well-behaved the whole trip, so this was their reward.
Sunday, December 29th: Beautiful weather. Beach day at Coconut. *Warning*: It’s a reef break. For surfers, there are three spots (Coconut Left, Middle, and Right). The boys bodysurfed (with fins) all morning, and at 1 PM, we took the bus to Hikkaduwa.
Stayed at Hotel Universal Beach. Nothing special—right on the water, but the rooms were dark even though they were clean. The manager was super nice, but the rest was meh, and breakfast was mediocre compared to what we’d had before (2 eggs and 3 slices of toast). Plus, it was late—8 AM.
First impression of Hikkaduwa wasn’t great—way too many Russians for our taste.
Monday, December 30th: Beautiful weather. Spent the whole day exploring. Turtle Beach, then the other side of the beach (toward Galle) near the fishing port. The beach there is much wider, with scattered hotels and super quiet. It’s beautiful—I should’ve booked somewhere in that area. Ended up having a great day away from the crowds.
Tuesday, December 31st: Overcast, then beautiful, rain at 4 PM. Had to end the year (and the trip) with some surf. Rented boards for the kids (3,000 LKR per board for the day). Bad luck—the waves were on a reef break but small. Not great for them, but no big deal. They still got out of the water by 2 PM. Walked the beach (which is gorgeous), had a juice, and went for a swim. Then back to surfing in the rain at 4 PM.
Wednesday, January 1st: Left by taxi at 5 AM (18,000 LKR). Flight at 10 AM. Arrived in Madrid at 8 PM.
I could have titled my travel journal like Carmen: "Some trips are born twice." Indeed, we had considered this destination back in February 2020. However, an honest tour operator advised us against traveling at that time due to the climate. So, we gave up and opted for Guatemala instead (see "On the Mayan Lands" on this site).
So, why this title? When I was in primary school, over 65 years ago, the illustrations in my history books (Machu Picchu) and geography books (Lake Titicaca) made me dream, and those images stayed in my mind. It took until 2026 to finally make this dream come true!
We prepared our trip with Tout Pérou, a French-speaking "agency." Everything was handled via email and WhatsApp exchanges with our contact: Laurent, who was both competent, friendly, and full of good advice.
For 200 €, Tout Pérou provided us with drivers and guides whenever we wanted, helped us buy our domestic flights (cheaper when purchased in Peru), booked shuttles between airports and hotels, and got us a discount on the train ride to Aguas Calientes, as well as on the buses between Chivay and Puno and between Puno and Cusco. In short, Laurent took care of all the logistics and the Machu Picchu tickets. It was up to us to book our hotels. Tout Pérou provided a list, but we weren’t obliged to follow it. Another advantage of the package: we didn’t have to pay in advance; we paid the service providers directly day by day.
We didn’t meet Laurent in person because he was on vacation in Europe. Before his departure, he gave us a briefing, provided a summary table with the entire program, the service providers, their phone numbers, their fees, the schedules, and gave us plenty of advice (money, exchange, safety, etc.). After returning at the end of our stay, he kept checking in on us.
Lastly, we had also gathered information from Arnaud Lagadec, who runs a hotel in Cusco and offers tours of the region. He gave us a lot of useful information. Another contact: Thomas Montaigne, very friendly, who runs an agency in Arequipa (Agence Pérou Exclusif).
Day 1 – Paris to Lima
Foreword
I’ll share our trip without any pretension—I don’t have the talent of some contributors on this forum—and I’ll illustrate it with a few photos (taken with an ordinary smartphone). My comments are personal and only reflect my own views. So, please be kind! Feel free to comment on my story as you like, but let’s avoid pointless debates.
Even though we live in the south of the Paris region, true to our habits when the flight is in the morning, we chose to spend the night before our departure in a hotel near CDG and parked our car in a parking lot in Garches. This way, we avoid the stress that often comes with traveling around Paris (accidents, roadworks, traffic jams, etc.).
Check-in and border control went smoothly on that Sunday morning. Our Air France flight was uneventful. In Lima, border control took a particularly long time, and for the first time, we didn’t get an entry visa stamped in our passports.
As planned, a driver took us to the Miraflores district, where our hotel was located. We were surprised by the numerous signs about possible tsunamis, having forgotten that Peru is prone to such events and regularly experiences earthquakes. We’d see the consequences of these during our journey.
Exhausted from the early wake-up, the 13-hour flight, and the 7-hour time difference, we had dinner at the hotel before a restful night.
Note that this day was Peru’s presidential election day. As a result, we weren’t served beer—the sale of alcohol was banned that Sunday.
We did the Langtang trek (hike) from September 10th to 17th, with the first and last days being the trip from Kathmandu and back—so 6 days of actual walking. It’s a fairly well-known trek but certainly not as famous or crowded as those in the Annapurna or Everest regions, which is why we chose it.
In theory, it’s mandatory to have a guide for this trek. In reality, it seems there are ways to bypass the regulations: we met at least two people hiking without a guide—a South Korean, a New Zealander, and possibly also a couple of English women and an American couple, though we’re not sure if they had a guide.
The agency we booked with had told us it was an affordable trek for relatively older people in good shape—which is our case (I’m 72 myself). I have to say upfront that we found it quite challenging, maybe because we didn’t have good weather—it was the end of the monsoon season. To be clear, no matter your fitness level, I’d say doing this trek in the middle of the monsoon season would be suicidal.
Day 1 – Journey from Kathmandu to Syapru Besi
On Monday, September 8th, there had been violent protests in Kathmandu against the government, which had, among other things, blocked access to social media and been accused of nepotism and corruption. There were 19 deaths. The situation was very tense on the day of our departure, Wednesday the 10th. The agency warned us that public transport was very unreliable. So, we decided to take a jeep, at an additional cost of $100 ($160 minus what was already budgeted for the bus).
We left a little before 7 a.m. and it took us a good hour just to reach the outskirts of Kathmandu. Along the way, we saw several houses and vehicles set on fire by protesters.
The road to Syapru Besi is only 120 km, but it’s frankly awful. It’s always narrow, winds through endless mountains, and the shoulders range from bad to confusing to nonexistent. Several sections are just dirt tracks. We didn’t regret opting for the jeep, as we could stop several times at our convenience—if only to let Y (my Thai partner) throw up everything she had. She’d taken her usual motion sickness medication, but the constant turns, accelerations, and braking eventually made her terribly carsick.
In Nuwakot, we stopped for breakfast at a nice little restaurant, Jimbu. It was around 8:30 a.m., and we’d barely covered 60 km. The restaurant has a lovely garden overlooking the Trishuli Ganga, the river flowing down from Syapru Besi. First photo: the river in the bottom right corner, mist and clouds over the mountain on the other side.
An hour later, my second photo: the hills along the Trishuli Ganga. You can see the different crops—lush green rice paddies in the lower right and corn, already yellowed and likely harvested, in the foreground on the left. And of course, the mist and clouds through which you can glimpse the mountain on the other side of the river.
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
Our first stop was just a few kilometers from Marrakech, at a lovely house perfect for relaxing and recharging before continuing. It’s called Bleu House, a little paradise on the outskirts of Marrakech. The welcome was very warm, with a beautiful pool and a lovely garden.
Next, we headed toward the Tichka Pass. The road has really improved in recent years—it’s much easier to drive now. No more getting stuck behind trucks, and today, the construction is practically finished.
Morocco has turned green after the recent rains. It’s a joy for the herds and shepherds.
We were trapped, and even our guide looked nervous. After what felt like an eternity (though it was only a few minutes), the herd finally moved on, freeing the track. That afternoon, we did a self-drive safari and—you guessed it—we had zero interest in running into elephants again.
The next day, we headed back to Lilongwe for our flight home. It was a fantastic, varied trip with some intense moments (sometimes *too* intense). Malawi offers amazing opportunities for those who want more than just wildlife reserves.
2- Around San Pedro
Vila beach
Sunset behind Santiago
The rocks and sea at Ponta Preta
At the summit of Monte Batalha
Calheta
Calheta de Baixo
The beaches just keep coming...
The dunes
The 3 coconut trees, a landmark to find the track
Boca da Ribeira beach
The hills on our right
Ribeira Dom João
Barreiro
The old track
The church in Vila do Maio
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
On the right, the "welcome marker"—those dates offered everywhere as a sign of hospitality. On the left, a tribute to those stunning doors worn by time, admired all over the old quarters, including the abandoned ones.
Hospitality will often lead you to accept a small coffee, an "Omani coffee," very light, subtly flavored with cardamom, maybe a touch of saffron, and occasionally rosewater.
Here, I’ve depicted a man in the common everyday attire of Omanis: the dishdasha, mostly white (during the week and daytime; colors are more common in the evening or on Fridays and Saturdays). While you’ll see some men dressed in Western clothes, they’re very few. The white dishdasha is truly the shared attire of all men. The dishdasha, which has no hood, is distinguished by a small pom-pom attached to the collar, the furakha, which is soaked in perfume. And believe me, Omanis go overboard with it! "It smells like the pom-pom" is an expression that’s now part of our shared language, my husband and I.
Another must of men’s attire is the kuma, a small round head covering, usually white with brightly colored patterns. The keffiyeh is also worn (but without the cord called an agal in Arab countries), and it’s mostly worn by those with roots in the desert, from what I understood.
And what about the women, you might ask? Some are veiled, some in full black (but not a burka—more like a chador + abaya), due to the influence of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, whereas the traditional outfit used to be a layering of very colorful dresses. Most of the women we saw wore neutral clothing, a plain veil over their hair, but with their faces uncovered. We also saw many saris and colorful veils—don’t forget that 40% of the population consists of Indian, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi immigrants, who work a lot in tourism, hospitality, restaurants, services, and construction.
Just to clarify, as a tourist, there’s no pressure to wear a veil, and never any disapproving looks. Of course, you’ll save the mini shorts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders, and midriffs for the hotel terrace—but I’d say that’s the same for men and women, and with the sun being strong, it’s better for your skin too.
Here’s the introduction! In the next post, I’ll tell you about my itinerary, and we can dive in!
Roundabouts are particularly interesting because they feature emblems of Turkmen culture, like the dog, a carpet, the Ahal Teke horse, or Muslim symbols, even though the presence of Islamic artifacts is quite limited.
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.