Après plusieurs années à profiter de chaque instant de libre pour bourlinguer aux quatre coins de la Russie, à parcourir des kilomètres d'étendues quasiment désertiques, à passer de villes en villes, de villages en villages, de campagnes en forêts, de montagnes en rivières, à partager shashliki et vodka avec des hommes et des femmes d'un peu partout...il ne m'était jamais venu à l'esprit d'écrire un carnet de voyage. Et je ne l'ai pas fait. Sans doute parce que certaines choses se vivent bien mieux qu'elles ne se racontent.
J'ai eu l'occasion, néanmoins, au cours de mes pérégrinations, de rencontrer des gens dont la vie, les histoires, m'ont particulièrement ému. Et c'est cela que je voudrais raconter. Des tranches de vie, des instants dans l'existence d'hommes et de femmes dont le monde ignore le nom et qui ne seront jamais que des silhouettes lointaines et sans consistance pour la plus grande majorité de la population mondiale. Des gens ordinaires qui ne sont ni des sages, ni des artistes, ni des philosophes. Des gens nés quelque part et qui essaient tant bien que mal de se construire une vie. Mais des gens qui m'ont fait aimer ce pays, qui se sont contentés d'être ce qu'ils étaient et qui m'ont permis de lever un peu le voile sur cette fameuse "âme russe" que personne n'arrive jamais vraiment à saisir.
J'ai changé les noms, je ne dis pas d'où ils viennent, je romance un peu, mais sans trahir, je crois, la réalité que j'ai pu constater. Ce que je raconte là, c'est ce que j'ai vu, entendu, ressenti. C'est un petit bout de la Russie, telle que je l'ai connue, avec mon regard de française.
Youri, le désabusé
Lorsqu’un étranger demande à Youri où il vit, le vieil homme a bien du mal à fournir une réponse précise. La ville de N… est au nord, toujours plus au Nord. Pas le Nord qu’on connaît, pas le Nord féérique. Juste le Nord, en plein centre, encore au Nord. Bien au-delà de la zone où les hommes normaux s’aventurent.
Lorsqu’un étranger demande à Youri ce qu’il fait dans la vie, le vieil homme a bien du mal à fournir une réponse précise. Il travaille à la poissonnerie, comme tout le monde ici, mais son poste n’est pas vraiment défini, à chemin entre l’homme à tout faire et le bouche trou qu’on appelle en renfort en fonction des besoins. Ce qu’il sait c’est qu’il est en bas de l’échelle. Sa femme, Katya, le lui répète suffisamment, les rares fois où ils échangent plus de dix mots.
Lorsqu’un étranger demande à Youri de lui conter ses rêves, Youri hausse les sourcils, regarde un moment dans le vide, et finit par sourire. « Une bouteille de vodka et une femme bien ronde ».
Youri trouve qu’il travaille trop. Ses mains lui font mal, son dos souffre des longues heures à trimballer des caisses et son chef est un crétin. Et quand il ne travaille pas, Youri s’ennuie.
La ville de N… n’est pas une ville. C’est un ensemble de bâtiments organisés autour de la poissonnerie. A une époque, Youri s’en souvient, vivre là, c’était bien. Les bâtiments étaient neufs, les salaires étaient payés à la fin du mois, il y avait même un théâtre.
Le théâtre a fermé depuis longtemps et le bâtiment est devenu une ruine où les jeunes se retrouvent le soir pour picoler. Les immeubles ne tiennent plus debout que grâce à l’intervention de forces obscures. Et il y a bien longtemps que l’argent liquide a disparu de la ville (sauf peut-être du coffre du directeur). Les salaires sont désormais payés sous la forme d’un compte ouvert à l’épicerie.
Youri aime bien l’épicerie, c’est bien la seule distraction du coin. Mais il n’aime pas Nadia, la propriétaire. Il aurait bien été tenté pourtant de faire quelque chose avec elle. Elle a une poitrine généreuse et un arrière train tout aussi généreux. Youri aime bien les femmes qui ont des formes, alors que Katya, elle, est plus maigre qu’une vieille planche de bois pourri.
Nadia, personne ne sait d’où elle vient. Un matin, elle est arrivée à N…, a posé ses valises, a racheté l’épicerie qui périclitait et elle n’est plus jamais partie. Peut-être a-t-elle essayé un jour de raconter son histoire, mais nul ne s’en souvient. Les rumeurs sur cette femme étrange avaient déjà pris le dessus. Tant et si bien que les histoires les plus folles circulent sur son compte. Youri a entendu dire qu’elle venait de Perm, qu’elle avait été mariée et mère d’un enfant. On dit également que son fils serait mort en Afghanistan. Quant à son mari, il aurait été arrêté et serait mort en prison. Les plus informés prétendent même que son mari lui faisait vivre un enfer et que, pour se débarrasser de ce tyran qui la battait comme plâtre, elle l’aurait elle-même dénoncé, sous de faux prétextes. Youri ne sait pas si c’est vrai, mais une chose est sûre Nadia n’aime pas les hommes.
Et les hommes n’aiment pas Nadia. Elle dirige son commerce d’une main de maître et inscrit chaque achat dans son grand cahier. Elle contrôle tout, sait tout et a toujours un regard désapprobateur quand Youri vient acheter une bouteille. Par solidarité féminine, sans doute, elle contrôle tous ce que les hommes achètent. Elle s’assure ainsi qu’il restera suffisamment de crédit sur le compte pour ce qu’elle appelle les dépenses utiles. Youri ne voit pas en quoi une bouteille serait une dépense inutile. Mais il ne peut rien contre la toute puissance de Nadia et son grand cahier – maudit soit-il !
Pour contourner la tyrannie de Nadia, Youri et ses amis se sont organisés. Ils n’achètent leur vodka qu’à tour de rôle, afin de ne pas éveiller ses soupçons. A une époque, Youri envoyait sa fille, Dacha. Nadia était folle d’elle et ne pouvait rien lui refuser. Mais Dacha est partie et Youri est obligé de négocier avec les autres pour avoir sa ration de vodka. Ces derniers temps, la bouteille coûtait un paquet de vraies cigarettes, pas les trucs horribles qu’on fume d’ordinaire par ici. Youri regrette parfois que Dacha soit partie.
Dacha trouvait que la vie ici était une vie de chien. Un jour, elle a fait ses valises et elle a quitté la ville avec un jeune imbécile. Elle est partie pour Moscou, pour devenir mannequin. C’est vrai qu’elle est jolie Dacha. Youri ne s’est jamais posé de questions sur ce qu’elle pouvait bien faire. Jusqu’au jour où Dima lui a dit ce qu’il arrivait aux jeunes filles de province qui venaient à Moscou pour être mannequin. « Elles finissent sur le trottoir, a-t-il dit. Et les plus chanceuses trainent dans les hôtels de luxe pour trouver un mari étranger et obtenir un passeport ». Youri lui a cassé la figure. Il aimait bien Dacha et il ne veut pas qu’on dise cela d’elle. Ça le rend triste d’imaginer sa petite fille toute seule, loin de lui.
Et Katya est devenue insupportable depuis que sa fille est partie. Elle est tout le temps sur son dos, à vérifier ce qu’il fait, ce qu’il dit, à lui reprocher de ne pas avoir d’ambition. Youri en a eu pourtant de l’ambition. A une époque, il avait décidé de devenir livreur pour la poissonnerie. Les livreurs sont les plus chanceux. Ils restent assis derrière leur volant tandis que ceux comme Youri chargent la marchandise. Ensuite, ils partent vers des destinations que Youri trouve exotiques. Et certains d’entre eux touchent même un vrai salaire, en espèces sonnantes et trébuchantes. Alors Youri a obtenu son permis de conduire. Il avait mis de côté juste ce qu’il fallait pour payer l’examinateur. Il lui aurait suffi ensuite d’être muté au service des livreurs, pour ça aussi, il avait réuni l’argent.
Mais il a tout planté. Le jour où il a eu son permis, il a fait la fête avec des amis. Ruslan avait une voiture. Youri a voulu l’essayer, il était ivre. Les GAItchiki l’ont arrêté et il a perdu son permis. Il pensait pourtant que tout irait bien. Son beau-frère est flic et Youri était sûr qu’il l’aiderait. Mais le beau-frère n’a rien fait et Youri a du oublier tous ses rêves de liberté. Le lendemain, il repartait transporter des caisses et Katya reprenait ses reproches.
Youri vient de finir sa journée, il est fatigué. Ses mains, son dos, il ne sent presque plus rien depuis le temps. Il ne veut pas rentrer chez lui. Il se dirige vers l’épicerie, la seule distraction de la ville. Il faut qu’il trouve deux compagnons pour s’offrir une bouteille. On ne boit pas tout seul, c’est un principe. Et des principes, on n’en manque pas par ici. Dima a dit qu’il serait au veux théâtre ce soir. Alors Youri déambule dans les rues pour le retrouver. La ville est sinistre dans cet endroit que même le soleil a fui. Et tous les hommes ont le même regard hagard et vide. Youri se demande comment il va faire pour pouvoir obtenir une bouteille. Il sait que Nadia veille. Et que Katya l’attend. Il s’arrête soudain et lève les yeux vers le ciel blanc. Il y a dans l’air un parfum d’été, de cet été sans chaleur qui peine à réchauffer les cœurs. Il songe aux rêves qu’il aurait pu avoir. Durant un instant, aussi éphémère qu’un flocon de neige, un léger sourire se dessine sur ses lèvres et ses yeux brillent. Une vieille Zhiguli passe dans la rue, Youri secoue la tête, hausse les épaules et reprend sa route, armé de cette certitude inébranlable : si les rêves étaient faits pour se réaliser, ce ne serait plus des rêves.
J'aime beaucoup l'histoire et le style!... d'autant qu'il n'y a pas de fautes d'otrthographe, ce qui est rare sur les forums!
on veut une suite!! 🙂🙂🙂🙂🙂
Free Tibet...!
Le site www.ClicAnimaux.com permet en un clic
de nourrir gratuitement un animal abandonné.
Bonjour, belle histoire, j'ai moi meme rencontré cette Russie profonde dans le grand nord Sibérien et dans l'Oural. Pauvres Russes, certains très
cultivés et vivants comme des Africains au fin fond du monde.
Merci à tous pour vos encouragements et vos messages et désolée de ne pas répondre à chacun. J’ai longtemps hésité à écrire ces « portraits », peu sûre que je pourrais retransmettre la réalité de ce que j’avais vu et ressenti. C’est difficile de raconter la vie des autres, d’autant plus quand on s’y retrouve confronté en sachant que notre vie à nous est ailleurs, dans un autre monde.
L’histoire de Fatima que je vous livre ici, est sans doute ce que j’ai eu le plus de mal à écrire. Et je ne suis pas sûre d’avoir su trouver les mots justes pour décrire toute la détresse d’une enfant trop fière. Tout ce que je raconte ici c’est ce qu’elle m’a elle-même raconté. J’ai changé les noms et dissimulé les lieux, car je lui avais promis de ne pas raconter ouvertement son histoire. Et je me devais de tenir cette promesse. « Fatima » fut une des plus belles rencontres de ma vie. Une rencontre éphémère, néanmoins. Elle a passé un an dans mes cours. A mon retour, la deuxième année, elle avait quitté l’université. Malgré tous mes efforts, je n’ai jamais pu la revoir. On ne bouscule pas ainsi les murailles infranchissables de la tradition.
Je lui devais cette histoire et je regrette de ne pas avoir le talent nécessaire pour la rendre parfaitement vivante. Elle qui rêve de Paris et de la France, elle qui connait l’histoire française mieux que les écoliers de chez nous, elle qui aime la poésie romantique, je lui offre notre 14 juillet, dont je n’ai que faire.
Fatima, femme volée
Si un étranger avait l’idée saugrenue d’énumérer les malheurs de la vie de Fatima, il aurait l’embarras du choix pour commencer sa liste. Rares sont les femmes de la petite République de Karatchaevo-Tcherkesse, qu’importe leur âge, qui n’ont pas cette mélancolie des gestes de celles qui savent déjà ce que la vie réserve.
Fatima ne se souvient pas de son père. Elle n’avait que sept ans lorsqu’on lui a annoncé sa mort. Elle se souvient de mots comme « cancer », « cigarettes », « hôpital », « alcool », « Dieu », « désolé », « condoléances » qui restent associés à cet événement qui n’en fut pas un pour elle.
Fatima aime à se définir comme une pragmatique. La mort de son père ne fut pas l’événement douloureux qui aurait du marquer sa vie. Elle sait juste qu’un jour il était là et que le lendemain, il avait disparu. Et cette simple vérité lui a suffi sans qu’elle n’ait eu besoin davantage d’explications. Elle a toujours pensé que d’associer des mots à un événement était une façon de nier la réalité. Et Fatima ne veut pas nier la réalité. La vie est ce qu’elle est, si on ne peut l’accepter, il ne sert à rien de vivre.
Fatima n’a pas choisi son destin. On ne choisit pas par ici. On se plie, on se soumet, on accepte et on se tait. Les codes sont posés depuis si longtemps qu’il faudrait être fou pour s’y opposer. Fou ou suicidaire. Et Fatima n’est ni l’un ni l’autre.
Fatima adore sa mère – une vieille femme toute flétrie qui ne vit que pour ses chats et les commérages des jours de marché. Fatima porte un voile, tout comme sa mère. Certains prétendent que l’Islam le lui impose. Et Fatima s’agace de cette vision rétrograde de la femme musulmane. Les Tcherkesses étaient là bien avant que le Prophète n’apparaisse et seront là bien après que les guerres de religions aient achevé de détruire ce monde. L’Islam n’est rien pour elle. C’est pour sa mère qu’elle porte le voile. Pour cette femme qui lui a légué les formes rondes de son visage et ses yeux en amandes. Pour revoir son visage, qui ressemble tant au sien, chaque matin en se regardant dans le miroir. Pour ne pas oublier celle qui lui a donné la vie. Fatima a compté chaque jour loin d’elle et ne sait pas s’il lui sera donné de la revoir un jour.
Fatima pourtant sait que son plus grand malheur est d’être née jolie.
Dans un monde où la femme n’est rien tant qu’elle n’est pas mère.
Dans un monde où les rêves se fracassent en écho contre les montagnes.
Dans un monde où le silence est devenu la règle de communication.
Dans un monde où les brumes dissimulent les larmes.
Fatima a appris à se taire et à baisser les yeux. Elle n’a pas dit un mot lorsque les hommes sont venus la chercher. Elle n’a ni crié, ni pleuré lorsqu’on l’a séparée de sa mère. Elle a baissé les yeux lorsqu’on l’a présentée à sa belle-famille et elle n’a pas desserré les lèvres quand on l’a lavée, habillée, coiffée et qu’on l’a laissée seule avec celui qui serait désormais son mari, pour cette nuit que certaines ont la naïveté d’appeler « la plus belle nuit de leur vie ».
Fatima a pris la place qui lui revenait dans cette nouvelle famille, avec laquelle il lui faudrait apprendre à vivre. La dernière arrivée, la nouvelle, l’étrangère. Elle a appris les gestes qui seraient désormais son lot quotidien. Elle a usé ses forces à laver le linge, elle a brûlé ses mains à cuisiner pour tous, elle a abimé ses yeux à coudre et recoudre, elle a développé ses charmes pour séduire un mari qu’elle n’avait pas choisi. Et elle a usé sa fierté pour plaire à sa belle-mère.
Sa belle-mère. Son seul lien désormais avec la vie. Rien ne se passe sans l’assentiment de cette femme implacable et sèche comme un morceau de Khatshapuri laissé au soleil, qu’elle doit appeler « maman » et servir en silence. Fatima sait qu’elle lui doit l’autorisation de poursuivre ses études de français et de conserver vivaces ses rêves de Quartier Latin. Et elle sait également qu’elle lui devra un jour la déception de devoir tout abandonner pour enfanter. Sa belle-mère décide de tout, choisit pour tous, distribue les bons points et les mauvais points. Elle accorde souvent des faveurs pour les retirer aussitôt. Elle mène sa maison à la baguette, organise la vie quotidienne, règne sur son royaume de belles-filles et Fatima attend toujours qu’elle lui donne l’autorisation de revoir sa mère.
Fatima ferme les yeux un court instant tandis qu’un rayon de soleil caresse son visage à travers la vitre de la salle de classe. La neige commence à fondre, les beaux jours reviennent. Bientôt, ce sera l’été, les vacances, le repos après une année d’étude. Fatima regarde sa montre, il sera là dans moins d’une heure. On est vendredi soir et, comme tous les vendredis soirs, son mari vient la chercher pour la ramener à la maison. Il lui faudra alors assurer ses taches ménagères pour toute la semaine. La liberté à un prix parfois exorbitant.
Fatima connait sa chance et ne la renie pas. En lui donnant l’autorisation de poursuivre ses études, sa belle-mère lui a surtout permis de vivre la semaine sur le campus, à l’ « obshezhitie », avec ses amies, celles qui comprennent, celles qui connaissent la valeur d’un rire. Loin des hommes et des règles.
Et son mari est un homme bien. Il la protège de la tyrannie de ses belles-sœurs, qui lui font payer ce qu’elles ont elles-mêmes vécu avant son arrivée. Il a une bonne situation et ne la force jamais, sauf quand il a trop bu.
Fatima ne songerait pas à se plaindre. Tout n’est que l’ordre naturel des choses. Elle sait que sa belle-mère fut elle-même enlevée et que ses futures filles subiront le même sort. Elle n’a jamais contesté sa situation, et sa mère n’a jamais cherché à la revoir. Que pourraient bien une jeune fille en fleur, qui s’est un jour rêvée danseuse au Moulin Rouge, et une mère adepte des commérages contre la toute puissance des clans ?
Quand on lui demande pourquoi elle ne part pas, plutôt que de subir passivement cette annihilation de son identité, Fatima a un sourire plein de mélancolie. Elle sait qu’à Moscou, les femmes sont libres. Elle sait que là-bas elle pourrait rêver de carrières, d’amours, de rires et de frivolités. Mais elle sait aussi qu’on ne revient jamais. On ne trahit pas son sang, comme on peut trahir sa vie.
Fatima est née Tcherkesse et elle l’est devenue de toute son âme lorsqu’elle a compris qu’il n’y aurait point de salut ailleurs. Alors, lorsque les étrangers la regardent étrangement, Fatima sourit. « Pour vous, je suis une femme volée, répond-elle, mais pour nous, je ne suis qu’une femme Tcherkesse, serais-je plus heureuse si j’y renonçais ? ».
Fatima traine son poids dans les rues du village en songeant à tout ce qui lui reste encore à faire avant la fin de la journée. Elle sait que sa belle-mère l’attend d’un pied ferme pour la mettre au travail. Elle sait aussi que lui déplaire reviendrait à condamner le peu de liberté qui lui reste. Alors, lorsque la fatigue l’envahit, elle se récite un poème de Rimbaud. Elle envie cet homme qui a pu écrire un jour « On n’est pas sérieux quand on a dix-sept ans », elle qui sait qu’on ne peut être Rimbaud si on est né ici.
Quelques vieilles devisent tranquillement sur la place. Une odeur de shashlyki grillés envahit l’air. Les voix des hommes, graves et soucieuses, perdues dans un souffle rauque à force de se taire, montent du café du coin. Fatima réaffirme sa prise sur son panier et marche d’un pas vif. Elle salue les femmes d’un geste sec de la tête. Les femmes détournent le regard. Tout n’est que l’ordre naturel des choses. En parler serait vain. Pourtant chacune connait et chacune sait qu’un jour une jeune fille parcourra la même route, chargée du même panier et emplie de cette même tristesse. Une jeune fille qui haïra la puissance de sa belle-mère, une jeune fille qui priera pour enfanter un fils et se mettre ainsi à l’abri du courroux de sa belle-mère. Sa belle-mère implacable et sèche, qu’elle se devra d’appeler maman mais que les autres connaitront sous le nom de Fatima.
Fatima est vraiment un sacré bout de bonne femme. Moi aussi, je lui ai demandé un jour pourquoi elle ne partait pas. Je lui ai même proposé de l'aider à obtenir un visa pour la France. Mais elle m'a répondu qu'elle avait lu un jour que les Français étaient les rois des anti-dépresseurs...alors elle n'était pas sûre qu'on soit plus heureux là-bas. Je n'ai toujours pas trouvé ce que j'aurais pu lui répondre...J'espère en tout cas qu'elle a pu continuer à étudier le français, elle était vraiment douée et passionnée.
J'aimerais bien "publier" plus souvent, mais j'écris sur un coup de coeur, au fur et à mesure que je me souviens des uns et des autres...et j'ai toujours été assez lente pour faire les choses et puis je ne suis pas écrivain, je manque sans doute d'exercice pour pouvoir faire vivre ses personnages qui ont un jour fait partie de ma vie...Comme je le disais, raconter la vie des autres, c'est difficile...et puis ce sont toujours des histoires assez "lourdes". On est toujours davantage touché par ce qui nous semble être du malheur, selon nos critères, surtout quand ceux que l'on cotoie, ne voient pas très bien où est le malheur dans tout cela. C'est pour cela que j'aime les gens ordinaires. Parce qu'ils nous font partager leur vie, qui se situe à des années lumières de la notre, avec un naturel déconcertant.
Je decouvre ces deux premiers portraits a l'instant.
Je ne sais pas trop quoi dire. Les yeux humides et la gorge serree. Et ce n'est pas de la pitie, ca, je n'en ai que pour les animaux.
Avec ces mots si joliement enfiles, tu realises un peu le reve de "Fatima", en faisant raisonner ses mots et son histoire, non seulement depuis la Ville du Moulin Rouge, mais aussi dans le monde entier.
Pour faire une belle histoire, il faut être deux : celui qui l'écrit et celui qui la lit . Si celui qui l'écrit est capable de la faire vivre par ses mots dans le cœur de celui qui la lit alors, l'histoire existe. Tu as vraiment ce don. Merci.
Catherine
" La lucidité est la blessure la plus proche du soleil" René Char
Merci à tous pour vos messages. Je suis heureuse de pouvoir faire partager un petit bout de cette Russie que j'aime tant, de ce pays souvent méconnu, devancé par une réputation redoutable qui oublie bien trop les hommes et les femmes qui en forment pourtant le socle. Et c'est bien de ces gens qui m'ont fait rire, qui m'ont fait pleuré, qui m'ont fait me sentir vivante, dont je souhaite parler au travers de ces "portraits".
J'ai essayé de retranscrire l'histoire d'Igor le plus fidèlement possible et de coller autant que faire se peut, à ce qu'il m'a raconté, à la façon pleine de poésie qu'il avait de parler de son monde et à la terrible nostalgie qui habitait cet homme qui se savait d'un autre âge. Plus évident à dire qu'à faire, surtout lorsque l'histoire est racontée en russe et que je la retranscris ensuite en français.
Igor, le nostalgique
La ville de S…fut autrefois prospère. Fondée au 15ème siècle, il ne reste de cette époque que quelques clochers d’église, seules taches de lumière dans la grisaille environnante. Avec le temps, la ville est devenue un bloc de béton en pleine déliquescence et seule la cheminée de la mine porte encore l’étendard de la grandeur industrielle passée.
Comme tous les matins, bien avant l’aube, Igor s’extirpe de son petit appartement, qu’il partage avec sa femme Irina, et traîne sa vieille carcasse à travers les rues silencieuses de la ville, savourant ces quelques instants de liberté où la ville semble lui appartenir en propre.
A mesure que ses pas l’emmènent sur ces chemins dont il connaît chaque recoin, chaque obstacle, Igor retrace l’histoire de sa ville d’adoption. Il se rappelle la prospérité d’autrefois, les étalages regorgeant de mille couleurs, les jours de marché, la douce quiétude qui enveloppait la nonchalance des passants, les visages bigarrés des migrants venus des quatre coins de l’Union chercher quelque fortune, les sourires amis, les rires tonitruants des hommes lui offrant ses premières rations de vodka.
Igor aime l’odeur du « dehors » avant l’aube. Cette odeur de frais et d’abandon. L’odeur d’une ville presque morte. L’odeur du béton qui s’effondre. Il se souvient d’avoir lu, enfant, l’histoire d’une ville fantôme, où des trainées d’activités anciennes emplissaient l’air. Il lui suffit de fermer les yeux pour réentendre le tumulte de S… à l’époque où il s’agissait encore d’un grand centre urbain.
La ville de S… n’est pas fantôme, mais elle semble avoir peu à peu glissé dans une léthargie la figeant cinquante ans en arrière. Seuls le délabrement évident de la ville et les quelques autos modernes que certains arborent fièrement sont preuves du temps qui passe.
Igor traverse la place que certains appellent encore « place du marché » bien qu’en guise de marché, il ne reste plus que les ruines des emplacements d’antan et quelques babushkas proposant aux passants les produits de leurs jardins : framboises, cassis, groseilles, canneberges, pommes-de-terre, oignons, persil, aneth…tout cela pour un prix dérisoire, valant à peine l’effort fait pour les cultiver.
Igor inspire profondément. Cela sent le foin. La campagne n’est pas loin. A l’inverse du processus artificiel qui veut que la ville prenne le pas sur la campagne, S…s’écrase peu à peu face à la nature qui reprend ses droits dans les quartiers désormais inhabités.
Le chemin de la mine n’est pas aisé à trouver. Simple chemin de terre, serpentant entre les immeubles, il est la demeure des hommes du fond qui sont les seuls à l’emprunter. Igor est un « homme du fond » et ne pourrait songer à se définir autrement. Il ne connait du jour que les galeries sombres de sa mine et le soleil n’est pour lui qu’un mythe sans consistance.
Igor presse le pas tandis qu’il s’enfonce sur le chemin de la mine. Il a déjà été en retard deux fois ce mois-ci et Mikhaïl Alexandrovich, le chef de section n’acceptera pas de troisième fois. Igor est un ancien de la mine. Descendu la première fois à l’âge de 12 ans, pour célébrer son passage dans le monde des hommes, il a commencé à y travailler à l’âge de 16 ans. Il y a 35 ans.
35 années de dur labeur dans le froid et l’obscurité. 35 années de sueur, de douleurs et de larmes. 35 années de battements de cœur à l’unisson des frères du fond.
Autrefois, nul n’aurait osé adresser un reproche à un ancien, tout Mikhaïl Alexandrovich, chef de section, qu’il soit. Mais les temps ont changé. La fraternité des hommes du fond s’est dissoute à mesure que l’activité de la mine diminuait. Ceux qui ne sont pas partis sont morts et les quelques qui restent n’arrivent plus à garder vivaces les traditions d’autrefois, quand un homme devenait homme en descendant, quand ceux du fond mouraient pour ceux du fond, quand les autres, ceux du dehors, savaient qu’attaquer l’un d’entre eux, c’était les attaquer tous.
Après que la mine eut commencé à péricliter, et que les effectifs eurent diminué, un entrepreneur du Nord arriva et racheta la mine. Il y installa des hommes à lui à tous les niveaux de la hiérarchie. Et les anciens du trou, ne furent plus que des pions avec lesquels ils jouaient.
Igor ne reconnaît plus sa mine et pourtant, il aime toujours autant la longue cérémonie, précédent le travail. L’instant où le chemin de la mine bifurque brutalement et s’ouvre devant cet ensemble industriel, tout en briques ocres, composé de centaines de petits bâtiments éparpillés sur des dizaines d’hectares et où préside, par toute sa majesté, la glorieuse cheminée de la mine. Les hommes pénètrent l’un après l’autre dans ce sanctuaire et se retrouvent à l’intendance ou dans les vestiaires. Là, dans l’ambiance glacée des matins d’hiver, ou moite des matins d’été, dans cette pièce d’un vert crasseux aux néons fatigués, dans ce lieu fait de matériaux durs comme les parois qu’ils devront attaquer au fond, les hommes quittent leurs vêtements civils pour endosser la tenue réglementaire des hommes du fond. Tout, depuis le caleçon jusqu’au bonnet est troqué pour des versions adaptées à la tâche qui les attend.
Puis dans le vacarme des machines, les hommes prennent place dans le couloir et attendent les ascenseurs, couverts comme en plein hiver, pour vaincre le froid du fond, transpirant sous les épaisseurs, attendant comme une libération, le moment où ils débouleront dans leur galerie, prêts au travail.
La descente justifie à elle seule ce qu’ils sont. Seuls les hommes du fond connaissent le sentiment de plénitude qui enveloppe chacun au moment de monter dans la cage, lorsque les grilles se referment sur leurs derniers instants d’air pur, que leurs regards s’assombrissent, que leurs épaules se voûtent et que d’hommes, ils deviennent peu à peu troglodytes. Puis l’ascenseur s’agite, grince, s’ébroue et les grands câbles glissent doucement dans des poulies rouges de rouille. La descente est longue, monotone, presque immobile parfois. Sans les quelques ampoules placées à intervalles réguliers le long du trou, on aurait presque l’impression de faire du sur place.
Et enfin, le « fond » est là. Ces hommes à la carrure impressionnante, que l’on verrait plus aisément travailler en plein air dans la rigueur du climat russe, gagnent au fond une agilité qu’on ne soupçonnait pas. La cage se vide et se disperse dans le silence des profondeurs.
Igor passe devant le poste de commande, qui sert également de lieu de vie pour ceux du fond et gagne sa galerie. Mikhaïl Alexandrovich en est encore à rassembler ses ouailles et leur assigner leurs tâches de la journée. Igor s’éloigne sans un mot, sans même un regard pour cet homme d’affaire chargé de rentabiliser l’activité. Il jouit encore de l’un des derniers privilèges des anciens, celui de choisir son poste.
Igor a choisi d’être haveur. Il est le premier à attaquer la paroi, afin de creuser une entaille destinée à faciliter ensuite l’extraction de roche. La galerie où l’attend sa machine est encore brute et seules les arabesques formées dans la paroi par sa machine, témoignent d’une activité humaine, dans ce lieu éloigné, cet étroit tombeau qu’Igor travaille par tranches successives. Quelques lampes distillant une lumière chiche ont été installées dans ce début de galerie mais ne suffisent pas et Igor est obligé d’allumer sa lampe frontale pour voir à quelques mètres de lui. La ventilation sera installée plus tard lorsque les autres viendront poursuivre le travail. Ici, la mine est encore sauvage. L’humidité et le froid percent cruellement, mais c’est l’admiration qu’il ressent qu’Igor retient de ses journées de travail, ces volutes cuivrées qui s’emmêlent le long des parois et qui semblent lui sourire. Et devant ce spectacle qui l’enchante, Igor ne peut s’empêcher de se rêver une mort d’homme du fond, enfoui à jamais dans ces antres profonds, avec pour seule sépulture ces parois veinées de rouge qui s’enfoncent à l’infini dans les profondeurs de la terre.
Igor ne troquerait sa place d’éclaireur pour rien au monde et pourtant, la haveuse, cette monstrueuse machine armée de deux bras gigantesques l’a toujours effrayé. Il y a peu, il s’en souvient, les chevaux étaient encore les meilleurs amis de l’homme du fond. Et le travail manuel, sa seule satisfaction. On avançait moins vite, mais on ressentait dans toutes les courbatures de ses muscles la force de la pierre. Les poussières de sel s’élevaient en volutes légères avant de s’écraser sur les bras fatigués des hommes. Désormais, la haveuse et ses rotatives plongent la galerie dans une fumée opaque, à peine ont-elles effleuré la roche. L’air devient vite irrespirable et saturé d’une odeur de souffre presque insupportable.
Igor travaille sa galerie sans s’arrêter, durant des heures. Les nouveaux réclament avec acharnement les pauses auxquelles ils ont droit, mais les anciens ne vivent que pour le rythme lent des blocs de sel que l’on détache et ne sauraient imaginer s’arrêter, avant la mi-journée. La haveuse d’Igor ne cesse son activité que durant les trente minutes qui lui sont nécessaires pour déjeuner. Igor abandonne alors sa galerie pour rejoindre le poste de commande, où l’attend son repas préparé la veille par sa femme Irina.
Chaque jour, à heure fixe, tous les mineurs convergent en une longue file de fantômes blanchis par le sel vers le seul lieu qui ressemble au monde du dehors, et se massent entre les consoles de commandes, les plans de la mine étalés sur la table, l’antique frigo « Saratov » et le crin-crin vieillot qui leur sert de radio pour savourer cette pause bien méritée. Les bras repliés autour de leurs gamelles, formant un rempart comme pour se protéger du monde, une vieille cuillère dans une main, un morceau de pain dans l’autre, les hommes s’enfoncent jusqu’au nez dans leur gamelle et lapent plus qu’ils n’avalent leur déjeuner. On parle peu et lorsqu’on s’exprime, on parle du travail, de la mine, du fond. Le monde du dehors est loin.
Seul Génia, un vigoureux travailleur qui ressemble davantage à une montagne de muscle au sommet de laquelle oscille une tête minuscule, mangée en grande partie par une barbe que n’auraient pas reniée les anciens, ose parler de frivolités. Il cherche depuis des années à séduire Sasha, la serveuse du seul restaurant de la ville. Il aimerait l’inviter à danser mais il se sent gourd avec ses grandes mains plus habituées à manier le concasseur que le corps fébrile de jeunes filles en fleur. On se moque de lui, on mime le ballet grotesque de son hypothétique danse, Génia se vexe et part bouder dans son coin. Oskar, un kazakh à l’humour aiguisé, sort en douce une bouteille de Samogone qu’il a ramené avec lui lors de son dernier passage chez ses parents et verse des verres généreux. Génia avale sa rasade d’une traite, laisse échapper un puissant éclat de rire et la bouteille disparait aussi vite. L’alcool est strictement interdit au fond et Mikhaïl Alexandrovich, qui vient remettre les hommes au travail, a déjà prévenu qu’il renverrait immédiatement toute personne s’adonnant à la boisson durant les heures de travail.
Igor jette un regard froid à Mikhail Alexandrovitch lorsqu’il passe devant lui pour rejoindre sa galerie. Mikhail Alexandrovitch n’est pas des leurs. Il n’est qu’un jeune imbécile, arrivé ici trois ans auparavant, armé d’un diplôme que tous le soupçonnent d’avoir acheté, bouffi d’ambition et les yeux rivés sur un livre de neo-management qui lui sert de bible. Il a appliqué à la mine tous les principes « new age » de gestion d’une entreprise, tentant maladroitement de susciter une camaraderie qui n’avait en rien besoin d’être motivée, mélangeant les équipes, déplaçant les hommes, essayant de s’en faire des amis, mais ne parlant que par chiffres et notions de rentabilité.
Igor le hait pour ce qu’il a fait de sa mine. Un lieu désormais impersonnel et froid, dont la magie ne se vit plus mais se calcule à l’aulne des bénéfices, une cicatrice nécrosée au cœur de la terre. Et les mineurs ne sont plus que les instruments, les outils parfaitement aiguisés de sa réussite. Il a fait venir des étrangers, en quête d’un bon salaire et revendicatifs qui ne retiennent du fond que le cliquetis de l’argent gagné. Il a mis fin à toutes les cérémonies qui vous faisaient vous sentir un avec la mine. Les fêtes se font désormais dehors, dans ce monde hostile qui regarde de haut les hommes du fond.
Igor le sait. Il est l’un des derniers. Ils ne sont plus qu’une poignée à se souvenir de l’avant, à vivre la mine avec toute l’ardeur dont ils sont capables, à connaître l’essence même de l’expression « homme du fond ». Les autres sont morts depuis longtemps ou sont partis ailleurs. Le monde moderne a gagné S…et les jeunes ne rêvent plus que de vies faciles, de gadgets brillants, de grosses cylindrées. La mine ne se transmet plus, elle se subit, pour ceux qui n’ont pas réussi ailleurs.
Lorsqu’il rejoint sa galerie silencieuse et sombre, loin de toute cette agitation, Igor entend pourtant encore battre le cœur des anciens. Il surprend parfois des bruits venus de l’au-delà, un éclat de rire, un coup de pioche, un cri, un bloc de sel qui tombe, une respiration saccadée, épuisée mais satisfaite, une voix chaude racontant les histoires fabuleuses de la grande famille des hommes du fond et les mythes de ceux qui trouvèrent un trésor dans les entrailles de la terre…Les volutes cuivrées qui s’emmêlent le long des parois grimacent désormais plus qu’elles ne sourient. Igor le sait. Il n’est qu’un vestige, n’éveillant plus qu’un respect lointain chez les nouveaux. Une simple relique que l’on aimerait bien remiser au placard mais qui garde en lui le souvenir de ce temps ancien où c’était la sueur des hommes qui salait la pierre.
Superbe.
Merci pour ces 3 pépites que je viens de découvrir ...
J'ai lu puis j'ai regardé ton age ... ( j'ai failli écrire " votre age " tellement je suis impressionné mais je me suis repris car si on commence à se vouvoyer sur les forums ce sera aussi la fin d'un certain monde ! ) et j'ai été encore plus impressionné, " seulement 26 ans " et tu nous écris des textes de cette qualité ... Moi les mots me manquent pour écrire mon admiration ...
J'ai essayé de retranscrire l'histoire d'Igor le plus fidèlement possible et de coller autant que faire se peut, à ce qu'il m'a raconté, à la façon pleine de poésie qu'il avait de parler de son monde et à la terrible nostalgie qui habitait cet homme qui se savait d'un autre âge. Plus évident à dire qu'à faire, surtout lorsque l'histoire est racontée en russe et que je la retranscris ensuite en français.
😮
Un "portrait" different des autres dans la maniere dont il est peint. Mais encore une fois, tu m'as bluffee, et j'en reste 😐.
Je ne suis pas sûre néanmoins de mériter tant de compliments, je ne fais que raconter ce que j'ai vu ou entendu...J'ai passé beaucoup de temps en Russie, à ne pas faire grand chose si ce n'est observer ce qui se passait autour de moi. C'est encore la meilleure des inspirations. Et je me contente de raconter...Mais merci d'avoir apprecié!🙂
Igor c'était un sacré bonhomme qui m'a toujours laissé un sentiment étrange. Je comprenais son amour pour son boulot mais ça faisait bizarre d'entendre quelqu'un parler de la mine comme du bonheur absolu, alors qu'on sait bien qu'être mineur, c'est une situation difficile...moi-même, j'ai passé une journée dans la mine et il m'a fallu de longues heures en plein air pour me remettre de ce sentiment d'enfermement.
J'ai quelques "portraits" en standby là...à voir le premier que je terminerai quand j'aurais le temps d'écrire un peu...(vivement que les chefs partent en vacances!🙂). A défaut de partir cet été, je vais m'évader en Russie par la pensée...
Comme je disais aux autres, je ne fais que rapporter ce que j'ai vu ou entendu...rien de plus...finalement, je ne fais pas grand chose...mais je suis contente que cela te plaise. J'aime bien écrire sur la Russie, alors si en plus des gens ont le courage de me lire...c'est que du bonheur...😉
Igor c'était un sacré bonhomme qui m'a toujours laissé un sentiment étrange. Je comprenais son amour pour son boulot mais ça faisait bizarre d'entendre quelqu'un parler de la mine comme du bonheur absolu, alors qu'on sait bien qu'être mineur, c'est une situation difficile...moi-même, j'ai passé une journée dans la mine et il m'a fallu de longues heures en plein air pour me remettre de ce sentiment d'enfermement.
Bonne nuit Bardak,
ben oui, Igor aussi il doit bien le savoir. Mais bien plus qu'un metier, c'est tout un monde, un univers, que seuls ceux qui y vivent peuvent comprendre. Boulot de misere, mais c'est sa vie, son monde... comme tu l'as bien (d)ecrit.
J'ai quelques "portraits" en standby là...à voir le premier que je terminerai quand j'aurais le temps d'écrire un peu...(vivement que les chefs partent en vacances!🙂)
Sont pas partis encore, tes chefs? 😛
A défaut de partir cet été, je vais m'évader en Russie par la pensée...
Merci beaucoup à tous les deux d'être venus lire ma prose...
La suite...ben, je sais pas quand elle arrivera. J'ai finalement réussi à obtenir deux semaines de vacances, alors pour le moment, je suis en train de rêver à tout ce que je vais pouvoir faire pendant ces deux semaines...😛
😉Super.......;
Nadia c'est le KGB du village, l'oeil de Moscou à elle seule !!!!
Bravo, belle saga, je la verrais bien en téléfilm, propose ton histoire.
J'attends la suite.
Je vais aussi voir la suite de celui qui est allé depuis la Normandie jusqu'en Thaïlande en auto stop, sa traversée de la Russie, vaut le détour.
Précision, je n'ai pas d'actions investies dans son récit, donc, je lui fais de la pub absolument désintéressée
Super ! J'ai choisi de vivre en Russie centrale (Ekaterinburg) depuis 6 ans et je pense que tu as le don de comprendre les Russes, a l'inverse de la majorité des français. Tes portraits sont très "vrais", je peux en témoigner. Et bravo pour le style et l'écriture, il y a là un talent à affirmer.
Olivier
.oO Histoire Russe
C'est vraiment une bien belle chance que j'ai de découvrir la profondeur de se site grâce a ton carnet de voyage .Je n'utiliser pratiquement que le comparateur de prix d'avion ou lisais quelque astuce pratique/logistique. Je suis fan des claques qui me font regarder ailleurs, autrement, ou voir tout simplement. Alors si tu a l'occasion de continué , n'hésite pas, ne doute pas !!! Et si tes aventures se poursuivent , idem !!!!
KeNaVo
mon objectif "see what other smile look like around the world"
Je découvre ce soir tes portraits et je suis extrêmement touchée d'y trouver toute la profondeur russe que j'aime tant, et cette sorte de vision tragique et grande de la vie, même dans les petites choses et les « petites gens ». Merci.
Je suis comme toi une amoureuse de la Russie, et si j'y suis allée bien moins que toi, cela ne m'empêche pas d'être comme un poisson dans l'eau dans ce pays si puissant.
À quand de nouveaux portraits ? Tiens, tu me donnes envie de dresser moi aussi des portraits des russes que j'ai rencontrés...
Pour commencer, merci à tous pour vos messages. J’ai un peu déserté Voyageforum récemment et c’est la raison pour laquelle je n’ai pas répondu aux derniers messages, mais cela me touche que certains viennent lire ces portraits et que les amoureux de la Russie y retrouvent un peu de ce qu’ils ont vécu dans ce merveilleux pays.
Il y avait bien longtemps que je n’avais pas écrit quelque chose. Il faut dire que je n’en ai eu guère le temps récemment. J’ai enfin démissionné de mon boulot, je suis partie me promener dans le Nord de l’Angleterre, j’ai profité de mes premiers jours de chômage pour reprendre contact avec des gens que je n’avais pas vu depuis longtemps… bref, j’étais pas mal occupée.
Et puis, j’ai revu « Raïssa » lors d’un court séjour à Moscou et j’ai eu envie d’écrire sur elle, tant elle me fascine par son abnégation et sa capacité à toujours croire que les choses s’arrangeront. Elle m’a offert des fleurs lorsque je l’ai vu. Moi, je n’avais rien pour elle et je me suis sentie mal. Puis elle m’a dit que je lui parlais et que c’était déjà beaucoup car rares étaient ceux qui faisaient attention à elle.
Et je me suis souvenue de ce jour où, sans rien dire, elle m’a prise dans ses bras parce que je pleurais pour quelque futilité sans grande importance. C’était étrange d’être consolée par quelqu’un qui aurait pourtant bien plus de raisons de pleurer. Elle m’avait alors dit qu’elle n’avait aucune envie de pleurer sur son sort puisque c’était la vie que Dieu avait choisi pour elle. A cet instant, j’ai envié sa foi qui lui donnait tant de forces.
Je mets donc en ligne ce soir l’histoire de Raïssa, avec une petite pensée pour toutes les victimes de l’Express Moscou-Saint-Pétersbourg et pour toutes les victimes futures de ce tragique événement, ceux qui paieront cher la bêtise de certains, le jour où les autorités russes décideront qu’il faut trouver un responsable, qu’il soit coupable ou innocent, et le châtier sévèrement.
Raïssa, la persévérante
Lorsqu’un étranger demande à Raïssa qui elle est, cette jeune grand-mère ridée par les années et par les soucis, fronce les sourcils et, dans un sourire à peine perceptible, répond qu’elle n’est qu’un souffle que personne ne remarque, une enfant de Dieu parmi les enfants de Dieu.
Lorsqu’un étranger demande à Raïssa d’où elle vient, cette femme au regard sombre tord ses mains calleuses, et répond « de chez moi » et lorsqu’on lui demande où se trouve ce « chez moi », Raïssa répond « ailleurs ».
Raïssa n’est pas d’ici et, même après des années, elle s’y sent toujours comme une étrangère. Raïssa ne souhaite pourtant rien d’autre et refuse même que l’on parle d’elle comme d’une immigrée. Raïssa se définit plutôt comme une travailleuse de passage, attendant des jours meilleurs pour refermer sa valise et rentrer chez elle.
Raïssa n’a que 52 ans, mais elle en parait vingt de plus. Cette vieille femme tout en muscle ne manque pourtant pas d’énergie. Elle sent parfois son cœur s’emballer lorsqu’elle fait trop d’efforts, mais elle garde en elle l’assurance que c’est Dieu qui fait battre son cœur plus vite pour lui rappeler qu’elle doit vivre et accomplir son devoir.
Raïssa travaille sans ménager sa peine. C’est pour cela qu’elle est venue ici, dans cette ville tentaculaire et étouffante, loin de sa petite maison et du jardin dont elle s’occupait jadis avec amour. Raïssa n’a aucune attache dans ce lieu, ni amis, ni famille, ni le moindre souvenir. Ce sont les billets qu’elle est venue chercher.
Dans sa vie passée, Raïssa manquait de tout mais elle aime à dire qu’elle avait l’essentiel. La vie n’était certes pas facile mais Raïssa sait que l’on supporte mieux les vicissitudes de l’existence lorsqu’on avance à plusieurs et qu’on peut plonger ses mains dans la terre de ses racines.
Mais le monde a changé, l’Empire est tombé, des gens d’ailleurs ont dit qu’il fallait moderniser le pays. Raïssa n’a jamais vraiment su ce qu’il s’était passé, ni ce en quoi la chute d’un mur à des centaines de kilomètres de chez elle pouvait bien la concerner. Mais Raïssa a néanmoins compris que le monde n’avait plus rien à faire des gens comme elle et que des puissances supérieures avaient décidé qu’ils devaient disparaitre.
Lorsque la maladie de son mari le condamna à rester à la maison, lorsque l’usine où travaillait son fils ferma et lorsque sa fille tomba enceinte sans que nul ne puisse identifier qui était le père, Raïssa sentit le désarroi l’envahir. Elle devait désormais seule subvenir aux besoins de sa famille. Le jardin assurait leur survie, mais pour combien de temps encore ? Raïssa avait entendu la rumeur d’une nouvelle loi en discussion interdisant les ventes à la sauvette de fruits et légumes. Que ferait-elle lorsqu’elle n’aurait plus rien à vendre ? Comment vivraient-ils lorsqu’il ne leur resterait plus rien que la foi profonde qui les habitait ?
Raïssa pria de toutes ses forces pour que Dieu lui accorde sa grâce et lui donne la solution. Et c’est à cet instant que l’Etranger parut au village. Un jeune homme, qui arrivait juste de Moscou, les poches pleines de billets verts, assurant que là-bas, ils se ramassaient dans la rue à condition d’accepter de se baisser pour les attraper avant que d’autres ne s’en saisissent. Il dépensait sans compter et toisait avec mépris les petites gens comme Ra��ssa. Il prétendait qu’on ne devenait rien en restant ici et que cette race de faibles, qui croyaient encore au pouvoir de la terre, disparaitrait un jour pour assurer le règne de ceux qui croyaient au pouvoir de l’argent.
Raïssa y vit un signe de Dieu et n’hésita pas longtemps à partir à son tour, prête à tout endurer pour assurer l’avenir de cet embryon de vie qui grandissait à l’abri du ventre chaud de sa fille. Elle ne se doutait pas, alors, à quel point il lui faudrait accepter de se baisser, de s’écraser, pour ramasser les quelques billets que les autres laissaient derrière eux avec mépris.
Raïssa n’oserait pourtant pas se plaindre de son sort. Elle sait sa chance de pouvoir envoyer régulièrement de l’argent au village. A elle seule, Raïssa fait vivre des dizaines de personnes et remercie Dieu chaque jour de cet honneur qui lui est fait. Raïssa n’aurait pourtant jamais pensé que l’on pouvait assurer sa survie et celle des autres en ramassant les merdes d’inconnus.
Raïssa passe tant de temps dans les transports qu’elle aime à dire que le métro est sa troisième demeure. Ses patrons, des moscovites aisés appartenant à cette nouvelle classe bourgeoise pleine de certitudes et de rêves, ont quitté depuis longtemps les quartiers ouvriers pour les riches avenues du centre ville. Et lorsqu’elle ne travaille pas dans leurs beaux appartements, Raïssa doit assurer l’entretien de leurs datchas à la campagne.
Alors Raïssa traverse la ville plusieurs fois par jours, passant d’une maison à l’autre, assurant son ouvrage avec célérité et s’épuisant dans des déplacements de plus en plus longs. Raïssa commence si tôt le matin, qu’elle ne se souvient pas avoir déjà vu le soleil se lever après elle. Et elle finit si tard le soir qu’elle trouve à peine le courage de se trainer jusqu’au taudis où elle vit.
Car Raïssa vit bien loin du luxe de ses clients. Elle habite à plusieurs kilomètres du centre ville dans un de ces quartiers aménagés autrefois pour le bonheur des travailleurs mais que tous ont oublié et qui s’effondrent tranquillement dans la plus totale indifférence. Des cages à poules gigantesques, entourant des cours intérieures qui furent jadis de jolis jardins organisés pour les enfants. Des jeux d’enfants, il ne reste plus guère que des morceaux de fer rouillés par les intempéries et les jardins sont devenus des terrains vagues dont plus personne ne s’occupe.
Raïssa n’a trouvé à louer qu’un lit dans une chambre minuscule qu’elle partage avec neuf autres femmes. Un lit tout en fer et ressorts qui ne lui accorde aucun repos. Des murs crasseux et une fenêtre si sale que le soleil ne passe jamais sont devenus son paysage quotidien, loin des verdoyantes forêts de sa Moldavie natale.
Raïssa ne possède presque rien. A dix malheureuses dans une seule chambre, les vols sont légions. Ses maigres possessions doivent donc tenir dans le minuscule placard qu’on lui loue et qu’elle peut fermer à clé.
Mais Raïssa n’a besoin de rien. Elle ne vit pas ici, elle y travaille. Sa vie, la vraie, est ailleurs, loin de ce monde où elle n’existe pas, loin de cette ville où elle n’est qu’un fantôme, une femme de plus venue grossir les rangs de celles qui croient encore qu’on ne réussit sa vie qu’à force de souffrances.
Raïssa n’a ni amis, ni vie sociale. Elle ne connaît de la ville que les adresses où elle travaille et serait bien en peine de situer la Place Rouge. Son univers se résume à ses patrons et ses compagnes d’infortune. Raïssa ne parle jamais à personne, ne se confie à personne et n’a aucune épaule protectrice sur laquelle s’épancher.
Car Raïssa sait qu’elle ne peut compter que sur elle-même. Son ardeur au travail est sa seule amie. Il ne saurait y avoir d’amitiés dans une vie de labeur et de douleur. Si l’une flanche, les autres se ruent sur elle pour se saisir du peu qu’elle avait et certaines vendraient volontiers leur âme si cela était nécessaire. Seul Dieu est encore son allié dans ce monde hostile.
Raïssa est condamnée à travailler et à se terrer dans l’antre ignoble qu’on lui loue au triple du prix du marché lors de ses instants de libre. Car Raïssa n’est pas en règle et elle craint toujours qu’un fonctionnaire trop zélé ne la renvoie d’où elle vient. Raïssa n’a jamais pu obtenir de visa de travail, et vit donc sur un visa d’affaires qu’elle doit renouveler tous les trois mois.
Chaque trimestre, Raïssa doit prendre le train pour rentrer chez elle. Elle n’a que quelques jours pour faire l’aller-retour. Elle risquerait de perdre ses clients si elle s’absentait trop longtemps. Et elle perdrait tant d’argent ! Car ses patrons ne la paient toujours qu’avec une semaine de retard, s’assurant ainsi qu’elle reviendra toujours. Si elle veut toucher son salaire, Raïssa ne peut manquer aucun jour de travail. Ni la maladie, ni la fatigue, ni le froid ne peuvent se mettre en travers de sa route. Mais Raïssa n’abandonne jamais. Elle a appris depuis longtemps que seule la persévérance conduit au salut.
Alors Raïssa se hâte de prendre son train, dans un wagon de troisième classe plein de femmes qui, comme elle, font la navette pour survivre. Raïssa ne reste chez elle que quelques jours, le temps de refaire son visa, de bêcher son jardin, laissé à l’abandon et de remplir sa valise de souvenirs. Quelques conserves de fruits ou de légumes et une pincée de sa terre, qu’elle cache dans ses sous-vêtements.
Car Raïssa sait qu’elle arrivera à Moscou dépouillée de tout ce qu’elle voulait rapporter. Les douaniers ukrainiens sont sans pitié et rackettent sans le moindre état d’âme toutes ces vieilles femmes fatiguées. Les conserves, l’argent, les souvenirs disparaissent dans les poches de ces fonctionnaires. Alors Raïssa protège ses quelques miettes de terre avec toute l’attention d’une mère.
Raïssa espère pourtant qu’un jour, il lui sera donné de quitter ce lieu de débauche pour rentrer chez elle. Elle prie Dieu chaque jour pour que ses enfants trouvent enfin du travail afin qu’elle puisse jouir d’un repos qu’elle qualifie volontiers de mérité.
Mais Raïssa sait aussi que son heure n’est pas encore venue. Assise, seule, dans la grande cour intérieure, emmitouflée dans une veste ouatée d’un gris sale et une chapka usée, Raïssa joue dans la neige avec ses pieds tout en regardant distraitement des enfants s’amuser. Un groupe de veilles femmes passe devant elle, pour rejoindre le banc des babushkas, vénérable institution sans laquelle les cours intérieures ne seraient plus vraiment des cours intérieures.
Raïssa fait le geste de se lever mais se reprend aussitôt. Elle aimerait parfois aller s’asseoir avec elles, leur parler, leur confier ses doutes, deviser tranquillement sur le triste état de l’Empire d’autrefois, sentir vibrer des cœurs à l’unisson du sien. Mais Raïssa n’est pas d’ici. Elle entend leurs conversations dans ce russe si parfait et elle a honte de son langage corsé et rude qui écorche les mots de cette langue qui n’est pas la sienne.
Les vieilles causeuses de la cour ne la regardent pas. Raïssa n’est pas tout à fait une babushka russe et ne le sera jamais. Elle n’est qu’une ombre, un fantôme qui n’a que la force de ses bras et de sa foi pour faire face au monde. Une femme d’ailleurs qui sait qu’elle ne peut compter sur personne et qui veut croire qu’elle n’a besoin de personne. Alors Raïssa ferme les yeux, inspire profondément, serre dans sa main engourdie par le froid sa petite croix qu’elle n’a jamais quitté et sait que tout finira par s’arranger car Dieu est là, quelque part, et veille sur elle.
Bonsoir Adeliner,
Je viens de découvrir tes portraits russes, et je ne peux que rejoindre le cortège de tes admirateurs! Tu écris magnifiquement bien. Merci pour ces bons moments. J'espère qu'il y en aura d'autres.
Amicalement,
Ben ça alors... j'avais même pas vu que tu avais répondu... il faut dire que je ne consulte jamais les alertes... alors forcément j'ai toujours trois ou quatre TGV de retard... 😉
Dans quelques jours, je vais revoir "Raïssa" et j'ai trop hâte... ça fait une éternité que je n'ai pas eu de nouvelles d'elle et ça me manque... ah! ce que j'ai hâte de repartir (je sais je me répète un peu, mais c'est plus fort que moi)...Une sacrée bonne femme, Raïssa, une grand-mère que tous ceux qui n'en ont jamais eu rêveraient d'avoir...
Je suis trop contente de partir... ça fait trop longtemps que je n'ai pas été en Russie pour autre chose que le boulot, j'ai parfois l'impression d'être trop loin de ce pays maintenant pour parler des gens. J'ai hâte de me reconnecter... ça me redonnera peut-être un peu d'inspiration...
Ce que j'écris n'est pourtant pas grand chose, par rapport à tout ce que j'ai ressenti dans ce pays... j'y retourne dans quelques jours, de quoi emplir ma petite tête de pleins de souvenirs... 🙂
Je viens de découvrir vos récits.
Merci de nous faire partager vos rencontres avec ces personnages attachants.
Ces portraits sont pleins d'humanité.
(je suis allée à Moscou et St Pétersbourg il y a 2 ans et j'y pense encore)
Croisière fluviale entre ST PETERSBOURG et MOSCOU du 10 au 20 juin 2018 C'est l'intitulé de cette croisière fluviale qui nous inspire, notre première en la…
Apres quelques mois, je vous propose un petit compte-rendu et quelques photos d'un voyage qui me tenait a coeur: Le transsiberien + un transfert au Japon,…
OÙ REPOSE IVAN? (Voyage à Stalingrad) Nous étions en plein hiver dans une agence de tourisme de St Pétersbourg; elle venait d’ouvrir et nous étions ses tout…
Nous venons juste de retourner de la Russie ou nous sommes allés passer la fête de Noël en famille (moi, ma femme, ma belle-mère et mes deux enfants), et…
"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...
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!
"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.
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!!!
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!
Hi everyone, I’m Patrick, 67 years old, a seasoned traveler (already 22 trips outside Europe).
In autumn 2025, I took my first 3-week trip to Japan, with stops in Tokyo, Kamakura, Matsumoto, Kamikochi, Takayama, Kanazawa, Kyoto, Nara, Osaka, Koyasan, Tokyo again, and Nikko.
I wanted to go back in May 2026 and explore some lesser-known places to complement my first trip.
Last year, there were four of us traveling together to discover Japan (a fairly classic itinerary). This time, I’ll be traveling solo for part of the trip and with a couple of French friends for the rest.
The weather was gorgeous in May, averaging around 25°C, with two very hot days in Kyoto and only two rainy days.
As usual, I organized everything myself, gathering plenty of information from various sites, including this one.
Transportation:
An ICOCA card is essential.
I got a 5-day Kansai-Hiroshima pass because I took the shinkansen between Hiroshima and Osaka three times, and it paid for itself quickly.
Accommodations:
Mostly through Booking. No issues at all. Average cost was 46 € per night.
Meals:
For breakfast, I alternated between buying food at a konbini to eat in my room or on the train and grabbing something at local cafés.
For lunch and dinner, I tried to vary my meals as much as possible—lots of sashimi, sushi, and ramen.
Okonomiyaki in Osaka and Hiroshima.
Oysters in every form (raw, grilled, fried) in Onomichi and Hiroshima.
A variety of seafood (shrimp, shellfish) in Hiroshima and Matsumoto.
Fish whose names often escaped me, but notably mackerel and eel (unagi).
Tempura and gyoza.
Chicken skewers (yakitori) and one teppanyaki meal.
One omakase meal (9 different dishes).
In the end, not much meat aside from a few yakitori skewers. No splurges on super expensive wagyu or Kobe beef.
Average dinner cost: 4,800 yen, drinks included.
The Itinerary:
Day 1: Departure from Brussels
Day 2: Arrival in Osaka
Day 3: To Himeji, then Kurashiki
Day 4: To Fukuyama, then Tomo no Ura, then Onomichi
Day 5: Cycling the Shimanami Kaido
Day 6: To Takahara, then Hiroshima
Day 7: To Kyoto to attend the Aoi Matsuri parade
Day 8: To Miyajima
Day 9: Hiroshima, then Kyoto
Day 10: Southern Kyoto
Day 11: Northern Kyoto
Day 12: Final day in Kyoto, then to Nagatsugawa
Day 13: Start of the Nakasendo Trail (Magome to Tsumago)
Day 14: Second day of the trail (Kiso Fukushima)
Day 15: Third day of the trail (Narai), then Matsumoto
Day 16: To Mt. Fuji (Kawaguchiko)
Day 17: To Tokyo
Day 18: Excursion to Enoshima and Kamakura
Day 19: Flight home, with a 10-hour layover in Hong Kong
Day 20: Arrival in Brussels
This time, I landed in Monastir on a direct flight from Nice, again with Tunisair. We left about ten minutes late, and the flight lasted around 1 hour 30 minutes. A meal was served on board (cucumber salad with Edam-like cheese, carrots, and two small portions of dishes I couldn’t identify—semolina with peppers, olives, and parsley, two small rolls, a square of processed cheese, and a chocolate cake). It’s worth noting because it’s not common on flights this short.
In February, France and Tunisia were in the same time zone, but now Tunisia is one hour behind. This time difference and the flight duration work perfectly for a short 15-day trip since it takes me a few days to adjust to jet lag.
Luckily, I’d asked my hotel about the taxi fare from the airport because the drivers (there were several around me) didn’t hesitate to quote outrageous prices. The actual fare is 20 dinars, but one asked for 120 dinars. I refused, and another offered 60 dinars. I replied, "That’s too expensive—I’ll take the metro!" (Having tried the Tunis metro, I had no desire to repeat the experience in Monastir with a suitcase!). I started walking toward the metro, and one of the drivers caught up with me, saying, "20 dinars is fine!" I’ll skip the details, but the negotiation took a little while.
When I arrived at the hotel, I told the receptionist someone had asked for 120 dinars. He put his hands to his head and said, "They’re awful!" He remembered our phone call two days earlier when I’d booked (he’s the one who told me I could take the metro).
The Mezri Hotel isn’t expensive. I got a sea-view room for 75 dinars (22 €). (I’d booked a balcony room for 90 dinars but wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it.) It’s well-located but noisy because there’s no double glazing.
The receptionist is a very kind older gentleman. He called a friend whose wife is from Tozeur to find out if I should take a bus or a *louage* tomorrow and what time.
I arrived at the hotel around 7:00 PM and had time to stroll along the corniche to the ribat. Despite some run-down buildings, the seaside seemed livelier and cheerier than Sousse’s.
Monastir is the hometown of former president Bourguiba. I passed his mausoleum by taxi. There are Tunisian flags along the avenue by the sea because every year on April 6—the anniversary of Habib Bourguiba’s death—the president of the Republic visits the Bourguiba Mausoleum in Monastir to pay respects.
The taxi driver mentioned other Tunisian presidents. He complained about rising prices and insecurity, blaming President Kaïs Saïed (I’d already heard that security was better under Ben Ali).
At the end of my stay, I’ll take time to explore Monastir, but tomorrow morning, I’m off to Tozeur—a long bus ride awaits me.
With my girlfriend Christelle, we’ve chosen South Africa for our first trip to Southern Africa, focusing on safaris—after a long debate with a Cape Town/Kruger combo.
But that would’ve meant cutting out St Lucia, which would’ve been harder to fit into another trip.
And St Lucia—thanks to Michel and all those travel journals—we really wanted to go there.
So our 11-night itinerary ended up like this, mostly shaped by school holidays:
- 3 nights in St Lucia
- 1 night in Hluhluwe
- 1 night at Mkhaya Game Reserve (Eswatini)
- 1 night at Hlane Royal National Park (Eswatini)
- 3 nights in Kruger (Berg en Dal / Satara / Tamboti)
- 1 night at Shindzela Tented Camp in the Timbavati private reserve
- 1 final night in Kruger at Lower Sabie
All of this in the off-season and rainy season, just a month after catastrophic floods that killed over 150 people and seriously damaged Kruger’s infrastructure.
I’ll jump straight to St Lucia and skip the loooong journey to get there (with a layover in Frankfurt, landing in Johannesburg, a domestic flight to Durban, and the rest by rental SUV—First Car Rental, perfect, no complaints).
To motivate readers—especially some familiar faces here—I’ll drop in a first photo.
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.
Here we go!!!
I left home at 4 AM on October 31st and headed to Barcelona. Driving through Barcelona on the ring road stresses me out a bit, but at 6 AM the traffic is smooth, and I arrive at the airport without any issues. I call the valet, who quickly comes to pick up my car. He takes photos of it from all angles before letting me go.
Baggage check-in hasn’t started yet, and there are already several of us waiting.
Once free, everything happens very quickly. The flight to Abu Dhabi is on time and goes smoothly. I’ve never had any problems with this airline, which I’ve been using for several years.
The flight to Bangkok arrives at 7 AM as scheduled. This is my first time in Thailand and Bangkok. I’m used to traveling in India, and I notice that everything here is well organized—the customs process is quick, and the luggage is already on the carousel.
I booked a taxi on Booking. All I have to do is find the right exit and door based on the agency’s instructions. A large sign with the names of people who booked is posted on a wall. A hostess greets me and calls the taxi, which arrives 5 minutes later. I booked one night at the Lost Inn BKK hotel in the Phra Nakhon district, and we arrive at 9 AM. The welcome isn’t warm, and I have to wait until noon, sitting on a chair, before I can check into my room. I’m exhausted, and sleeping sitting up isn’t ideal. Noon finally arrives—the room is small but clean, which is fine for one night. I quickly take a shower to wake up because I plan to spend the afternoon visiting the Grand Palace. First, I need to exchange some money, and the banks are all close together on the same street, which is very convenient. When I enter one, a hostess gives me a ticket and invites me to sit down. There are about twenty counters, and I wait quietly until my number is called. The exchange is quick, so I can head out to find the Royal Palace. It’s actually very easy, and the walk is pleasant.
Entry to the Royal Palace (500 baht).
It’s magnificent and grand, and there are quite a few of us visiting. The sky is gray, it’s very humid, and a shower interrupts the visit. It’s a vast complex of temples and palaces. The buildings are colorful and sparkling, with a great sense of serenity (without the tourists, of course). I quietly enjoy the place and try to take photos without tourists, which isn’t easy.
Very close to the Grand Palace is Wat Pho, one of the oldest Buddhist temples in the capital.
It’s very famous for its 46-meter-long reclining Buddha statue.
Walking around the temple, you can see different representations of Buddha, all covered in gold leaf.
Inside the temple, on one side, monks recite their prayers, while the other side is reserved for tourists who come to meditate in silence.
Before returning to the hotel, I have dinner at an Indian restaurant. I go to bed early because tomorrow’s wake-up call will be very early again.
Saturday, November 2nd
Wake-up at 4 AM, departure from the hotel at 4:30 AM. The taxi I booked via Booking is waiting for me and takes me to the airport. The trip is fairly quick—he takes small roads, and at this hour, there’s no traffic.
The flight to Phnom Penh is on time. Before boarding, I realize I left my fleece jacket on the carousel, but it’s too late to go back for it.
The flight goes well, and customs is quick.
At the exit, I take a tuk-tuk to Julieka’s GH near the museum. The welcome is friendly. I won’t be able to check into my room until noon, so I take the opportunity to exchange some euros on the market street. The street is lined with restaurants, and I’ll have my first meal there.
The museum is right across the street, so I don’t waste any time visiting it.
The representations of Hindu deities are very different from those in India, and I don’t recognize them. Many beautiful Buddhas are on display.
The museum is very pleasant, and there aren’t too many people, which is a plus.
At the exit, I return to the GH, settle into my room—which is decent and clean.
The Royal Palace is 1 km away. I walk along a garden, and at the end of the street is the Tonlé Sap, but I turn right. I arrive at a large esplanade and see the buildings with tiered roofs and glazed tiles. The entrance to the palace is a little further away.
At the entrance, I notice there isn’t the same crowd as at the one in BKK.
Khmer architecture is magnificent. The complex consists of gardens, palaces, pagodas with golden roofs, and slender spires.
The Silver Pagoda houses the small Emerald Buddha, which is actually made of jade. The silver flooring is covered with carpets. Photos are not allowed.
The walls surrounding the pagoda are covered with frescoes depicting scenes from the Ramayana.
My partner and I traveled from Sunday, July 5, 2026, to Wednesday, July 22, 2026.
We spent a long time debating whether to rent a car or use public transportation. In the end, after reading so many posts about travelers getting scammed by police or rental companies—even those recommended by blogs and reviews—we decided to stick with public transport. It worked out really well. Sure, we had a little less freedom to go where we wanted, but it was way less stressful for us.
Sunday, July 5:
Arrived at Cancun Airport. Withdrew cash from the ATM in the terminal just before exiting. The ADO bus counter (they pronounce it "A-Jee-O") is right behind you when you're facing the ATM. Bus to downtown Cancun cost 145 pesos per person.
Stayed at "Rose 5," booked on Booking. The studio was super clean and perfect for one night. The owner’s instructions for accessing the place were very precise, with photos included. Check-in was self-service with a code. The ADO bus terminal isn’t far, and there are shops and restaurants nearby. We really appreciated that the AC was already on when we arrived. By the way, I’d recommend always booking places with AC—it’s *really* hot in Mexico.
Monday, July 6:
Bought a SIM card with data from a TELCEL store. My partner, who’s on Free Mobile, was able to use her regular plan. Just so you know, I found the network pretty unstable. As soon as we left the cities, neither of us—me with TELCEL or her with Free—had any signal.
Another thing to watch out for: roaming charges. I had to turn my SIM back on for less than 30 seconds to get a bank SMS code, and my phone apparently connected to the internet—resulting in an 8-euro roaming fee.
Left on an ADO bus to Chiquila for 278 pesos per person. During our trip, ADO buses were always on time, comfortable, and clean. The AC is *cranked* though, so bring something to cover up with—it gets cold. Some routes were fully booked even in the low season, so try to reserve 1 or 2 days in advance either via the app (when it works) or at the counter.
When we arrived at the ADO terminal in Chiquila, the ferry company counters were right next to it. Ferries leave every 30 minutes, alternating between companies, so no need to book ahead. Just take whichever one is leaving next (330 pesos per person).
When we got to Holbox (pronounced "Hol-bosh"), we’d booked a place via Booking called "Casa de Nana." It was a huge studio with a fridge, cooking plate, and utensils. The best part? The *location*. It was 100 meters from the beach and 200 meters from a Chedraui supermarket. They provided bath towels and beach towels, and the AC worked perfectly. There’s a key box so you can leave your keys inside when you go out. The only downside was that no one was there to let us in when we arrived, so we had to wait a while. The Wi-Fi was good, which was lucky because during our 4-day stay in Holbox, the phone network *never* worked. According to locals, that’s pretty common in Holbox, along with water outages.
Luckily, I’d had the good idea to download an offline map, which helped us find our way back to the place more easily. You can walk there from the dock.
The restaurant next to our place (La Barracuda) was great if you like seafood—I’d recommend their octopus dishes.
Tuesday, July 7:
We did a kayak tour in Holbox’s mangroves at 6 AM. We were looking for a sunrise kayak tour with a French-speaking guide. That’s exactly what we got with "Kayaking Holbox," where Diego, the owner, speaks English and French. He was joined by Gustavo, another guide.
We’d booked for a group tour, but we were the only ones. Diego still went ahead with it instead of canceling due to lack of participants, so we got a private tour at the group rate—really professional of him. They showed us this amazing ecosystem for over 3 hours. We saw all kinds of birds: pink flamingos, pelicans, egrets, frigatebirds... rays, a horseshoe crab, and a little crocodile that was *so* well hidden. Diego and Gustavo have a real eye for spotting animals—I could’ve passed by the crocodile 100 times and never seen it, it blended in so well. Their explanations about the flora and fauna were super interesting. We also got a little break where we tasted mangoes and bananas that taste *nothing* like the ones in France. A real treat—those little Mexican yellow mangoes! I’d definitely recommend Diego and his agency for a French-language kayak tour (1000 pesos per person).
In the evening, we walked to Punta Coco to see the bioluminescence. No need for a guided tour—if you really don’t want to walk, you can take a taxi. At Punta Coco, you have to pass the beach bar/restaurant and then go left into a kind of inlet that forms a lagoon. You have to wiggle your feet or move your hands in the water to create movement, which makes the light appear. Just don’t expect the kind of photos you’ve seen online—they’re all edited! It’s fun to see, but you won’t be dazzled by the light...
Wednesday, July 8:
Whale shark tour with "My Holbox Tours." Why recommend this agency over others for swimming with whale sharks? Simply because Valérie surrounds herself with top professionals to make your experience unforgettable. We were with Captain Fernando, who does everything to position the boat perfectly and make your swim easier. In the water, we were with Humberto, who also goes above and beyond to make sure you have an incredible time. He doesn’t just "supervise" like some guides from other companies who leave you on your own. No, Humberto reads the whale shark’s trajectory and guides you—all you have to do is follow him. He really puts in the effort, even holding your hand to guide you through this quick but intense encounter. Humberto also films the moment and will offer to show you the videos and sell them to you. His footage is really high quality.
Fernando and Humberto also prepared food for us. Special mention for their guacamole! Valérie is there to make sure everything goes smoothly on the boat and to answer your questions in French, English, or Spanish about these animals. If you choose My Holbox Tours, you can be sure you’ll get a top-notch experience.
About the tour itself: before you go, you should know that the sharks can be *really* far away. The day we went, it took 3.5 hours by boat to reach them. The boats are small, and let me tell you—on the way there, when we weren’t going with the waves, it was *rough*. Out of 9 passengers, 4 got seasick. But once you’re face-to-face with the shark, you forget all about that. Even if swimming with a whale shark isn’t exactly a walk in the park—they swim pretty fast, so you need some endurance to keep up. You’ll usually get 2 turns. Our first swim lasted a little over 4 minutes, and the second about 2 minutes because the shark was moving fast and we were still tired from the first swim. It might seem short, but when you’re swimming, it feels *long*. Either way, it’s an experience you *have* to do—but choose your company wisely. On the way back, there’s a stop at Cabo Catoche. Honestly, the snorkeling is pretty disappointing if you’ve done it elsewhere in the world. But the lunch stop at Cabo Catoche is really nice for relaxing (white sand and hammocks).
Thursday, July 9:
Short morning walk to Punta Mosquito at 6 AM. Really nice.
Ferry to Chiquila (330 pesos per person) + ADO bus to Valladolid (300 pesos per person).
In Valladolid, we booked "Casa Lucia" via Booking. The hotel is gorgeous, with a colonial style, and very close to the ADO bus terminal and downtown. It’s super quiet and clean. There’s a shared kitchen you can use with a fridge, microwave, and water dispenser, plus a big table by the pool and a nice indoor terrace. Breakfast was simple but included. The only small downsides were the tiny room and bathroom, no mirror in the room, and a noisy fan.
Friday, July 10:
Not far from the ADO bus terminal is the colectivo station for Chichen Itza. They offer a round-trip to Chichen Itza with an option to stop at Ik Kil cenote on the way back and then drop you off in Valladolid for 370 pesos per person (Ik Kil entrance included).
For the Chichen Itza visit, we’d booked a tour with a guide often mentioned in groups—his name is Juan Pat. He’s a Maya who lives near the site and speaks excellent French. He reserves spots in advance for you and queues up to be the first on-site. It cost 500 pesos per person + entrance fees. His tour lasts 2 hours and focuses mainly on the main pyramid and the ball court. He’s passionate and fascinating, even if some of his claims, as a Maya, might be a little biased. I think it’s *really* important to have a guide—otherwise, you’ll miss so much. You can contact Juan Pat on WhatsApp at +52 985 121 2381.
Afterward, we went to Ik Kil cenote (showers and life jackets mandatory, lockers available). It’s *very* crowded, but still really beautiful with its lush vegetation.
Saturday, July 11:
Since we didn’t have a car but still wanted to visit other cenotes that seemed hard to reach by public transport, we decided to book a taxi for the day. We agreed on 1200 pesos to take us to 3 different cenotes and wait for us at each one. (To find taxis, just look where they park near the ADO bus station.)
He picked us up at Zaci cenote, which we’d walked to. We got there at opening time and were the first ones there—had the place to ourselves for a while! 150 pesos per person. A pretty cenote in the city center with lush vegetation. It’s a bit like Ik Kil but without the deep cylindrical effect.
Cenote Xcanahaltun: the most beautiful cenote we visited. Entry 250 pesos per person. It’s a closed cenote with a hole that lets light in—a cave-like setting. You can kayak inside. There are little fish at the edge that nibble dead skin off your feet. Since it’s closed, the water is *freezing*!
Cenote Palomitas: entry 250 pesos per person. Another stunning closed cenote, even more enclosed than Xcanahaltun. The hole in the ceiling is smaller, so it was pretty dark when we arrived—kind of an eerie vibe. But when the staff turned on the lights, it looked like a "Gothic cathedral" full of bright stalactites.
Cenote Sac Aua: entry 290 pesos per person. The ticket includes a guided cave tour (tip-based). This cenote is really unique with its central island and way less crowded than Suytun. Just so you know, the water is *really* cold in cenotes. In these three, in July, we had the place to ourselves for a while and never saw more than 2 families at once—so peaceful!
Sunday, July 12:
ADO bus to Bacalar (536 pesos per person).
In Bacalar, we stayed via Airbnb with a host named Luli, who offers several rooms with shared bathroom and kitchen.
The room is nicely decorated in a pleasant setting. It’s ideally located near the lagoon and downtown. The shared kitchen is handy. The mosquito net over the bed is useful because there are *a lot* of mosquitoes in Bacalar. Luli provides a water jug, which is really nice. The only big downside is the lack of water pressure in the shower—we had to rinse off by filling a bucket. Also, there’s no real door separating the room from the bathroom. We never met Luli in person, but she was very responsive via messages. The terrace in the middle of the vegetation is lovely.
From the ADO terminal to the place, we took a taxi for 40 pesos. Since this driver was honest about the price (we’d checked beforehand), we decided to use him every time we needed a taxi in Bacalar. Here’s his WhatsApp: +52 983 184 3585.
Monday, July 13:
We did a boat tour on the lagoon with "Bacalar Francophone Activities." Since we were just the two of us, it cost 3500 pesos. If we’d managed to be 4 people, it would’ve been 1000 pesos per person.
We had a private 4-hour tour on the lagoon with Steeve and his very comfortable boat. He’s from Quebec, so his French is perfect. During those 4 hours, Steeve showed us the lagoon’s iconic spots *and* places other boats don’t go. He told us about the lagoon’s history and gave great tips on where to go and where to eat. As a little bonus, he gave us a video taken with his drone during our swimming break.
Tuesday, July 14:
We went to Los Rapidos by taxi (400 pesos round trip) and entry was 225 pesos per person. It’s *very* touristy but really beautiful. You can eat there (expensive), relax, and go down the "rapids" as many times as you want. It’s worth it if you spend a few hours there. You can’t bring in food or drinks—you leave them at the entrance and pick them up on the way out.
Wednesday, July 15:
On Wednesdays, navigation is banned on Bacalar Lagoon, so we’d planned another excursion.
Visit to Calakmul from Bacalar with ABCtours (WhatsApp +52 983 319 8359).
This agency organized a trip from Bacalar to Calakmul with a French-speaking guide. Communication beforehand via WhatsApp was smooth. Mr. Checo, the driver, and Fernando, the guide (who spoke great French), picked us up on the day. Mr. Checo drove very carefully on the long road and always made sure we were comfortable. Fernando is passionate about flora and fauna—he’s a biologist with a degree in ornithology, so he knows *everything* about animals. The slightest sound or song, and he knows what it is. He’s got an eye for spotting them, from the biggest to the smallest.
During the trip, we stopped at km 27 for a short forest walk, then went to see the two main pyramids on the site. On the way back, we stopped at the bat cave for the magical spectacle of millions of bats flying out at dusk. In the end, we saw or glimpsed (some briefly) spider monkeys, howler monkeys, a toucan, 2 tapirs, turkeys, 2 deer, and lots of birds. If, like us, you’re more into flora and fauna than archaeology, I’d *highly* recommend this agency and tour with Fernando.
It’s not cheap, but the road between Bacalar and the site is *long* (3.5 hours). Price: 3900 pesos per person for 2 (3500 for 3, 3200 for 4).
Thursday, July 16:
ADO bus to Playa del Carmen (614 pesos per person).
In Playa del Carmen, we stayed in an Airbnb. The building is on the town hall square, next to the casino.
The best thing about this place is the *location*—super close to Fifth Avenue (La Quinta). The kitchen is pretty basic, but the fridge works well. There are supermarkets nearby. The rooftop pool is really nice. The two big downsides, though, are the soundproofing (you can *hear* the neighbor’s alarm and all the events on the square) and the *total* lack of water pressure in the shower. We had to fill a trash can with water to pour over ourselves. When we told the owner, he said it wasn’t normal and someone would come fix it, but we never heard back. Based on previous reviews, this seems to be a known issue that never gets resolved.
Playa del Carmen is *very* touristy on Fifth Avenue, but in a fun, musical vibe—we never felt unsafe. There are *tons* of little souvenir shops for tourists on this street. There’s a beautiful monumental sculpture on the beach (the two figures meeting in the air), next to which you can see the Voladores show (men climbing a pole, tying themselves with ropes, and descending headfirst while "flying" around the pole). The show is tip-based and happens several times a day. In our opinion, Calle 38 is prettier than Fifth Avenue—it’s lush, green, and quieter, with the sea at the end. Great for an early evening stroll. We had really good meals at great prices at "El Tio Noy" tacos, just a few meters from Fifth Avenue in a side street.
For souvenirs, we’d recommend going to Walmart instead of Fifth Avenue—you’ll find skulls, tequila, mezcal, keychains, mugs, glasses... at good, fixed prices.
Friday, July 17:
We did the excursion to Isla Contoy. Isla Contoy is an uninhabited, highly protected island. Only 200 people are allowed to land per day on a rotating basis, so only a few companies have permission to dock there. Most agencies subcontract the day to a third-party company.
We booked through VRM (Viviendo Riviera Maya), but it was Ocean Tours Mexico that handled the tour. Contoy is a little paradise. We were accompanied by multilingual guides, including French speakers, throughout the day. Steffy gave us info about the island during a short walk on the marked trails, and Leño Tlatemoa kept the mood up on the boat rides with music and dancing. Isla Contoy is *truly* stunning, and the lunch was delicious: grilled fish and chicken, guacamole and tortilla chips, rice, fruit, drinks (everything is brought and taken back by the guides). The snorkeling part was pretty disappointing if you’ve done it in Cozumel, though. The stop at Isla Mujeres isn’t very interesting either—it’s too short to explore, and the island is *extremely* touristy. Still, the excursion was very well organized, and we had a great day (2970 pesos per person).
Saturday, July 18:
We wanted to go snorkeling in Cozumel but thought the prices from French-speaking agencies were too high. Plus, for snorkeling, we figured we didn’t *need* a French-speaking guide.
So we found a much cheaper solution by taking the ferry from Playa del Carmen ourselves and choosing an agency in Playa. The round-trip ferry cost 663.50 pesos per person. Then we took a taxi to the snorkeling boat (100 pesos). The agency we chose is called Mystic Snorkel—they don’t have a physical office. The tour cost 1400 pesos per person. It was a small boat, but that day we were the only ones, so we got a private tour at the group rate. We stopped at 4 different sites, all very different and beautiful. We saw all kinds of fish, corals, a nurse shark, and turtles. El Cielo, with its huge starfish, is *exceptional*. If you’re going snorkeling in the Yucatan Peninsula, this is *the* tour to do—the other sites are pretty "poor" in comparison.
Sunday, July 19:
Morning dive with Triton Diving. I chose the Cozumel dive option. Great experience.
Booking via WhatsApp was easy. On the day of the dive, Selene, who speaks French, was our guide. She’s *very* attentive to the group’s safety. The briefings are clear and precise. In Cozumel, we did 2 very different sites: the first was a drift dive with lots of life—beautiful corals and fish. The second was a wreck, the C53, a 56-meter boat you can enter. Not much marine life, but a beautiful wreck intentionally sunk for divers—still in great condition. An unforgettable moment. Selene even took videos during the dive, which the club sends you for free afterward. I’d *highly* recommend this club.
Just so you know, in Playa del Carmen, the beaches were full of sargassum during our stay, despite barriers and daily cleanup. Locals told us the problem is getting worse and the sargassum is arriving earlier in the season. Tourism has taken a *big* hit this summer, and they’re wondering if tourism can even survive the sargassum season anymore. A lot of tourists are heading to the islands—Isla Mujeres and Cozumel—to enjoy the beaches, as the west side of those islands is sargassum-free.
Monday, July 20:
Colectivo to Puerto Morelos. First, a colectivo toward Cancun that drops you off between Puerto Morelos town and Puerto Morelos beach (40 pesos per person), then another from that junction to the beach (10 pesos per person).
In Puerto Morelos, we’d booked a room via Airbnb at "Piedra del Caribe." *Best* place we stayed in Mexico. It’s an aparthotel. Our room was ready before check-in, so they let us in early. The place matched the description—spacious, with a comfortable king-size bed. The shower had *great* pressure, which isn’t a given in Mexico. The staff was super friendly and welcoming. They let us use the pool, restrooms, and rooftop shower after check-out while we waited for our ride to Cancun Airport. They even kept our luggage. I *highly* recommend this place.
In Puerto Morelos, there was *way* less sargassum than in Playa del Carmen—it was actually swimmable.
We did the snorkeling tour with the fishermen’s cooperative for 450 pesos per person for 2 hours. The reef is close to the beach (you’re not allowed to swim there), so the boat ride is short. It’s not as pretty as Cozumel, but it’s nice and affordable. On Puerto Morelos’s page, you can also access a small, not-very-well-preserved reef. There’s also a cenote in the sea where fresh water mixes with saltwater—the water is murky there. We had a great dinner and excellent cocktails at "La Choza del Puerto."
Tuesday, July 21:
Wandered around Puerto Morelos (check out the church and read everything—it’s entertaining!), relaxed by the hotel pool, and left for Cancun Airport by taxi (400 pesos) booked via InDrive to head back to France.
Our highlights:
- Holbox
- The whale shark tour
- The cenotes
- The local flora and fauna (so present!)
- Isla Contoy
- Cabo Catoche (except for the snorkeling)
What we liked least:
- The bioluminescence (barely visible despite good conditions)
- The food—we found it not very diverse in taquerias
- The constant tipping
- The lack of water pressure in showers (fixed, wall-mounted, no hose or showerhead)
Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions while it’s still fresh in our minds.
Traveling with just one spare pair of underwear, considering a hot shower a miracle, never staying in the same place too long by sleeping wherever night catches us, taking whatever local, improbable, and rickety transport we can find—this is the DNA of us wanderers. Except this time, the script for our movie is going to be a whole different genre. On paper, the destination doesn’t exactly scream epic adventure: Réunion! And what’s more... we won’t be two, or four, or even ten. We’ll be a solid thirty. All from the same family. Yes, thirty. At this point, it’s not just a trip—it’s a summer camp on the move! Why inflict this on such a peaceful island? Because my brother decided to get married there with his lovely bride. A great idea, you might say... especially when it involves relocating the equivalent of a small Ardennes village 10,000 kilometers from home for three weeks! So who’s stepping up to be the guide and wave the little flag?
So, for an exceptional trip, exceptional stories! Don’t worry, the debates at the supermarket over whether to choose plain chips or roast chicken chips, the beach picnics washed down with ti’ punch, and other rougail sausages to digest by the pool will only make it into the family archives. Here, I’ll stick to the tales of our beautiful escapes, the ones where we explore the wild corners of this little volcanic rock planted in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So where exactly are we headed?
For the first week—the subject of this first installment—we’re taking it easy. We’ll start by rediscovering the coastline, from the Souffleur in Saint-Leu to the Hermitage lagoon, before a little trip to the Cirque de Cilaos and its legendary road with 400 turns, just to get our legs warmed up.
This travel journal is therefore intended solely for my photos, to present a consistent style.
All the shots were taken with a simple Samsung Galaxy smartphone and with whatever was at hand.
All stays combined, I’ve spent the equivalent of three years at most in Thailand, and I’m not a big expert on the country.
However, after many trips, lots of reading on VoyageForum and other sites, and conversations with many locals as well as expats, my view of the country is becoming clearer, though it’s constantly evolving. You never stop discovering and learning.
I guess I wanted to piece together a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who miss it.
I don’t know if this minimalist sharing will interest anyone, but it’ll do me good to put it together. After so many months without traveling and then these other long months with VF closed, there’s plenty of material available.
There’ll be a mix of places, periods, and subjects, but it might well be intentional.
I suspect many Thais have dogs because they make excellent guards for the home. Nothing better to deter burglars or to signal the presence of a snake. You’ll often see Thais tapping the top of their dog’s head, but don’t be fooled: it’s a sign of affection from them. Judging by the dogs’ reactions, they’re used to it.
Thailand is one of the countries on the planet where rabies is still present, so keep that in mind. It’s not just bites that can be dangerous, so don’t let just any dog lick you. Especially on a wound, of course.
Even though dogs often fear humans—this dangerous and unpredictable predator—we still need to stay cautious.
Be careful when walking into alleys because the dog will defend its master’s big property, be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs.
It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t really made for walking around, and dogs are one of the reasons.
That said, it’s not uncommon to see them chasing bikes or scooters. Cars, though, are much rarer—they’re too big.
It seems Thais prefer to give their dogs freedom by not locking them behind gates. Though sometimes the gate is closed, the little side door is wide open. Oh, and sometimes there’s no gate in front of the property, or it’s been broken for years.
You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the side of the road, sometimes right on the road. When you arrive, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, which reminds visitors not to drive too fast. As a result, you’ll notice that dogs with injuries or missing legs aren’t that rare.
Since they believe in reincarnation and respect for all forms of life, they don’t chase dog packs away too much, and they don’t sterilize them enough. Seeing a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you might think it’s best not to cross paths with them at the edge of a field.
A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at temples on the brink of death, enduring terrible suffering. No one did anything about it. The image (and the smell) of one of them, dying and emitting the stench of death, still comes back to me sometimes.
Some of you may have seen the YouTube vlog of a French woman living in Phuket who was given a little pig by her Thai friends. The well-fed animal quickly became a happy, enormous beast with its own garden. Yet, it didn’t take long for it to fall seriously ill and become incurable. In her video, the French woman described how difficult it was to find a vet willing to perform euthanasia.
You’ll often see bowls by the side of the road. Thais leave food and water in them for stray cats and dogs. Overall, they have a big heart for animals.
If you ever pop into a shopping mall, you might see people pushing their small dogs in strollers. It’s not a gimmick—it’s just that these strollers are provided for customers to put their pets in, otherwise you can’t bring them inside. It looks a bit odd when you expect to see a baby.
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather,
A season that only exists in the southwest of America,
I remember very well what I told you that morning
A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago...
We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...
Here we go—finally, the big day has arrived! A trip the whole family (my two kids, my husband, and me) had been looking forward to for so long.
To keep it short, we left from Nice, arrived in Namibia on June 25, 2025, and left again on the 21st—four weeks later.
We used an agency for all the camping reservations, activities, and the car rental. At least that side of things was taken care of. Michaël was our contact throughout the planning and the trip itself.
We spent our first night at Londiningi BB. A bit out of the city center but very quiet. The rooms were spacious and clean, and we could eat on-site that evening. Perfect for recovering from the flight.
This travel journal is our second on VoyageForum, following last year’s where we recounted our four weeks in Vietnam.
The goal remains the same: since some members on this site share tips, experiences, and great deals that help us prepare for our trips, we do the same after returning—both to give back a little and in the hope that our experiences might be useful to others in some way.
Our route was as follows: Bangkok, Siem Reap, Krabi, Suratthani, Koh Phangan, Koh Tao, Chumphon, Bang Saphan, Prachuab Khiri Khan, Sam Roi Yod, Hua Hin, Phetchaburi, Bangkok.
Beyond rediscovering Bangkok, our objectives were the long-held dream of seeing Angkor and exploring southern Thailand, much of which isn’t overly touristy.
A quick big thank-you to Barbot, who took the time to answer several of our questions.
12/07/2013
The cheapest flight we found earlier this year was a Paris-Bangkok route with a layover in Moscow for 1440 €, total for two people.
So, this time we tried Aeroflot. Airbus A318 for the first leg, A330 for the second. Nothing particularly annoying to report—the passengers were very calm, the cabin temperature was comfortable, and we had enough legroom.
That said, the quality of the meal trays was pretty mediocre, and the flight attendants weren’t exactly comedians.
We’d like to remind everyone that it’s best to exchange as little money as possible at the airport upon arrival, since the rate is about 5% worse than at city banks.
Of course, we made sure to take the airport exit where you can catch official taxis to avoid getting scammed. So, we queued up, a little lady gave us the ticket, and off we went with the driver.
Generally, this system works well because these drivers are registered, know their duties, and the risks they face if they break the rules. Except that day, right off the bat, we got the scammer of the day. His first move was to snatch the ticket from my wife’s hands—the one you’re supposed to keep in case of a complaint. My husband saw it, but after a full day of travel, we were a bit out of it, and honestly, there was no reason to be suspicious. But once we started driving, the guy refused to turn on the meter. We insisted more and more firmly, but nothing. So, I used the famous method of opening the door and starting to step out of the car. At 40 km/h, that scares the driver more than the passenger. He finally turned on the meter, but that didn’t calm him down—quite the opposite. For the next half-hour, he ruined the ride by demanding extra fees here and there. Having dealt with several scam attempts last year in Vietnam, this wasn’t exactly new, and we were proud of ourselves for staying pretty zen. Still, this guy was a little scary—he was completely wired and aggressive. Honestly, it was hard not to think he was on something. He’d be perfect for a *Scarface* remake. When we finally arrived at the hotel, he followed us to the entrance. We paid the two tolls (25 and 45 baht), gave him the usual 100 baht extra for the ride, and stayed polite but firm. So, meter: 245 baht + 100 baht + 25 and 45 baht for tolls—we paid the exact amount, no way we were tipping this guy. He left furious, but he was already like that before picking us up... Anyway, avoid Mr. Chartree Chidchen, number 089 826 7308, car E2663!
We were so relieved to finally settle in at Feung Nakorn Balcony hotel in the temple district. 42 € per night, great reception, all the staff is friendly. The AC works fine, the bed seemed hard at first but turned out to be comfortable. The hotel is quiet, away from the nightlife, but at this time of year, many places are less crowded than in high season. Even with a nice fish pond and outdoor breakfast area, it’s a decent hotel, though we felt we could’ve found something better.
After a night on the plane, the first afternoon is always a bit of a slog. We napped for a few hours, and when we woke up—guess what—we were starving. We visited a temple across from the hotel (nothing special) and then decided to take the Chao Phraya Express, the river shuttle that serves many piers along the river. It was a really enjoyable experience. The steel gangway wobbles when you board and disembark, the boat sits low in the water, and sometimes you get splashed. During peak times, you’re packed in like sardines, but most of all, there’s that exotic urban landscape passing by, especially the temple rooftops.
At that exact moment, the boat was packed. We didn’t see a ticket booth at the pier, and we tried in vain to pay the few baht for the ride. The cashier on the boat was too busy, and another employee we called didn’t have time to help us. Oh well, we weren’t going to force the issue. Still, this mode of transport is super practical for avoiding traffic, and at the piers, the lines with station names are clearly marked, with colors matching the flags on the boats. Combined with a map like the *Routard* guide, it’s easy to navigate.
We easily made it to the restaurant *Harmonique*, located near one of these piers. It’s a unanimous favorite on this forum, and let us tell you—it’s well-deserved. What a wonderful experience that evening! We only saw the outdoor gazebo because there was no way we were dining inside. It’s not flashy, so those looking for a luxurious setting should look elsewhere.
That night, the staff was a bit slow, and we had to track them down several times to move things along. But oh, my friends—what a feast on the plate! Start with the appetizer platter for two at 250 baht, featuring four specialties, each more tempting than the last, followed by their famous crab curry for 200 baht. There’s *so much* crab in there! The dish is so delicious and rich that when you finish, you feel—how to put it—like it was almost *too* good, to the point where you’re almost put off eating for days. And also, oh yes, we *will* be back. Their satay chicken is just as amazing, and it would be a crime not to mention their generous dessert with ice cream, warm banana, and chocolate, plus their *excellent* almond milkshake.
Later, we took a taxi to Kao San Road, mainly to book a Ko Tao-Chumphon trip for 600 baht per person at the Lomprayah counter. In hindsight, we should’ve booked all three of our trips there right away.
Kao San Road is *ultra*-touristy—better for younger crowds, but it’s still worth seeing. There’s rock ‘n’ roll, hippies, and crowds everywhere.
We walked back to the hotel, and when we got a little lost near a canal, a really nice older Thai man spontaneously appeared out of the night to kindly point us in the right direction.
Finally, a real long night of sleep ahead—we cranked up the AC. Sweet, the vacation has begun!
Hi there,
I just got back from a trip to Sri Lanka from December 18th to January 1st with 2 adults and 2 kids (12 years old).
If it helps, here’s my itinerary.
We left on December 18th from Madrid with Qatar Airways. No complaints. I booked my tickets back in March for 800 € per person. (I flew from Madrid because I live near the Spanish border and was too worried about strikes in France.)
We arrived on December 19th at 4 PM (local time). Before leaving France, I’d booked a taxi through MyTransfer for 59 € to Sigiriya. A van was waiting for us at the airport exit.
A never-ending 3-hour drive to Sigiriya. We stayed at Samana Guesthouse—very simple, clean, with a pool and an excellent Sri Lankan breakfast. Shower and straight to bed.
Friday, December 20th: Beautiful weather, but very humid and hot. We visited Lion Rock (36 € for adults) and then Pidurangala.
I loved both sites—they’re a must-do in my opinion.
Spent the late afternoon by the pool.
Saturday, December 21st: Another gorgeous day. The guesthouse manager offered us a free 2-hour tuk-tuk tour. We first visited a lake, rice fields, the temple, and the Sigiriya market, plus the usual tourist trap—the botanical garden (no pressure to buy anything at the end).
Then we took a tuk-tuk to Dambulla Temple, the Golden Buddha, and the wholesale market.
Sunday, December 22nd: Still beautiful weather. I’d booked a taxi for 8 AM. We did all the long trips by taxi to save time. I’d ask for prices from 2 or 3 WhatsApp taxi agencies 2 days or the day before—super responsive, always got replies within 5 minutes. We headed to Ella (4-hour drive) for 22,000 LKR.
Arrived in the afternoon at Rest Full Homestay—a small, family-run guesthouse. Clean, cozy, and an amazing Sri Lankan breakfast.
In the afternoon, we went to Nine Arches Bridge. It was a Sunday, a Sri Lankan holiday, so it was *packed*—mostly locals and very few white tourists! Even though it was crowded, it was cool because it was all Sri Lankans. We waited an hour for the train. It’s worth seeing, but honestly, I didn’t think it was that amazing.
Then we headed to the station to check if we needed to book tickets for the train to Haputale—turns out, no.
Monday, December 23rd: Beautiful weather. We hiked Ella Rock—a gorgeous trek. The final stretch is steep but shaded, so it wasn’t as tough as I’d read. The whole hike is stunning from start to finish. We saw the train pass twice (one blue, one red) and lots of women picking tea.
After that, we did Little Adam’s Peak. It’s not hard, but it was *packed* with tourists—meh. Luckily, at the top, you can walk a bit farther (down one side and back up) to get some space to yourself.
What I *didn’t* like was the commercial vibe at the big café/restaurant with a pool at the entrance of Little Adam’s Peak. Loud music, all that money being made right next to little souvenir stands run by Sri Lankans or tea-picking women. Felt off.
Ended the day buying souvenirs at one of the few shops we found during the trip.
Tuesday, December 24th: Beautiful weather. Took the train to Haputale. We got to the station 30 minutes before the 9:30 AM train. We could’ve taken 2nd or 3rd class—I went with 2nd (160 LKR per person).
It was crowded, but we managed to get seats—first 2, then 3. Only a 1-hour ride, but I *loved* it—windows and doors open the whole time.
Arrived in Haputale around 11 AM, and the mist was already rolling in.
We walked to our guesthouse, The Mist Holiday Bungalow. Simple but clean, with a great view of the tea plantations. The owner’s wife is Vietnamese and used to work for French tour operators, so her French is still pretty good—helpful for us since our English is terrible. They booked us a tuk-tuk for 4:45 AM the next day (2,000 LKR) to Lipton’s Seat.
Spent the afternoon wandering around Haputale. Not much charm, but there’s a nice fruit and veggie market and a short walk through the tea plantations.
Wednesday, December 25th: Beautiful weather. The tuk-tuk was on time to take us to Lipton’s Seat. We were the first ones there—the sky was just starting to turn pink. In the end, only about ten of us watched the sunrise. The guesthouse had packed us breakfast, and we walked back down (half on the road, half through the plantations). Didn’t see any tea picking since it was Christmas, but the walk was still incredible. We took detours through villages full of kids.
After that, we visited the tea factory. The tour was really interesting, and we took the bus back down to Haputale. Such a great moment—whole families were heading to mass, dressed up and made up. All so beautiful.
At noon, we left for Udawalawe National Park. Taxi for 14,000 LKR. Stayed at River Inn Safari Cottage. *Warning*: It’s the same place as Eagle Safari Cottage. I don’t recommend it. We’d always stayed with families before, but here it was just staff—totally different vibe. The pool was nice but not very clean (water was murky). The bungalow was big and fine, but it was brand new—so new the asphalt floor wasn’t fully dry. It’s in the middle of nowhere, so we had to eat on-site. Couldn’t leave a review on Booking because they never confirmed we’d stayed, and they canceled our reservation the next day.
Thursday, December 26th: Beautiful weather. I’d booked a safari through the hotel for 5:30–10 AM for 54 USD. Honestly, yes, there are a lot of jeeps, but it was great. The kids loved it—we saw everything there was to see.
Left by taxi at 11:30 AM for Welligama (12,000 LKR).
We didn’t stay in Welligama city but at Coconut Beach, between Welligama and Midigama. *Total crush* on the guesthouse: Sky Mountain Café with View. Such a lovely family. The mom makes amazing meals at reasonable prices. The view from the hill over the sea is unreal.
Spent the afternoon walking along the beach.
Friday, December 27th: Beautiful weather. My kids are surfers. Unfortunately, there weren’t any boards their size to rent at Coconut, so we took a tuk-tuk to Welligama Bay (1,000 LKR). They surfed from 8 AM to 5 PM—rental was 5,000 LKR for the day. Meanwhile, we walked the beach and swam. Water was 29°C.
Saturday, December 28th: Beautiful weather, rain from 4 PM until midnight. Same surf day. They were so well-behaved the whole trip, so this was their reward.
Sunday, December 29th: Beautiful weather. Beach day at Coconut. *Warning*: It’s a reef break. For surfers, there are three spots (Coconut Left, Middle, and Right). The boys bodysurfed (with fins) all morning, and at 1 PM, we took the bus to Hikkaduwa.
Stayed at Hotel Universal Beach. Nothing special—right on the water, but the rooms were dark even though they were clean. The manager was super nice, but the rest was meh, and breakfast was mediocre compared to what we’d had before (2 eggs and 3 slices of toast). Plus, it was late—8 AM.
First impression of Hikkaduwa wasn’t great—way too many Russians for our taste.
Monday, December 30th: Beautiful weather. Spent the whole day exploring. Turtle Beach, then the other side of the beach (toward Galle) near the fishing port. The beach there is much wider, with scattered hotels and super quiet. It’s beautiful—I should’ve booked somewhere in that area. Ended up having a great day away from the crowds.
Tuesday, December 31st: Overcast, then beautiful, rain at 4 PM. Had to end the year (and the trip) with some surf. Rented boards for the kids (3,000 LKR per board for the day). Bad luck—the waves were on a reef break but small. Not great for them, but no big deal. They still got out of the water by 2 PM. Walked the beach (which is gorgeous), had a juice, and went for a swim. Then back to surfing in the rain at 4 PM.
Wednesday, January 1st: Left by taxi at 5 AM (18,000 LKR). Flight at 10 AM. Arrived in Madrid at 8 PM.
I could have titled my travel journal like Carmen: "Some trips are born twice." Indeed, we had considered this destination back in February 2020. However, an honest tour operator advised us against traveling at that time due to the climate. So, we gave up and opted for Guatemala instead (see "On the Mayan Lands" on this site).
So, why this title? When I was in primary school, over 65 years ago, the illustrations in my history books (Machu Picchu) and geography books (Lake Titicaca) made me dream, and those images stayed in my mind. It took until 2026 to finally make this dream come true!
We prepared our trip with Tout Pérou, a French-speaking "agency." Everything was handled via email and WhatsApp exchanges with our contact: Laurent, who was both competent, friendly, and full of good advice.
For 200 €, Tout Pérou provided us with drivers and guides whenever we wanted, helped us buy our domestic flights (cheaper when purchased in Peru), booked shuttles between airports and hotels, and got us a discount on the train ride to Aguas Calientes, as well as on the buses between Chivay and Puno and between Puno and Cusco. In short, Laurent took care of all the logistics and the Machu Picchu tickets. It was up to us to book our hotels. Tout Pérou provided a list, but we weren’t obliged to follow it. Another advantage of the package: we didn’t have to pay in advance; we paid the service providers directly day by day.
We didn’t meet Laurent in person because he was on vacation in Europe. Before his departure, he gave us a briefing, provided a summary table with the entire program, the service providers, their phone numbers, their fees, the schedules, and gave us plenty of advice (money, exchange, safety, etc.). After returning at the end of our stay, he kept checking in on us.
Lastly, we had also gathered information from Arnaud Lagadec, who runs a hotel in Cusco and offers tours of the region. He gave us a lot of useful information. Another contact: Thomas Montaigne, very friendly, who runs an agency in Arequipa (Agence Pérou Exclusif).
Day 1 – Paris to Lima
Foreword
I’ll share our trip without any pretension—I don’t have the talent of some contributors on this forum—and I’ll illustrate it with a few photos (taken with an ordinary smartphone). My comments are personal and only reflect my own views. So, please be kind! Feel free to comment on my story as you like, but let’s avoid pointless debates.
Even though we live in the south of the Paris region, true to our habits when the flight is in the morning, we chose to spend the night before our departure in a hotel near CDG and parked our car in a parking lot in Garches. This way, we avoid the stress that often comes with traveling around Paris (accidents, roadworks, traffic jams, etc.).
Check-in and border control went smoothly on that Sunday morning. Our Air France flight was uneventful. In Lima, border control took a particularly long time, and for the first time, we didn’t get an entry visa stamped in our passports.
As planned, a driver took us to the Miraflores district, where our hotel was located. We were surprised by the numerous signs about possible tsunamis, having forgotten that Peru is prone to such events and regularly experiences earthquakes. We’d see the consequences of these during our journey.
Exhausted from the early wake-up, the 13-hour flight, and the 7-hour time difference, we had dinner at the hotel before a restful night.
Note that this day was Peru’s presidential election day. As a result, we weren’t served beer—the sale of alcohol was banned that Sunday.
We did the Langtang trek (hike) from September 10th to 17th, with the first and last days being the trip from Kathmandu and back—so 6 days of actual walking. It’s a fairly well-known trek but certainly not as famous or crowded as those in the Annapurna or Everest regions, which is why we chose it.
In theory, it’s mandatory to have a guide for this trek. In reality, it seems there are ways to bypass the regulations: we met at least two people hiking without a guide—a South Korean, a New Zealander, and possibly also a couple of English women and an American couple, though we’re not sure if they had a guide.
The agency we booked with had told us it was an affordable trek for relatively older people in good shape—which is our case (I’m 72 myself). I have to say upfront that we found it quite challenging, maybe because we didn’t have good weather—it was the end of the monsoon season. To be clear, no matter your fitness level, I’d say doing this trek in the middle of the monsoon season would be suicidal.
Day 1 – Journey from Kathmandu to Syapru Besi
On Monday, September 8th, there had been violent protests in Kathmandu against the government, which had, among other things, blocked access to social media and been accused of nepotism and corruption. There were 19 deaths. The situation was very tense on the day of our departure, Wednesday the 10th. The agency warned us that public transport was very unreliable. So, we decided to take a jeep, at an additional cost of $100 ($160 minus what was already budgeted for the bus).
We left a little before 7 a.m. and it took us a good hour just to reach the outskirts of Kathmandu. Along the way, we saw several houses and vehicles set on fire by protesters.
The road to Syapru Besi is only 120 km, but it’s frankly awful. It’s always narrow, winds through endless mountains, and the shoulders range from bad to confusing to nonexistent. Several sections are just dirt tracks. We didn’t regret opting for the jeep, as we could stop several times at our convenience—if only to let Y (my Thai partner) throw up everything she had. She’d taken her usual motion sickness medication, but the constant turns, accelerations, and braking eventually made her terribly carsick.
In Nuwakot, we stopped for breakfast at a nice little restaurant, Jimbu. It was around 8:30 a.m., and we’d barely covered 60 km. The restaurant has a lovely garden overlooking the Trishuli Ganga, the river flowing down from Syapru Besi. First photo: the river in the bottom right corner, mist and clouds over the mountain on the other side.
An hour later, my second photo: the hills along the Trishuli Ganga. You can see the different crops—lush green rice paddies in the lower right and corn, already yellowed and likely harvested, in the foreground on the left. And of course, the mist and clouds through which you can glimpse the mountain on the other side of the river.
When we started looking for a summer destination a few months ago, our first criterion was to avoid extreme heat and heatwaves. We had already been to Norway two years ago and are considering going back in the future for other occasions. So, we had some fun asking ChatGPT which destinations enjoyed a mild climate during the summer without going too far. Among the list provided by the AI were the Canary Islands... The idea of a place we wouldn’t have thought of first, both not too far away and exotic enough, appealed to us: “Hmm, why not?”
This destination had never really attracted me, though Magali was a bit more interested. Five years earlier, COVID had caused a short break in my professional activity, and I had planned a trip because the flight price was attractive, and I was looking for a destination different from what usually appeals to me, more than out of deep interest. From a distance and with a social judgment I acknowledge (it’s not great, but it’s not completely wrong), I had the image of a destination for party-goers enjoying the sun without the slightest interest in local culture, with concrete coastlines and denatured landscapes—everything I detest the most. Still, I had done some quick research on the different islands and spotted Lanzarote for its beautiful volcanic landscapes, hiking trails, beaches, and the impression of a good balance between activity and fewer crowds than Tenerife or Gran Canaria. Then I dropped the idea of going, without ever reconsidering traveling to the Canaries...
Until now! Because we started researching the different islands of the archipelago to see which ones might appeal to us the most. It was La Gomera, the third smallest island of the archipelago, more praised for its hiking trails and preserved nature than for its beaches, away from mass tourism (fifty times fewer tourists than Tenerife) but still a bit more developed than its wild neighbor El Hierro, that caught our attention. Contrary to what might be suggested later, I’m not at all addicted to AI, but I use it from time to time to synthesize quick research or simply for experimentation. Since ChatGPT had started anticipating my tastes lately as if it had become my buddy (often successfully, sometimes off the mark), I asked which Canary Island would suit me best for a trip with my family. The tool answered first with... La Gomera. So, I tested it and teased it a bit to see if this suggestion was well-founded, as the method sometimes makes it contradict itself. But no luck: “You’d appreciate the wild nature of El Hierro, but with family, you’ll find little activity for the kids. You won’t like the touristy vibe of the big islands like Tenerife, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, and Fuerteventura. You could consider La Palma, but it’s really La Gomera that will suit you best, based on your interests and the criteria given.” So, we dug deeper into our research and were convinced without a shadow of a doubt that this island was the one waiting for us.
Without knowing it, we had Canarians in our circle who revealed their origins when they heard about our travel plans. One from Tenerife insisted we’d be better off choosing Tenerife (obviously...) because it also has preserved spots and that La Gomera, “you can explore it in two or three days, you’ll get bored quickly...” The other, a colleague from Gran Canaria who had never visited La Gomera, still recommended it without hesitation because it turned out her parents had just gone there on vacation: they loved it and had encountered few tourists. She also tended to think this destination was usually the subject of short stays, but according to what her parents told her, taking your time there was also a great idea. However, in our research, the idea that La Gomera is an island you can explore in three or four days max kept coming up. So, we considered combining its visit with La Palma or El Hierro, the other two that caught our eye. But hopping between islands by ferry represents a significant budget for non-Canarians, even more so for a family of four. Then, scrutinizing Google Maps, it seemed obvious that two weeks were too short to discover two islands as they deserve, and that there seemed to be plenty to see in La Gomera, given its very unique culture. After all, we read that some people spend several months a year there, others never even leave... Finally, these landscapes and this atmosphere, which seemed to us a mix of Europe, North Africa, and Latin America, tempted us. So, it would be two weeks in La Gomera, deal!
La Gomera is therefore the second... well, the third smallest island of the Canaries since La Graciosa was recently recognized as a fully inhabited island. It has the shape of a rough circle about 20 to 25 kilometers in diameter and has just over 20,000 inhabitants, half of them in its capital, San Sebastián de la Gomera, the only real town. Like its Canarian sisters, La Gomera is a volcanic formation that rose about 10 million years ago. The island is very mountainous and rugged, covered with red and black rocky landscapes. Geological activity has shaped, between the sprawling massifs that end in steep cliffs in the ocean, six coastal valleys with tropical vegetation that have favored human settlement. They divide the island like slices of a cake; from the north clockwise: the agricultural Vallehermoso, the rustic Agulo, the green, humid, and fertile Hermigua, the sunny capital San Sebastián de la Gomera, the southern and isolated Alajeró-Santiago, and the seaside Valle Gran Rey. They constitute the six municipalities (more like cantons to our French understanding) of the territory.
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
La Gomera was populated late. As with the rest of the Canaries, human presence is thought to have begun about 2,000 years ago. Groups of animist Berbers, probably fleeing persecution, gradually populated the archipelago, especially the western islands and La Gomera, becoming its small aboriginal population: the Guanches (or later Gomeros). The animist and pastoral civilization of the Guanches thrived until the Spanish takeover in the 15th century, which, after a short period of harmony and mixing with the indigenous people, suddenly ended in bloodshed... La Gomera later became the “Columbus Island” after Christopher Columbus’s stopover, increasing the blending of populations. In the 20th century, many Gomeros emigrated to Cuba and other Latin American countries in search of a better life, bringing back a mix of cultures and traits quite palpable in today’s Gomeran culture. It is, however, in La Gomera that the vestiges of Guanche culture seem to have left the most traces, in the language, gastronomy, social practices... Moreover, most Gomeros, especially in remote villages, have a particular identifiable type and proudly claim their ancestral roots, even making La Gomera a bit exotic in the eyes of other Canarians.
Perhaps that’s why it has never really wanted to develop its tourist infrastructure too much. If we set aside the tourists who visit for the day by bus or boat from Tenerife on a marked itinerary (and whom we ultimately rarely encounter), La Gomera has remained a hidden gem, a destination focused on nature discovery that attracts hikers, nature-loving divers, and scientists for its fauna and flora, and to a lesser extent, beachgoers who don’t seek overly developed coastlines. Tourist activity is therefore limited. Roughly speaking, you’ll find a majority of Spaniards, including a substantial number of residents from other Canary Islands, many Germans who have a particular fondness for La Gomera and spend long stays there or own second homes, to the point that the German cultural footprint is clearly noticeable in some places (it’s said to be Angela Merkel’s favorite holiday spot), and still quite a few French. The presence of other nationalities seemed negligible to us. Most travelers come mainly for hiking, but it’s also a prime spot for whale watching. Additionally, the seaside resorts of La Gomera—San Sebastián, Santiago, and especially Valle Gran Rey—are well-known destinations for hippies, especially German ones, ranging from chic boho hippies to old-school hippies who’ve been there for decades, quite similar to those you’d meet in India in Goa, Rishikesh, or Paharganj. Thus, practices like naturism, vegetarianism, and local organic production are quite well established in some areas.
Some practical info:
- The round-trip flight from Paris to Tenerife cost us 365 € per person (outbound with Transavia, return with EasyJet), including checked luggage and three seats reserved side by side.
- We chose two bases to explore the island: one week in Valle Gran Rey, reputed to be the most pleasant of the three seaside resorts, and one week in Hermigua, more mountainous and close to the natural park. We booked two houses with balconies and views: the first at 120 € per night, the second at 99 €.
- The round-trip ferry between Tenerife and La Gomera cost us 270 € with the company Baleària Canarias, including discounts for children aged 4 and 12, but I don’t have the exact details. It was a bit cheaper than with the other company, Fred Olsen.
- Finally, we rented a car through the agency Cicar for 360 € for 16 days, which comes to 22.50 € per day.
- Apart from that, we didn’t plan anything and decided the day before or even the morning of what we wanted to do. We didn’t invest in any paper guide on the Canaries, as information on La Gomera was scarce, but we used the very comprehensive site La Gomera Travel, a travel guide published by the Canary Islands Tourism Council, a real goldmine of almost exhaustive information on the island.
Alright, off we go for 16 days of adventure discovering La Gomera!
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
Our first stop was just a few kilometers from Marrakech, at a lovely house perfect for relaxing and recharging before continuing. It’s called Bleu House, a little paradise on the outskirts of Marrakech. The welcome was very warm, with a beautiful pool and a lovely garden.
Next, we headed toward the Tichka Pass. The road has really improved in recent years—it’s much easier to drive now. No more getting stuck behind trucks, and today, the construction is practically finished.
Morocco has turned green after the recent rains. It’s a joy for the herds and shepherds.
I hesitated about writing this travel journal...
This summer, we only did the classics (the 3 northern parks and Zanzibar) and let a local agency take care of everything from start to finish.
No craziness, no risks, no sleeping under the stars, no self-drive, no venturing off the beaten path, no incidents, and not even any delays in the pre-planned itinerary...
But don’t think we were disappointed!
The whole family (there were 6 of us) came back with smiles and memories of great moments spent together.
So, if you're looking for a "classic" way to discover Tanzania, this is the place to be.
Our 2-week itinerary:
- Arusha (1 night upon arrival)
- Tarangire (1 night)
- Ngorongoro (2 nights in Karatu then Irmisigiyo)
- Serengeti (3 nights in Robanda, Togoro Plains, and Seronera)
- Zanzibar Stone Town (1 night)
- Zanzibar Matemwe (3 nights)
- Zanzibar Jambiani (3 nights)
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
This trip was in 2023, but when I wanted to write my travel journal, VF was still closed to contributions...
So, now that I've just finished my Japan travel journal here, I figured it was high time to honor this destination we came back from so enchanted.
Disclaimer 1: This is a written travel journal. There’ll be text! Too much, for some!
Disclaimer 2: This is an illustrated travel journal. There’ll be photos! Too many, for some!
I have to say, every time I try to discipline myself, to keep it shorter, to include fewer photos... I end up adding more. It feels like my dear Aunt Nicole, who exhausted us with her slide-show evenings in the 70s/80s, decided to take her revenge. The upside for you, readers, is that you can slip away anytime without offending Aunt Nicole. I won’t even notice!
Anyway, since I love maps, here’s one to give you an idea of where I’m taking you. As you can see, we only saw a tiny part of Laos (the areas circled in red); we only had 3 weeks for ourselves (my husband’s newly retired, I still work), and we prefer taking our time over rushing around like crazy.
In broad strokes, it was very classic:
First, we “settled in” at Luang Prabang (8 days), because we wanted and needed to.
From there, we took three days to venture a little further north—not far in kilometers, but as we know, distances aren’t just about km!
Then we flew south to Paksé, letting ourselves drift down to the 4,000 Islands while stopping by the pre-Angkorian archaeological sites.
We wrapped up with the Bolaven Plateau.
A few practical notes: We arrived via Bangkok, then took a Bangkok-Luang Prabang flight, having picked up our luggage in Bangkok to check it in for Luang Prabang. No issues—the Bangkok airport, which many of you know, is very well organized.
We got our visas on arrival in Luang Prabang. Quick, but to be fair, we were on a “small” plane, and the big flights had arrived earlier, so we weren’t too crowded in line!
At the end of our trip, we didn’t fly out of Paksé but from the nearby airport in Thailand, Ubon Ratchathani (a 2.5-hour drive from Paksé), then Bangkok and Paris.
You’ll notice we skipped Vientiane to stay longer in Luang Prabang. That said, there’s now a high-speed train between Vientiane and Luang Prabang—good to know—and soon the (Chinese) train will go all the way to Bangkok and even Kuala Lumpur!
With that intro out of the way, let’s dive into the heart of the matter.
To be continued: Slowing down the pace... in Luang Prabang
It’s an ancient city that breathes, a living spring.
Here, no kitschy signs like “I miss you in Fengyu,” nor mass-produced fake antiques.
The century-old houses still bear the marks of wind and rain; in the morning, you hear roosters crowing, and at dusk, smoke gently rises from the kitchens.
This city doesn’t try to please anyone—like the spring water flowing through it, it simply keeps living at its own pace.
Located in Eryuan County, in the Dali Prefecture of Yunnan, the ancient town of Fengyu is a nationally designated historical and cultural city. It’s nicknamed the “land of scholars and ink”—during the Qing Dynasty, the Fengxiang Academy produced four *jinshi* and eleven *juren* in the imperial examinations. The Bai families made studying and farming a true legacy. Even on market days, you’ll find stalls of calligraphy and paintings, while lintels and screen walls are covered with family mottos.
Fengyu was also an important stop on the ancient Tea Horse Road. It preserves the second-largest Bai architectural complex in China, just after Xizhou. The famous traveler Xu Xiake spent seven days here and compared it to the “peach blossom paradise.”
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
Let’s start with the shotengai...
Our first "wow" moment came as we stepped out of the subway in Asakusa, the Tokyo neighborhood where we’d booked our hotel for our first five nights. Exhausted after our long flight, we finally arrived and took an exit that led straight into a shotengai—one of those covered shopping streets that pop up in city centers and flourished between the 1950s and 1980s.
It was an instant aesthetic shock, like a close encounter of the third kind between the modern city, a typical Asian market with its street stalls, the vintage vibe of the arcade, the sheer abundance of goods, and the bustling crowd—a mix of tourists, pilgrims (thanks to nearby Senso-ji Temple), and locals (it’s a very working-class area).
In the end, it set the tone for a feeling we’d experience throughout the trip. Wherever we went, shotengai turned out to be fantastic spots for finding little restaurants, shops, or even fresh produce. Some are like real mazes, like in Kyoto, where we spent ages trying to relocate a restaurant we’d loved ;-)
In Kanazawa, the Omicho Market:
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
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.
Preamble:
Africa was calling to me, so a year ago, with our usual travel companions, we decided to return to the continent we love so much.
Where to go?
Uganda quickly caught our attention—wildlife we’re used to seeing, plus gorillas and the shoebill we missed in Zambia.
We got in touch with Paul, who’s been mentioned several times on the forum back in September, booked our flight tickets, secured the gorilla permits, and by early October, the most important things were done.
We still had plenty of time to hold our "prep meetings" for the final itinerary.
Three days before departure, I sprained my ankle (my weak spot, as you’ll recall from our Colombia trip).
I wasn’t in great spirits, but after a year of waiting, nothing was going to stop me.
We’d see how it goes!
Off we went for our new adventures
If you're looking for great tips and offbeat spots, if you love exploring uncharted parts of a country, if the exotic is your adrenaline, then move along!
Our 15 days in early May in this part of Turkey (a country I first discovered during a city trip to Istanbul in 2017) will only tread well-worn paths and revisit popular routes. Simply because I kept hoping until the very end that our flight to Jordan wouldn’t be canceled. Events in the Gulf proved me wrong, so we left with:
Zero preparation.
Not a single hotel booked (well, except the first one), no visits planned, just a flight ticket bought three weeks earlier. No guidebook, no app—just the desire to explore southern Turkey and Cappadocia, whose images and the chance to stretch our legs had caught my eye.
Oh, wait—I did bring along a new guide: Gemini! Yes, my friends, generative AI was my chief advisor throughout the trip for sites to visit, accommodations, routes, and even restaurants! An experiment I wanted to try to form my own opinion on using this new technology. And what better way to test it than a Turkish getaway?
The verdict? You’ll have to wait for the trip recap to find out!
The main idea of the trip is also relaxation.
So, the plan is Antalya for a few days, the Turkish Riviera for a few more, Cappadocia as the highlight, and a return via Antalya to wrap up the trip. And it was all planned by AI!
So, if you're ready, fasten your seatbelts—cabin crew, doors to automatic and cross check—boarding for Turkey now!
It often happens that we're asked what to visit in Belgium.
And the answers usually point to Bruges, Ghent, Antwerp, and Brussels—and rightly so, as these cities are well worth visiting ;).
However, Belgium, though small, isn’t just limited to these four cities.
I live in one of them (Brussels), enjoy spending time in the other three, but I’d like to highlight some lesser-known spots that could add to the trip for those who want to see a bit more or something different.
Between trips, I like exploring one or two corners of the country where I live.
Hence the idea for a travel journal of walks.
Most of the places I’ll talk about can be visited as a day trip from Brussels, whether by public transport or car.
In chronological order of the topics covered:
- The Gileppe Dam (Liège province) - message 2, page 1
- The Domaine de La Hulpe (Walloon Brabant) - message 3, page 1
- Mechelen (Antwerp province) - message 4, page 1
- The coast - message 5, page 1
- The Westhoek, from De Panne - message 6, page 1
- The Zwin, from Knokke - message 7, page 1
- Lier (between Mechelen and Antwerp) - message 8, page 1
- Mons (Hainaut) - message 9, page 1
- The Florenville region - message 12, page 1
- The East Cantons - message 13, page 1
- Dinant - message 18, page 1
- The Japanese garden in Hasselt - message 24, page 2
- Leuven - message 29, page 2
- Louvain-la-Neuve - message 32, page 2
- Ostend - message 42 (page 3) and message 166 (page 9)
- The floralies of Groot-Bijgaarden - message 43, page 3
- Halle Forest - message 44, page 3
- Pralines - message 54, page 3
- Charleroi - message 68, page 4
- Namur - message 92, page 5
- Le Bois du Cazier (Marcinelle) - message 95, page 5
- Couques and gosettes - message 96, page 5
- Liège - message 99, page 5
- Tournai - message 115, page 6
- Oudenaarde - message 121, page 7
- Meise Botanical Garden - message 124, page 7
- Tongeren - message 125, page 7
- Beersel Castle (Flemish Brabant) - message 126, page 7
- Brussels in lockdown (messages 150 and 154, page 8)
- Notre-Dame à la Rose Hospital in Lessines (messages 161 and 162, page 9)
- Westende (message 167, page 9)
I’ll keep updating this list as the journal progresses...
This trip had been on my mind for about fifteen years.
But the discomfort of overnight stays, the difficulty of communication, and the prices of the few car rental options kept making me postpone the project.
And then, everything suddenly fell into place—I told myself, it’s time!
The preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.
A bit of Kazakhstan?
Not in the end.
The south or not the south?
Yes, in the end.
Pre-book or go with the flow?
Only two stops were a leap into the unknown.
To help me find the ideal route, I made great use of this forum (thanks to everyone for patiently answering my questions!), pored over travel journals and blogs (Christian, Jeff), zoomed in on Google Maps and Yandex, and bought the guide published by OunTravela about this destination (the guide has been updated since).
---/---
You’ve got your passport, international driver’s license, bank cards, and euros?
Off we go to Lyon—just one night left before our early morning flight.
Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping in Bishkek!
(Steak for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)
You’ll find here a post with some practical information.
And here, the version of the travel journal without comments.
---/---
As a supplement, the route track.
Not necessarily ultra-accurate since Google has serious gaps for this destination...
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!
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
Last October, we landed in Marrakech to spend a few days with family exploring Morocco’s roads.
Transport: a rented Dacia.
Accommodations: small guesthouses.
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
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.
A little sneak peek?
