I arrived in Berlin last night. In another discussion, I shared how much of a "nightmare" the flights from Nice were.
I’ll be posting some impressions here—what I liked and what I didn’t like as much.
This is my first time in Berlin. I’m staying for two weeks. For now, I’m alone, but I’ll be joined by someone in a few days.
Just to clarify, I won’t be posting any photos because my camera gave up the ghost the day before I left. It refused to read memory cards, and I don’t have a smartphone—just a tablet that I leave at the hotel.
Speaking of photos, a few years ago, at the Ducasse d’Ath in Belgium, I met a retired teacher who wasn’t taking any pictures of the festival. I asked her, "You’re not taking any photos?" She told me that during a trip to Nicaragua, she’d photographed howler monkeys and only noticed when looking at the pictures later that the males had huge testicles—something she hadn’t realized in person. She said, "Since then, I don’t bother with photos anymore!" I’ve thought about that often and wonder if I should do the same and stop taking pictures. Still, I’ll probably get a smartphone since it’s hard to go without one these days.
The context:
For my 60th birthday, I had planned to take my family (kids + partners) for a week in Gran Canaria, at an all-inclusive hotel, but with the firm intention of exploring and hiking. The deal was to meet up at least in the evenings to spend time together, if my pace didn’t suit them. Personally, I’m not into beaches and lazing around, but my daughter-in-law is pretty cool. We were going to be together, do what we liked, and all would be well.
Unfortunately, five days before departure, my mother-in-law passed away, and of course, we had to cancel everything.
I was able to get a refund for a lot of things, including the hotel despite missing the free cancellation deadline (really cool of them), and I got a one-year credit for the full price of the flight tickets.
So, we tried to plan the same thing for my kids, but with their schedules, we couldn’t find a date.
I had to find a destination served by Iberia, far enough to use up my credit.
We don’t know the Caribbean, we needed sun and a bit of rest, so the Dominican Republic won out.
But no way were we going to mess up by staying in an all-inclusive hotel and only visiting the island’s paradise beaches… (we’ll get back to that).
So, as usual, I put together a little road trip with a rental car.
Here we go!!!!
Day 1: Crossing the Atlantic
Super early departure for Lyon-Saint Exupéry Airport. A 3-hour layover in Madrid (my wife’s had enough of flight delays, so I played it safe). Flight to Santo Domingo without any issues. The luggage arrived, the driver I’d booked was there, everything went smoothly.
We got to our hotel in the Zona Colonial around 4 PM.
Bad luck—it’s on a cute little square where there was supposed to be neighborhood activity in the evening. It’s completely under construction! Too bad!
We decided to head to the Malecón, a sort of local Promenade des Anglais, except there are no English people. It’s nice, safe, spacious, and by the ocean. We walked for a while, and as happy hour rolled around, I started my training as an intern in rum-based cocktails.
A mojito, classic, but it’s amazing to be sipping the drink in the warmth, right by the big blue.
On the way back to the hotel, we grabbed some bananas, ate them in the room, and then bedtime.
The plus: We actually left!
The minus: There isn’t one
After sharing some safari photos from southern Tanzania, I’d like to show you those from our latest safari in Kenya in October 2025.
First, I’d like to thank Sylvie56, whose previous travel journals about this country inspired our trip choices. Thanks also for the info you sent us via PM. THANK YOU!
The following account is from a simple wildlife enthusiast. You won’t find anything here but images of landscapes, mammals, and birds.
The stated purpose of this trip was purely and solely wildlife-focused.
(It was in no way a discovery of the country or its people).
This stay/safari began (and ended) in Nairobi, with flights between France and Kenya operated by Qatar Airways departing from Nice.
Over two weeks, we first visited the reserves of Tsavo West and Tsavo East, then after a long road trip, the two reserves of Buffalo Springs and Samburu.
= Please wait until the end of the journal to ask any specific questions (or send them via PM) to keep the story flowing without interruptions or off-topic comments.
The idea of traveling to Bolivia came to me after seeing Jean-François (Max68)’s photos on his website. I thought we *had* to see those stunning landscapes with the colorful lagoons for ourselves. But a self-drive trip didn’t seem doable at first. A few years ago, everyone advised against going to the South Lipez with just one car.
Laguna Kara
It was only after reading Laurent (Lolobe) and Pascal (Pepe874)’s travel journals—who explored the South Lipez solo with a car from Biz Rent a Car—that I thought we might be able to do the same. Meanwhile, we’d already contacted a local agency to organize a trip with a driver and guide. But the idea of a self-drive adventure really appealed to us. With encouragement and tips from Thierry (Tbernay) and Jean-François (Max68), we decided to plan our own self-drive trip. I’d like to thank them for their advice—it was *super* helpful. And a big thanks to all the other forum members for the info shared during our prep!
Laguna Colorada
Planning this trip happened during a tough time for our family. My mother-in-law’s illness and passing, plus a few health issues of my own, made us doubt the trip multiple times and nearly scrap the whole thing.
We booked our international flights in February with Swiss. They offered the best balance of travel time and price from Switzerland. Swiss operates Zurich–São Paulo with their own fleet, and São Paulo–Santa Cruz with GOL. In June, GOL canceled the Saturday flight and rebooked us on Sunday. Spending over 24 hours in that huge Brazilian city didn’t work for us at all, so we asked Swiss to put us on the next Zurich–São Paulo flight. Too bad—we lost a day in Bolivia and had to skip the Tarabucco market on Sunday.
Right after, we also booked the car in February. After contacting Imbex and Biz, we went with Biz. Not speaking Spanish, we were relieved to communicate with Alejandra in French. The contact was great—she answered all our questions patiently. Sometimes it took a few days to get a reply, but we could also reach her on WhatsApp. After our trip, we can *only* recommend Biz for rentals in Bolivia. The cars are well-prepped for the South Lipez tracks. The agency is reliable, and the vehicles are new and well-maintained.
“Our” car, a Toyota Hilux
While planning, we realized the presidential elections would happen while we were in Bolivia. The risk of *bloqueos* (roadblocks and protests) was very real. But in Bolivia, *bloqueos* seem common—you always have to account for that kind of hassle. In late August/early September, Uyuni and the Salar region were blocked for days, leading to food, fuel, and cash shortages. Worried about a blockade in Uyuni and missing the Salar, we decided to visit it first *just in case*.
On election day, the whole country shut down. Planes were grounded, buses and taxis couldn’t circulate, and private cars were banned. There were a few exceptions—ambulances, police, or certain professions—but as tourists, we couldn’t get permission to drive. We asked the embassy, and Biz even requested a permit from the electoral office. So we had to plan to be somewhere with things to do *without* the car.
We decided not to book any accommodations in advance—a first for us. Usually, we plan our stops and reserve lodges, hotels, or campgrounds well ahead. This time, only the room in Sucre was booked, so we’d have a base when we arrived.
In July, Alex (Delhenry) reached out to propose joining part of the trip. He didn’t realize we were leaving in October. Still, we got fresh updates when he returned from the South Lipez. Thanks, Alex—your tips, especially about the Guadalupe–Tupiza stretch, were *super* useful.
In September, we connected with Jean-Louis (Avx) and Anne (Xeta), who were also heading to Bolivia in October, one and two weeks after us. We had dinner with Jean-Louis and his friend after our South Lipez trip and stayed in touch with Anne. It was great to chat with them! Unfortunately, Anne and her husband had a much rockier trip—they got hit hard by post-election issues.
Climbing Volcán Tunupa
Our itinerary wasn’t set in stone—we decided to wing it on the spot. Two weeks before departure, I reconnected with Alejandra at Biz to move the car rental up by a day. With the elections, we wanted to leave Sucre ASAP and focus on the South Lipez. Outside Uyuni and Tupiza, the risk of blockades was zero. We also planned a two-night buffer in Sucre before our flights, just in case. It might sound overcautious, but in hindsight, we made the right call. If we’d left Sucre a day later, we wouldn’t have made it to Potosí—it was completely blocked. On the way back, we *just* dodged blockades in Potosí and elsewhere. Sometimes, you’ve gotta trust your gut.
Here’s our route—only the first two nights in Sucre were booked ahead:
D1 Departure from Switzerland
D2 Sucre (La Selenita)
D3 Sucre (La Selenita)
D4 Colchani (Hotel de Sal Luna Salada)
D5 Jirira (Auberge Doña Lupe)
D6 On the Salar (in the car)
D7 A few kilometers from Estancia Catal (in the car)
D8 Laguna Hedionda (Hotel Los Flamencos)
D9 Laguna Colorada (Lodge by the lagoon)
D10 Middle of nowhere, en route Laguna Verde–Mina Horsu–Quetena Chico (in the car)
D11 Quetena Chico (Lamphaya Lodge Andino)
D12 Quetena Chico (Lamphaya Lodge Andino)
D13 Guadalupe (Guest room at Celia’s)
D14 Along the Rio Grande (in the car)
D15 Tupiza (Hotel Mitru)
D16 Tupiza (Hotel Mitru)
D17 Sucre (La Selenita)
D18 Sucre (La Selenita)
D19 Santa Cruz (Hotel Sun)
D20 Departure from Santa Cruz
D21 Arrival in Switzerland
As you can see, we spent 13 nights in the South Lipez. Initially, we’d planned for nine, but Jean-François (Max68) suggested staying longer. Great advice—we didn’t regret it one bit. We could’ve even added 2–3 more days without getting bored.
Self-driving in the South Lipez takes some prep and a good GPS. We kept it simple and used maps.me to navigate. It’s a solid app—just save your waypoints ahead of time. For some stretches, I used Google Earth to visualize the tracks and sites. If you stick to the tour operator routes, you *almost* can’t get lost. But we often veered off the beaten path and took different routes. Some days, we didn’t see another car. So in case of a breakdown, it’s key to have water and food for several days. In some spots, there’s *zero* signal—your phone won’t work. Another must: it gets *cold* in the South Lipez, and a good sleeping bag is essential. We brought down sleeping bags rated for -10°C and didn’t regret it during our car nights.
The Dalí Desert
Some tracks are *super* rocky—flat tires are a real risk. On those stretches, maps.me’s estimated travel time was way off. Some sections barely let us go over 15 km/h.
Lots of forum members recommend doing the South Lipez “loop” from Tupiza to Uyuni—ending with the Salar—to avoid Uyuni’s crowds. That might work for organized tours, but for self-drive, the direction *doesn’t* matter. I’ll say this: the few vehicles we saw mostly came from Tupiza and Chile, not Uyuni. So if starting from Uyuni works better for you, go for it! Ending in Tupiza means heading toward warmer weather. For our planned stops and climbs, starting in Uyuni helped with acclimatization. Spending a few nights between 3,600–3,800 m before going over 4,000 m is a smart move.
Uyuni Salt Flats in the morning
Overall, we barely saw anyone—except at Laguna Hedionda and Chalviri. There were several tour groups at Hotel Los Flamencos (Laguna Hedionda), but we didn’t cross paths during the day. Hardly anyone on the Salar, on the roads, or at the lodges in the evenings. The *only* place that shocked us was Chalviri. We’d planned to stay there, but it was fully booked—and we counted *forty* tour jeeps on-site. This was around noon! At the Polques hot springs (Chalviri), it was *packed*—we quickly nixed the idea of a dip. Plus, the vibe wasn’t great: soaking right by the road with lodges and restaurants in the background? Meh. Still, lots of tourists love it, so it’s up to you.
For the photos, I kept the colors and mood we saw. The lagoons’ hues are often stunning, but some online photos are *way* over-edited and oversaturated. The South Lipez’s landscapes are breathtaking—no need for excessive retouching.
If you don’t want to read all the details, the start of the travel journal is here: https://voyageforum.com/v.f?post=9888761;a=9888761
This journal recounts a trip to Rajasthan that’s already over a year old and that I’ve only now found the chance to write about. The summer of 2024 marked my return to India—my tenth trip—after six long years away since my last solo wanderings in Tamil Nadu in 2018 (the journal of which is published on this site). That absence was partly (but not only) due to the long COVID and post-COVID period, which saw a complete halt and then a major slowdown in global tourism. To top it off, Voyage Forum announced its closure in an end-of-the-world atmosphere. A sad time for our favorite social activity…
A few weeks after returning from Rajasthan, I tried to motivate myself to start writing a journal to publish on a forum claiming to be VF’s successor, which I’d eventually signed up for out of desperation. But I kept hesitating and putting the project off because, for one, I no longer have the time I used to. For another, the vibe wasn’t really taking off on that forum—it was overrun with ads and not very active, contrary to what its host’s name suggested. Despite its good intentions and commendable role as a stopgap, it also turned out to be very impractical to use, especially when you don’t have much time like me. I’ll admit I’d occasionally check back on VF to see if anything was happening. But all the discussions remained frozen in time, stuck in that fateful year, 2020. Then, rumors swirled online about shady reasons behind its closure, leaving little room for hope.
And then, one fine morning, I got a message at work from Marien informing me that VF had reopened. What a huge surprise! Even though the forum’s “end” had played out in a somewhat apocalyptic atmosphere, the memories of passionate and heated discussions, the frank debates, and the useful exchanges that made this site a traveler’s goldmine and a unique hub of conviviality all came rushing back to me like a breath of fresh air. I finally saw a sign and tried to motivate myself to find the time to publish the journal of this tenth trip to India and fifth to Rajasthan. But in the end, I got bogged down in professional and family obligations and never managed to find the time to get started. That’s now fixed, though, because I had two reasons for wanting to do it: I find that looking back on a trip to tell others about it is a highly beneficial introspective exercise. Also, I thought this journal could be useful to other travelers on a few points.
Because, “do we really need yet another journal about Rajasthan?” you might rightly ask! Especially in a time when so many journals about the “Land of Kings” have been published since VF’s return, not to mention the countless stories you can already find online about this region, one of India’s most touristy. And I’d add, why go back to Rajasthan for a fifth time, where I’ve already dragged my feet more than enough—through its forts, deserts, temples, cities, villages, bumpy roads, train stations, tasty street food stalls, cheap guesthouses, and more? Where some might see just another overhyped tourist destination full of the same old *Arabian Nights* clichés, worn to a thread, that I mentioned earlier, when there’s so much else to see in India?
Well, first because it’s a magnificent country I never tire of, where I started an academic study and made so many connections. It’s also packed with places where you won’t find a single tourist (right, Marie-Jo?), even in the heart of well-trodden paths and classic itineraries. And most importantly, as I said earlier, things have changed in recent years. First, after six years without traveling far, the urge to go back to India was getting stronger. But this time, no more solo trips (often) or duo adventures (sometimes)—now it’s a team of four that has to come along! And even if you can argue with that, what better place than Rajasthan to introduce India to people who’ve never seen it? To kids you want to amaze?
Plus, traveling with your new little family to your favorite country isn’t the same as going solo in often spartan conditions that only affect you. It’s a different challenge, but ultimately probably much harder. So, is it really reasonable to take two kids to India, including a two-year-old baby? That’s one of the main goals of this journal (but not the only one)—to try to answer that question.
As you can tell, it’s not so much the destination but the slightly unusual setup of this trip that, in my opinion, will make this journal interesting. Despite my experience and expertise (yes, I dare say it) in India, there were plenty of questions before we finalized the plan and said, “Alright, let’s go!” The questions were flying for us parents. Is it wise to travel to India with a two-year-old? What would we do (it happened) if the kids got very sick? Would they be able to handle a road trip on Rajasthan’s bumpy, dusty roads using public transport? Could they handle the shock of such a different world—the dirt, poverty, pollution, noise (…and the smell, as they say), the spicy food, monkeys, mosquitoes, snakes, tigers, leopards, and so on? In short, all the clichés that I usually joke about suddenly became potential realities. Another concern: as a mixed Franco-African family (not me, but my partner and her oldest), wouldn’t we risk not always being well received, given what you sometimes hear about that in India? How would Indians react to seeing a mixed-race family, the ultimate taboo in a country of purity and social segregation, which would undoubtedly raise many questions for them? Of course, not everything went as expected… Because, as you know, with India—and what makes it charming for some—there are always complications: sometimes where you don’t expect them… and sometimes where you do. I’ll go into detail about that in the journal to come (not right away) and in the final review (even later). These experiences could be useful to travelers who find themselves in similar situations and have the same questions we did before embarking on such a journey. And maybe it’ll spark the curiosity of those who aren’t concerned and will read yet another Rajasthan journal, but with its own unique twists.
Despite my unchanged constraints, which mean I have little time to write this, I don’t want to rush the story, so I’ll take my time. There will probably be lulls. I hope that won’t stop people from coming to react, debate, share their impressions, or ask for information.
Why not Malta? We thought it was an original, off-the-beaten-path destination...
The advantage is there’s a direct flight from Toulouse, our departure city. That’s what convinced us to take a week-long couple’s trip to Malta.
I had booked the accommodations (breakfast included) + an airport/hotel transfer on Booking.
First stop: VILLA DEL PORTO, a very pleasant guest house in a great location. We were welcomed by the owner, who gave us all the info we needed to get around. How to get to Valletta? By ferry shuttle. Valletta Ferry Service - Cospicua.
And for everything else, a brilliant app for the buses that crisscross the island: TALLINJA. I highly recommend this app. We traveled by bus all week without any issues.
The next day, we spent the day in Valletta, the capital. That’s when we realized this destination is actually very popular—streets packed with thousands of tourists! Luckily, we managed to navigate through parallel alleys and find small hostels or bars to eat or grab a drink. The city is stunning and steeped in history.
On the third day, we took the bus to the south of the island: MARSAXLOKK. A charming, authentic fishing port with plenty of waterfront restaurants and souvenir shops. We ate at CAFÉ DE PARIS—a delicious fresh fish, perfectly prepared.
On the way back, we wandered through the beautiful town of Senglea. Then we ordered takeout from D VIRI'S TAKE AWAY near the guest house via email. It was delicious!
On the fourth day, we left Villa del Porto and headed to Valletta by ferry to catch the GOZO FAST FERRY—a 45-minute catamaran ride to the island of Gozo.
After a good lunch by the port, we took the bus to our destination: XLENDI.
A village at the end of a gorgeous bay. We stayed at the San Andrea Hotel—a small room with a balcony and sea view.
Fifth day: Bus to Victoria. A magnificent citadel, a meal at a small bar in Piazza San Frangisk, then we continued by bus to the north, stopping in Marsalforn for coffee by the sea and a short walk to the natural salt pans carved into the rock. Back to the hotel by bus.
Sixth day: A short walk to Xlendi Tower, a watchtower at the entrance of the bay, beautifully restored. Then we set off on a sea excursion in a small boat for six passengers. Honestly, I recommend it! Two hours cruising along the breathtaking coastline and turquoise sea—20 € per person. www.gozoboathire.com
Delicious lunch on the terrace at "The Boathouse Restaurant."
Seventh day: We packed our bags again and returned to Malta by ferry to Cirkewwa. The terminal isn’t very welcoming—you have to take a bus to find a town.
We had lunch in Mellieha, then continued our journey, still using local buses, to RABAT, next to the ancient fortified city of MDINA. Another stunning city we explored at our own pace once the tourists had left.
Eighth day: Bus to the airport.
In conclusion, we’re thrilled with our trip. Of course, we didn’t see all the sites recommended by guidebooks, but we wandered at our own rhythm and came back with a head full of memories, images, and great moments spent in Malta and Gozo.
Villa Del Porto
Address: Marina Street 1, KKR 1521 Kalkara, Malta
Phone: +356 2166 8420
GPS Coordinates: N 035° 53.399, E 14° 31.557
We arrive in the evening in Marrakesh, and a taxi arranged by our friendly Riad is waiting for us. The driver takes us to the door, where we’re briefly greeted by our hosts. The room is heated—phew—because it’s really cold on this January 17th for our arrival. Riad Alisma, where we’re staying for 2 nights. The next morning, it’s pouring rain when we wake up, but after a good breakfast, the rain has calmed down. Off we go to the medersa, which allows for a relatively sheltered visit. We’d visited this palace 15 years ago—it’s been renovated since then.
From there, without the rain, we wander aimlessly and eventually end up near the tanneries, but it’s Sunday, and there’s very little activity. Of course, we get hassled by a tout.
Here, the hides after being treated with lime—I love the colors.
We part ways a bit annoyed. He gets a little revenge by giving us bad directions, and we end up outside the city walls. We decide to take a taxi to the new modern art museum—60 dirhams for the 5 km, which is nothing when you think about it. That tout, who we didn’t ask for anything and made it clear we weren’t buying anything, dragged us into a shop supposedly only open that day and demanded 50 dirhams for his "services"! Let’s forget that bad moment and enjoy the exhibition at the MACAL.
The taxi on the way back drops us off at Place des Ferblantiers, not far from our Riad. We’re a little peckish—it’s worth mentioning that at lunchtime, we only ate a plate of beans from a street vendor. So, we buy a bunch of little sweets, each more delicious than the last, at Ajar. We snack while sipping mint tea and watching life go by around us. A final visit to the Museum of Moroccan Cuisine on our way back helps us dodge a few more showers. Then it’s back to the Riad. The atmosphere in the city is heating up—it’s the AFCON final tonight. The temperatures, though? Not so much. We ordered a meal at the Riad, and it was a good call—not only was it really tasty, but the rain also picked up again. Our day in Marrakesh ends under the covers with a good book and some photo sorting. Still, we managed 10,750 steps.
View of our Riad
Tomorrow, we’ll pick up our rental car from Medloc and head to Essaouira.
I'm starting a new travel journal in Italy.
It's about a month-long trip (from September 3, 2025, to October 4, 2025), or rather a part of it. This section matches the title: an opera festival in Verona (one evening) and the Dolomites in the Veneto region.
I'm posting the part of the trip I think will interest French-speaking readers the most (since this is where I saw the most French travelers).
Here’s a quick summary:
- Trip in September 2025
- Solo travel with camping (caravan)
- Small geographic area: besides Verona, the surroundings of the Marmolada massif and Cortina d'Ampezzo.
- Main but not exclusive activity: hiking.
Since I have limited internet access where I am now, I’ll be writing slowly.
Here we go!
Day 1: Thursday, September 4, 2025
I arrived in Veneto under the sun and with warm weather. I drove to Verona and tried to find a spot at the campsite (Verona Village) located south of the city. Unfortunately, it was full. Booking on the website was mandatory, but when I tried to reserve a few days ago, the site never moved from the "reservation" step to the "payment" step (I don’t know why—it’s always like that in these cases).
I found another solution over the phone; the drive from southern Verona to the northeast was a bit long, but I finally settled at the "Oro Verde" campsite. It’s an "agricampeggio" (farm camping or rural campsite) on the outskirts of the city, and its name (green gold) suggests they produce olives there.
Since it wasn’t late, I biked to the Adige River, following the recommended route into the city.
5-day cruise around Komodo
Not usually a fan of organized trips, during my stay in Labuan Bajo on Flores in May 2024, I started looking for a fisherman who could show me the islands around Komodo. At the port, I met Ari, a former freediver who knows the islands well, especially the best spots for fish and coral.
At the Bohême guest house, I proposed this outing, and one of the activity leaders was happy to join. We headed to Angel Island, where Ari took us snorkeling around the island. During this beautiful day, we appreciated his professionalism, and I suggested coming back the following year for a 5-day cruise. We had to agree on a budget and the period to consider.
Over the next year, we kept in touch via WhatsApp.
However, a month before departure, Ari told me he had lent his boat to a friend, who ran it aground on a rock, causing it to sink. No boat, no cruise! Since we had an agreement, I asked him to find another solution. His searches in the port, where everyone knows each other, turned out to be fruitful.
A certain "Captain" Kambar agreed to take us. He sometimes charters his boat for local travel agencies and could free up the requested period.
There will be six of us on board, as in the meantime, my daughter’s friend, Amandine, could join us for the cruise. Ari will act as a guide, and a mechanic will also be present.
To reserve the boat for September 4th, Ari asked me to transfer a deposit of 5 million IDR to his account. After some hesitation, I decided to trust him and made the transfer. A few days later, he confirmed receipt of the amount.
In early September, we arrived in Labuan Bajo. Our first mission was to check the boat’s condition, the presence of life jackets, what we would eat, and if there were any restrictions on drinks. Everything was in order and met our expectations.
The day before departure, we met a 26-year-old Czech woman traveling alone after a stay in New Zealand. The description of our cruise excited her, and she got Ari’s number.
That evening, at the restaurant, while we discussed the final preparations, Thérèsa joined us and asked if she could come along for the five-day cruise.
Since she seemed like good company, I gladly accepted. However, following Indonesian custom, I negotiated firmly with Ari for a discount, and he agreed to lower the price by 2 million.
On September 4th, we set sail to explore the islands of Komodo and, above all, the seabeds, equipped with fins, masks, and snorkels.
We had brought a board game for the trips between islands or for the evenings. In the end, it wasn’t used: the crossings rarely lasted more than an hour, except for two two-hour trips, and the conditions on board weren’t suitable for playing.
The first island we visited is north of Labuan Bajo: Seraya Small.
We didn’t disembark but anchored a short distance away. The coral reef, between 5 and 10 meters deep, offered visibility of 8 to 10 meters. We started with a few dives from the boat, as the water was so inviting. As with most of the upcoming sites, we were the only ones enjoying this little paradise.
Over about a kilometer along the drop-off, colorful corals and fish abound. As long as you don’t go past the rocky point on the right, the currents remain very weak, and the spot is accessible to beginners. After enjoying the sea enough, we returned to the boat, where Ari had prepared a good meal of rice, chicken, and vegetables. It was simple but excellent after all that effort.
In the afternoon, we discovered Bero Island, where it was very hot. There were fewer fish and corals than at Seraya, but the corals were on white sand, allowing for beautiful, bright photos.
In the evening, we visited Hatamin, a fishing village. The population is very young and curious about our visit. At our request, we could have watched a local dance, but it would have taken some time to organize, and we didn’t plan to return. Ari asked if we wanted to take a shower, as on the boat, we could only rinse off with a little water from a basin.
On the second day, snorkeling near Hatamin, a small paradise island with white sand like in a travel brochure. A small temple is located in the middle of the island. In the water, we saw our first small reef sharks, some clownfish, and a sergeant major fish that followed us throughout our swim. The most beautiful part to explore is opposite the beach. Many corals and fish of all colors. A sailboat was anchored a short distance away, but we didn’t see anyone except an old man who apparently lived in the temple above.
In the afternoon, we headed to the nearby island of Sabolong Besar. It’s a pretty little island with a harmonious resort made up of luxury huts that don’t spoil the landscape. In some places, the water is very clear with good visibility, and some schools of very young blacktip reef sharks swirl near the boat. There are beautiful corals on the left side of the resort and a bit of current when you approach the drop-off. Since the area to explore wasn’t very large, we had time to head to Sabolong Kecil. Then we went to the fishing village of Messah, where a Muslim celebration was taking place. There were people everywhere with many food offerings—what activity! It was like an anthill.
And at the end of the day, we anchored near Kanawa with a beautiful sunset.
On the third day, we discovered Kanawa and some hawksbill turtles. There were many colorful corals, but we didn’t stay long. During this day, the stops were close together, making it intense with four visits.
Then we arrived at Sebayur Besar with a different snorkeling approach: Ari dropped us in the current, and we drifted for over a kilometer before he came to pick us up. At first, it seemed a bit worrying to see the boat move away while we were offshore, but we were quickly carried by the current and passed almost too quickly by so many corals and fish to see. What a pleasure to drift and freedive with little effort.
The drift lasted a good hour, and we reached Siaba Island, where the water was colder. There were many boats, and we had quickly lost the habit of seeing other tourists. Visibility was average—it was a nice spot, but after the drift at Sebayur, we liked it less.
Around 1 p.m., we anchored with other boats because Ari met up with some friends, and we ate heartily since the cool water had whetted our appetites.
In the afternoon, we were at Manta Point. The water was cool, and there was a lot of excitement trying to follow the giant manta rays. We managed to dive down and get close to them, but it took a lot of effort and breath because, despite their leisurely appearance, they move quite fast for us little swimmers. Here, they come to feed and then return to the depths, and it’s not always certain you’ll encounter them.
We ended the day at Makassar with a two-hour sail. There was a lot of wind and swell, the boat rocked, and we hoped there wouldn’t be an engine breakdown. We had to take down the tent on the boat’s roof, which had also been used for sleeping. Makassar’s beach is pink, caused by microorganisms called foraminifera. There are many beach huts along the shore, and we were alone, though it must get busy here during the day.
On the fourth day, we visited Padar Island for its viewpoint amid hordes of tourists, then headed to Rinca and its Komodo dragons. Rinca is much less crowded than Komodo, which is why we chose this visit. We saw a few and took the usual photos. In the late afternoon, we snorkeled at Pempend Island, where the sea was choppy and the water a bit murky.
And on the last day, we visited Strawberry Rock, named after the reddish rock overlooking the sea. There were many corals, but the water was rough with reduced visibility, and then we went to Kelor with its tourist "bars" and the pretty viewpoint.
In conclusion, we shared amazing moments and managed to complete our program. Luckily, the weather was very kind, and not a drop of rain fell in early September, except just upon returning to the port. It’s worth noting that after five intense days in the water from morning to night, we were glad to return to dry land because we were exhausted.
My daughter and her friend were so thrilled that, in return, they developed a website for Ari to help him get known, and I can share the link if you’d like.
I visit Voyage Forum from time to time, so if you have any questions, don’t hesitate—I’ll answer them.
We’re not sure this report will really be useful for VF backpackers.
As mentioned in our profile, our travel journals are primarily aimed at young van converters who’ve been following our trips for years. No cultural fluff—just a visual reconstruction that strictly follows our motorized routes.
That said, they might offer a different perspective: traveling immersed in a small, go-anywhere vehicle that fascinated the Iranians. We didn’t just visit once—we had to show off our van setup 100 times!
Anyway, it’s up to you to decide. 😏
The itinerary?
No overly precise plan.
It’s all about the vibe, improvisation, and what we felt like doing... since our van makes us completely self-sufficient.
Sylvie wanted to see Persepolis, the desert cities, and the jewel that is Isfahan.
For me, it was Abadan and Bandar Abbas—where I used to drive TIR trucks back in the 1970s.
Then Bam and Baluchistan, where I’d never driven before.
Speaking of which, over 40 years of international road experience doesn’t make you immune to mistakes. Overconfident, I underestimated tensions in certain areas.
You’ll find the stories in the text accompanying the photos.
All in all, these 30 days are shared online in two albums.
Click the "i" to display the story alongside the photos:
Album 1: PERSIAN GULF
Album 2: IRAN 2017
The travel journal map:
To wrap up, a few snapshots of our favorite spots 😏
It’s an understatement to say that Japan is a world apart. All around me, people exclaim: "How lucky you are to be able to go there! I’ve always dreamed of visiting, of finding myself in that culture blending tradition and technology!" Yes, they’re right. Until the moment their dreams become reality and things appear as they truly are, without the filter of fantasized preconceptions. Because in the collective unconscious, Japan indeed seems like a civilization—if not neutral—at least stripped of any social maturation. As if it had emerged all at once from its canonical ages, offering only the best of its traditions, and as if those traditions were undoubtedly the foundation of its extraordinary discipline. Yet, as always, the truth is far more complex. Modern Japan is likely shaped by its millennia-old traditions. But that Japan is also the result of its own uncertainties and contradictions. I’ve always been wary. I’ve never understood why the cleaning women on the platform bow when the train arrives. At some point, too much discipline, too much deference—it makes you smile, it raises questions.
Finally, thanks to F., a dream is coming true! Not the dream of going to Japan—a country I’ve visited more than any other, except for Réunion and the UK—but the dream of completing the fastest round-the-world trip of my career. Indeed, due to the restrictions imposed by the Russians*, the plane flies over the Caucasus and China on the way there; on the return, it gracefully heads toward the Arctic after skirting the Aleutian Islands, Alaska, and Greenland. So, in nearly 26 hours of flight, I complete my 6th round-the-world trip. A round-the-world trip with just one stopover. Or two, if you count our impromptu detour to Okinawa.
(* In response to Western sanctions, Russia closed its airspace to Western airlines on February 28, 2022, except for Air Serbia, Turkish Airlines, Pegasus, and Belavia. This decision adds 2 to 3 hours to flight times and, incidentally, increases operating costs.)
The empire of noise. The empire that dazzles. In Japan, the auditory and visual space is constantly fed. No respite. You have to be strong. Navigating public transport feels like playing the most advanced video game: moving between language barriers and a different organization, the hero tries to ignore the numerous visual and auditory distractions. Mostly auditory, though. Because in Japan, there’s a culture of noise that has undoubtedly inspired our national railways. Everything must be announced. So, here and there, all along the route, we find agents whose sole role is to endlessly repeat safety messages through megaphones more or less suited to the situation. The result is a constant murmur, a kind of tinnitus, a subtle but incessant buzz that fades only at bedtime and returns with a vengeance at first light, when we descend back into the supposedly sterile depths of Osaka’s subway. "To go right, please turn right, kudasaï. When descending the stairs, please mind the steps, kudasaï. To go straight, please take the left corridor, kudasaï." That *kudasaï* ("please" in Japanese), I assure you, has permanently lodged itself in my auditory cells.
Screens are no exception; the brain is constantly stimulated. But paradoxically, passengers massively retreat into their own worlds via their screens. Literally glued to their phones, earbuds firmly in place, people escape into the virtual aisles of a furniture store, a game, a movie... In the train cars, raised voices are rare. The field is clear for announcements and other jingles. Each stop is announced by a little tune unique to each station. Simply incredible.
If we usually judge a country by the welcome its inhabitants offer, in Japan, we’re left wanting. Indeed, the Lost in Translation* spirit doesn’t just apply to verbal exchanges—it applies to everything, especially non-verbal communication. In Japan, me, the slightly North African Corsican, I’m at a loss. I speak loudly, I gesture, in front of a hotel concierge just as lost. Each for our own reasons. Yes, he speaks some English, but we can’t seem to connect. It’s a losing battle trying to find a bit of compassion from a local who’s far from familiar with Western concerns. I try to buy tickets for the World Expo? I run into a systematization as rigid as it is abrupt, which the concierge can’t seem to navigate. While we might still have a shred of common sense, here in Japan, everything is digitized. Soon, no one will be surprised that a QR code becomes essential just to go to the bathroom.
(* Film by Sofia Coppola, released in 2003, which explores isolation, unease, Japanese culture, and language through the experiences of two protagonists.)
In the end, we get that ticket for the Expo. After providing personal information on yet another account created for the occasion, we buy electronic tickets—a QR code, then—to regulate the comings and goings, the souls and aspirations of all these wandering beings scattered across the globe. And it’s probably for the best... Because we’ll be tens of thousands of visitors—100,000 to 150,000 per day—walking the aisles of this enormous improvised amusement park, a kind of delirious superstructure surrounded by the Grand Ring, the largest wooden construction in the world. Inside the park, the pavilions, flagship vessels of their respective countries, compete in ingenuity, proportionate to their GDP, to attract visitors. But you have to wait up to two hours to visit the most popular ones! Fortunately, about a hundred countries can be explored without waiting in shared, more spacious areas. What will I remember from this adventure? The beauty of that wooden structure, despite any environmental or financial considerations—200M € for barely renewable elements; a certain poetry, even magic, in the expression of this event—conversing with Juliette Petit, the splendid representative of Vanuatu, had something indescribable; a close-up experience of Japanese discipline when it came time to return to the subway after that epic evening—thousands upon thousands of people converging at the same time toward a single place without any interruption in the flow.
But my real passion is the countryside. So, I’ll especially remember that brief escape, on the very first day, to the Mino-o waterfall, where the journey itself was already enchanting. Quickly leaving the underground lines, our train speeds through the city’s endless expanse and drops us at the foot of a hill, the abrupt edge of the urban sprawl. The slope was too steep to build anything? We leave behind an impressive hotel, a capitalist eyesore defying the laws of elevation to tackle the climb toward the waterfall. A bucolic walk where the stroller can choose between a paved path or more epic trails. Here and there, stalls, temples, everywhere, a certain serenity. The city’s pulse gives way to a magnificent spectacle magnified by giant sequoias. From the depths of a ravine, we try to glimpse the sky beyond the foliage. Everything is oversized. Here, you can breathe.
***
In reality, Japan has never undertaken any real work of memory. Aside from a few feeble gestures to appease Washington in its choice of Asian partners, one wonders if the Japanese have ever truly grasped the horror they were forced to participate in. While our Judeo-Christian society has more or less assimilated the notions of forgiveness and self-questioning, where does Japanese society stand, juggling a millennia-old Zen philosophy and the unabashed Machiavellianism of an emperor utterly possessed? Is it just me, or does there float in the atmosphere a kind of unease, a malaise, an awkward relationship with reality? For me, bowing to a train as it enters the station is just the result of a poorly directed moral dilemma...
Ah, how distant is the time of sakoku, that closure of the country—both concrete and ideological—that was in vogue for two centuries. Because if no one could enter, no one could leave either! A boon for neighboring countries. But from 1854, following the skirmishes of Commodore Matthew Perry, who demanded Japan’s participation in trade, the country suddenly became aware of the disparities separating it from the West. Bring Japan up to the level of other nations? Industrialization, competition, search for raw materials... Hirohito (1901–1989) emerges on the scene, a bit expansionist and willing to stop at nothing to achieve his goals. Above all, he knew how to use, in his own way, the incredible capacity for self-sacrifice of his people...
We protest, we condemn, we all rally behind an acceptable discourse when it comes to discussing the use of the atomic bomb. Yet, we forget one essential thing: Hiroshima wasn’t enough to make Hirohito yield. While we’re bombarded with anti-fascist elements, as if the sole purpose of school curricula were to prevent us from voting for the National Rally, we completely overlook those events of rare cruelty that took place on the other side of the globe at a time contemporary with Nazi atrocities. Why? Because it was farther away, on the other side of the world? Because we must both condemn the use of nuclear weapons and Nazism? What a dangerous game. Killing civilians is beyond comprehension, everyone agrees on that. But hasn’t Japan ever been guilty of such atrocities? Our empathy is legitimate; it won’t, however, remove from my mind the idea that there was no other solution. Nagasaki is the most telling proof of that.
At least in France, in school textbooks, Hitler will have completely overshadowed the existence of people crueler and more abject than him. Certainly, Adolf was a deeply disturbed man whom events propelled to power. But I’m justified in believing that his approach was probably more humane than that of Joseph Stalin at the height of his art*. And if Hirohito followed the same line as Hitler, in the sense that he represented the superior race, he would apply with conviction what was Stalin’s credo: contempt for his own people when sending them to slaughter, and an even fiercer contempt for the human race when it didn’t have the good fortune to be Japanese. Just look at how China was invaded and by what means millions of Chinese were annihilated, burned, deported, buried alive! Operation Scorched Earth or Three Alls Policy for kill all, burn all, loot all? No comment. Even today, the Japanese are convinced they waged a patriotic war, when clearly, that war served only vague ideological (and certainly economic) interests.
(* "In many ways, Hitler’s National Socialism was far more humane than Communism: it wasn’t unthinkable to speak to the SS or the Gestapo, and dissuading them from sending you to a prison camp wasn’t utopian. To some extent (compared to the Communists), you could still expect a semblance of justice. All those who lived under Hitler and under Communism will tell you: as the front lines shifted, they always managed to end up in Germany, where, though it was a strange place ruled by a madman, life went on. Under Communism, there was no life; totalitarianism was absolute. Probably, Hitler’s conservatism prevented him from fully imitating Bolshevism." Seraphim Rose in The Revolutions of the 19th and 20th Centuries (circa 1970))
In Naha, we visit two strategic sites: the Imperial Navy headquarters and Maeda Escarpment, in Urasoe, better known as Hacksaw Ridge. I love this confrontation with history. In the hand-dug tunnels of the headquarters, we meet Japanese people seeking information. They’re not responsible for this tragedy. Neither are we. I would have liked to tell them that, to hug them, to move on. To finally believe in those peace messages displayed here and there. Yes, it’s curious to read those calls for peace* when no real work of memory** has been undertaken. Two civilizations, two perspectives, a profound misunderstanding. When I analyze the waste of that war—and particularly the waste of those Pacific battles—like Peleliu in autumn 1944 and Okinawa in spring 1945—I can’t bring myself to share in the pathological patriotism that reigns within these walls. There, the room where the last message of Admiral Minoru Ōta was transmitted in Morse, praising the merits of the archipelago’s people. A tangled mix that, yes, is charged with positive emotions but, no, won’t remove from my mind the idea that this people was completely conditioned, completely disconnected from reality. Allying with the Axis powers? Invading the South Pacific? And finding that noble! Everyone sees things through their own lens.
(* Peace Declaration by Denny Tamaki, Governor of Okinawa, June 2020.
** "Recognizing the atrocities committed by one’s country requires a mix of democratic culture and self-confidence that is more the exception than the rule." Dominique Moïsi in Les Échos, April 30, 2015)
Okinawa. 200,000 dead. Stemming from bushido, the way of the warrior, this conditioning reached its peak with the kamikaze philosophy in particular and suicide in general. So, schematically, here’s how things went: as the island was encircled—Peleliu, Iwo Jima, Okinawa—and all hope was lost, the order was given to kill ten American soldiers before taking one’s own life. The deceit of this system, where surrender is synonymous with dishonor, involves creating tunnels and secret pockets where Japanese soldiers hide and from which they emerge. Long before the atomic bomb, the knell of their war had sounded. Hiroshima and Nagasaki are just the result of human pride, of which Hirohito’s reign is the finest example. Why was this henchman of Satan left in place until his death? I don’t understand. While the humiliation inflicted on Germany repeatedly was abject, especially for its people, the absence of any real and pressing accountability for Hirohito in this large-scale carnage he instigated leaves room for the wildest interpretations. As if to underscore my point, Emperor Naruhito visited Okinawa the same day we did, paying his respects to the inhabitants who fell in battle. I looked at the faces in the monorail serving the south of the island. There were elderly people who undoubtedly lost their parents eighty years ago. To what extent can they blame this tragedy on the delusional visions of their leaders?
On Maeda Escarpment, I salute the courage of Desmond Doss, that conscientious objector who fought to serve his country while refusing to ever carry a weapon. There, at the top of a steep ridge, you can see to the north the Allies’ advance, while to the south, the slope is gentler down to Shuri, in front of the headquarters. The underground is a Swiss cheese filled with enemies. Desmond works as a medic. He manages to save 75 wounded from certain death by evacuating them at night from the battlefield using makeshift ropes.
Back in Osaka, far from the somewhat dilapidated tropical islands, I rediscover the splendor and grandeur of Japan’s second-largest city. To tell the truth, and this applies to Okinawa too, the density is so insane on this archipelago that you sometimes wonder if it’s not just one giant city spread across the vast territory. Because between Tokyo and Osaka, while there are some mountains and forests, it’s the city that dominates; during rush hour, a rapid train connects the two cities every five minutes. We get lost in rather quiet alleys parallel to the main streets, only to find ourselves in the covered and lively galleries of Dōtonbori. We’re looking for a place to eat—above all, we’re trying to navigate the unlimited options stretching endlessly along the sidewalks. It’s absolutely mind-blowing. And while I introduce F. to a part of history that our Western societies have quickly forgotten, he initiates me into Japanese gastronomy despite my well-known aversion to Asian food. But nothing beats having a master in the field! We feast on okonomiyaki, Japanese pancakes expertly prepared and served on a teppan embedded in our table.
Night falls on Japan, and I still haven’t found the answer. Like in Singapore, one can praise the calm and serenity of human relationships, the delicacy that may just be hypocrisy, the politeness, the discipline. But above all, we notice that in the absence of freedom, in the absence of madness, poetry struggles to take root, boredom looms, as does real madness. Bushido still exists, honor is there and must be preserved. But the youth drowns in electronics and in willingly sterile cults (otaku), unable to discern what’s essential, failing to believe in their dreams. You have to succeed? Young people commit suicide because of school bullying, the slightly older ones because of work-related difficulties or marital problems. Nothing exceptional, we might say—average*—but you’d expect better from a country so well-organized, a country that makes so many Westerners dream. Yes, night falls on Japan. Empire of noise, empire of the senses, a very strange land where you find clean toilets in subway corridors but where the very meaning of life seems stifled by the mirages of technology. Above all, a civilization deprived of a penance that would prove salutary. We’re caught between two waters. Those of a shallow modernity without depth or anchor; those of a past that was majestic but irreparably tainted by the demonic madness of an overly adored emperor.
How can one fully thrive when guilt has no outlet?
(* France and Japan share a common statistic of 17 suicides per 100,000 inhabitants, which, depending on density, means 30 per day in France and 70 in Japan...)
Let’s be clear—it was a fantastic time to visit, and Jordan is an amazing country!
100% sunshine and temperatures between 25 and 35°C, depending on the altitude.
No stress at all: Jordanians live up to their reputation as a charming, helpful, and fun-loving people. No hassles, no pushy sales—just pure joy sharing time and laughter with them.
Over 11 days, we intentionally skipped the north to spend more time in Petra, Wadi Rum, Dana, and diving in Aqaba. No regrets whatsoever 😄
Practical tips at the end of the travel journal.
Road trip:
Arrived at 10 PM (Nantes-Frankfurt/Amman in under 9 hours). Spent the night near the airport.
Day 1: Left at 8 AM for Mount Nebo and the Dead Sea Center—picnic in the middle of the lovely Wadi Himara (great spot, 2-hour round trip—thanks to the GPS coordinates from the agency. It takes guts to leave your car parked alone with all the luggage inside, but honestly, no stress at all).
Afternoon at the Movenpick (pricey but nice) to enjoy the Dead Sea. Dinner on-site. Perfect relaxation for a first day.
Day 2: Drove south along the Dead Sea. First stop at Wadi Mujib (great, fun, and full of water—max 2-hour round trip). Then a second swim in the Dead Sea, 10 km past the Wadi Mujib Center, which we preferred over the Movenpick spot because it felt wilder. Just pull over when you see tents along the road where you can take a shower after swimming (a must! Cost: 3 JOD per shower). The scenery is stunning, and the swim feels more natural than at the hotels. A really cool experience.
Around 3 PM, took the scenic route after the Dead Sea toward Little Petra (1.5 hours). Don’t take the King’s Highway directly—instead, continue on the Wadi Arabia road, then turn left (Route 60) after the town of Feifa and the ‘Jo Petrol’ gas station. Worth it!
Visited Little Petra in the late afternoon and had dinner + stayed overnight at the Seven Wonder Luxury Camp. TOP: warm welcome and great advice on the best order for hikes in Petra based on sunlight and avoiding backtracking. We regretted not staying two nights…
Day 3: PETRA
Petra info: Not many people around, so we really enjoyed it (thanks to the geopolitical situation). We’ll share the times of our circuits since we were able to catch the sun on the key sites (9:30 AM for the Treasury).
As amateur photographers, we took our time on all the visits and circuits—you can shave off about 25% of the suggested times.
But rushing can ruin Petra’s magic! For us, two full days is the minimum.
First day in Petra with arrival at 7:30 AM. Free parking in front of the visitor center… Program: Siq, Khazneh (40 min), then the amazing “High Place of Sacrifice” circuit between 9:30 AM and 12:30 PM, starting directly to the left before the theater. This avoids climbing in the sun (great tip from our camp host the night before!).
Arrived at the Great Temple, lunch at the ‘The Bassin’ self-service (17 JOD per person!). Expensive, but it’s a good place to rest 😉
Then visited the churches with viewpoints over the temples, accompanied by two friends 🙂, the Colonnaded Street, and the tombs (in the sun at 4 PM), the Theater… then back via the Khazneh and the Siq (another 40 min!).
Arrived at the Seven Wonder Hotel in Petra at 5 PM, exhausted!! Good hotel, simple room, but an amazing rooftop with a pool—perfect for relaxing after Petra. A car is necessary to reach the visitor center and possibly downtown for dinner (the hotel dining room isn’t cozy at all).
Two great places to eat:
Mr. Falafel for lunch or dinner (also makes takeaway meals for 4 JOD)—simple but delicious!
My Mom's Recipe Restaurant—great decor on the terrace and really tasty food.
Day 4: Little Petra to the Monastery circuit. You need a special ticket issued on the road to Little Petra (you can get there by taxi from the visitor center for 10 JOD or by shuttle), where they take you in a 4x4 to the start of the trail. This saves an hour of walking in the sun but costs 5 JOD per person. Started the trail around 8:30 AM. Count 3 hours to get all the way down. Great circuit that avoids climbing the 800 steps (just descending them!).
Before reaching the Monastery, tea break at the “End of the World Coffee” following the “best view” sign—the name isn’t exaggerated!!!! Breathtaking desert views in a charming setting. We could’ve stayed forever!
Great tip: Picnic at Petra (free tables available next to the BASIN restaurant, and sandwiches for sale—though not great—if you didn’t bring your own).
Then we wandered around the site: a small circuit behind the Nabatean Restaurant with a view of the entire site, returning via the path that runs above Qasr al-Bint, the Great Temple, and the Colonnaded Street to reach the Street of Facades. This path offers another stunning view overlooking the temples and tombs. We took our time, and it was amazing…
Back to Seven Wonder by 3:30 PM… The call of the pool, and we were exhausted!
Day 5: Last day in Petra with the Al Khubtha Trail circuit to see the Khazneh from above. Really fun to do (2.5-hour round trip, including 30 minutes of contemplation 😊. Best in the morning to see the Khazneh in the sun 👉 9:15 AM). Return via the tombs, and we recommend going straight up while staying left of the main path (amazing circuit with the best view of the theater—gorgeous).
Back to the car at 1 PM, lunch at Mr. Falafel, and headed to Aqaba via Little Petra and the Dead Sea (the Wadi Arabia road we loved!) to take the “Rift Valley—West Route” to Aqaba. The scenery loses its charm once you hit Route 65—we ended up regretting not taking the shorter route… but if you haven’t taken the Wadi Arabia road before, don’t miss it!
Arrived at the Bedouin Garden Village at 5 PM (Aqaba, South Beach), and diving briefing 😊! Simple hotel with a great vibe and a nice little pool. However, not the cleanest (rooms and common areas)—you can tell there’s been a lack of guests lately, which is a shame because the location, decor, and atmosphere are all great.
On the other hand, disappointed by the southern beaches—dirty and almost deserted, with nothing open for dinner in the evening.
Day 6-7: Morning dives (great marine life, easy shore dives with unique wrecks—cargo ship, tank, plane sunk near the shore). Lots of colorful fish, though small.
Afternoons and evenings in Aqaba, which turned out to be a lively and pleasant city. Sunset drinks by the embankment near the giant flag—a great mix of local life, loud racing boats, music… we loved it.
Dinner at Al Shami Restaurant—delicious, affordable, and a really nice terrace with a view of the beautiful Sharif Hussein bin Ali Mosque. Perfect lemon-mint juice!
Day 8: Two final dives in the morning, then drove to Wadi Rum (1 hour). Welcomed by Khaled and Claire from Mars on Earth (a top agency we highly recommend—they put together a “semi-custom” stay based on our schedule and desire to avoid crowds. Claire is French, which makes booking and planning ahead via email much easier).
Afternoon in a private 4x4 in northern Wadi Rum to see the most famous and visited sites (lots of improbable selfies 😠!). Gorgeous sunset with Bedouin tea over the fire. Khaled is amazing, with a beautiful smile… Arrived at the tent camp for the night. Great location, unique dinner, and a fun evening around the fire with Khaled leading cool games that got everyone chatting. Beautiful tent with a view of the stars…
Day 9: Trek to Burdah Rock Bridge (3 hours)—for sporty types only, as it’s a tough climb and descent with no protection or pitons… basically climbing with just a 3-meter rope held by our guide to help us! But what an amazing memory, incredible views, and a real adventure for my 57 years! Would do it again in a heartbeat 😊!
Then headed south in Wadi Rum. Let’s just say it was our favorite area… we strongly recommend spending a full day there… Wild, red, and empty—another planet! Salem, our climbing guide, took us to wonderful spots with breathtaking views. We wished the day could’ve lasted 48 hours!
End of the day: sunset, Bedouin tea, beautiful views… Just the classics 😉, but we loved it!
Then spent the night under the stars. Salem set up comfortable mattresses and thick blankets, prepared tea and dinner over the wood fire. An amazing experience—like being a kid again, with a sky so stunning we fought sleep just to keep our eyes open.
Day 10: Woke up around 7 AM after a great night under the stars! Breakfast… and then it was time to head back to Claire and Khaled’s to pick up our car.
Drove to Wadi Ghuweir (2.5 hours from the King’s Highway). A truly magnificent wadi reached after a steep descent (don’t take a Fiat 500 for the climb back up!). Make sure to hike 2 hours in to reach a lush oasis with water where you can swim in the middle of the wadi… We didn’t know and stopped 15 minutes too early… I still regret it!! If there’s no water at the start of the hike, it’s because it’s flowing underground—don’t give up thinking the wadi is dry! That’s why it’s Claire’s and Family in Jordan’s favorite wadi. A must-do!
Picnic in the wadi.
Around 4 PM, headed to Dana—visited this tiny, unique village, half in ruins and half restored while keeping its old-world charm.
Stayed overnight and had dinner at Dana Luxury Huts (amazing view with a private balcony, great triangular rooms—though the bathroom is tiny). Run by a family. Delicious food cooked by the mom. Bedouin tea after dinner around the fire—such a nice moment.
Day 11: “Sheq Al Reesh” trek in Dana Valley booked through the Luxury Huts hotel. Four hours in a totally different landscape from the desert—unique and guided by a fantastic guide who prepared a memorable lunch over a fire on the cliffside. We really loved this hike and the peacefulness of Dana. A great stop to break up the long drive back to the airport.
Left Dana at 2 PM for Kerak Castle (2.5-hour drive). Nice visit, especially the underground passages.
Then drove to Madaba (1.5 hours) to explore the city by night, do some last-minute shopping, and wait for our 3:30 AM flight… not fun!
Good to know:
Late October was a perfect time—temperatures between 25 and 35°C depending on location (mountains or sea), with lows of 13°C at night in Wadi Rum 👉 A fleece is enough; it’s not that cold in the desert, and the blankets are amazing. Eleven days is the perfect amount of time to take it slow, stop for "Bedouin tea" invitations in unexpected places, and soak in the colors!
We don’t regret doing the trip "backwards"—starting with the Dead Sea and ending with Wadi Rum and Dana (usually, people start with the King’s Highway).
We recommend the ‘Family In Jordan’ guide for those who want an easy way to find trailheads and routes.
Don’t hesitate to explore multiple wadis—not just Wadi Mujib!
We highly recommend Mars on Earth for organizing your Wadi Rum stay. Very professional, with great bivouac and camp locations.
No pushy salespeople. Jordanians are very respectful (especially toward women), super smiley, and helpful. We felt completely at ease—almost too much so 😉
Renting a car is a great option, but if possible, choose a mid-size category with a "real" engine and check the tires. The hills are tough, and some roads turn into semi-off-road for 500 meters… No issues driving—roads are in good condition. The only problem is the aggressive speed bumps everywhere. The Dana-Madaba King’s Highway is long (4 hours).
Budget varies a lot depending on your choices: from a simple lunch for 4 JOD to a dinner for 30 JOD, depending on how touristy the restaurant is… On average, 8–10 JOD for a good local or seafood dish + drink, and 30–40 JOD for a night in a hotel (except the Movenpick, unfortunately ☹). Watch out for Fridays—it’s really hard to find picnic supplies!
If you’re still hesitant, the Jordan Pass is a must and very cost-effective since it includes your visa. Get it online.
Consider hubs like Madrid or Frankfurt—often faster and cheaper than flying via Paris and Air France if you live in the provinces!
My three little girls and I went on a family safari in Tanzania. It was magnificent—unbelievable how the animals don’t even notice us. They just go about their lives right before our eyes.
I’ll answer some of the common questions that come up. It’s expensive, but I’d say it costs about the same as a week at a Club Med in Martinique, and honestly, we preferred this. Is it dangerous? Not with the animals if you don’t get out of the car. The real risks are being swept away by water if you go from late February to June, especially in the Serengeti, and car accidents if your guide drives a little too fast (though you can just tell them you’re scared if they overtake without visibility). Should you go to the Serengeti even though it’s far? My answer is yes—it’s where you’ll see lions, lionesses, cheetahs, and leopards (we only saw one).
Booking an agency is a must because the guides call each other as soon as they spot a lion, cheetah, leopard, or especially when it’s safe to cross rivers. We were often alone (just our two cars) except when there was a call—then everyone rushes over, and you end up with about twenty cars.
That’s all for now—feel free to message me privately for more details.
It’s been a while since I last posted... so I’m jumping back in with this amazing trip we took in October 2025:
We’re doing this trip with fellow traveler friends who, like us, have already been to Japan. That means we can aim for a different side of Japan, away from the usual tourist circuits. That’s why I opted to rent a car instead of relying on trains.
I was drawn to the castles and the samurai-novel atmosphere.
When I plotted the sites I wanted to visit on Google Maps, it suggested a return route via the island of Shikoku, so it turned into a nice loop around the Seto Inland Sea between Kyushu, Chugoku, and Shikoku.
The trip will be just the four of us, doing it all independently.
I rented a car from Budget in Fukuoka. Before heading over, I watched several videos to get an idea of what to expect—road signs, parking, and general driving behavior. In Japan, they drive on the left, but that’s not an issue since in Southern Africa we also drive on the “wrong side of the road,” so I’m used to it.
For accommodations, after checking with two agencies, I decided to handle it myself. It saved a significant amount of money, and I was able to choose exactly what I wanted.
I know I can be picky about the type of lodging I want, especially in Japan where you can really treat yourself. We stayed in some stunning ryokans, once in little cabins run by monks next to a temple, and more.
It’s my turn to share my impressions, itineraries, and addresses in Cape Verde. I actually drew a lot of inspiration from travel journals to choose which islands to visit...
I set off with a friend for 12 days there.
We chose the islands of Santo Antão for its hikes and São Vicente to enjoy Carnival.
We arrived in São Vicente and spent the first half-day gathering information on ferry schedules to Santo Antão and finding two nights of accommodation for our return to São Vicente during Carnival. We were lucky to find an available room in a guesthouse very close to Laghina Beach, while all the hotels and guesthouses in town were fully booked. Indeed, it’s best to book in advance to secure a room during Carnival.
We also bought a phone card, which turned out to be useful for making a few reservations during our stay. We got some tips from the tourist office located right in the city center.
We left for Santo Antão the same day at 2:30 PM. The ferries from São Vicente to Santo Antão are supposedly the most punctual. And for good reason—they’re very on time, even leaving 5 minutes early. Boarding starts 30 minutes before the scheduled departure to avoid missing it.
On the ferry, we met Vany, who runs a guesthouse near the Paul Valley. He told us his restaurant is very good. He was adorable, and we kept his contact info—we weren’t disappointed!
We arrived in Santo Antão and asked the *colectivo* (shared taxi) to take us to Ponta do Sol for 400 escudos per person.
Meanwhile, we bought the 1:500,000 map of Santo Antão (essential for hiking without a guide).
The *colectivo* dropped us off right at the door of a very kind lady who rents rooms on the upper floor of her house (3,000 escudos per night + breakfast for 2 people).
We dropped off our things and chatted with a local contact to decide on our itineraries and hikes.
We decided on the following route (which sometimes changed day by day):
From Ponta do Sol to Cha d’Igreja (path 212)
From Cha d’Igreja via Cabo de Mocho to Ribeira Grande (then return by *colectivo* to Ponta do Sol) (paths 213a, 213, 208a, then the road)
The *Rota da Corda* (by taxi) to Cova de Paul, then the Paul Valley (with a guide, likely paths 101 and 102)
Cha de Morte to Alta Mira III (starting from Tia Rosa’s place, then paths 302 and 303)
Alta Mira III via the Mira Valley to the sea, then back to Alta Mira III (paths 303 and 305a, returning by road)
One thing to remember: the hikes are non-stop uphill and downhill—no flat sections!
From Ponta do Sol to Cha d’Igreja (path 212)
We left our guesthouse around 8:30 AM with a light backpack, water, some snacks for the road, and a few things for our overnight stay in Cha d’Igreja (our host kindly agreed to keep our big backpacks for the night; we’d return the following night).
The path was very easy—impossible to get lost. We were advised to do it in this direction because it’s supposedly prettier and easier than the other way. The scenery includes the coast and villages perched on the lush mountainside. The only downside was the cloud of sand particles that reduced visibility, especially over the sea.
We arrived in Cha d’Igreja at 2:30 PM and checked into a guesthouse we’d been recommended (5,600 escudos for 2 people, including dinner, night, and breakfast).
In Cha d’Igreja, there’s a square where people gather in the evenings. That night, kids were dressed up because Carnival was already starting. We also visited an ecolodge run by French people just before the village entrance. The place was really nice—they had bungalows and fully equipped tents. I think it’s worth staying there, but we’d already booked our guesthouse (maybe next time!).
From Cha d’Igreja via Cabo de Mocho to Ribeira Grande
We left around 8:00–8:30 AM for a 3–3.5 hour hike to Boca de Ambas.
The scenery was stunning the whole way.
We stopped at a *merceria* (small shop) in Boca de Ambas to buy fruit juice and eat some fruit. There, we met an old man who asked, “Are you French? So you don’t speak English?” But then—bluff—we *did* speak English (he was stunned!). We started chatting; he told us he’d traveled a lot, introduced us to his neighbors, and insisted on accompanying us to Zeca’s house (about a 40-minute walk away). We happily accepted his company, but his idea wasn’t to walk—it was to drive us there. So off we went in his 4x4. From there, he showed us the way to Coculi via Cha de Lobhinos. We still asked for directions a few times because we weren’t always sure which path to take. We passed through Ribeirão, Lombo de Negrinho, then hiked with a group on the road to Cha de Saída (about 2.5 hours of walking).
The scenery was magnificent again.
Then we came across the track to Coculi. It was less pretty, so we decided to hop into the first passing vehicle to take us to Ribeira Grande and then to Synagogue, where we swam in the natural pools.
We returned to Ponta do Sol around 5:00 PM. We had dinner at an excellent restaurant by the sea, right in front of the diver statue (a turtle’s body is on the restaurant’s facade). Lucky for us, there was one table left—the place was packed!
Ponta do Sol is a pretty lively town. We even caught Carnival rehearsals. It was a nice change from the quiet of Cha d’Igreja.
The *Rota da Corda* (by taxi) to Cova de Paul, then the Paul Valley with a guide
The taxi picked us up at 8:30 AM, and we headed to the Cova crater. We left with a small backpack because our *colectivo* driver kindly agreed to drop off our big bags at the guesthouse we’d booked in Paul.
We stopped along the way—the scenery was breathtaking. I already regretted not hiking part of this route on foot.
We climbed to the top of the crater and descended into the Paul Valley. I expected it to be cloudy, but it was actually very clear and green.
The Paul Valley is beautiful. The guide gave us brief explanations about the plants we encountered. There was a lot of downhill walking—it was pretty tough on the feet. I think I would’ve preferred a mix of hiking in the *Rota da Corda* and the Paul Valley.
Guide fee: 4,500 escudos for the day, and 3,000 escudos for the taxi.
We arrived at the guesthouse we’d booked, which is famous for its great food (and for good reason). When we got there, the cook picked out the fish for that evening’s menu from the day’s catch—a lobster... and it was for us! :)
The terrace setting of this guesthouse (where the restaurant is) is gorgeous, and the staff is adorable (especially Vany, who runs the place and whom we’d met on the ferry).
There’s even a small dedicated space with a stage for live music nights.
However, the room was a bit less comfortable (no water at times, quite noisy), but it didn’t matter—the setting and the people made us quickly forget the minor inconveniences.
Address: DM me if you want it.
Cha de Morte to Alta Mira III (starting from Tia Rosa’s place, then paths 302 and 303)
We left Paul via Porto Novo, where we took advantage of the *colectivo* change to buy our ferry tickets (for two days later). We decided to head toward Alta Mira III. The owner of the (only?) guesthouse there is also a *colectivo* driver for the route from Porto Novo to the Alta Mira Valley. He dropped us off along the way near Tia Rosa’s house (marked on the map), and we took path 302. The scenery changed dramatically—it was much more arid than the northern and eastern parts of the island. Still, the landscapes and “dykes” in the second part of the route were spectacular. We hiked for about 3.5 hours and arrived at the guesthouse (DM for contact—2,000 escudos per person for the night, including dinner and breakfast). The calm in the village contrasted with the lively atmosphere at Vany’s the night before. The food was excellent—we loved it!
Alta Mira III via the Mira Valley to the sea, then back to Alta Mira III (paths 303 and 305a, returning by road)
Our last hike before returning to São Vicente. We went to the Alta Mira Valley via Alto Mira II to the sea (about 4 hours of walking). The first part, up to Dominguihas, was especially beautiful. After that, I found the scenery a bit monotonous. We returned by road, and luckily, we ran into a car (unexpected on a Sunday in this remote area) near Jorge LUIS’s village, which dropped us off at the Selada viewpoint, 4 km from our guesthouse. Otherwise, it would’ve been a long uphill walk back (not very fun).
Second night at our guesthouse (with another amazing dinner).
We left the hiking island to arrive on the party island: São Vicente. A Carnival parade was happening that very evening. We had dinner at a restaurant on Rua Lisboa, which offered a view of the parade from the balcony (packed to the brim). We were lucky to see a magnificent parade in “little Rio” style (with feather costumes, floats, dancing, music, singing, and *batucada*). Once the procession passed, we headed a bit farther (to Praça Nova) to enjoy it longer.
Tuesday, February 9: Carnival Day (though the parades had been going on since Friday, including school parades... the city had been celebrating for days). Four groups were set to parade starting at 3:00 PM. We decided to try the same spot as the night before, but this time, all the restaurants had their doors closed—you needed tickets to enjoy the balconies... and tickets were sold out. We really wanted a high vantage point... so we tried the railing of the Alliance Française, like many other Cape Verdeans (the wall was the width of a flip-flop...). It barely held, but we got our spot, which we kept for nearly 5 hours. The vibe was the same as the night before: floats, costumes, dancing with participants aged 7 to 77 (and older...). The evening ended with a big outdoor concert, then... nothing. We looked for other places with music but had no luck. We went back a bit unsatisfied—we would’ve loved to extend the moment.
Three days left in São Vicente: a walk on the beach (between Calhau and Praia das Gatas, about 3 hours—go at low tide). The sea brings in a lot of trash, which is a shame because the beach is beautiful (but hard to swim due to strong currents). We hiked to the top of Monte Verde (great view if the weather’s clear, but the wind is very strong at the top—you can also take a taxi). We swam at Mindelo Beach (Laghina), drank coffee at the Pergola (next to the Alliance Française), and enjoyed the sun while it was pouring rain in Paris :)
All in all, it was an amazing trip. I hope you’ll have just as great a time in this little corner of paradise.
I just got back from Sardinia 2 and wanted to share my little recap with you.
It’s a stunning country, and the people are so welcoming.
We were lucky to see it at the end of April—I wouldn’t go in July or August because it gets overcrowded and loses its charm!!!
SARDINIA 2: 10 days
-Departure from Geneva to Olbia on Friday, 04/12/24 with EasyJet: 1h30 flight
-Return from Cagliari to Geneva on Sunday, 04/21/24 with EasyJet: 1h40 flight
(Round-trip price: 314 €)
-Car rental with Locauto: 250 €, including 51 € for "full" insurance + 87 € (drop-off at a different airport)
-Accommodation every night via Booking 13: room + kitchen
*OLBIA: Arrival at the airport… wasted time at Locauto because there was only one person at the desk (you can check in online and send the driver’s license and ID, but it was impossible to do!)
Headed to our lodging.
*COSTA SMERALDA: The part we liked the least… everything feels artificial since the billionaires moved in (Porto Rotondo, Porto Cervo, Baia di Sardinia).
We regret not stopping at Golfo Aranci to see its underwater art museum, Mumart.
*ARZACHENA and its archaeological park (Tomba dei Giganti: Coddu Ecchju, Li Muri, Nuraghe la Prisgiona) to see in beautiful nature.
Coastal road toward Palau (lagoons with lots of birds).
*PALAU: Ferries to La Maddalena Island every 15/30 minutes (37 € for 2 people + 1 car).
*** La Maddalena is part of an archipelago with 7 large islands and small islets… absolutely stunning… views of Corsica! ***
-La Maddalena: A charming little town with narrow streets.
-Follow the scenic coastal road that loops around the island for 21 km (gorgeous).
-On the east side of the island, take a 600m bridge to Caprera Island (lots of great hiking trails).
-Lots of beaches with granite rocks and wild coves.
-Return by ferry to Palau.
*SANTA TERESA GALLURA: Departure for Bonifacio 2, 4 km to Capo Testa (cape with a lighthouse… granite rocks). Here, there were Roman quarries.
*Drive down a beautiful road along the Costa Paradiso (red trachyte).
*CASTELSARDO: A fortified hilltop town worth seeing.
*PORTO TORRES: Visit the Basilica San Gavino.
*STINTINO and its beaches, including La Pelosa with its Genoese tower… too crowded for us!
*Viewpoint at Capo Falcone with a view of Parco dell’Asinara (we didn’t have time to go, but it’s a must).
*Drive down to Argentiera via small coastal roads (old lead, zinc, and silver mines). A "ghost town" with a museum that’s apparently only open on weekends at this time of year.
*Small road (with stunning sea views) toward Grotta di Nettuno (you get there by a long staircase, but it was too windy and closed!). Capo Caccia.
*Drive down (along lagoons with birds, including pink flamingos) toward Alghero (historic center: ramparts, bell tower, churches). The city of coral and lobsters!
*Drive along the sea to Bosa, a colorful little town (Malvasia vineyards) between the Temo River and the sea.
*Road to Montiferru Castle on a volcanic massif—ruins of the castle with a beautiful panorama of rolling hills (cork oak forests, chestnut trees, oaks) and cultivated plots.
*** Cuglieri: Olive oil museum ***
*Santa Caterina di Pittinuri, S’Archittu (many beaches with limestone cliffs) (many archaeological sites).
*SINIS PENINSULA: Cabras and its lagoons with lots of pink flamingos.
Archaeological museum with its Nuragic giants.
*Archaeological site of Tharros.
*ORISTANO: Not much visited, but it has some beautiful buildings.
A traditional Sardinian pastry shop—an absolute delight (DELIGIA, Via Figoli 61).
*Road surrounded by marshes, along the coast with beautiful little beaches.
*Arrival at Costa Verde: The Piscinas dunes and beaches are stunning.
Miniera Montevecchio and the surrounding old mines (Iglesiente road) (Naracauli, Ingurtosu).
*** Near Guspini, in the mountains, visit the village of Arbus, where many Sardinian knife makers are based. But make the detour to meet Paolo Pusceddu, the master knife maker who opens his workshop and created the *Museo del Coltello Sardo* Via Roma, 15 · +39 349 053 7765.
Absolutely fascinating and super interesting… he also sells his knives at very reasonable prices.
*Masua (mines) then Pan di Zucchero.
*Porto Flavia: Transport of minerals from a port carved into the cliff with two 600m tunnels… the visit is a must.
*IGLESIAS: Worth visiting.
*ISOLA DI SANT’ANTIOCO: A bridge connects it to Sardinia 2. Drive around the island via small roads.
Calasetta (white and blue houses), Nido del Passeri, Cala Lunga, Capo Sperone, Turri.
Beautiful beaches and stunning views.
*Road to Teulada, then Chia (see the small road from Chia to Tuerredda).
*PULA: Archaeological site of Nora.
*CAPOTERRA: We ended our trip with a night at an agriturismo in the middle of olive groves, "Azienda Agricola Corte degli Ulivi" (Pixina Sa Murta, Marco: +39 347 246 2361). Unforgettable welcome, eco-friendly place (wooden house with water and electricity self-sufficiency).
*Cagliari airport.
In total, 1000 km, and we still didn’t finish exploring (the area south of Olbia and the interior are still on the list).
The Sardinians are very welcoming.
Sardinia 2 is diverse (beaches, countryside, towns, archaeological sites…).
We were lucky to visit at the end of April—summer must be awful with the heat and tourist crowds!
Easy to visit with kids.
And there you have it—promise made, promise kept. Here I go! I’m going to try and share our adventure under the Moroccan sun. I’ll do my best to capture how we felt during this trip. And I hope you’ll be kind to a newbie at this!
We planned this trip with the tips we got from this forum, so thank you to everyone who helped us prepare. Thanks to you, we had unforgettable moments.
Here’s our itinerary, which let us see the Atlas Mountains, the oases of the South, the sandy desert, and the Atlantic coast. We landed in Marrakech early in the morning, and our rental car agent was waiting for us at the airport. After sorting out the formalities, we left Marrakech heading toward Ouarzazate.
The heavy traffic in Marrakech quickly gave way to smooth driving. As soon as we left the city, it was calm.
And right outside the city, we came across shepherds grazing their sheep by the roadside... It’s definitely a surprise at first! But yes... We’re in Morocco... No doubt about it... We’re in the thick of it!
As we started gaining altitude, vendors waved at us, offering dried morels. At first, we weren’t sure what they were selling, but we stopped for tea on a terrace to admire the mountain scenery, and they offered us those famous morels again.
We continued our climb toward Tizi N Tichka... Gigantic valleys stretched out before us. With every turn, we discovered breathtaking landscapes.
Villages built into the hillsides blended into the earth. It was strikingly simple yet harmonious.
At the top of the pass, 2200m up, we stopped to soak in the moment, the fresh air, and the view.
And we carried on toward Ouarzazate. The road was under construction. Mechanical giants were tackling the mountain. But the mountain was enormous. We were impressed by the scale of the work.
Then, we left the main road to head left toward Telouet... It was stunning. The colors changed. Maybe we felt less overwhelmed by the imposing Atlas.
Just a personal impression!
Right after passing through Telouet (maybe we’ll shock history buffs—we didn’t visit the kasbah), we went to see the salt mine. It was unexpected. Salt was everywhere. The stream water wound its way between salt crystals and waterfalls. It was really pretty. And then there was the cave. We had a guide for the visit. Stalactites and stalagmites crisscrossed here and there. At the back of the cave, we saw a small lake surrounded by crystals. It was beautiful.
We hit the road again. We drove through stunning landscapes: vast plains for grazing herds, rivers nestled deep in the valleys.
We proudly drove past the ksar Ait Benhaddou without stopping—just long enough to snap a quick photo and keep going so we’d arrive before nightfall.
We made a few small purchases in Ouarzazate and headed straight for the Skoura palm grove, where we’d booked three nights at the guesthouse Kasbah La Palmeraie.
Mohamed, the owner, welcomed us warmly, and we shared tea with the family. We felt right at home. We were made to feel welcome.
Dinner was a hit—a real Moroccan meal, a sweet-and-savory dish with steamed vermicelli and chicken. Delicious! A great surprise for us—we’d never tried it before.
After such a long day that started so early, we were happy to crawl into bed.
But we felt like the trip was off to the best possible start.
Here’s my account of our trip to Thailand with my partner from November 22 to December 5, 2025.
First off, I’d like to wish all Voyageforum.com users a very happy 2026, full of happiness and amazing discoveries on your travels!
It’s thanks to the tips I gathered on this site that I planned the trip.
We traveled with Malaysia Airlines (the flight price was great, but no movies in French, not even subtitled) because we wanted to explore Kuala Lumpur and visit southern Thailand.
Our departure from Roissy was delayed because the plane had to go through the robotic de-icing trucks—pretty impressive!
After a 12-hour flight, we arrived at the beautiful Kuala Lumpur airport around 7 AM.
Don’t forget to fill out the immigration form requested by Malaysia 3 days before arrival.
We left without any issues and took the Klia Ekspress train to KL Sentral station (30 minutes, 10 €).
We’d booked accommodation in a tower near the station and had to communicate with the landlord to get the keys.
But while we thought there’d be Wi-Fi at the station, there wasn’t—we asked the tourism office, and they said there wasn’t any. We didn’t want to buy a local SIM card since we were leaving the next day.
Eventually, we went to a Starbucks to get online, but just as we decided to head to our place, a torrential downpour hit, and we couldn’t find a sidewalk to reach our destination.
We went back to the station, took the elevated metro, and finally made it to our landlord and the room on the 45th floor.
At the start of November, a bit of rest before winter will be perfect to kick off this travel journal.
There aren’t many recent journals about this part of the world, so I’ll take the plunge—my way of celebrating the (unexpected) return of this forum, which has been such a big part of my life for over 15 years.
So, back to Asia at the end of 2023.
After Myanmar in 2015 and Vietnam in 2018, we’ve chosen Laos this time.
And when talking with friends (you know how it is—everyone asks, "So, where are you going this year?"), a couple of friends asked to join us ("You see, my wife dreams of a trip to Asia, and I dream of traveling like you, independently"). We’ve spent a week with them (and other friends) in Portugal, so we know they’re easygoing and flexible. They’ll only be with us after Christmas (due to lots of grandkids), so deal—we’re bringing them along! A new experience for us.
A new experience that’ll start with tweaking the itinerary. Originally, I planned to stay a month in Laos, but what could be more magical for my friend’s wife than discovering Asia by way of Angkor! Plus, our two daughters asked for some beach time at the end of the trip!
So, it’ll be Laos and Cambodia—neither of which we’ve visited before, so no complaints there.
The route will be pretty classic, though a bit scattered to fit our dates and wishes.
For us, we’ll arrive in Luang Prabang (LP) to take some time to acclimate, then a few days in the northern Laos mountains, Nong Khiaw and Muang Ngoi.
Back to LP for a direct flight to Pakse. Yes, I know—so many amazing places we’ll miss along the way, but as you know, choosing means letting go...
From Pakse, I’m leaving a few days open (no bookings), but I’m eyeing Champassak and the 4,000 Islands.
That’s where Mariel and Naty (our friends!) will join us on December 30th. I’ve tentatively added the Bolaven Plateau loop to the plan (still no bookings).
Their Laos adventure will be short—by January 3rd, we’ll cross the border into Cambodia, heading straight to Siem Reap for 5 days. Then, I’ll fulfill my promise with a magical detour to Koh Rong Sanloem via a night bus (a must-do in Asia!).
On to Phnom Penh for 2 days—where our trip ends, while Mariel and Naty will stop in Bangkok for 3 days before flying home.
So, fasten your seatbelts, flight attendants at the doors, and sorry for the long intro—here we go on this Asian adventure!
Hello everyone,
It’s been a little over a year and a half since we first set foot in South Africa, and ever since, we’ve been dreaming of returning to explore Southern Africa.
First of all, a big thank you to all the forum members—there are so many on this VoyageForum section, some of whom are unconditional and indispensable experts on the destination—for the amazing travel journals that only make you want one thing: to go and discover these stunning lands.
The first journal I read was Bruno’s (Montagnard74), and I was completely captivated by the face in the colors of the rainbow nation.
Now it’s my turn to add my small contribution by recounting our two-week trip during the Christmas period in South Africa.
Even though Attila strongly advised against visiting South Africa during the South African summer holidays, we still gave it a try since my husband doesn’t have the option to choose his vacation dates.
So we went during the peak tourist season, with all its drawbacks: difficulties finding accommodations, crowds at certain sites...
But on the bright side, it’s the beautiful season in South Africa while it’s gray and cold back home.
For this trip, we wanted to explore Cape Town and its surroundings, which are already packed with things to see. As a result, we didn’t have time to head north without rushing too much.
So we planned the following itinerary, staying in the south:
To give you a taste of what we experienced on the South African roads, here’s a little preview of the wildlife and flora we encountered, as well as the beaches and mountains we glimpsed.
We’ve been back for a month now, so it’s high time I posted the story of our adventures! 😉 I’d also like to thank everyone who shared their own experiences on this forum (or elsewhere) and gave us tips—it really helped us plan our trip.
14/09/2019: Johannesburg - Vryburg
After months of waiting and reading other travelers’ journals, it’s finally our turn! We arrived in Johannesburg from Nantes and Paris in the morning. We looked for the Bushlore rep—we’d rented our 4x4 from them—but there was no sign with our name! « Bushlore? She’s a woman, I saw her a few minutes ago, » someone told us. A minute later, the Bushlore employee showed up: a man! 🤪 He sped onto the highway, and just 30 minutes later, we arrived at the rental place. It’s a big operation with good organization and lots of vehicles—pretty reassuring. Our 4x4 was there, a classic Toyota Hilux fully equipped for safari: rooftop tent, dual diesel tanks, 60-liter water reserve, two batteries, two spare tires, all the camping gear, plus everything needed for *désensablement* (getting unstuck from sand). Speaking of which, is it "désensablage" or "désensablement"? Best to just avoid getting stuck in the first place! 😏 Good news… or not: the vehicle was brand new, with barely 100 kilometers on the odometer. On one hand, we figured we wouldn’t have mechanical issues or a fridge breakdown, but on the other, we knew it wouldn’t be easy to return it without a single scratch. Either way, it was our first time renting a 4x4, and we were impressed.
We set off toward Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park—it’s not exactly around the corner! In 1994 (when Mandela had just become President) and 2007, during our two previous trips to South Africa, we loved this park, so we couldn’t imagine going to Botswana without returning. The road was pretty monotonous, with not much to see except a few ostriches.
We stopped for the night in Vryburg at the Kameelboom Lodge campsite. It was a bit noisy since it’s close to the road, and the facilities weren’t great, but it was fine for one night.
The departure:
David was on time, as always, to drive us to the airport. At the check-in counter, I was told my passport was damaged and they needed to check if I could board the plane or not. Huge stress. We waited a good twenty minutes while a supervisor checked my passport and let me through. Meanwhile, we’d already come up with backup plans in case I had to stay in Brussels. Anyway, it all worked out in the end—we’ll see in Addis Ababa and Maun if they let me through. Needless to say, I’m really nervous.
The Ethiopian Airlines flight went smoothly. We met up with Jean-Mi and Nadette, our friends from Marseille, in a café at the airport in Ethiopia. We recounted our adventures over coffee. Oh boy, things were getting hectic at the boarding gates—we got in line, and after a long wait, a bus took us to a plane that, hopefully, was headed to Maun and not the Congo.
Four hours later, we arrived. After clearing immigration—phew, my passport was accepted—a rep from the agency picked us up in a taxi to our guesthouse for two days, Riverfront. The hotel was nice, with large rooms featuring mosquito nets, a small kitchenette, and a huge bathroom. There was also a balcony overlooking the river, where water had only arrived the day before. Massive electric fences separated the garden from the river—hard to tell if they were for animals or thieves, probably both, especially since rising water attracts hippos and crocs. We took a walk along the river, and the two French guys from the agency joined us, confirming they’d be back the next afternoon for a briefing. We ordered food to be delivered to the hotel—too lazy to take a taxi.
After a good night’s sleep, we were ready for the 4x4 briefing. We’d rented two Hilux trucks with rooftop tents for the two of us.
We spent nearly three hours going over mechanics, camping gear, setting up and taking down the tents, tire management for different terrains, water and fuel tanks—basically, we *think* we’re ready. Time to grab food and do some shopping. We already got lost in town—this bodes well for the rest of the trip.
We decided to eat at a sort of chicken fast-food place in Maun Mall, called Chicken Liken. What a mess. You order, but you have no idea how to get your food. The overwhelmed cashier checked our order four times, forgot Cochies’ dish, and the food was cold. Avoid this place. The supermarket was well-stocked, but with health restrictions, we had to rely on a lot of canned goods. This whole errand took up the entire day. Looks like we’ll be eating a lot of corned beef—should be interesting. After a good shower, Nadette took us to Boma, a really nice restaurant with a touristy but fun vibe. One more good night’s sleep, and the adventure begins!
I would wish never to go to bed where I had woken up, to wander my tent from the shores of Egypt to those of the Persian Gulf; to have no goal for the evening other than the evening itself; to traverse on foot, with my eyes and my heart, all these unknown lands, all these races of people so different from my own; to contemplate humanity, God’s finest creation, in all its forms.
Lamartine in Fatalla Sayeghir’s Account (1861)
As soon as it’s about flying, I lose all willpower. Being reasonable and thoughtful, I still lose all my composure at the mere possibility of a flight—especially if it’s piloted by F.—and even more so if that flight can take me to unexplored lands. I’ve long wanted to unravel the mystery of animal tourism, and why not in Tanzania, following up on my trip from four years ago, when I was already questioning the glaring inequalities in Zanzibar: the coastal strip sacrificed to capitalism, and the inland areas, just a hundred meters from the waves, where you find—though a bit more peaceful than elsewhere on the continent—the chaos of Africa.
I’m an adventurer at heart. When it comes to the terrain, though, it’s a whole different story. I see people setting off for months at a time; I know my endurance doesn’t last beyond three days. It’s not that I’m afraid of this unfamiliar environment when it comes to embracing different realities. I’m mostly afraid of myself—of this heightened sensitivity that makes me see things I’d rather not see and understand others that sometimes overwhelm me.
After an absolutely fantastic daytime flight, I land in Zanzibar and have to resign myself—this is the whole point of the trip—to what feels like a real spacewalk. I’m alone. My lucky star, backed up by my phone, will serve as my lifeline. I step out of the airport and breathe in the scent of Africa full-on: a mix of exotic perfumes, baked earth, and poorly refined fuel, inevitably mingled with the smell of wood smoke. So many images come flooding back. So many stories. Another world.
I head to Arusha the very next day. The gateway to the country’s northern national parks, this city of half a million offers one of those rare breath-holding dives that Africa keeps secret. As the only white person walking the streets, I know I’m visible and vulnerable, yet I move forward confidently, barely bothered. But where are all my fellow Westerners? While this city draws countless tourists, I only cross paths with one white couple in nearly three hours of walking. Because you have to hold on tight to wander here. You have to stay alert. The traffic is dense and erratic—don’t even trust the fact that in Tanzania, people drive on the left. That can change from one minute to the next, especially with motorbikes. With barely centimeters between vehicles, I weave my way through the urban jungle, trying not to stumble into the huge ditch on my left or get sideswiped by cars brushing past me on the right. Speakers blare music, ads, or political speeches at will—the explosion of yellow and green tells us we’re on the eve of the presidential election—but they barely compete with the calls to prayer, nearly nonstop on this holy Friday. The vital space is as saturated as the sound. Imagine an unbroken line of shops and stalls of every kind—supermarkets haven’t made it here yet—where you can find just about anything: phones, copper pipes, Chinese-made hardware, shoes, clothes, basins, and professional tools… The luckiest own a big store; others spend their lives trying to survive on the profits from selling toothbrushes one at a time on the streets. But maybe it’s more lucrative than spending the day slumped on the sidewalk, preferably missing a limb, trusting your survival to the mercy of passersby.
I think I’ll escape the street by slipping into the narrow alleys of the central market. Here, I know I won’t run into anyone like me! The vendors’ stalls start at waist height; the sellers, perched higher up, haggle or not while discussing prices. Here, colorful fruits and vegetables; there, huge piles of dried fish. Spices, seeds, roots. Smells. Noises. Africa. Life. Further on, the fresh fish aisle makes a right angle with the butchers’. Everywhere, flies—everywhere, the same gesture from vendors swatting blindly at these relentless pests. Aware that I’ll be eating this same meat within the hour, displayed with total disregard for basic hygiene, I reassure myself that Arusha sits at 1400m altitude. Yes, we can probably do without a fridge.
*
It’s time to leave the city and go wildlife spotting in the surrounding parks. To that end, I’ve negotiated a package deal with a local agency that prides itself on grouping solo travelers into a vehicle meant for seven. We leave behind the imposing masses of Mount Meru and Kilimanjaro, peaking at 4565m and 5895m respectively, and head west to conquer Tarangire and Ngorongoro parks. I’ve been promised a spectacle; I remain cautious. I’ve read rave reviews; I know how to temper my expectations. Above all, I know what I came for—and paradoxically, my hopes are less about animals than strictly anthropological. So I’m sure I won’t go home disappointed.
I’m in the thick of it. Since 2021, tourism has been booming: I’m one of the two million tourists who come here every year seeking thrills. I also contribute, in a small way, to the 20% of the country’s GDP generated by tourism revenue. Around 3 billion € annually… Tanzania has 16 national parks, twice as many reserves; it charges meticulously for every entry, every night, every activity, to the tune of several dozen euros. I calculated that Tarangire Park alone rakes in around 15 million € a year. Mind-boggling. Yet to get there, a dusty, rickety old track is used daily by hundreds of vehicles that literally saturate the surrounding area with white dust and exhaust fumes. At the park entrance, we wait a good hour while the driver pays the entry fees. Then it’s a free-for-all: dozens of 4x4s try to enter at the same time through the single access point, to the left of the building, while the three barriers are stuck due to a computer glitch. It’s pure chaos: no way to buy your ticket in advance—the QR code revolution hasn’t arrived; no smart layout before the barriers; nothing smooth, nothing practical, everything improvised.
So, the animals? Given the time and money involved, I’d be tempted to say it’s not worth the hassle and there’s really no need to break five legs off one of the too-many zebras we pass. Hours and hours of travel to get to Tanzania, specifically Arusha; hours and hours on the road—up to 12 hours a day—to spend barely three in the parks; at least 200 € per day for the most basic option, so 400 € in my case, and up to several thousand for those wealthy couples opting for the luxury package with a private vehicle. Sure, I saw zebras and elephants in their natural habitat, wildebeest, buffalo, and a few hippos, but I didn’t feel the thrill touted in the articles or even by my two-day trip organizer. Would I have been more satisfied if I’d seen the lion, the leopard, and the rhino? Maybe. But the story won’t be rewritten in light of those assumptions.
Yet I’m not disappointed. As I said earlier: I know what I came for. I wanted to see the world as it is with my own eyes. And the safari world fascinates me more for its anthropological aspect than for what it offers. Yes, the fact that people from all over the world come here, juggling hotels and big 4x4s—while notably avoiding the streets of cities and villages—truly fascinates me. Two worlds coexist on either side of a barely porous border. As soon as the tourist sets foot in the airport, they’re whisked away, sight unseen, into a tourist vehicle. Dropped off at the hotel, they rest there, shielded from view, until the 4x4 departs. Then they speed through those same cities and villages they scorn out of fear or disdain, leaving on the roadside the Maasai herding their flocks and all those poignant or mundane scenes that make up daily African life. In the evening, in their lodge, far from the city’s pulse, they fall asleep thinking about the images they’ve collected, those long hours on the road, the wait for the animals. And the days go by… Maybe the term *luxury*, whether for food or accommodation, refers to what we experience as utterly ordinary in the West? Forgetting that you’re there, in Africa, just steps away from poverty and a certain arbitrariness. And at the end of the journey: back to the airport, back to normal life.
Maybe we need to take a broader view. All that money seems invisible, yet it must serve the population at some point, right? The main roads are passable, the power grid seems well-maintained—I can tell by the excellent condition of the high-voltage transmission towers. Is it really too expensive to significantly improve all the infrastructure? I hoped this windfall would truly serve the people’s interests. The driver taking me back to the airport on the last evening dashes my sweet illusions: « All this is bad. Africa is bad. But you have no choice. The hospitals don’t work, the schools don’t work, the roads don’t work (just as he says this, roadworks force us onto a terrible detour for several kilometers—a rutted track, in fact), and if you say anything, if you speak up too much, they come for you and then you disappear. » That’s just one opinion. Nothing empirical. But I don’t need to be a West Point graduate to realize how rampant corruption is in these regions: while the muezzin bellows the greatness of Allah, I consider the dilapidated equipment and the energy expended by the masses just to survive here. But maybe all that money keeps the country afloat by paying civil servants’ salaries? Meanwhile, one thing is certain: regardless of where the profits go, tourism supports millions of people, and I’m in no position to judge this system too harshly. Maybe I’m too much of an aesthete to appreciate the almost exclusive use of corrugated iron at its true value…
*
I’ll give this system credit for one thing: the chance to set foot in spaces impossible to visit otherwise. At one point, in the heart of the Ngorongoro Crater—a vast 20km-wide plain topped by a 600m-high caldera—I was simply happy to be there. Barely bothered by the constant ballet of 4x4s—the space is vast—I contemplate the simple life of the local animals. Buffalo, wildebeest, zebras as numerous as the flamingos patiently standing on one leg, waiting for the day to pass. Over there, you can make out a few hyenas with vultures circling above. Finally, in a large body of water, hippos surface at regular intervals. I’m aware of my luck. I’m especially aware that, unlike all the people I’ve met there, a lot of money and a little resourcefulness greatly favor the luck factor.
I’m heading home. I soak up the last images of this improbable Africa as night falls quickly over the countryside. I’m fascinated by the number of Maasai herding their livestock along the main road. Some pass the time, globalization obliges, on an old phone; others, sometimes as young as my eldest—barely 10 years old—watch us pass, indifferent. We overtake or are overtaken; the two-lane road is the stage for a majestic ballet of semi-trailers, *dalas-dalas*, and other 4x4s, as numerous as the names of their companies: Leopard Tours, Climbing Kilimanjaro, Smiling Zebra, Nomad Life Enhanced, Elephant Roaming, Mountain Warrior, Master of the Ambush… They drop me off at the hotel, where I have an hour to shower and change into clean clothes before my return flight. Already, I’m slipping back into my own world without really seeing it, leaving behind the hotel’s glass window that African life to which nothing truly binds me. Then that chaotic, suffocating nighttime drive to the airport. Check-in; the stupid questions (« Where are you going? »); the slow police officer who, in the end, stamps my passport anywhere; the idiocy of the security agent (my empty 33cl bottle is forbidden); the rather shabby lounge at Kilimanjaro Airport. Then the return to the vessel—to the Air France plane that left Zanzibar an hour earlier—after this 72-hour spacewalk without a real lifeline. I’ve never been so happy to see F. again.
Hi everyone,
I’d like to share some photos from my trip to Uttarakhand in June 2025.
It’s a destination that isn’t too crowded, which I chose at the last minute last year due to the skirmishes between India and Pakistan. I had planned to go to Ladakh and Zanskar, but as a precaution, I changed my plans...
Here’s a quick rundown of my itinerary: Delhi - Rishikesh - Uttarkashi - Gangotri - Haridwar - Devprayag - Ranikhet - Delhi.
Throughout my trip, I only came across a few Western tourists, and only in Rishikesh...
I was really surprised in Rishikesh, where I saw unbelievable traffic jams just to get in and out of the city! It was my first real glimpse of domestic tourism in India—when all the city-dwellers escape the summer heat for the cooler mountains...
The crowds of pilgrims in Haridwar, coming to purify themselves in the Ganges on the ghats, were just as intense as what you see in Varanasi. Fascinating and... colorful!
The small town of Devprayag is interesting because it’s located at the confluence of the Bhagirathi and Alaknanda rivers, which form the Ganges. The spot is popular with pilgrims who come to purify themselves there.
I made sure to visit the remote village of Gangotri, located on the Bhagirathi River. Just a few kilometers away, the river’s source flows from the glacier at Gaumukh (only accessible on foot after an 18 km trek). It’s an important pilgrimage site in India, as one of the sources of the Ganges.
All in all, Uttarakhand was a wonderful discovery and gave me a chance to see new sides of India.
I got into music with the will
To light up many hearths like Che could do,
To circulate ideas, to advance utopia
Alternating barricades, sharp thought, and poetry.
Mc Solaar, Guérilla
Subscribing without a fight to the slightest line of my itinerary sometimes feels like an illusion. Because there are countries where, despite the fever and enthusiasm, despite the triumphant revolution, certain elements block my path. And if I had planned, for F. and me, a beautiful ascent up Tabouret Hill (Loma del Taburete, 453m), it was without accounting for vegetation as dense as it was thorny, which barred our way after just a few quarters of an hour of walking. Exhausted, I had to face the facts: we wouldn’t go any further. I needed to come up with some kind of Plan B.
But what is this country, an unwitting laboratory of the worst that white civilization has done during its reign? What is this magnificent place—yet another—entrusted to the care of oblivion, just 150 km from the land of freedom? According to Donald Trump, a country supporting terrorism; according to the locals, the vast battlefield of 20th-century ideologies; according to the average tourist, a hot country, a beautiful country, a country where the last illusions of a lost paradise are dying.
On the other side of Havana Bay, we love that statue of Christ blessing the city. There’s something gentle, soothing, in that patriarchal gesture. You’d almost be tempted to forget that at the dawn of the 16th century, those who claimed to represent the Church had no scruples about eradicating the Ciboney and Taíno populations. Worse, you’ll find magnificent this cathedral dedicated to the Virgin Mary, right in the heart of the old city. Under the guise of a civilizing necessity, Havana became, like so many other places, the gilded seat of European pretensions, at the expense of local populations doomed to extermination, then enslaved populations—more or less indigenous—who, you can imagine, didn’t often set foot in this holy place.
Lost in my thoughts, I try to push through this tangled vegetation. Nature reclaims its rights; nature abhors a vacuum. Yes, the well-trodden path of revolution couldn’t stay free of weeds! The road is buried. We give up and turn back, until that fork I’d noted before leaving, which would let us reach the top of the hill by skirting its northern slope.
So the white man arrives, settles, and gets rid of everything that bothers him. He has two unstoppable forces at his disposal: gunpowder and the spiritual certainty of being on the side of an all-powerful god. While the first gives him an unmatched material advantage over his new enemy, the second lets him use the first without feeling too guilty. That’s the magic of this supreme Church: it condemns all forms of pleasure—calling them impurity—while promoting plunder and crime under the cover of evangelization.
Walking through the city, you find a bit of Algiers, except that here, the decay is almost irreversible. You feel the splendor of the past, a disconcerting image of all vanity, from an era when men knew how to build beauty—especially if they didn’t have to share it. We’ll debate the benefits of colonialism for a long time, while glossing over the fact that those benefits often stopped at the city limits, limits all too obvious to the indigenous people. Havana isn’t just one or a few buildings; it’s an impressive collection of works of art built one after another, in what I think was a spirit of healthy competition. Yes, you find Algiers in this exuberance. As if these distant cities were the receptacle of everything that was best in the lands of origin. Atlantes and lintels, golds, blues, ogives, and monumental windows—exceptional architecture in an exceptional place.
Some streets are clean, swept with care; others are not, scattered here and there with potholes filled with water. A rather persistent smell of urine invades us regularly. We move on. And we look up: Havana is visited with your nose in the air. Because the beauty is truly up there, on those magnificent balconies and terracotta arches. Also because it’s not impossible that a piece of that balcony might suddenly detach, hurling our ends into an overseas tragedy we’d rather avoid. On the ground, here and there, rubble. Inexorably, this city is returning to dust.
My Plan B turns out to be no more successful than the first attempt. After a cheerful progression of a few hundred meters, same outcome, same struggle—the vegetation opposes any revolution: impossible to go around the hill! Once again, we have to turn back. We’ll try Plan C. I reassure myself by convincing myself to stay in the logic of this country: Cuba has been searching for itself for five centuries.
Coffee, tobacco, and sugarcane—the green gold of the colonies—so that money could flow and Europe could enjoy itself. Cuba’s history isn’t original. In reality, all the hot lands at these latitudes suffer the same fate: to serve the white man. While waiting for the awakening of consciences, UN Resolution 1514 and more or less affirmed revolutionary desires. Except that—and this reflection is just my own—if the awakening of consciences and the revolutionary will don’t play into what Resolution 1514 hides, there’s a good chance the said state will become a pariah. Those who don’t follow the American doctrine risk a lot; those who decide to follow Moscow risk everything. Independence was only the barely discreet instrument of American views. Patrice Lumumba will gladly enlighten us on the subject.
Turning back is good. Setting up Plan C is better. I won’t deviate from my goal: we will reach the top of Tabouret, whatever the cost! Near a small country road, I hesitate to change the program. Time is ticking—is it really reasonable to attempt the ascent? Then a tricycle taxi appears, a kind of tuk-tuk powered by an electric moped. I take it as a sign from fate, and we board for the starting point of Plan C.
In Cuba, even before Resolution 1514, independence was assured by a pawn of the United States, Fulgencio Batista. There’s no need to go over the whole history here; we’ll just remember that if you know how to give without counting to your former masters, you can enjoy a facade of freedom. Fidel Castro, on the other hand, didn’t know how to give. It never even occurred to him. That’s why the United States harbors such terrible hatred for this rebellious state, opposed to capitalist values and political prostitution. From there to slowly killing its people for nearly seventy years, one can legitimately cry injustice. But there are other priorities. Oh yes! Greenland...
Do Cubans eat their fill? Does seeing overweight people mean opulence? Food grows, no doubt about it. The soil is fertile, the climate favorable. No, what shocks here is the absolute precarity, the feeling of a people living in survival mode, and the decay of both goods and hope. Where to go? What’s the point? The stubbornness of the United States in wanting to impose its views on the Cuban government is felt much more by an overwhelmed people than by those few elites—caricatures of communism—who instill their vision of happiness with a crowbar. The embargo imposed in 1960; the false-flag attacks—American planes flying the colors of the Cuban revolution during the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961—the exasperation of placing Cuba on the list of countries supporting terrorism. More recently, Donald Trump decided to heavily tax countries supplying Cuba with fuel. The last time I saw such long lines near gas stations was during my first trip to Romania... in 1991. It’s not for me to judge whether Raúl and his clique are playing fair by thumbing their noses at the West. I don’t hold the ins and outs of this war of egos that keeps the world’s great powers awake. I only caught a glimpse of the poverty of an island in 2026, while we in Europe are buried under an avalanche of the useless and superficial.
At the start of the San Juan baths, we find the trailhead. It climbs steeply. But the weather is relatively mild, thanks to a cold wave hitting higher up in the United States. Dallas is under snow; we’re walking in 16°C, a stroke of luck. We climb over rocks, under fairly decent vegetation, sometimes low but passable. And we succeed in the ascent in an hour. Up there, the top of the hill is somewhat maintained, at a minimum, but maintained, as if to honor Che through an awful monument erected in his glory—a stubborn specimen from those years when good taste was inversely proportional to the delusional ideas of those being honored. Birds of prey (raptors?) circle overhead; the monument is dying, crumbling, falling into ruin. *Hasta siempre*—forever—will be for the words. Nature, erosion, life itself will have the last word over all revolutions.
Back at the foot of the hill, just before a memorable swim, we talk with a family living there in miserable shacks whose stability wasn’t unlike that of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The grandmother holds an animal, a rodent, by its feet. The grandfather has just killed it; she’s plucking its fur. A few steps away, water boils in a pot. She plunges the beast into the container. Tonight, the family will eat ragondin stew. Further on, another shack where, in a disorder rivaling the filth, a mother breastfeeds while sitting on the edge of a bed. Then, on the way down, we’ll meet a middle-aged man carrying a large jerrycan of water on his shoulder. Are these people happy here, far from the cities and their stakes? Is it too much to ask that they at least have access to electricity, running water, and decent, safe housing?
Outside the old city, Havana reveals wide avenues serving imposing institutions here and there. But whether in the colorful alleys of the old town or on the majestic and austere Plaza de la Revolución, the same feeling moves me: sadness. Seeing that only chaos has come from ideas crushes me. We praise, we sing the revolution—above all, we impose it in people’s minds as a necessity, when it’s nothing of the sort. Revolution is just the fruit of a few tortured minds who, once in power, do nothing better than all those before them. Enjoy power. Impose their views. It’s just a matter of color. Fidel saw red and knew how to persuade—or silence forever—his many detractors. The West sees everything in white, through the prism of human rights, and also knows how to persuade and silence its slightest detractors forever.
Paradoxically, Cuba survives largely thanks to tourism, a key element—let’s not be afraid to say it—of capitalism. And when a few players pick up the crumbs from transactions, the lion’s share and the foreign currency go to the government. So we won’t go to Varadero, the high place of relaxation overrun by Canadians. Instead, we’ll limit ourselves to crossing the ocean 30 minutes from the capital, at Santa María del Mar, to get an idea of cheaper tourism and to splash around for a few minutes in turquoise water invaded by sargassum. At the heart of the tourist season, we’ll meet few people. Like Havana, and according to its inhabitants, the high season is rather dead. But we won’t have come for nothing: we particularly love this return where, feverish, the taxi driver pushes his Moskvitch 2140 to the max on the highway, singing karaoke versions of hits at the top of his lungs from an onboard DVD player. East/West, the culture clash with a hint of Latino.
It’s time to leave this country of resourcefulness where extremes are very present. We’re leaving a 5-star hotel in front of yet another crumbling building. We’ve known restaurants at 40,000 pesos while in the street people eat for 400. We’ve seen those countless cars from another era and another culture—Pontiac, Lada, Chevrolet, Moskvitch—being overtaken by gleaming Mercedes and other Porsche Cayennes, the prerogative—if it still needed to be demonstrated—of the newly rich in search of recognition. Boarding the plane, we also understand that we’re not just traveling with tourists: there’s undoubtedly a rich and prosperous diaspora, just as there are relatively wealthy Cubans—well, wealthy enough to travel comfortably in the front of the aircraft. Meanwhile, on all the country’s roads, other Cubans try hitchhiking, their wives and children perched on a suitcase by the roadside. The father holds out his arm and holds a few bills in his hand like a card game. Where are they going? Who will pick them up?
Behind me, the gold of the Capitol. I’m told this gold comes from Russia. Like Marx and Lenin’s smoky theories? Like Stalin’s subtle and delicate paternalism? Let’s bet that, like the other buildings crumbling around it, the Capitol will also collapse one day, to avenge the Indians who perished from the diseases and guns of the whites, to avenge the Africans who obliterated their lives so Europeans could enjoy themselves, finally, to avenge all this abandoned people, left to the arbitrariness of democratic or non-democratic elections.
A sign in the street: We understand history. This is the revolution!
We understand history. That’s the revolution.
There exists a rare land where life expresses itself, a land where everything is destroyed, patched up, where everything is dirty and faded, yet paradoxically, each passing day is synonymous with light and joy. Seen from the sea, magnified by its translucent waters, the island is splendid; seen from inland, ochre and green dress a landscape one would wish to be pristine. As you approach the coast with the tides, countless boat wrecks never finish dying; returning from a hike, you know you’re nearing the city by the increasingly obvious proliferation of all kinds of trash. Overflowing the towns, makeshift homes made of corrugated iron stand here and there, wherever the eye lands; from a height, looking toward the horizon, you find the calm blue of the ocean and the beauty of infinity.
But where does all this corrugated iron come from? Blue, gray, red, or black, you find it pretty much everywhere—except, of course, on the island’s heights, where the heat is such that all life seems impossible. Yet, a few kilometers from the capital, more than an hour’s walk away, the corrugated iron is very much there, omnipresent, guaranteeing a land registry as hypothetical for us Europeans as it is very real for those who live there, far from civilization and comfort. I keep climbing. I’m precisely looking to meet these people who live on very little, if not nothing.
- Jéjé Mogné (Hello, sir in Shimahorais)! Where do you get water here, in this place? How do you drink, irrigate your plants?
- I wait for the rain. We have tanks that fill up well with each rainfall. But right now, it’s not raining much.
At the top of the next hill, lost in the bushes, it’s easier for me to guess the distant city, Mamoudzou, than the rest of the path, a remnant of a magnificent GR called the Island Tour, abandoned for the most part, sometimes maintained between two lost hamlets. The city, the pulse, water. Below, the ocean, running water, drinking water—despite regular interruptions; here, up high, an hour and a half’s walk away, tanks, arbitrariness. On other slopes, however, during another hike, I saw the water supply network, made of sturdy pipes tangled in the earth, right there by the path. It seems there are places where water climbs. Others not. Each to their own karma. In 2025. In a French department.
A path of misfortune, lost and regained, thanks to a sign, an inscription, or the compass’s directions. No one walks here anymore, except those who live here or come to harvest their crops. I remember that breathtaking hike in 2013, when I connected Bandrélé to Mamoudzou, passing by the peaks of Bénara (660m) and Bépilipili (643m), barely pausing at Tsararano and Vahibé: 34 km of intense effort on a rollercoaster path, along a trail that was still discernible. Today, it’s as if everything had disappeared. By also destroying the paths and vegetation, Chido* broke the last momentum of these cautious hikers: insecurity has made its way across the archipelago, and Sunday strolls are no longer the norm. Me, I keep going. I will have walked here and there during these three weeks to get an idea of the places, the people, the landscapes, and the superhuman effort required to move forward in over 40°C. To tell the truth, during my last hike, I cut my plans short and let myself be carried by a group of young people heading back to the city. The path is now just an inextricable network of small trails, the specter of Providence** comes to mind. True wisdom is knowing when to give up. I leave.
* A cyclone named "desire" (in Shona), which ravaged the island of Mayotte on December 14, 2024.
** June 2023, a very poorly prepared hike on Providence Island (Caribbean) from which I miraculously escaped.
On Petite-Terre, Marie takes me to visit some locals, white people who have lived there for a long time and make a living from their art; jewelry for her, all kinds of objects for him. We love this little shop, this oasis amid the chaos that embodies Dostoevsky’s phrase: "Beauty will save the world." It’s clean and tidy, beautiful, well-kept. Invariably, the question of insecurity resurfaces in the middle of the conversation. The woman says:
- I know someone who slipped in their bathtub. Still, I keep taking baths…
So, is this insecurity a myth or reality? I hear stories that are often true but sometimes seemingly exaggerated through the lens of misunderstanding and one-upmanship. Like that of this midwife assaulted one evening (it gets dark early) on her way home from work. Sometimes she was attacked on the path, dragged by the hair for several meters, sometimes she made it home, but it was her roommate who let the two men in. One version talks about a snatched phone and gratuitous violence, another about violence outright. In short, one thing is certain: walking around at night flaunting your phone isn’t a good idea, no more in Mamoudzou than in the rough neighborhoods of Nantes. Also, I played it safe: nothing flashy, nothing bling-bling, and always something to give if needed. I was never approached. It’s not easy to get a sense of the realities, between the hazy reports from journalists sensationalizing everything and the real lives of real people. But I know I can’t rely on these few ideas I’ve formed: I’m nobody, and above all, I don’t live here. What I do know, however, is that since my last visit to the island in 2017, over 80,000 babies have been born, and tens of thousands of immigrants have reached the archipelago’s shores. What’s also obvious is that poverty, hunger, and—let’s say it—indignity foster delinquency and insecurity. So, without taking journalists’ alarmist speeches at face value, we’ll try to keep in mind that a young person rendered orphaned by circumstances (parents expelled), poor and often hungry, involved more or less against their will in village wars and fueled by synthetic drugs*, will readily turn to violence when they truly have nothing to lose. We can trace the origin of this despair to the fact that in Mayotte, those without legal existence have virtually no hope of accessing anything.
* "Chimique" is a series of synthetic cannabinoids
Meanwhile, in the evening, it’s good to go home before the time of stone-throwing. From time to time, along the roads, gangs throw stones at vehicles and school buses, but mostly at police cars—almost all the white Dusters on the island! In front of the Mamoudzou police station, all parked vehicles—mostly Dusters—bear the scars of these attacks. Maybe it’s only at night that gangs unleash and all the burglaries happen? I saw nothing, heard nothing. I lived three weeks in a sort of bunker with no real access to outside light, protected by a fake wooden door doubled with a real metal door, both locked at all times. You don’t tempt fate. You endure it differently.
Today, extraordinarily, it’s raining. Yet, it’s the rainy season! But with my karma helping (what selfishness to want to walk dry when so many souls live off the rain) or is it climate change? The rain only falls once I’ve put on my horrible green pajamas. In front of the board outlining the program, I’m told that out of the six scheduled C-sections today (sic), they’ll probably only do two, maybe three. Because it’s raining. And when it rains, people don’t move around. Not for lack of will. Rather, for lack of means. And that ties into those sad days when the police patrol around the hospital: patients don’t come. They’ll come back tomorrow. To compensate, I’m happy at the thought of tackling the abscess program, but the sterilization unit is acting up and blocking the instrument trays. When it’s not the rain, it’s the unions. And when both finally quiet down, there’s always someone to find fault with the order of operations. You have to imagine an operating room where the question of urgency reigns supreme. Here, no surgery is scheduled more than 24 hours in advance—only emergencies, nothing but emergencies. So, following that reasonable adage that what’s done is no longer to be done, it’s sheer madness when the rain meets the interests of Force Ouvrière and the bad will of some combines with the laziness of others. To tell the truth, I’ve never seen so much energy expended to… do nothing. Hallucinating. But who am I, a small-time striver, an islander in my spare time, a temporary worker at the end of the world? I came, I saw, I was disappointed? Not really. Here again, I can’t judge a system in so little time. I can barely utter a few bitter words in front of obvious facts. But nothing will take away my joy of being here for three weeks. Here, they heal with somewhat outdated but still functional means. You do what you can with what you have, 8,000 km from the Métropole. Yes, the operating room doors hesitate, and the operating tables stutter, but in this blessed period, we lack neither medicines nor supplies. So we examine, anesthetize, and repair, far more undocumented people than French—if I may play with somewhat borderline statistics here; we deliver babies, dress wounds, and relieve pain in this hospital at the end of the world where neither white women nor Mahorais women would ever consider giving birth or getting treated.
What’s the solution? The obstetrician talks to the woman during a C-section under spinal anesthesia:
- Bouéni! (Madame, in Shimahorais) You need to think about tubal ligation. This is your fourth C-section. Your uterus is like tissue paper. Your next pregnancy will be very risky.
No answer. Culture. It’s all about culture. The funniest thing is that France also gets bogged down with the idea of other cultures’… cultures. The woman in question arrived illegally a few years ago to give birth to her first child. Since then, rejecting the very idea of contraception—her husband, for his part, will invoke God or Allah to refuse a vasectomy—she comes back every 12-14 months. And the obstetrician explains to me how his idea of making information about permanent contraception mandatory was deemed racist by associations. It’s always the same story. I suggest to the associations that they take charge of all these extra births, not only the medical costs but also the entire education, not just financial, of all these children doomed to live a life of misery on this forsaken archipelago. The probability that one of these offspring will emerge as a gifted, sensitive, and fiercely happy individual must truly be weighed against the degradation and abandonment that will invariably afflict the thousands of others living around him. In reality, simply mentioning a very real danger to the mother should be enough to impose sterilization. But we are a country whose greatness of soul is measured by the number of heads cut off to uphold the famous rights of man... Already a proponent at home of ending family allowances after the third child—you can’t subscribe to a certain idea of society and, at the same time, accept that tens of thousands of children are sacrificed on the altar of thoughtlessness and financial interest*—I will weakly advocate here for a controlled right to have children. Well, what will they say about me when I express the idea of imposing sterilization on women in irregular situations after the birth of their third child? National solidarity funds the noblest ideals? In Mayotte? Let’s be serious. It’s so much easier to hide behind the inalienable right of women to control their bodies than to acknowledge one’s own powerlessness to assume the consequences of such a policy. Because after 18 years of struggles as a second-class citizen, the young stateless person will have no choice but to live in hiding: faced with the impossibility of claiming birthright citizenship**, they will be deportable. In Mayotte, there aren’t enough schools, not enough housing, not enough projects for youth, not enough jobs, not enough money, not enough future… In Mayotte, an average of 5 children are born per woman. In reality, we never ask about the right of children to control their own lives.
* Single parent with 4 children: RSA at 1937 € + family allowances…
** Law of May 12, 2025 aiming to strengthen the conditions for accessing French nationality in Mayotte.
I live in the city in a clean apartment where air conditioning eases my aches and sweat, and where water flows abundantly, thanks to huge tanks that fill up between water cuts. On the hills of Koungou, I was struck by this image: there, women (a matriarchal society?) do the dishes in a miserable stream. Upstream of the same stream, the same image as downstream: disgusting water with bits of foam floating on it. A little further, however, there are taps with running water that children play with. Strange. In any case, water is a question. They tell me it’s drinkable; I doubt it. A system that’s regularly cut doesn’t seem reliable to me. In any case, I can’t help but think of the Canary Islands and their chronic water shortage, especially in Lanzarote. Without entering the debate on desalination plants—I’m quite ignorant about environmental repercussions—I’ll just say that in the Canary Islands, you can buy 8 L jugs of purified water for less than 2 €. Here, in Mayotte, the price of water—as is the price of gasoline—is the same everywhere: 0.65 € for a bottle of Cristaline (1 €/L)*. While I was walking up there with a couple of farmers shuttling between two remote spots, I know I hit the mark by offering them one of my two bottles I’d brought for the occasion.
* At home, we find Cristaline at 1.14 € for a 9 L pack, i.e., 0.13 € per liter.
Outside, everything is broken, abandoned, old, worn, torn, faded, heavy, dirty, forsaken. But life goes on. And that’s fascinating. At home, at 5:45 PM, people close their shutters and watch cable TV, sometimes late into the night, emptying the streets of any salutary clamor, unwittingly extinguishing the necessary pulse of life. At home, we die of boredom. In Mamoudzou, between two dying trash cans, metal frames laid on the ground are covered by the elements of a broken garden set. A bare concrete staircase, without railings, provides access to the upper floor of a dwelling. On the steps, you can read: Private space - Please take your trash with you. Metal rods protrude from the said dwelling. On the ground, it’s a festival of screws and nails… A cat passes by. It doesn’t look great. A madwoman crosses the street dancing. A slightly hurried driver brakes. A six- or seven-year-old boy comes out in his underwear from his low house made of corrugated iron. He smiles. He’s having fun doing acrobatic figures over an old mattress on the sidewalk. Forward roll, backward roll. You wonder if he eats enough. Different culture. Different customs.
I will remember for a long time this blinding morning light, a raw, vital, striking light. I almost forgot where I came from, the grayness and boredom of that continental European country where nothing really happens anymore. Here, I could join Camus, contemplating these people placed halfway between misery and the sun, resigned for the most part and, for the other part, not too unhappy with their lot. But the Mahorais discourse is unanimous: "France really screwed us over!" Today, more than half of the island’s inhabitants are undocumented; a tremendous amount of energy is spent expelling 20,000 to 25,000 of them each year; colossal sums are swallowed up to care for all these people, and the island is drifting. I talk with some gendarmes. One of them tells me:
- They intercept one kwassa* out of three… Can you explain to me why they can’t catch everyone? It’s 2025! Can’t they put the necessary boats in place?
Clearly, and this is also my opinion, this whole mess serves interests beyond us. For who can believe for a second that this glaring incompetence isn’t orchestrated? Shared interests between secret France and the Union of the Comoros? A desire to bring insecurity to its peak, either by the Comoros to eventually take back control of Mayotte, or by our own government, in a deliberate effort to see all the white people leave the archipelago and let the Mahorais fend for themselves? At one point, I’m even told about an extraordinary deposit beneath Mayotte’s soil, a promise of infinite wealth**. Not to infringe on human rights, to do some cleaning from time to time, to calm things down to avoid implosion, while waiting to go after this providential bounty? Decidedly, Mayotte hasn’t said its last word!
*What’s paradoxical is that in the early 2010s, to revive traditional fishing activity, the UN financed in Anjouan the construction of a factory to produce these light boats, 7-10m long and 1m wide, which largely served the interests of smugglers. This skiff owes its name to a Congolese dance known for being as rhythmic as it is jerky, much like the navigation experience offered during a crossing to Mayotte.
** A 2025 study revealed the existence of a gigantic magmatic reservoir located 23km beneath the archipelago. If the Icelandic experiment succeeds (Project KMT, see here), Mayotte will then possess almost unlimited energy.
Hell on earth. Paradise at sea. The world’s largest lagoon offering spectacular marine depths, Mayotte’s coral reef suffers less from the abundance of tourists* than from tropical storms**. So, let’s admit that Mayotte is best appreciated when approached from the lagoon. The heights are for old hands like me. The sea spray is rather for the snobs who shun the sun god Ra, risking too much exposure and ending up on sick leave for sunstroke! But I’m not exclusive: I twice don my snob attire and head out to tackle the waves, the seabeds, and the elusive. Because yes, underwater, we leave our landlubber reflexes behind, and flying over corals and other magnificent drop-offs, it’s as if we’re soaring, keeping in memory only what our eyes can store. Multicolored, even phosphorescent fish, sharks, rays, the immensity of the blue, and then, there, dolphins, just a few meters from me, underwater. Incredible.
* 70,000 tourists annually, mostly affinity tourism (links with family or an expatriate).
** Present almost at the water’s surface, the reefs were largely destroyed by Chido.
Paradise at sea? When you think that Mayotte comes from the Arabic Jazirat al Mawet—literally, Island of Death—because of its double coral barrier where many skiffs have run aground and continue to do so… Paradise. Eldorado. The Comoros now face an unprecedented influx of immigrants from the African Great Lakes. And Mayotte, for its part, continues to attract relentlessly, thanks to the evolution of the law*. In reality, whether hidden interests exist or not, France remains bound hand and foot by international, European, and French rules: it can’t do much. Barely has it boarded a kwassa when the one who flees by swimming cries attempted murder; barely has one been sent back to the Comoros when an association will look into their detention conditions and find a loophole; barely has one told a bouéni how her next pregnancy could be fatal when so-called human voices cry scandal.
* Regarding the Métropole, the rights of squatters and other bad payers against the notion of private property, legally violated in favor of the right to housing…
** You can read about France being condemned for its illegal practices of expelling Comorian minors. Inhumane treatment, arbitrary detention, collective expulsion.
Everyone forms their own idea of justice, and no one can claim a monopoly on good thinking. So, as long as I treat without prejudice, as long as my hands are sincerely guided by the love I bear for our humanity, I’ll allow myself to think what I think, understanding that I’m rather open to dialogue and that my opinions evolve with time and events. Today, Mayotte represents for me the failure of a model, a European one in this case, where opulence quickly meets its limits. For it’s not wrong to think that our society can’t share more than it produces, nor is it wrong to think that every human being has a right to their share of the pie; in Mayotte, you’ll find the proven result of our civilization: it doesn’t work. Exclusively financed by the right, the ideas of the left jam in Mayotte more than anywhere else: national solidarity coupled with a sense of guilt creates chaos. Political courage, or true social justice, would be to offer a future to those who have no choice—the one who’s already here, the child to be born—not to offer a present to those who can choose or to whom one can give keys to understanding—the woman of childbearing age, the candidate for exile. Ultimately, the Comoros’ coup d’état over France comes at the cost of many innocent victims, starting with the children*.
* Tens of thousands of deaths by drowning between Anjouan and Mayotte, tens of thousands of children left to fend for themselves and doomed to a non-existent future.
On the evening of the 31st, I go for my usual run and notice near a roundabout a fool in rags pedaling the wrong way. A police car passes by: the guy gets stopped. A rather quick identity check. The guy is taken away. Would he still be among us if he had ridden the right way? In the evening, the line is long in front of the club near the dock. Me, I’m just passing by, greeting my friends of the season, much more inclined to savor rest than to exhaust myself on an overheated dance floor. There, a man, thirty or forty years old, clearly in a world of his own, is searching the trash for something to eat. He’s barefoot. I console myself by thinking that at least he won’t die of cold. Out of ten children born in Mayotte, I can reasonably think that only one will be able to afford an existence that minimally meets any of our criteria.
It’s time to go home. After sweating and thinking so much about this gem of the Mozambique Channel, I spend peaceful hours by the pool at a hotel next to the airport. We checked out at 8 AM, and the flight is at 7 PM. The perfect opportunity to slack off and chat a bit more. I’m happy to get to know one of the co-pilots of tonight’s flight, staying at this hotel, while one of my flight attendant friends from this airline had already recommended me to the crew. But it’s not the captain’s day, who’s in a rather gloomy mood. I’ll travel in the back, up to the vertical of Cairo. Midnight has just struck; it’s January 2nd, my name day. Concerned about solving an unsolvable problem with a passenger, the crew asks me to give up my exit row seat and takes me to the front for the last four hours of the flight. In the end, the captain gave in? I laugh to myself: if there’s one thing I mustn’t forget, it’s that God never abandons me!
Hi there, after 5 trips to the American West, where should we go in May 2025? My last stay in SF ended badly for me (diabetes flare-up, hospitalization after returning to France), but my wife insists on SF and places we haven’t seen yet... so I’ve decided to skip the big parks and head for some offbeat spots instead...
So, SF, then south to the crossroads where James Dean died. No luck—roadworks everywhere, impossible to stop—but I’d noted we could check out the San Andreas Fault near Parkfield and its bar before heading to Bakersfield.
I’ve never done a travel journal on VF before... so I’m giving it a go this year 😉. Just to share a bit of my 3-week trip around the West.
Since I couldn’t find anyone to share the trip with this year, I decided to go solo for 3 weeks at the last minute. So, it wasn’t a super organized or original trip—flight tickets booked last-minute, a loosely planned itinerary—but it was a choice I made.
I wanted to book zero hotels and just drive wherever I felt like. No set hikes or specific goals. Just a classic route through places I already knew for the most part, taking the time to soak in the landscapes. So, don’t expect a story about epic hikes leading to caves or hidden arches in unusual spots. It was more like a return to the roots of my first trip, with one twist: I wanted to explore some areas by mountain bike. Just to see things a little differently.
First up, instead of photos, I’ll share a little time-lapse I made during the trip.
Thursday, October 31:
Left Nice early in the morning for Phoenix via London.
The trip was a bit long because I had to wait 5.5 hours in London. My flight ticket was booked kinda late, so I didn’t have much choice.
And then it hit me—when you’re prepping for a trip, you always think you’ll forget something. It was in London that I realized I’d left my driver’s license on my living room shelf. I searched everywhere, but nope, I didn’t bring it.🤪
Luckily, I had an international permit, but the rental contract clearly stated that both licenses had to be presented.
I called a friend to ask her to overnight it to my first hotel, crossing my fingers that the mail wouldn’t take two weeks to arrive.
The flight with British Airways went pretty well. Comfortable enough to watch two movies, eat, take a little nap, and boom—I was in Phoenix.
Around 8 PM local time, I got to the Alamo car rental agency, and surprise—they didn’t care about my license at all. They glanced at the international permit, told me to bring the other one when I got it (basically, they didn’t give a damn), and handed me my car! Woohoo! 😛
I headed to my hotel (the only one I’d booked for my first night), explained to the front desk that my license should arrive by mail so they’d be in the loop, and crashed for a well-deserved first night in the U.S.
Friday, November 1 (And yes! It was a holiday in France, which would complicate my mail situation later.)
I woke up super early with my first goal: find a decent mountain bike at a good price but sturdy enough to handle some national park trails.
As I mentioned earlier, I decided to switch things up this year and explore some mountain bike trails—or just ride whenever I got the chance 😉.
I checked two Walmarts before finally finding a solid bike for under $150. Some might wonder why I bought one—well, the reason’s simple. Renting a bike costs between $40 and $70 a day. My trip lasted 22 days. QED (that’s "quod erat demonstrandum" for those who didn’t get it).
I bought the bike, which fit in my Jeep Compass by folding down the back seats (not super convenient, but it worked).
Off I went on my first adventures.
I decided to head to Apache Junction.
First stop: the Apache Trail at Goldfield Ghost Town. Pretty cute, though super touristy. Some classic Western decor, a little chapel overlooking everything, a museum, a mine, a small Disneyland-style train, souvenir shops, and places to grab a snack. Nothing mind-blowing, but still a fun little visit—especially if you’ve got kids.
I got lucky and explored the ghost town with two school buses—about a hundred excited kids. Total chaos for a ghost town, but hilarious to watch from a distance 😎.
A little further down the Apache Trail, there’s Lost Dutchman State Park. I didn’t linger too long because my goal was to reach the lakes, and after my Walmart adventure and some driving, it was already almost 1 PM. I munched on a bag of chips and hit the road (lots of 20–25 mph speed limits).
I spotted N 1st Water Road along the way, planning to come back in a few days.
My plan to get to the lakes ASAP got derailed when I found a parking lot with a horse trail right in the middle of the saguaros.
I asked a ranger in the lot if I could ride the trail on my mountain bike. He said it’d probably be tough but gave me the green light.
Off I went in my padded shorts and helmet. First bike ride through the cacti with my trusty travel companion (my bike, obviously).
I started off super excited on what seemed like an easy trail, but I quickly realized horse trails don’t account for some key biking challenges 😎—like climbing rocks isn’t exactly a breeze on a mountain bike 😛. No biggie, I carried the bike a few times but got to see my first saguaros up close! A pretty cool way to explore—I don’t regret buying the bike at all!
I got back on the road after drinking 1.5 liters of water (even in November, the sun’s no joke) and headed toward Canyon Lake. With vibes like Lake Powell, I was blown away by the scenery and decided to hang out a bit—just to "soak it in" and enjoy the quiet to end my day.
I didn’t see more of the Apache Trail because night falls fast, and for my first day, I figured that was plenty.
I’d decided not to stress about seeing everything at all costs since I’ve traveled a lot in the U.S. and plan to keep coming back. Whatever I missed, I’d catch next time—but I wanted to fully enjoy a few landscapes.
I drove back to Phoenix, grabbed a good burger, and spent the evening in my hotel room planning the next day. Originally, I was only supposed to stay one night in Phoenix, but with my license still MIA, I changed my plans. In the end, I was solo, no reservations anywhere, so I’d just take it day by day!
Saturday, November 2:
I decided to wake up early and head to Tucson for the day.
The drive from Phoenix was pretty easy. About 2 hours later, I was at the entrance of Saguaro National Park.
And guess what? There was a little trail perfect for mountain biking.
I parked my Jeep at the park entrance and hopped on my bike.
I ended up biking the whole park from start to finish—about 20 kilometers, with a paved main road and a gorgeous central trail right through the saguaros! Stunning!
Even being careful, I still got a few cactus spines in my left arm from brushing too close (it stings!). Not easy to remove, so I’d advise anyone with the same idea to be more careful than I was. You’ll figure it out fast! 😉
I spent most of the day in this amazing park—it’s totally worth the detour. It feels like hundreds of chimneys all lined up at equal distances. A unique landscape you’ve gotta see.
Next, I headed to Tucson to check out the airplane boneyard. I’d seen it in a movie years ago and always wanted to see it for myself. Mission accomplished!
It was pretty intense, but unfortunately, it didn’t seem possible to get to the most interesting plane alignments. There’s a museum with different types of planes and a guided tour. I settled for peeking through the fences at the planes guarded by military patrols.
I left around 6 PM and got back to Phoenix around 7:30–8 PM, super happy with my day of biking through the cacti!
Sunday, November 3:
Morning by the pool, lounging around—pure bliss. Around 11 AM, I headed to the Premium Outlets.
Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I bought 5 pairs of Levi’s for the price of one in France. Just for that, I knew coming to the U.S. was worth it! After that, nothing super exciting—except a cotton field south of Phoenix that I couldn’t stop admiring for a good hour.
I drove around the city—pretty dead on a Sunday—and headed back to the Apache Trail to tackle N 1st Water Road, which I’d spotted two days earlier. A really fun trail to bike if you’ve got a mountain bike 😉.
It gives access to several hikes and offers some great scenery. Highly recommend it.
Ah, Iceland and us—it’s quite the story, or rather, a long wait... The first time we considered going was already 7-8 years ago, after reading travel journals describing breathtaking landscapes, countless active and dormant volcanoes, glaciers, and waterfalls with extraordinary flows. In short, this island, made of fire and ice, right at Europe’s doorstep with its own unique culture, had nothing but advantages, and it was urgent to visit without delay 😇
My *Routard* guidebook is actually from 2016. So why did Iceland make us wait so long before we finally gave in to its charms? Yes, why indeed?
Simply because reading other travel journals revealed the cost of living there—and especially the harsh climate, even in the middle of July 🤪! Some journals described entire weeks of rain and foggy weather, making it tricky to explore the island. The budget wasn’t spared either, because in the most touristy areas, especially in the south and around Myvatn, accommodation prices are downright indecent—even outright robbery. 😕
Plus, in the Highlands, there’s literally no permanent lodging, and the only way to spend several nights there is to camp. And camping in winter conditions wasn’t exactly part of our plans... 😄
So, year after year, this trip kept getting postponed...
until August 2023, when prices for Southern Africa, North or South America, or even Asia were all way too high for summer 2024!
That’s when I turned my attention back to the Land of Fire and Ice and scoured all the comparison sites for the best accommodation deals across the country. Planning for 20 nights, I found 13 nights in "proper" lodging for 5 people at an average cost of under 200 €! A miracle, considering that in the southern glacier region, around Vik or Myvatn, prices range from 300 to 1000 € per night 😮 😮!
Still, that means we’ll have to camp for 7 nights, mostly in the Highlands, near Askja or Landmannalaugar. 😎
For once, I built the daily itinerary entirely around the decently priced lodgings I found 11 months in advance! The shortage of places to stay in some areas forced me to plan a few long transition days and make some tough choices. No big deal, though—there’s so much to do on this island 🙂!
Once the main itinerary was set, everyone agreed to the plan: 2/3 in proper lodging and 1/3 camping, even the most camping-averse among us! *Follow my gaze...*
By the time we bought the flight tickets, I had to tweak the itinerary a bit because one or two places were already booked! Plus, it was impossible to wait for a more refined plan to adjust reservations, since almost all bookings are non-refundable!!
The harsh law of supply and demand...
For the car rental, we booked a Hyundai Tucson, approved for the Highlands, from Lava Car Rental—a company I’d read good reviews about in a Facebook group—for a cool 2500 € with full insurance. A real 4x4, like a Defender, would’ve been more than double...! Welcome to Iceland 😕...
Activities and excursions also required some tough choices. We had two must-dos: whale watching in Húsavík (60 € pp on Getyourguide) and a Glacier and Summer Treasure Glacier Walk with BlueIceland (165 € pp with discount codes on Getyourguide).
For the baths, we skipped the Blue Lagoon—too expensive—in favor of the Secret Lagoon and the Myvatn Baths, the Blue Lagoon’s equivalent but half the price.
Two baths for the price of one... and even more, since I spotted several free hot-water swimming spots.
Itinerary:
Day 1: Arrival in Reykjavik - Hraunfossar Waterfall - Surtshellir Cave
Day 2: Grábrók Crater - Snæfellsnes Peninsula
Day 3: Stykkishólmur - Sturlungalaug Hot Springs
Day 4: Northwest Coast - Akureyri - Goðafoss
Day 5: Myvatn
Day 6: Myvatn - Dettifoss - Selfoss - Rauðhólar
Day 7: Húsavík Whale Watching - Dettifoss - Selfoss
Day 8: Stuðlagil Canyon - Seyðisfjörður
Day 9: Puffin colony - Störurð Hike
Day 10: Hengifoss - East Fjords, Mjóifjörður
Day 11: Viking Village - Jökulsárlón - Fjallsárlón
Day 12: Glacier Excursion - Svartifoss
Day 13: Fjaðrárgljúfur Canyon - Vík
Day 14: Þakgil - Lava Show Vík
Day 15: Southern Waterfalls Day
Day 16: Landmannalaugar - Skalli Hike
Day 17: Landmannalaugar - Bláhnjúkur - Brennisteinsalda
Day 18: Secret Lagoon, Kerlingarfjöll, and Gullfoss
Day 19: Geysir - Reykjavik
Day 20: Bruarfoss - Þingvellir - Kerid Crater - Krýsuvík Geothermal Area
Day 21: Reykjanes Peninsula
Friday, July 5, 2024, is our last workday before driving up to Alsace overnight to leave the cockers at Grandpa’s for boarding. Then, at 1:30 AM, we’ll head to Frankfurt, where a direct flight to Iceland awaits.
We arrive at 4 AM. Since we leave at 7 AM, the "night" will only last the equivalent of a 30-minute nap 🤪... just enough to get us in the road-trip mood 😏!!
A horseback ride by the sea on the Caribbean island of Saint Martin
or ... on the beach, but at a walk and trot!
It was probably these visions that gave me the irresistible urge to do this horseback trek—to walk on the sand, but as a rider, and also enjoy a swim that was anything but ordinary.
From wish to reality ... all it took was heading to Ranch du Galion. Here we are, on the heights of the east coast of the charming island of Saint Martin, in the heart of the Caribbean.
After a first horseback ride that we really enjoyed, with a simple trip to the beach, it didn’t take much to make us want to repeat the pleasant experience. My daughter Emma had been dreaming of it too—so why not share this change of scenery, but this time opting for a slightly longer trek?
It’s the big day. And Jess is there to greet us this morning with a big smile. Jess—or Jessica—is the one who runs this tropical ranch with passion; she looks after a whole little family of horses. This morning, she’ll be our guide and companion for this seaside horseback ride.
So, we set off along the wild shores of the stunning Anse du Galion.
In the enclosures, behind the fences and ropes, some stallions already seem impatient to stretch their legs! They know the place, the routines, and the trails ... and the soothing reward halfway through—a dip in the sea. Maybe that’s what’s causing a little excitement among these mounts!
Horses and ... an iguana slipping into the bushes. Given its appearance—its crest, its parched skin, and the dewlap hanging under its head—you’d think it wasn’t exactly young.
Anyway, back to the horses. Among the mares and stallions, I try to spot "Avenir" and his elegant gait—he was "my" horse during my last trek here, on the trails and sands of Galion.
Well, spotting him isn’t going to be easy! My memories are a bit fuzzy, and several of these horses look like him ...
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Before setting off on the trek, it’s time for Jess to choose our mounts. For riders with little experience ... it’ll be calm horses, well-used to trekking—definitely easier and more enjoyable.
Titia, a beautiful white mare for my daughter, and Prince, a gentle stallion for me. A little anecdote along the way: we’re really staying in the family for this horseback ride—these two horses are actually related: "my" Prince is the son of the lovely Titia!
Laguna Kara
Laguna Colorada
“Our” car, a Toyota Hilux
Climbing Volcán Tunupa
The Dalí Desert
Uyuni Salt Flats in the morning
Xlendi Bay
the seabeds in the coves
Not usually a fan of organized trips, during my stay in Labuan Bajo on Flores in May 2024, I started looking for a fisherman who could show me the islands around Komodo. At the port, I met Ari, a former freediver who knows the islands well, especially the best spots for fish and coral.
At the Bohême guest house, I proposed this outing, and one of the activity leaders was happy to join. We headed to Angel Island, where Ari took us snorkeling around the island. During this beautiful day, we appreciated his professionalism, and I suggested coming back the following year for a 5-day cruise. We had to agree on a budget and the period to consider.
Over the next year, we kept in touch via WhatsApp.
However, a month before departure, Ari told me he had lent his boat to a friend, who ran it aground on a rock, causing it to sink. No boat, no cruise! Since we had an agreement, I asked him to find another solution. His searches in the port, where everyone knows each other, turned out to be fruitful.
A certain "Captain" Kambar agreed to take us. He sometimes charters his boat for local travel agencies and could free up the requested period.
The first island we visited is north of Labuan Bajo: Seraya Small.
We didn’t disembark but anchored a short distance away. The coral reef, between 5 and 10 meters deep, offered visibility of 8 to 10 meters. We started with a few dives from the boat, as the water was so inviting. As with most of the upcoming sites, we were the only ones enjoying this little paradise.
Over about a kilometer along the drop-off, colorful corals and fish abound. As long as you don’t go past the rocky point on the right, the currents remain very weak, and the spot is accessible to beginners. After enjoying the sea enough, we returned to the boat, where Ari had prepared a good meal of rice, chicken, and vegetables. It was simple but excellent after all that effort.
In the afternoon, we discovered Bero Island, where it was very hot. There were fewer fish and corals than at Seraya, but the corals were on white sand, allowing for beautiful, bright photos.
In the evening, we visited Hatamin, a fishing village. The population is very young and curious about our visit. At our request, we could have watched a local dance, but it would have taken some time to organize, and we didn’t plan to return. Ari asked if we wanted to take a shower, as on the boat, we could only rinse off with a little water from a basin.
On the third day, we discovered Kanawa and some hawksbill turtles. There were many colorful corals, but we didn’t stay long. During this day, the stops were close together, making it intense with four visits.
Then we arrived at Sebayur Besar with a different snorkeling approach: Ari dropped us in the current, and we drifted for over a kilometer before he came to pick us up. At first, it seemed a bit worrying to see the boat move away while we were offshore, but we were quickly carried by the current and passed almost too quickly by so many corals and fish to see. What a pleasure to drift and freedive with little effort.
My three little girls and I went on a family safari in Tanzania. It was magnificent—unbelievable how the animals don’t even notice us. They just go about their lives right before our eyes.
