On admettra que cette année fut spéciale. Je devais faire la traversée de Majorque en avril et puis... SALUE JE M'APPELLE COVID 19 ET JE VIENS VOUS FAIRE CHIER. Du coup, peu de projets pour cet été, difficile d'estimer les possibilités de voyage à l'étranger, pas très envie non plus de faire circuler cette merde... Alors je me rabats sur mes chères Alpes, ma foi de très bonne qualité. Début juillet, je consulte mon pote David, un normand exilé au pays des montagnes, pour savoir quand il sera chez lui, à Chambéry. Je cale donc un périple fin juillet, de Grenoble à Chambéry, via le massif de la Chartreuse, et en profiterai pour lui rendre visite.
Trajet réservé : départ le 25 juillet en train vers Grenoble, retour le 2 août en bus depuis Chambéry.
Je m'attends pas à quelque chose d'exceptionnel, je sais pas pourquoi. Ça a l'air très joli, mais pas très haut, et pas très sauvage. Mais après ces derniers mois bizarres, ce confinement éprouvant et les longs mois sans nature, un peu de montagne ne peut me faire que du bien. Et au moins, même si la météo n'est pas avec moi, je vais pas crever de froid, pour une fois (les plus hauts sommets sont à 2000m environ).
Après un petit séjour en Normandie natale et quelques trips de Caen, me voici en halte en région parisienne pour faire mon sac, la veille du départ. Ce qui m'inquiète le plus, c'est l'accès à l'eau. Il n'y a pas beaucoup de neige l'hiver (voire pas du tout certaines années), donc très peu de rivières en altitude. Les sources sont pour abreuver les troupeaux et bergers, mais souvent, l'été, elles sont à sec... Je checke quand même les dernières mises à jour des randonneurs sur refuge.info, qui recense tous les abris et les sources, pour voir un peu l'état des lieux. Ça devrait le faire. Je prends quand même 3 gourdes de 75 ml au lieu de 2 habituellement, ce qui me fait au maximum 2,25L d'eau en réserve.
Je blinde mon sac de 50L : 13 kg sans eau. Mh. Je sais pas comment je me démerde pour me retrouver avec autant de poids. Je lis pas mal de carnets de randonneurs qui portent 8 kg. Pourtant, j'ai pas prévu beaucoup de bouffe, peu d'habits, le strict minimum pour l'autonomie... Je comprends pas comment ça peut monter aussi haut pour seulement une semaine, d'ailleurs je me pose la question tous les ans.
Après une courte nuit, réveil à 5h30. Ouch, ça pique un peu. Je me presse un peu, fais un câlin à ma compère de randonnée et colocataire (qui ne dort pas encore?!) et file à la gare. J'arrive à Bercy à 7h30, mon train est à 8h. Parfait.
Je m'assoupis deux bonnes heures dans le train, mange mon sandwich, et attend. La fin du trajet est longue. La plupart des gens sont descendus à Lyon, y a plus personne dans le wagon.
Enfin 14 heures, j'arrive à Grenoble. SA RACE, IL FAIT CHAUUUUUUUD ! Je sais pas pourquoi je m'y suis pas préparée.
Je me dirige direct vers le téléphérique de la Bastille qui va me grimper de 200m de haut, ça sera en moins. Oui car j'ai pour projet d'aller au camping du Sappey (comme jamey) en Chartreuse ce soir, à 12km d'ici, 1200m de dénivelé. HUM. Il est 14h30. Je suis un peu (trop) ambitieuse.
Je sue à grosses gouttes sur tout le chemin et dans le téléphérique. L'enfer. Arrivée en haut, je me précipite dans les toilettes : je m'asperge d'eau, mets de la crème solaire à gogo et remplis mes 3 gourdes à bloc. Il est 15h, c'est parti pour la montée via le GR9.
De là-haut, on a une vue sur une bonne partie de Grenoble.
Putain. C'est dur. La montée, ça va encore, mais la chaleeeuuuur !
Heureusement, le sentier est à l'ombre. J'ai quand même un LÉGER doute sur mon arrivée au camping à 12 km ce soir. Je mate la carte et opte pour diviser l'étape en deux : au Mont Rachais, je devrais pouvoir poser la tente, et finir jusqu'au camping demain. Ça me fera deux petites étapes, c'est plus raisonnable et surtout plus faisable ! Bon du coup ça veut dire que j'aurai pas d'eau, donc va falloir économiser : je me prévois une gourde pour l'après-midi, une et demie pour le soir, et le reste pour la descente demain matin jusqu'au col de Vence, où je crois qu'il y a de la flotte.
Dans la montée, je croise plusieurs duo sympathiques : un premier de deux femmes qui me tapent un peu la discute et me rassurent sur la possibilité de bivouaquer au Mont Rachais. Ensuite, un couple de polonais très sympa qui viennent d'emménager dans le coin et me demande des renseignements sur le bivouac en France. Puis, un type super sympa qui me conseille de dormir à une cabane, non pas au Mont Rachais, mais un peu en contrebas. Great ! Ça rassure d'avoir des avis extérieurs.
Je tombe sur une cabane privée où des gens sont posés. Je monte sur la terrasse avec eux pour avoir une vue dégagée sur Grenoble et le massif de Belledonne, juste en face.
Quelques kilomètres plus tard, le sentier devient plus plat et plus large, toujours en forêt, c'est bien agréable. Je fais tout de même pas mal de pauses à cause de mon sac qui pèse son poids et de mon dos et mes épaules qui se demandent pourquoi je leur inflige ça. Eh oui mes petits muscles, c'est ça la dure vie de nomade !
J'arrive vers 19 heures à la fameuse cabane aux ours. C'est vrai que c'est très chouette comme endroit.
A peine arrivée, un type en sueur arrive en courant :
« Vous allez dormir là ? »
- Euh je sais pas trop, sûrement oui, mais j'ai ma tente.
- Ah oui nous aussi, j'essaye de convaincre mon fils de monter, il voulait pas me croire qu'il y avait une cabane ici ! C'est super beau ! Bon ben je retourne les chercher.
Je dépose mon sac à la cabane et reviens sur mes pas pour monter au Mont Rachais. Mais c'est loin quand même, et je suis explosée. Je marche un peu dans les champs et fais demi-tour. En rentrant à la cabane, je vois que dans le champ juste derrière, on a une super vue sur la Belledonne. Je pense plutôt camper là. Je retourne chercher mon sac et discute avec le couple et leur gosse, des ex-parisiens exilés à la montagne. Tiens donc. Moi dans 10 ans ? Inch'allah.
Ils me proposent des brochettes, je décline gentiment et leur dis que je vais plutôt bivouaquer dans le champ derrière, le terrain est plat et la vue est jolie. Ils ont l'air hyper sympas mais il se fait tard et j'ai juste envie de m'allonger dans ma tente devant les montagnes.
Je pose ma tente, fais une toilette aux lingettes (ça dépanne mais ça vaut pas une rivière quand même), quelques nouvelles à la famille et aux amis, et me voilà avec ma soupe, en essayant d'économiser de l'eau au maximum (va faire la vaisselle avec 20 cl d'eau, génial...)
Il est 21 heures quand je me pose dans ma tente, face aux montagnes rosées de la Belledonne. Rah, la prochaine fois, j'irai ! La Chartreuse a l'air jolie, boisée, mais les pics enneigés me font toujours de l'oeil... Au moins, ici, ça caille pas.
J'ai bien fait de scinder l'étape en deux, comme ça je prends mon temps et demain je pourrai recharger les batteries (dans tous les sens du terme) au camping.
2 heures du matin. Je suis réveillée par un bruit étrange, régulier. J'ouvre les yeux, attentive. Ok, ya une bête. J'ai du mal à identifier de quelle sorte... Ça a l'air de brouter, mais quand ça entend un bruit ça grogne, un peu comme un cochon... Est-ce que les sangliers broutent ? Est-ce que les cerfs grognent ? Je reste immobile pendant un quart d'heure, puis l'animal s'éloigne, effrayé par un bruit (sûrement moi).
Je me rendors sous le mystère planant.
7h30. Réveil. Bien dormi ! J'ai presque eu trop chaud dans mon duvet, ça change de la Norvège ou de la Suède, pinaise. Je remballe mes affaires et me mets en route vers 9h.
Une petite heure plus tard, j'arrive au col de Vence. Putain ! J'ai oublié mes voisins. Ils avaient besoin de mon réchaud pour le petit dèj. Chiotte. Bon, tant pis.
Je fais le plein de mes trois gourdes et m'asperge de flotte : il fait déjà chaud.
J'entame la lonnnnnngue montée jusqu'au Fort du St Eynard. Je croise pas mal de mecs qui font du trail. Vous êtes fous les trailers. Nan, vraiment, courir déjà c'est fatigant, mais courir en montée et avec une telle chaleur, non, là mon cerveau comprend pas. Cela dit, on pourrait aussi me traiter de folle à marcher 10 km par jour avec mon sac de 15 kg... Soit. Chacun son truc, alors.
Heureusement, le sentier est à l'ombre dans la forêt, ce qui ne m'empêche pas de dégouliner de tous les pores de mon corps. Je m'arrête tous les deux virages pour éponger la sueur qui va de mon front à mes épaules (oui oui) et où à chaque fois la vue sur Grenoble et les montagnes environnantes est de plus en plus dégagée.
Et me voilà au Fort du St Eynard, un vieux machin militaire de jadis. Y'a pas mal de monde ici. Les remparts, un petit parking, un restaurant, quelques expos.
Ça tape fort, je me trouve un coin à l'ombre à l'arrache entre deux bagnoles, mange mon petit sandwich Boursin / « jambon végétal » (oui bah moi j'aime bien) et retourne à l'intérieur du fort pour boire un coup. Bah oui, il est quand même que 13 heures à peine, et il me reste pas beaucoup de kilomètres jusqu'au camping. En plus ça descend. Alors autant prendre mon temps.
Le sentier est toujours à l'ombre dans la forêt, hamdoullah. En revanche, c'est assez monotone. La vue est rarement dégagée, le sentier est mignon, relativement plat, mais se poursuit pendant plusieurs kilomètres sans grand changement.
Les insectes de tout genre me harcèlent, ce qui fait que j'évite les pauses sinon je me fais littéralement agresser par des BBZZZZZZZZ BZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ !! Faut dire qu'entre mon hygiène sommaire, la tartine de crème solaire, la transpiration et la quantité de bouffe bien calorique dans mon sac, y a de quoi les attirer.
Le sentier se termine en descente par les pistes de ski assez raides et en plein soleil, j'avoue que j'ai hâte d'être au camping pour me poser un peu.
J'arrive en plein dans un accrobranche avec des tyroliennes partout, je comprends rien, tout le monde me regarde bizarrement, je sais pas comment sortir d'ici. Je fais demi-tour et comprends que j'ai zappé le chemin et suis sortie du GR.
Il est 15h45 quand j'arrive au camping. L'accueil ouvre à 16h : parfait ! Je m'assois à l'ombre et contemple les Dents de Crolles. Fucking holy shit, je suis censée allée là demain ??!
Euh, bon, on va regarder ça de plus près demain, hein.
16h, la dame arrive. 7€ la nuit, obligation d'être à plus de 10 mètres d'une autre tente, Covid oblige. Tant mieux, j'aime pas être les uns sur les autres.
J'installe ma tente à l'ombre, face aux montagnes Sud. Ya un type dans un van à côté de moi qui met des musiques des années 80 à fond en chantant. Soirée Nostalgie.
Je fonce à la DOUCHE. Waaaaaaaaah. Incroyable. Ya la nana du camping qui fait le ménage dans la deuxième partie des sanitaires, du coup y a que deux douches de libre. J'en prends une. A côté, une dame lave son gosse, ça prend un certain temps. De mon côté je profite d'avoir accès à la douche pour me laver à grandes eaux, cheveux compris. Ça prend aussi un certain temps. Au bout de dix minutes, j'entends une bonne femme dehors qui se plaint à la dame de l'accueil qui finit son ménage : « Non mais la première douche là ça fait au moins DIX MINUTES hein ! J'ai essayé de l'ouvrir mais y a quelqu'un je crois, c'est dingue quand même, 10 minutes ! »
Oui bah pardonnez moi l'expression mais si vous alliez vous faire voir madame, non ? Ça va, oh. Au pire elle attend 5 minutes que les autres douches soient nettoyées, ou alors elle revient dans un quart d'heure, non ? 10 minutes c'est si important dans une vie ? Et mon hygiène à moi, on y pense ? HEIN ?
Je l'entends râler tout pendant que je me sèche et ça me gonfle. Je finis par sortir en souriant : « Ah ! Ça fait du bien ! »
Je croise son regard : une quinquagénaire qui veut se doucher avec sa fille de 15 piges parce qu'elles ont pris qu'une serviette. Bah si t'étais retournée à ton camping-car chercher une autre serviette plutôt que de me faire chier pendant 10 minutes, on aurait gagner en temps, en efficacité et en humanité, non ? Mbon.
Il est 20 heures quand je commence à checker la suite de mon itinéraire. J'ai prévu assez large pour atteindre Chambéry (d'où je repars dans 8 jours), mais techniquement, la traversée peut se faire en 5-6 jours. Toujours techniquement, j'avance à rien. Du coup je revois un peu mon planning de moyenne 15 km / jour pour faire des étapes un peu plus courtes et profiter un peu plus longtemps de la montagne.
Première chose, je me tâte à passer par les Dents de Crolles demain, ou alors contourner par le col des Ayes et descendre à Perquelin. Dans tous les cas, j'aimerais bien avoir une rivière demain, donc si je monte, faudra redescendre. Mais tout de même, ça m'a fait aérien. Il fut un temps où j'aurais même pas regardé en amont à quoi le sentier ressemble, mais là, je sais pas, j'ai un doute de prudence. Merde, je crois que je vieillis.
Bon. Je vais contourner. Sans sac, okay, mais là, je sais pas, je flippe, ça a l'air d'être par moment des grosses marches à grimper et juste derrière, le vide qui vous tend les bras. Avec mon sac qui peut m'entrainer au premier faux pas, ça me rassure pas.
Du coup demain je me fais Le Sappey (comme jamey - oui je ferai cette blague à chaque fois) / Perquelin en contournant les Dents de Crolles : 16 km, 500M de dénivelé. Ça ira très bien. L'avantage de la Chartreuse, c'est qu'il y a quand même pas mal de possibilités de variantes, donc je crois que je vais réévaluer mes étapes au jour le jour, selon mon énergie et mon envie. Ce qui est moins cool, c'est qu'il y a pas mal de monde, on est rarement éloigné d'une route ou d'un village. Mais la suite du trajet me semble plus paumée. Let's see.
Total de la journée : 10 km / D+ 660m
Ah c'était quand même très con de penser que j'aurais pu faire 17 km et 1160m de dénivelé hier en partant à 15h de Grenoble...
Bien dormi. Je me prépare doucement et décolle vers 9h30, toutes batteries pleines, l'accu chargé à 75%. Avec ça, je devrais pouvoir tenir une semaine !
Je traverse le Sappey (comme jamey) pour retrouver le sentiey.
Comme souvent, je commence par une montée assez raide. Allez, c'est parti encore pour quelques 600m de montée jusqu'au pied de la Chamechaude, une grosse montagne toute rocheuse. Je monte doucement, mais sûrement, encore en forêt. C'est supportable.
J'arrive deux heures plus tard à une cabane de berger. Haaaaaan. Le rêve. Le mec a un âne, des moutons, et vit dans une petite maison perdue en haut de la montagne. Je songe à devenir bergère.
Un type me dépasse, je le retrouve au sommet, on discute, on admire la vue. Il me fait le descriptif de tout ce qu'on voit devant nous : le grand pic de Belledonne, les Ecrins, p'têt même qu'on voit le Mont Thabor ! J'ai du mal à le reconnaître, faut avouer.
Comme il a l'air de bien connaître le coin, je lui demande juste au cas où si c'est une bonne idée de passer par les Dents de Crolles ou si je fais bien de contourner. Il me répond textuellement :
« Oh les Dents de Crolles, non ça va ! Bon y a juste un passage sur 10 mètres où y a des grosses marches, faut un peu escalader, mais ce que vous faites c'est que vous retirez votre sac, vous le lancez plus haut, et après vous grimpez ! »
Ah oui hein. Oui, bien sûr, pourquoi j'y ai pas pensé. D'accord. Merci m'sieur.
MER IL ET FOU. Déjà que j'en chie à porter mes 15 kilos sur les épaules, alors je suis incapable de les porter à bout de bras, surtout à flanc de falaise et... de les lancer !!! Le sac va simplement me retomber sur la tronche et m'emporter dans le vide, en fait.
Bon, c'est bien au moins, j'ai ma confirmation : je contourne. De toute façon il est déjà midi, j'ai fait 600m de montée, et je me vois pas en faire encore 700... Allez, vamos !
Vers 14h, après mon sandwich avalé en 3 minutes, je repars vers le col du Coq, pour rejoindre le col des Ayes et enfin redescendre sur Perquelin par la forêt. Je passe par une grande montée en plein soleil, la vue est dégagée, mais je halète comme un petit chien.
Je ne croise plus personne pendant longtemps. Je suis dans un chemin de forêt très étroit, beaucoup de roches, de végétation, c'est joli, mais assez long. Petite descente, petite montée, petite descente, petite montée...
Vers 15 heures, j'allume mon téléphone.
SMS de mon père : « Quand tu seras arrêtée, faut que je t'appelle, c'est grave. » Oh putain. J'aime pas du tout quand il prend ce ton. Je passe tout dans ma tête : il lui est arrivé quelque chose ? Il est arrivé quelque chose à ma mère ? Ma grand-mère ? Mon chat ? Je stresse. J'aime vraiment pas ça. J'essaye de tâter le terrain et de relativiser, espérant qu'il me rassure, je lui réponds « J'arrive à la route dans 20 à 30 minutes, je vais être sur du plat, ça sera mieux. »
Réponse : « Désolé, je ne peux pas t'annoncer par SMS ce que j'ai à t'apprendre... » Oh la la, j'aime vraiment pas ça du tout. Bon, je trouve un caillou pour m'assoir, je sens que j'en aurai besoin. Je le rappelle.
« Bon. J'ai une mauvaise nouvelle à t'annoncer. Tu rentres quand ? »
- Je rentre le 2. Qu'est-ce qui se passe papa ?
- J'ai une mauvaise nouvelle à t'annoncer...
J'aime vraiment pas ça.
- Il t'est arrivé quelque chose ?
- Non, non, moi ça va.
- Maman ?
- Non plus, ça va.
- Mémère ?
- Continue de chercher dans la maison.
Putain, j'ai compris.
- … mon chat ?
- Oui. Elle a été empoisonnée.
Je hurle. Un coup de poignard dans le bide. J'ai tellement mal. Je suffoque. Je suis incapable de parler, j'écoute mon père, le ton grave.
- Elle a commencé à vomir samedi, on s'inquiétait pas, ça lui arrive. Hier elle avait fait caca dans son panier, le véto était fermé, on s'est dit qu'on irait le lendemain si ça allait pas mieux. Ce matin elle est sortie dans le jardin, et quand elle est rentrée, elle se traînait, j'ai senti que ça allait pas le faire. Ta mère l'a mise dans la cage et elle est allée chez le vétérinaire, elle est morte pendant le trajet en voiture. La véto soupçonne fortement un empoisonnement. On devait pas te le dire et attendre que tu sois rentrée, mais la véto m'a demandé si on voulait faire une autopsie. C'est pas sûr qu'elle trouve quelque chose, et même si elle retrouve ce qui l'a empoisonné, c'est quasiment impossible de savoir d'où ça vient. Elle peut avoir mangé un oiseau infecté, ou alors c'est volontaire... Donc je suis obligé de te le dire maintenant, parce que si on fait une autopsie, on pourra pas la récupérer. Donc soit je la ramène chez le vétérinaire, soit je l'enterre dans le jardin à côté des autres animaux.
Je gratte mon genou nerveusement, je pleure à flots, je crois rêver. La douleur est difficile à contenir, j'ai du mal à respirer, à penser, à formuler des phrases. Je parviens à répondre à mon père entre deux sanglots :
« Enterre-la dans le jardin, ça sert à rien, on saura jamais. »
Après une demie-heure à écouter la voix de mon père chargée de compassion, de regrets et d'amertume, je raccroche, désespérée. Je reste là, sur mon caillou, à pleurer toutes les larmes de mon corps. Mon bébé. Je suis une dingue des animaux, protectrice maladive, aimante, militante pour leurs droits face à l'humain, blessée par la maltraitance et le manque de considération qu'on leur porte. Chaque animal est un précieux trésor à mes yeux, et aucune explication, aucune raison, aucun chiffre fourni par la race humaine ne pourra jamais me faire accepter que leur exploitation est justifiable. Que l'élevage est justifiable. Que la vivisection est justifiable. Que le commerce est justifiable. Que la soumission, au profit de l'humanité, est justifiable. Non. Nous ne sommes pas une espèce supérieure aux autres. Ça, c'est une étiquette que nous nous sommes nous-mêmes collée. L'intelligence ne justifie pas la domination, l'exploitation, la torture, peu importe à quelles fins. A quelle fin, d'ailleurs, mh ? Notre propre évolution ? Notre confort ? Notre besoin d'expansion ? Eh bien écoute moi, Humain, je vais te dire ce que j'en pense :
« Du haut de ta tour de biz droite comme la tour de Pise, tu la vois, ta race que tu aimes tant, que tu chéris, que tu crois plus importante que les autres ? Eh ben nique-la, ta race. Tu te crois fort, puissant, beau, mais tu n'es même pas capable de protéger les tiens. Tu t'autodétruis, tu saccages, et tu justifies tes crimes et autres actes de merde par l'éthique, la solidarité et l'égalité ? Va te faire foutre. Tuer ses semblables n'a jamais été justifiable. Ôter la vie, peu importe de quoi ou de qui, n'a jamais été justifiable. Je ne connais pas espèce plus coupable que toi. Je ne connais pas plus avide de pouvoir que toi. Je ne connais pas plus imbu de lui-même que toi. Je ne connais pas plus fou que toi. Je ne connais pas plus égoïste que toi. Je ne connais pas plus hypocrite que toi. Je ne connais pas plus abjecte que toi. »
On va me dire que l'humain est capable de plus belles choses qui soit, que la fraternité est magnifique, que le respect et la tolérance sont des valeurs que les animaux ne connaissent pas, que la nature est cruelle, et que l'humain, lui, sait pardonner, sait aimer. Et c'est vrai, je le ne nie pas. Si je n'étais pas capable de voir les bons côtés de l'Humanité, je n'en ferais déjà plus partie depuis nombre d'années, quand du haut de mon jeune âge, je commençais à comprendre comment fonctionnait le monde. Alors oui, l'humain est capable de choses merveilleuses. Mais, désolée, même si c'est très personnel, à mes yeux, toutes les belles valeurs et belles actions qu'il produit ne combleront jamais le mal qu'il fait de manière totalement délibérée, et qu'il a fait de tout temps, à lui-même et aux autres espèces, animales et végétales. L'humain, contrairement à ces « cons » d'animaux, doté de son intelligence hors du commun, a justement le choix d'agir selon des valeurs qu'il a choisies. A regarder le monde dans lequel nous vivons, je n'excuse pas, et n'excuserai jamais. Et vous pourrez me blâmer d'insulter la terre entière, mais croyez-moi, je suis bien triste et bien consciente d'en faire partie.
J'ai vu plusieurs de mes animaux mourir. En 2014, un an après la mort de mon vieux lapin de 11 ans, qui a vécu de beaux vieux jours, libre comme l'air et chouchouté au plus haut point, j'ai trouvé Xéna. Un chaton d'à peine 2 mois et 200 grammes, atteinte du choryza, rejetée par sa maman. Il faisait chaud, c'était à l'Université. Une amie m'a convaincue de l'attraper pour la sauver. On y a passé du temps, elle était farouche, la petite. J'ai réussi à la prendre, d'une main seulement, tant elle était petite et maigre. L'oeil infecté, amaigrie, déshydratée, elle a feulé et puis, une fois enroulée dans mon t-shirt, elle s'est laissée bercer. Avec mon amie, devenue ma belle-soeur, on l'a emportée dans le métro dans un carton, et puis je l'ai emmenée dans le train pour rejoindre ma banlieue. Elle dormait à poings fermés, sur le dos, insouciante. Une fois la consultation vétérinaire (et les 120€) passés, j'ai décidé de l'adopter, moi qui refusais de revivre la douleur de perdre un animal, et donc d'en reprendre un.
Mais elle était là. Une petite beauté minuscule, de toutes les couleurs, avec 3 bandes rousses sur chaque joue. Ma belle-soeur a trouvé son nom : « Tu as qu'à l'appeler Xéna, comme Xéna la guerrière, regarde, elle a des peintures de guerre ! En plus c'est une battante pour avoir survécu ! »
Les kilomètres qui suivent, j’avance tel un robot, j’ai un noeud au ventre, j’ai envie de vomir, je suis exténuée, je manque de tomber plusieurs fois. A chaque endroit où mon regard se pose, sa petite silhouette court dans l’herbe. Je suis hantée par son absence déjà palpable en moi. Je n’accepte pas. J’ai mal.
J'arrive enfin au parking du Col du Coq. Impossible de continuer à marcher. Je m'assois à l'ombre d'un arbre, essayant tant bien que mal de sécher mes larmes qui coulent sans que je puisse les retenir. Je suis abattue par la tristesse, la chaleur et la fatigue, je n'ai même pas de réseau pour contacter qui que ce soit. J'ai envie de tout arrêter, rentrer dès demain et me cacher au fond de mon lit. Heureusement que je suis arrivée vite au bord d'une route, je décide d'en profiter pour faire du stop jusqu'à Perquelin, me trouver un coin au bord de la rivière et on verra ensuite.
Après de longues minutes à regarder le temps passer lentement et douloureusement, je me lève et marche sur la route en direction de St Pierre en Chartreuse. Aucune voiture pendant vingt bonnes minutes. En plein soleil, je cuis. Je m'en fous.
Je m'arrête dans un virage à l'ombre et attend. Il ne faut que quelques minutes pour qu'une voiture apparaisse au loin, descendant du col. Putain, faut avoir une gueule potable maintenant. Allez, on tend le pouce, on sourit, on a l'air contente et en cas de question, on dit qu'on a des allergies. Le jeune couple s'arrête à ma hauteur. Je bafouille, j'ai du mal à m'exprimer. « En fait je devais marcher jusqu'à Perquelin via le col des Ayes mais euh... j'ai un peu la flemme. » Ils me disent de grimper, ils passent par Saint Pierre, à 4 km de Perquelin. Durant tout le trajet, je me concentre au maximum pour écouter leur conversation, yeux fermés. Ils viennent de faire du parapente pour la première fois. Au bout de quelques minutes, le conducteur me demande ce que je fais là, où je vais. « Ah oui, c'est courageux de faire ça toute seule ! » Je ne réponds pas. Ils me déposent sur la route de Perquelin, à côté de la rivière. Je les remercie chaleureusement et, une fois sortie de la voiture, m'autorise à ouvrir la vannes des larmes que j'ai eu du mal à contenir pendant le trajet. Je marche un peu. Toujours pas de réseau. J'entends la rivière et descends dans un champ pour m'en approcher. Bon, c'est pas mal cet endroit, mais y a des maisons pas loin, je sais même pas si j'ai le droit de camper là. Je vais faire un tour plus loin. Je passe facilement deux heures à faire des allers-retours sur la route en plein soleil, à la recherche d'un endroit un peu plus sauvage. Rien. Je finis par toquer à la maison de l'autre côté de la rivière pour savoir si je peux bivouaquer. Pas de réponse. Fuck, eh bien je me pose ici, tant pis.
Il est 18 heures passées. Je n'ai toujours pas de réseau, à peine de quoi envoyer un SMS, très difficilement. Impossible de communiquer avec qui que ce soit. Je suis toute seule ici, je m'ennuie, je n'ai envie de rien. Je reçois malgré tout un SMS de Flixbus m'annonçant que mon trajet de dimanche a été annulé. Ok, c'est un signe, avec le karma que je me paye, autant que je rentre demain.
Je ne précipite pas les choses et attends de passer la nuit. Je suis partagée : je n'ai plus envie de marcher, d'être seule, de subir le temps qui passe, mais je sais aussi que ce serait dommage d'arrêter maintenant, sachant qu'en rentrant chez moi, je n'aurais rien d'autre à faire que de pleurer dans mon appartement francilien. Ça m'aidera probablement pas. Mais malgré tout, est-ce que ça vaut vraiment le coup de persévérer au nom d'un objectif initial, alors que j'en n'ai aucune envie ? La nuit portera conseil.
Je suis là, au bord de la rivière, et je me filme avec mon téléphone. Eh oui, à défaut d'amis ou de famille, j'utilise mon téléphone pour vider mon sac, ça me donne l'impression de parler à quelqu'un. Je m'effondre. Je sais que bon nombre de gens trouveraient ça stupide, peut-être que beaucoup de jugeraient aussi : « c'est bon, c'est un chat, c'était pas ton gosse non plus, arrête de chialer » qu'ils pourraient me dire. Je sais. Mais je n'ai pas cette sensibilité. Je n'ai pas ce recul. J'ai d'ordinaire extrêmement de mal avec le deuil de manière générale, chaque perte est toujours une cicatrice qui ne se voit pas mais qui se sent, là, à l'intérieur. Et là, je trouve ça si brutal, si injuste, si violent. Voir ses animaux mourir est quelque chose de difficile, mais mon sentiment aujourd'hui est qu'être absent est encore pire. J'ai parfaitement les images de ses dernières heures en tête. Je ne cesse d'imaginer combien elle a du cacher sa souffrance. Je ne cesse de me rappeler le vendredi matin où je suis partie. Elle courait dans le jardin chez mes parents, j'ai hésité à aller la prendre dans mes bras, comme je le fais presque toujours avant de partir. Et puis je me suis dit « bon, je la laisse tranquille, de toute façon je la revois bientôt ». Je ne cesse de me dire que je n'ai pas pu lui dire adieu, que je n'ai rien pu faire, que j'étais loin, et combien je me sens si impuissante désormais. Je ne cesse de me dire que certes, je lui ai sauvé la vie à 2 mois, mais qu'elle n'avait que 6 ans. Que je pensais un jour avoir une maison et un jardin pour qu'elle s'y épanouisse. Qu'elle finirait ses vieux jours dans mes bras. Je ne cesse de me blâmer d'avoir échoué à ma mission, celle que je me suis fixée le jour où je l'ai récupérée entre deux poubelles : la protéger.
Je suis d'un tempérament maternel, j'aime prendre soin des autres, et avec mes animaux, ça se transforme en protection maladive. Je m'inquiète pour tout, pour rien, pour un détail. J'ai si peur de les perdre et d'en être responsable que je me rends folle au moindre truc. Et là, je n'étais pas là pour la protéger. Et ça me ronge, dans chaque particule de mon corps. Elle était mon petit trésor, et quelque chose s'est éteint en moi avec elle.
J'ai échoué.
Vers 19 heures, je décide de monter la tente. Je suis proche de la route, mais grâce aux arbres, on ne me voit pas. Je me lave à la rivière (le rêve comparé aux lingettes bébé), me fait à manger, même si je suis nouée et que je n'ai pas faim. A la nuit tombée, je retrouve enfin un peu de réseau, ça me permet de discuter un peu avec mes proches, et ça me fait du bien. Ça m'apaise, le temps de quelques minutes. Cela ne m'empêchera pas de fondre en larmes une bonne partie de la soirée et de la nuit.
Total de la journée :
Camping du Sappey / Col du Coq : 9 km / D+ 800
+ stop jusqu’à la route de Perquelin
J'ai une de ces tronches ce matin... Des cernes, les yeux gonflés à bloc que je peine à ouvrir. Je crois que j'ai vidé tout mon stock de larmes hier, mais je cherche pas trop non plus parce que je sais qu'il en reste toujours quelque part en réserve. Je fais un scanner de mes émotions : globalement, je suis vide et blasée. Je ressens de la tristesse, de la colère, je ne veux parler à personne. Avec les conseils et encouragements de mes amis, je décide d'aller au village à 2 km pour prendre un petit déjeuner et de continuer ma rando jusqu'au col de Bellefont, ça me fera peut-être arrêter de penser, à défaut de panser cette plaie béante que je n'ose regarder. On verra les jours suivants. Je ne prévois plus rien désormais.
Je prends un chocolat chaud au petit bar du village de Saint Pierre en Chartreuse sur les coups de 9 heures, puis me mets en route via le GR9, qui encore une fois grimpe pendant de longs kilomètres, mais toujours dans la forêt. J'avance un peu comme un robot, je me concentre sur l'effort et essaye de garder une cadence régulière, il faut dire que plus de 1000m de dénivelé m'attendent, j'ai pas intérêt à me claquer dès le départ.
Je ne pense à rien, seulement mon souffle, mes muscles. Plus je monte, plus l'air se rafraîchit. Cela reste dérisoire, mais ça fait un bien fou, il crève de chaud, là en-bas. Au moins, je ne vais pas me plaindre de la météo, j'ai chaud certes, mais je préfère ça à des journées de pluie battante, surtout que j'ai oublié mon kaway.
700 mètres de dénivelé et trois heures de marche plus tard, il ne me reste que quelques kilomètres de plat, toujours en forêt, pour atteindre la cabane de Bellefont et la montée au Col. Je fais une pause à l'ombre, je retrouve un peu de 4G, renoue un peu avec le monde extérieur. Le vent se lève, au loin ça se couvre un peu. Je sens que je vais me taper un orage. Très vite, le sentier se dessine timidement dans la JUNGLE. Ya des herbes et plantes hautes de ma taille qui empiètent sur le chemin. Ça me dérange pas en soi, c'est surtout que sur les fleurs des plantes, y a plein de bourdons / abeilles / mouches qui BZZZZZZZZZZZENT dans mes oreilles constamment.
Je fais une halte dans un coin dégagé en forêt pour manger mon divin sandwich. Une mouche se pose sur mon bras. Allez, va, je te laisse boire ma crème solaire ou ma sueur, ce que tu veux, t'es pas gênante. Je l'observe, lui parle, et lui dépose une petite miette de boursin sur mon poignet pour qu'elle le mange (oui bon, on se moque pas). Et là, alors qu'elle se fout royalement de mon Boursin, je la vois de mes propres yeux me chier littéralement sur le bras. Tendez la main et on vous chie dedans.
Je croise vraiment pas grand monde aujourd'hui, c'est cool. Vers 15h, j'arrive à la cabane de Bellefont après avoir croisé un troupeau d'adolescents. J'ai l'impression de faire l'entrée en classe de mes élèves, à dire bonjour à chacun, 20 fois de suite.
La cabane est privée, comme beaucoup. Les bergers en avaient sûrement marre (à raison) des gens qui respectaient pas trop leur propriété, pourtant mise généreusement à disposition pour les randonneurs.
Je trouve une source d'eau potable qui me sera d'une grand utilité, étant donné que je compte bivouaquer de l'autre côté du col, et que je suis pas sûre d'en trouver. Je remplis mes gourdes à bloc, en plein soleil, au milieu de saletés de taons qui s'agrippent à mes mollets (je déteste les taons). Je me barre très vite du point d'eau pour retrouver de l'ombre et de la tranquillité.
Que de roches et de pentes. Allez, encore quelques 350 mètres de dénivelé, mais cette fois en plein soleil. Ça s'annonce rude. Et ça l'est.
Mais ça se vaut. En haut, la vue est superbe, mais le vent est incroyable, je titube et crains de basculer avec le poids du sac. Je trouve vite le sentier qui descend : un petit chemin avec plein de terre sèche et de cailloux blancs qui roulent sous les pieds, typiquement le genre de trucs qui me fout la trouille et m'épuisent. J'avance encore plus lentement que dans la montée...
Je ne pense pas aller jusqu'à la deuxième cabane de berger, j'ai peur de gêner les troupeaux s'il y en a, et puis j'ai plus de 2L d'eau, ça ira très bien. Je commence à chercher un endroit où poser ma tente. Il n'est que 16h30, mais bon.
Pas si facile en fin de compte, le terrain est très vallonné et fourni de bosses et buissons en tout genre. Du coup je me retrouve à bivouaquer... presque sur le sentier. A moins d'un mètre, en tout cas. Je me pose un peu, croise quelques gens, et monte la tente relativement tôt par crainte d'un ciel bien couvert qui m'arrive dessus.
Finalement, les montagnes font barrage et les nuages sombres contournent le col. Je suis là, assise dans l'herbe à côté de ma tente, et je m'éteins. Le fait d'arrêter de marcher redonne libre cours à mes pensées. J'aime pas.
Je m'installe dans ma tente, écris mon carnet, fais ma toilette aux lingettes, regarde les mouches en galère, coincées entre les deux toiles de tente. J'attends. Je m'ennuie. Le temps passe relativement vite, mais j'ai aucun entrain, c'est pesant. J'entends des gens un peu plus loin sur le sentier qui ont planté leur tente aussi. Même ici, j'ai des voisins, merde.
J'ai jamais eu autant envie de crudités et de fruits. Du concombre et des tomates gorgés d'eau, han.
Je trouve des poils de Xéna sur mon sweat. Blanc au début, blond au milieu, noir à la fin. Je les retire, les regarde, hésite, puis les laisse s'envoler. Oh vous pouvez trouver ça ridicule, je m'en fiche pas mal. Tout ce que je sais c'est que c'est un peu la seule chose qu'il me reste d'elle, les poils. A l'heure qu'il est, elle est enterrée dans le jardin de mes parents, en Normandie, avec tous les autres animaux, et son magnifique pelage fera bientôt corps avec la terre en redevenant poussière.
En fait je crois que j'ai juste envie de me mettre en OFF. Il est 20 heures : bonne nuit.
Sale nuit. J'me suis endormie que sur les coups de 23 heures finalement. Des bosses partout, le sol en pente, ma peau sur le corps entier colle (??), c'est pas très agréable. J'me suis réveillée je sais pas combien de fois, j'ai le dos en compote. Il a plu. Je me lève à 7 heures et me prépare en attendant que le soleil viennent sécher un peu la tente.
Finalement, je change de cap, je descends plus au Cirque de Saint-Même, je préfère rester dans les hauteurs, tant pis pour le manque d'eau... Je décide de continuer sur le GR9, via le pré de Pratcel et le pas de l'Echelle, jusqu'au col de l'Alpette. Ça me fera un peu de dénivelé et quelques kilomètres en plus, de quoi remplir ma journée. Tant pis pour les cascades. Je me mets en route vers 8h30 sous un beau soleil. Des rochers un peu partout, c'est un peu plus sauvage, j'aime bien.
Je croise un type un peu plus loin qui me dit que la source du chalet de l'Aulp du Seuil est un minuscule filet d'eau et que j'ai intérêt à remplir toutes mes gourdes parce qu'après tout est à sec jusqu'au col de l'Alpette. Mh.
Effectivement, quelques minutes plus tard, j'arrive à la fameuse source... pas bien virulente.
Je me pose ici un moment, le temps de remplir (lentement) mes gourdes, et d'observer les petits têtards et grenouilles dans le bassin.
Les kilomètres qui suivent sont super agréables. Toujours un peu chaud, certes, mais personne à l'horizon, une vaste vallée pleine de végétation, des petites marmottes qui crient et courent quand elles me voient (j'adore regarder une marmotte qui court, avec son gros popotin qui ballote ^^) et des vaches, et des veaux. Beaucoup trop mimi tout ça.
Les kilomètres s'enfilent plutôt vite, et je commence à me dire que je vais arriver tôt au col de l'Alpette. Allez, encore un changement de plan : monter camper au Granier ce soir ! Ça sera bien fatigant, mais je devrais pouvoir le faire. J'descendrai au camping demain soir.
Je mange mon sandwich à côté des vaches au pré de Pratcel, juste avant d'entamer la montée au Pas de l'Echelle, pas si mignonne que ça ! Il me faut quelques pauses.
Arrivée enfin en haut, je me pose un peu à l'ombre. Je suis claquée. Ça va être tendu le Granier quand même. Je vais peut-être finir par bivouaquer au col de l'Alpette...
J'arrive au chalet de l'Alpe où le berger est planté dehors et me dit bonjour. Je lui demande s'il y a de l'eau sur le chemin pour le Mont Granier. Il me dit qu'il n'y a qu'au Col de l'Alpette et que si j'ai vraiment soif, il peut me dépanner, mais qu'il a plu beaucoup d'eau. Hors de question ! Il doit déjà galérer avec toutes ces sources à sec...
Je trace ma route au milieu des vaches, sur un sentier totalement exposé au soleil mais magnifique.
15h30, j'arrive au Col de l'Alpette. Un chalet, un cheval et un robinet. Je me tâte à poser ma tente ici, monter au Granier demain et redescendre au camping. En même temps ça va me faire un aller-retour potentiellement relou (le sentier est raide), et j'ai pas très envie de camper là, y a pas mal de passage. Je sais pas trop quoi faire. J'ai beaucoup trop la flemme de monter au Granier aujourd'hui en tout cas. En même temps, si je dors ici et que je vais au camping demain, j'aurai que 4 km de descente, donc je vais VRAIMENT me faire chier.
BOOOOONNNNNN ! Eh bien j'appelle le type du camping : super sympa, il me dit qu'il est complet ce soir, mais qu'il peut me trouver un petit emplacement, un coin qu'il réserve à des amis qui sont pas là. Vendu. Je descends au camping. Ciao, Granier !
En partant pour la descente, je croise un mec qui me voit regardant mon portable et me dit « non mais ça capte pas ici, faut aller au fond de la vallée, là bas »... Bah non ? Déjà ça capte, et justement plus je m'éloigne du col, moins ça capte. Bon, je relève pas. Il s'arrête à ma hauteur et me montre des fleurs mauves : « Tiens tu sais ce que c'est ça ? Regarde, sens. » Il cueille une fleur et me la donne. « Mets la dans ta bouche, mâche un peu, tu verras ». Euh, non ? C'est pas très Covid-friendly ça. Je sens la fleur : « Ah, c'est du thym ! » que je lui dis. Il me répond : « Non, c'est du thé ! » … Du thé. Ben ça sent quand même vachement le thym.
Je lui dis au revoir et je me casse avant qu'il me fasse toute la visite guidée de la flore locale.
La descente est bien longue, j'ai mal aux genoux, aux pieds, j'ai chaud (pour changer) mais l'idée d'avoir une douche ce soir me fait avancer et oublier un peu tout ça.
J'arrive à la route et trace les deux derniers kilomètres jusqu'au camping où j'arrive vers 18 heures. Le type me donne un emplacement de caravane. Enfin, disons qu'il y a déjà une caravane et une tente, et que moi je peux mettre la mienne sur la place de parking. Bon, c'est pas le grand luxe, je suis juste à côté de la route, mais il me fait pas payer l'emplacement, et au moins j'ai UNE DOUUUUUCHE.
Je sais pas pourquoi, étonnamment, je suis plutôt contente de voir et d'entendre des gens. Ça fait moins « vide », je sais pas. Pourtant les campings c'est vraiment pas ma tasse de thé, mais là, le temps passe plus vite et mon cerveau est plus sollicité. Ah, c'est sûr que c'est pas mon meilleur trek, hein. Je souffre pas mal physiquement et moralement, c'est difficile, cette année.
Je prends une douche immense, lave la dread qui me sert de cheveux et quelques fringues. Oaaaaah.
C'est très familial ici, y a un beau décalage entre moi et les autres gens du camping. Quand ils passent à côté de ma tente, ils me regardent un peu avec pitié, notamment quand je mange ma soupe à même la casserole, tandis qu'en face ils font des burgers et à côté un barbecue.
Un peu chaud, mais bien dormi. J'ai revu mon itinéraire pour les deux derniers jours : montée à la pointe de Gorgeat pour bivouaquer puis descente à Chambéry demain, où je suis censée retrouver mon pote David. Respectivement 7 et 13 km, deux petites étapes.
Je quitte le camping à 9h30, la chaleur est déjà écrasante, surtout en ville, dans les cuvettes... Je marche une quinzaine de minutes sur la route et quitte Entremont le vieux pour rejoindre un sentier qui s'engouffre dans un petit bois, plus ou moins à l'ombre.
Les montagnes se raréfient et se rapetissent. 20 minutes de marche seulement, et je sors du chemin pour me poser au bord de la rivière : il fait si frais ! La différence est incroyable, à 10 mètres près. Je me pose quelques minutes, attends 10 heures pour appeler le camping de Challes les eaux, histoire de savoir si je dois réserver un emplacement pour les deux dernières nuits. Je trouve un caillou en forme de cœur dans l'eau. Je le prends, le frotte un peu dans la rivière et le range dans mon sac : ça décorera la tombe de Xéna. J'en trouve trois autres, je les prends aussi. Ça va m'alourdir un peu mais c'est pour la bonne cause.
J'ai une espèce de rechute de deuil, je me sens mal. La pilule passe difficilement. Je sens que le trajet touche à sa fin, et que la réalité va revenir de plus belle. Je sais que ça sera bizarre de retourner chez mes parents, que son absence planera encore. J'ai beaucoup de mal à aller de l'avant en ce qui concerne le manque et le regret. Comme beaucoup de gens j'imagine, mais me raisonner est très complexe dans ces moments-là. Je chiale encore un bon coup avant de repartir vers la chaleur, le cœur lourd.
J'ai 7 km aujourd'hui, je compte marcher lentement et faire beaucoup de pause : 1, pour ne pas arriver à 13h en haut et m'emmerder comme un rat mort, 2, pour m'économiser car je commence à m'inquiéter pour la flotte. Je compte camper en haut d'une petite montagne où il n'y a aucune source, et sur mon chemin, ma carte d'indique rien. Sur Maps Me (une appli géniale de GPS sans avoir besoin d'internet), il y a une petite source aux granges du Mont Joigny, mais j'ignore si elle sera à sec ou non... Sur le petit sentier de forêt tout mignon que je sillonne, je tombe sur une petite cascade, il y fait frais. Bon. Va falloir remplir les gourdes à bloc à cette rivière, et je risque de rien avoir jusqu'à demain, sachant que sur les 13 km jusqu'à Chambéry demain, je ne vois aucune source non plus. Okay, donc j'ai un peu plus de 2 litres pour aujourd'hui, ce soir et demain. Mmmmmmh OOOOKAAAAAAY !
Il est seulement un peu plus de 11 heures quand je décide... de pique-niquer. Comme ça j'en profite pour boire un litre d'eau et de remplir la gourde après. Faut pas oublier que j'ai un bon dénivelé aujourd'hui, même si c'est sur peu de kilomètres.
Je repasse encore par quelques petits villages avant d'entamer la montée raide dans la forêt. Je dépasse un groupe que je côtoie depuis hier. Ils sont descendus en même temps que moi du col de l'Alpette, je crois même qu'ils logeaient en face de moi au camping, - ils m'ont suivie et dépassée dans la forêt quand je pique-niquais (à 11h00...) et là ils sont arrêtés sur la route parce qu'ils se sont fait piquer par des abeilles. Très vite, ils me redoublent dans la montée, je les laisse me distancer pour être tranquille.
Vers 14 heures, j'arrive aux granges du Mont Joigny. Je croise les doigts pour trouver une source non sèche car je n'ai plus qu'un litre et demi et que j'ai TRÈS SOIF, mais j'économise. Heureusement, il y a quelques habitations, des bâtiments agricoles et effectivement, une belle source loin d'être sèche !
La dernière montée vers la pointe de Gorgeat n'est pas de tout repos, mais le sentier est chouette.
Je m'assois sur le côté du chemin. Une dame et sa fille passent à côté de moi et s'arrêtent à ma hauteur. Elles me demandent si je randonne souvent toute seule, me posent plein de questions. Il se trouve que la jeune femme est tentée par la rando en solo, mais a beaucoup de mal à convaincre ses parents. Je ne suis pas une experte mais leur explique un peu qu'il faut être prudent, ne pas se lancer dans quelque chose dont on n'est pas sûr, s'arranger pour avoir toujours de la batterie, connaître les numéros d'urgence, commencer par de petits trajets, pas trop paumés, dans des régions qu'elle connait déjà... Rien de tellement exceptionnel. C'était cool de discuter avec elles, et la mère qui habite le coin me conseille fortement de ne pas camper à la Pointe de Gorgeat mais au Mont Joigny, beaucoup plus joli et plat pour bivouaquer. Great.
J'arrive finalement au col de la Gorgeat et monte direct au Mont Joigny. Putain, c'est raiiiiiide ! Pendant la montée qui me casse les pattes, je m'arrête et pense à un truc : « demain, va falloir descendre ». Uuuuuuhhh je vais mettre mille ans !!!
Il est 15h30, je suis déjà en haut. Wah, ça valait le coup.
Bon, j'ai pas mis aussi peu de temps que je le pensais, j'ai bien pris mon temps, et j'ai du réseau et de la batterie pour m'occuper un peu, donc ça va. C'est ma dernière soirée en bivouac, je compte bien en profiter avant de redescendre dans la fournaise. J'attends que la nuit tombe à l'ombre d'un sapin ridicule.
Je discute avec les amis, la famille, ça comble pas mal le vide, tout en étant au sommet d’une immense vallée entourée de montagnes. Je me sens bien.
Je croise quelques personnes qui font la boucle via le sommet et me demandent ce que je fous là : « Ben j’attends qu’il fasse nuit. » Ils m’envient de camper là. De mon côté, je suis bien contente d’être la seule à en avoir eu l’idée. Je recroise la dame et sa fille en quête de rando solitaire. Elles me disent qu’elles penseront à moi cette nuit. Eh bien moi aussi mesdames !
L’ombre finit par gagner du terrain et je déplie mon tapis de sol à l’ombre, en attendant qu’il fasse assez frais pour faire de même avec la tente.
Vers 18 heures, l’ombre a encore gagné du terrain : j’installe ma tente, fais ma toilette, grignote un bout de soupe. Je m’amuse à regarder les fourmis s’attrouper dans ma casserole, gaga comme je suis : « Ooooooh ben alors petites fourmis!!! C’est bon la sousoupe hein ? Oh vous êtes trop mignoooonnes » blablablablabla.
Je reste dehors au soleil couchant, c’est sublime d’être seule ici à surplomber des kilomètres de vie. Je glandouille dans ma tente, cherche un peu de réseau. Ça gronde au loin, le vent se lève et je sens que je vais me taper un bel orage. Je flippe un peu. Je suis pas du genre à flipper de l’orage, mais là faut dire que je suis au sommet d’une montagne pas très haute mais assez isolée, entourée d’arbre, et seule dans le vent et la nuit. Mbon. Il ne pleut pas, c’est déjà bon signe. Je regarde les éclairs au loin, c’est tout de même magnifique.
Il est 23 heures passées quand je m’endors, l’orage semble s’être éloigné.
Il n’a pas plu visiblement, la tente est sèche, il y a seulement un peu de vent, je sors tout de même la petite polaire.
Je mange mes deux dernières barres de céréales, j’évite le thé parce qu’il ne me reste qu’une gourde jusqu’à la civilisation, et c’est loin. Et il va faire chaud sa mère.
A 8h30, toute tente remballée, je redescends ma putain de montée d’hier, et je mets environ 25 ans. Ok, 25 minutes. Mais pour pas grand chose.
Déjà dans la forêt, coupée du vent, je sens la chaleur. Mon pote David m’a dit que la canicule était violente surtout hier et aujourd’hui. Joie, je vais en chier, surtout que je fais que descendre…
Je passe par la pointe de Gorgeat et remercie en télépathie la dame qui m’a conseillé de camper au Mont Joigny. Ici, c’est joli (pas plus qu’au Mont Joigny cependant), mais aucun endroit pour bivouaquer : des arbres, un peu de terre avec des cailloux, et une falaise.
Ma foi, la descente se fait plutôt bien, avec vue sur le lac du Bourget au début, puis sur un grand chemin large de terre, à l’ombre.
Vers midi, je retrouve la route. J’en ai marre de descendre, même si le sentier est cool et que la pente est douce. J’ai quand même descendu plus de 1000m, j’arrive bientôt à St Baldoph et il me restera la partie la plus hard : 5 km sur la route jusqu’à Challes les eaux. Je me tartine de crème solaire, jette mon baluchon de poubelle et entame la dernière ligne droite vers St Baldoph, entre route et petits chemins.
12h30. Je fais une halte dans le chemin pour manger mon dernier pique-nique, à l’ombre. Des saletés d’abeilles me suivent sans lâcher prise. Je reste immobile : elles restent. Je bouge : elles me suivent. MBON, OKAY, J’AI COMPRIS, J’ME CASSE.
Je refais une pause vingt minutes plus tard, sur un bout d’herbe à côté du sentier. Encore des abeilles. Mais bordel laissez moi juste manger ! En plus je leur laisse plein de boursin et de pain pour qu’elles mangent et me foutent la paix, mais non, elles veulent MON PAIN et MON BOURSIN. Je me hâte d’engloutir mes 3 tartines et me casse d’ici fissa.
Je sue à grosses gouttes. Il est que 13 heures mais j’ai quand même hâte d’arriver, prendre une douche, trouver un endroit frais. Je n’ai plus que 2 centimètres d’eau dans ma gourde, il fait 38°C, je m’économise depuis ce matin mais j’ai vraiment soif. Je boirais de l’eau chaude s’il le faut, je m’en fous, juste j’ai soiiiiiif.
Ok, je suis à la route. Des champs de vignes, des maisons, une église… Plus que 5 kms. Je checkes Maps Me sur mon téléphone qui a tellement chaud qu’il peine à s’allumer : toutes les sources indiquées n’existent absolument pas, ou alors elles sont carrément chez des gens. Je suis quand même pas au point de demander de l’eau aux gens… Je continue ma route, et TADAAAAAM.
Alleluia, une fontaine qui coule à flots. Je reste ici facilement 20 minutes, à m’asperger d’eau, me laver tout ce que je peux (visage, bras, mains, cou) et surtout je BOIIIIIIIIIIS MA RAAAAAACE !!!! J’enfile une demie gourde et en remplis une autre : une seule devrait suffire pour le reste du trajet. Et puis de toute façon, je croise des fontaines tous les 50 mètres après celles-ci.
De Saint-Baldoph à Challes les eaux, la route est clairement PENIBLE. Je suis dans une espèce de zone industrielle dégueulasse où y a des magasins de location de grues (au secours) et que des grands axes, où les conducteurs me regardent comme si j’étais un animal. Raaaaah, mais BARREZ-VOUUUS ! Ou du moins, foutez-moi la paix, je souffre déjà assez comme ça. Je suis en plein soleil, je passe sous l’autoroute, puis je longe la grande route départemental pendant de longues, longues, looonnnngues minutes. Hé mais c’est loin Challes les eaux en fait !!
Je trouve enfin un peu d’ombre avec un muret, je m’arrête pour voir où j’en suis sur Maps Me. Des bagnoles font la queue au feu rouge. Je suis écarlate, dégoulinante, je tente d’allumer mon téléphone qui est bouillant. Je retire la batterie, souffle comme un mufle.
« Vous avez besoin d’aide mademoiselle ? »
Je lève la tête. Une dame arrêtée au feu a baissé sa vitre et me regarde.
- Euh, non non, merci c’est gentil !
Comment ça j’ai besoin d’aide ? J’ai l’air d’avoir besoin d’aide ? Est-ce qu’à partir du moment où on commence à vous demander ça, c’est qu’on a vraiment une sale gueule ?
Possible…
Je parle seule, les gens me regardent bizarrement. Oui ben j’ai plus trop l’habitude de vivre en ville et je suis dans un état assez lamentable, hein.
Une heure de marche plus tard, je suis ENFIN à Challes les eaux. Je passe devant la mairie, je fonce vers un espèce de parc à côté de la bibliothèque, à 5 minutes du camping. Ok, il est 14h30, j’ai plus qu’à attendre 16 heures que le camping ouvre et poser mon barda.
SMS à David :
« Putain j’ai chaud. »
- J’imagine, déjà à l’intérieur c’est un four… T’es où ?
- Ben là. (J’envoie une photo)
- Ah mais t’es à Challes !
- Oui j’attends que le camping ouvre. T’habites où toi ?
Il me file son adresse.
- Si tu veux tu peux venir chez moi en attendant.
Je checke son adresse : HAAAANNNNNNNN je suis passée pas loin ! Faut que je fasse demi-tour ! Nouveau SMS de David :
- Tu pourras prendre une douche.
- OK J’ARRIVE.
Il sait parler aux énergumènes puants dans mon genre.
Il fait 42°C. J'arrive chez David, on papote, je prends une méga-douche, on va se baigner dans le lac du Bourget, petit resto
de burgers. Woooooh. Mon ventre comprend pas ce qui se passe, il est genre : « Euh? Sérieusement là ? Une semaine de diet, 4000m de dénivelé, de la soupe tous les soirs, et là tu me files UN BURGER GENRE ? UN BURGER ???? AVEC DES FRITES ?!? MER EL ET FOL ». Oui mon ventre a un langage d’ado des années 2000.
Après un week-end avec mon pote David à Chambéry et une nuit en bus où j'ai caillé ma race, arrivée à Paris à 6h20, gare routière de Bercy. J’aime pas cette gare. Elle me rappelle de très bons souvenirs de voyages ou week-end avec Camille, mais qu’est-ce que c’est dégueulasse. Vite, faut que je sorte d’ici. J’ai salement dormi, mais j’ai dormi.
9 jours plus tard, heure pour heure, me revoici dans les transports parisiens. Je rentre chez moi, je m’active : rangement, ménage, courses… Je dormirai ce soir.
Nous sommes actuellement mi-août quand je finis d’écrire ce carnet dans ma Normandie natale. Comme prévu, le retour a été difficile. J’ai ramené des pierres en forme (toute relative) de coeur et je suis allée les déposer sur la tombe de ma minette.
C’est très étrange ici, de ne pas la voir gambader dans le jardin, d’avoir des réflexes que ni mes yeux ni mon intellect n’arrivent à effacer : se lever le matin, la chercher du regard. Faire attention à fermer les portes du garage pour qu’elle n’aille pas sur la route. Ouvrir le frigo et s’imaginer qu’elle attend sa pâté, assise au bord du buffet, se léchant les babines, oreilles tendues et yeux écarquillés. Sortir dans le jardin et penser spontanément « Il est où mon bébé ? »
Puis se souvenir.
Revoir ma Normandie et mes parents était impératif avant de reprendre le boulot fin août. Il faudra maintenant que le corps et le coeur s’habituent, jour après jour, mois après mois. Mais la plaie ne sera jamais complètement refermée, comme pour tous les deuils, que j’ai beaucoup de mal à g��rer émotionnellement.
Ce périple n’a pas été le meilleur, le plus apaisant, le plus joyeux, c’est certain. Il a été pour le moins très spécial à vivre. La Chartreuse est un beau massif, pas très haut, que je pensais bien plus facile que les Alpes. Mais finalement, la chaleur écrasante et l’important dénivelé que je ne soupçonnais pas ont rendu la marche plus fastidieuse que d’ordinaire, la mort de Xéna mise à part. (Total 76 km pour 4230m de dénivelé montant ! Qui l’eut cru !)
Et bien sûr, il y a eu des soirées difficiles, face à moi-même et au vide. Je suis heureuse d’avoir fini mon itinéraire malgré mes envies de tout lâcher. Je ne dirais pas que ça a été thérapeutique ou cathartique, car la solitude n’était pas aussi savoureuse que d’ordinaire, et je cherchais beaucoup le contact avec mes proches. Cependant, la marche dans un espace naturel permet aussi de faire le vide : ne pas penser. C’était mon but au départ, comme à tous les treks, surtout en solitaire : être déconnectée, lâcher prise, se sentir vivre, se sentir libre. Ce but a décuplé quand mon père m’a appelé le 27 juillet : ne plus penser. Les jours passant m’ont permis de m’habituer, lentement, à cette sensation de trou béant.
Je me suis laissé entraîner dans votre aventure et ai lu votre carnet d'un bout à l'autre. Si le vocabulaire que vous utilisez n'est pas toujours celui que je préfère, votre manière de raconter a créé une sorte de suspense, me donnant envie de savoir comment cette randonnée allait se poursuivre et se terminer.
Il est vrai, que le lieu était propice à attirer mon attention (je n'aurais probablement même pas entamé la lecture d'une randonnée se situant dans la plaine de Beauce).
Concernant la terrible épreuve qui vous a accablée, je me permets de faire une remarque sur vos propos
...l'humain est capable de choses merveilleuses. Mais, désolée, même si c'est très personnel, à mes yeux, toutes les belles valeurs et belles actions qu'il produit ne combleront jamais le mal qu'il fait de manière totalement délibérée, et qu'il a fait de tout temps, à lui-même et aux autres espèces, animales et végétales...Et vous pourrez me blâmer d'insulter la terre entière, mais croyez-moi, je suis bien triste et bien consciente d'en faire partie...
Dans votre réaction, vous traitez l'humain, comme unique. Or c'est justement là que le bât blesse.
- certains humains sont capables de choses merveilleuses,
- certains humains sont capables des plus grandes horreurs et bassesses.
Mais ce sont rarement les mêmes.
PS : par curiosité, qu'est-ce que la Tour de Biz ?
Effectivement j'écris mon carnet un peu comme je parle, je ne fais pas vraiment dans la poésie et j'essaye de refléter au maximum l'état d'esprit du moment, alors, quand la colère est là, il se peut que le langage soit familier voire vulgaire, parce qu'à ce moment, ce sont ces types de langage qui parlent.
Concernant l'humain, oui, je suis un peu misanthrope sur les bords... Je suis d'accord avec vous, mais j'évite de catégoriser les gens de manière manichéenne car même si certains sont capables du meilleur et d'autres du pire, il existe aussi majoritairement (selon moi) de bonnes personnes qui font du mal, et des personnes mauvaises qui font du bien. Je pense que personne n'est foncièrement merveilleux et personne n'est foncièrement ignoble. C'est surtout le système engendré par humain qui m'agace et que j'incrimine, plus que l'individu.
PS : Biz est utilisé pour buisness. C'est une citation de "La fin de leur monde" de IAM, à écouter une fois dans sa vie ;-)
Bonjour Triztana j'ai lu la moitié de ton récit, je vais continuer. Pour le moins il sort de l'habituel, cri de colère, tristesse de la perte d'un splendide chat, bavante sous le soleil.
Oui la Chartreuse, le coin est splendide je m'y suis beaucoup baladé à pied, l'ai traversé plusieurs fois à vélo et puis aussi l'escalade de ses parois parfois divertissante comme Chamechaude, parfois impressionnante et splendide comme le Rocher du Midi, parfois redoutable et très dangereuse comme la dent de Crolles et ses 450 mètres de verticale au rocher pas très bon, parfois on a l'impression d'être plus sur de la terre que du rocher, désagréable, là j'y ai laissé une amie tombée au milieu de cette face, un piton avait lâché, et chaque fois que je passe en Chartreuse j'y pense.
En tout cas bravo j'aime bien ton style, ta morgue, tes bouffées d'invectives contre l'humanité, et aussi ta manière de voyager à pied à l'arrache. Je poursuis.
Luc
Bonjour Triztana je viens de finir ton récit, j'ai beaucoup aimé ton écriture au vocabulaire pas toujours très orthodoxe, après tout la conformité aux us et coutumes de l'écriture bien codifiée ça peut être "chiant". Cette liberté de ton fait le charme de ton style et révèle une belle personnalité.
Ton texte, sans doute sur VF certains pourraient le trouver long, surtout sans photo, mais quand on écrit on écrit et, c'est très bien ainsi. Pour ma part j'aurais bien lu quelques chapitres supplémentaires dévoilant d'autres tribulations, où souffrance plaisir et interrogations se mêlent.
Certes, tu as eu chaud le soir du bivouac au sommet avec l'orage qui a rôdé pas trop loin et qui a eu le bon goût finalement d'épargner ton lieu de bivouac particulièrement exposé. Les éclairs qui frappent à côté d'une tente, dans un bruit puissant de papier froissé ou dans un claquement sec et une luminosité fugace, ça laisse des souvenirs bouillants!!!
Pourquoi outre ton style et de tristes circonstances, révélant tes émotions, qui t'ont plongée dans le deuil j'ai beaucoup aimé ton texte?
Parce que tu improvises en permanence et pour moi le voyage et l'aventure c'est cela, faire les choses un peu, parfois beaucoup, au pif et, ne pas hésiter à changer de cap en fonction du ressenti du moment.
Mais au fait en en-tête de ton récit tu écris Trek solo N°6. Ce serait super sympa si tu prenais le temps de nous narrer les 5 premiers.
Un grand merci Triztana pour cette belle lecture et que cela montre à ceux qui se languissent de repartir de l'autre côté de la planète, que la France offre de remarquables échappées où l'on se sent vivre et vibrer dans une nature grandiose.
Donc en conclusion, j'invite vraiment à lire ce beau texte original, certes un peu teinté de tristesse, mais la morale est sauve, la vie continue et l'adversité est terrassée, même si elle laisse forcément des séquelles, c'est le fruit de l'expérience de la vie.
Luc
Je tâcherai de poster les autres treks sur le forum, mais il est vrai que c'est un peu laborieux pour moi car effectivement ils sont longs, et en plus j'ai déjà tout écrit sur mon blog (en signature) 😄 Donc si les autres treks t'intéressent, en attendant que je les poste ici, tu peux aller jeter un oeil si tu veux!
En ce qui me concerne, non seulement j'étais déjà allé voir, il y a quelques jours, d'autres récits sur votre blog, mais j'avais également constaté que la version de ce carnet est tronquée sur VF (par rapport à la version - que je pense originale - sur votre blog).
Bonjour,
Oui j'ai retiré les derniers jours à Chambéry, la partie trek me paraissait plus intéressante sur le forum, sachant que j'ai déjà écrit beaucoup 😏
Here we go with this second travel journal dedicated to the American West! It’s a must when you love it! 😊
We had left off in the charming town of Bisbee, which once thrived thanks to its copper mines. Today, mining is a thing of the past, and the town seems a bit sleepy.
Unfortunately, I didn’t dig deep enough on-site to answer all the questions my observations raised. Guess I’ll have to *dig* into the subject a bit more... no pun intended! 😊
Let’s hop back in the car and head a little further south to check out the esplanade that offers a view—if you can call it that—of the impressive open-pit mine.
Then, it’s off to the Lowell neighborhood.
Preserved almost exactly as it was, this area must’ve been bustling in its heyday. The vintage cars are still around, storefronts and signs look like they’re straight out of another era, and the whole place has a pretty amazing vibe. You’d almost think you were on Route 66!
Here, we’re not just discovering an old neighborhood—it’s a little slice of American history. And, a detail that’s great for my physical health: the area isn’t too spread out.
Lucky me! 😊
I won’t post too many photos here since I think I can turn them into a future photo exhibit. Between these and some shots from Route 66, I should have more than enough material! So, let’s keep a few under wraps... to preserve the surprise. 😊
Hi everyone, I’m Patrick, 67 years old, a seasoned traveler (already 22 trips outside Europe).
In autumn 2025, I took my first 3-week trip to Japan, with stops in Tokyo, Kamakura, Matsumoto, Kamikochi, Takayama, Kanazawa, Kyoto, Nara, Osaka, Koyasan, Tokyo again, and Nikko.
I wanted to go back in May 2026 and explore some lesser-known places to complement my first trip.
Last year, there were four of us traveling together to discover Japan (a fairly classic itinerary). This time, I’ll be traveling solo for part of the trip and with a couple of French friends for the rest.
The weather was gorgeous in May, averaging around 25°C, with two very hot days in Kyoto and only two rainy days.
As usual, I organized everything myself, gathering plenty of information from various sites, including this one.
Transportation:
An ICOCA card is essential.
I got a 5-day Kansai-Hiroshima pass because I took the shinkansen between Hiroshima and Osaka three times, and it paid for itself quickly.
Accommodations:
Mostly through Booking. No issues at all. Average cost was 46 € per night.
Meals:
For breakfast, I alternated between buying food at a konbini to eat in my room or on the train and grabbing something at local cafés.
For lunch and dinner, I tried to vary my meals as much as possible—lots of sashimi, sushi, and ramen.
Okonomiyaki in Osaka and Hiroshima.
Oysters in every form (raw, grilled, fried) in Onomichi and Hiroshima.
A variety of seafood (shrimp, shellfish) in Hiroshima and Matsumoto.
Fish whose names often escaped me, but notably mackerel and eel (unagi).
Tempura and gyoza.
Chicken skewers (yakitori) and one teppanyaki meal.
One omakase meal (9 different dishes).
In the end, not much meat aside from a few yakitori skewers. No splurges on super expensive wagyu or Kobe beef.
Average dinner cost: 4,800 yen, drinks included.
The Itinerary:
Day 1: Departure from Brussels
Day 2: Arrival in Osaka
Day 3: To Himeji, then Kurashiki
Day 4: To Fukuyama, then Tomo no Ura, then Onomichi
Day 5: Cycling the Shimanami Kaido
Day 6: To Takahara, then Hiroshima
Day 7: To Kyoto to attend the Aoi Matsuri parade
Day 8: To Miyajima
Day 9: Hiroshima, then Kyoto
Day 10: Southern Kyoto
Day 11: Northern Kyoto
Day 12: Final day in Kyoto, then to Nagatsugawa
Day 13: Start of the Nakasendo Trail (Magome to Tsumago)
Day 14: Second day of the trail (Kiso Fukushima)
Day 15: Third day of the trail (Narai), then Matsumoto
Day 16: To Mt. Fuji (Kawaguchiko)
Day 17: To Tokyo
Day 18: Excursion to Enoshima and Kamakura
Day 19: Flight home, with a 10-hour layover in Hong Kong
Day 20: Arrival in Brussels
Off to Southern Africa again! This time, the trip wasn’t just about wildlife—it was also about the local cultures and the breathtaking landscapes Mother Nature has to offer. It was an emotional rollercoaster in every way, as you’ll see.
We visited two countries: Zambia, known for its reserves, and Malawi, which is less well-known but absolutely worth a visit. Our flight landed in Lilongwe, Malawi’s capital, where our vehicle was waiting—though with a 3-hour delay. It was a 4x4 without the rooftop tent this time, since we stayed in lodges (prices are very reasonable in Malawi). Just a heads-up: don’t exchange money at the airport or banks—the official rate was 1,750 Malawian kwacha to $1. On the black market, the rate was between 3,000 and 3,500 kwacha, making the cost of living much cheaper.
With that out of the way, our first stop was South Luangwa National Park in Zambia. The first hiccup came at the Malawi-Zambia border: we were missing a document the rental company had forgotten. After some back-and-forth, they sent it via WhatsApp ($20 to get it validated by the police). But things got worse—the car’s chassis number was off by one digit from the registered one. I thought our trip was over before it even started! After what felt like forever, we got through with a "tip" of $200. Total border crossing time: 3 hours, costing nearly $400. We arrived in South Luangwa after dark.
Thankfully, the next day made up for it with an incredible day in the park (check out the photos).
We spent two full days in South Luangwa before heading to Katete for the Kulamba ceremony.
Kulamba is an annual event held at the end of August, celebrating the Chewa people, who live across Zambia, Malawi, and Mozambique. The Chewa king attends, and representatives from neighboring nations bring offerings. Thousands gather for dances, speeches, and a massive market. There are few tourists, making it a truly authentic experience.
After a few days in Zambia, we returned to Malawi (the border crossing this time was smooth—just 45 minutes). Next stop: Lake Malawi.
Lake Malawi covers over 20% of the country and stretches 580 km. It’s home to a family of fish called cichlids, some of which are endemic to the lake. I recommend taking a day trip from Cape Maclear for snorkeling and to watch the fishing eagles swoop down to catch fish.
We hit the road again to visit Liwonde Reserve, where we had a few surprises. The lodge was on the other side of the river that borders the park, and the elephants didn’t seem to care. On the way from reception to our rooms, elephants blocked our path, and one even charged just before the stairs leading to our treehouse-style rooms.
To top it off, monkeys ransacked our rooms, tearing through plastic bags for food. A mixed experience, but no real harm done.
Next up: the mountains, specifically the Mulanje Massif. This is where Malawi’s tea is grown, and it’s also a great spot for day hikes or multi-day treks. The scenery is stunning, though sometimes the mist rolls in and hides it.
After the mountains, we visited another reserve: Majete. The park is growing and now has more wildlife. We saw lions and even caught a fleeting glimpse of a leopard. And of course, the elephants got involved again—this time giving us a real scare.
During the morning game drive with a guide, we stopped to watch a herd of elephants feeding. Everything was fine until, for some reason, a female got spooked—probably for her calf—and positioned herself in front of us on the track. After a few minutes, we thought the elephants would move on, but then a young one started provoking us. The problem? We had females and calves in front of us, but also two large adult males—one behind us and one to the side.
We were trapped, and even our guide looked nervous. After what felt like an eternity (though it was only a few minutes), the herd finally moved on, freeing the track. That afternoon, we did a self-drive safari and—you guessed it—we had zero interest in running into elephants again.
The next day, we headed back to Lilongwe for our flight home. It was a fantastic, varied trip with some intense moments (sometimes *too* intense). Malawi offers amazing opportunities for those who want more than just wildlife reserves.
I’m sharing a little recap of this new 4-week trip to China—nothing fancy, just my experience.
We’re taking advantage of the extended visa exemption to return to China for the 4th time. I loved last summer’s trip so much that I’m a bit worried about being disappointed this year. Plus, I’ve had a few hiccups before this departure: my WeChat account got blocked, and I couldn’t recover it (luckily, Alipay still works fine); I couldn’t verify my 12306 account for weeks; Trip.com failed to book our second train; and I’ve got an injury that’ll slow me down during the trip... Ugh, I hate starting a trip with these kinds of issues. Then, oh surprise! Just before leaving, my 12306 account got verified! Super easy to use from that point on—I could book a few train tickets without fees.
We’re sticking with Free’s e-SIMs, which work great in China.
August 2–3
Anyway, on the morning of August 2nd, we took the RER to CDG. As usual, we couldn’t check in online. It’s always a bit frustrating, especially since we didn’t have any checked luggage. We flew with Air China. We arrived at the check-in counter at 9:50 AM, 2 hours and 40 minutes before the flight. The line for our check-in stretched 300 meters across the airport in both directions. What a joke!! We spent 1 hour and 45 minutes in that line just to reach the counter and get our boarding passes. By then, it was 11:35 AM, and boarding had already started at 11:20 AM. The screens showed a 25-minute walk to our gate—on the other side of the airport, of course—plus we had to go through passport control and security... Long story short, the plane didn’t leave without us 🙂 We boarded among the last passengers, and we took off at 12:30 PM. We’d flown Air China four times before, but this time, it felt *really* low-cost. The check-in chaos, the cramped seats (12 seats per row), no music by artists known outside China, mediocre food, and a boarding area at Beijing Airport with only 10 seats—worthy of Ryanair or EasyJet. And yet, the price was sky-high. Again, D.’s vacation requests were denied outside of July and August, so we’re traveling from August 2nd to 30th. We couldn’t have picked a worse time for inflated prices, and with the situation in Iran, we got hit with a 390 € fuel surcharge. I’ve never paid so much for flights—I felt like I’d bought business class, but nope, far from it!!
We landed in Beijing around 4:15 AM. It was 28°C with thick fog. We drove and drove and drove for 20 minutes, as usual in Beijing. Then we went through a first check, a second check, a third check, and waited for our connecting flight at 6:40 AM. A small Airbus A320, but way more space than in the Boeing 777 from the first flight. We landed in Kunming, Yunnan, around 10:15 AM in the rain.
We headed to the subway. You can’t pay at the machines with Alipay here either, so we set up the transport QR code directly in Alipay to scan at the subway gates. The process is a bit long the first time if you haven’t entered your info before, but once it’s done, it’s *so* much easier! We took Line 6 to the terminus for 6 yuan each.
We’d booked a hotel nearby, on the 16th floor. It’s actually studios on different floors of a huge residential building. The view’s pretty nice from here. We settled in quickly—back to those wooden beds, or rather, mattresses as hard as wood, which we *hadn’t* missed...
Then we went out for our first bowl of noodles of the trip and wandered through the shopping streets of the old town.
It was crowded, and the weather was cool—around 19–20°C. We tried a local specialty: milk skin, thick, dried, then grilled with rose jam. Yeah... we won’t be having that again. The taste and texture of the milk skin... no thanks.
We saw a lot of wild mushroom hotpot too. It’s on our list for later. We also passed through the Jinma and Biji gates, where I played with reflections in puddles. I *love* doing that 🙂
At the end of the day, we headed to a temple advertised as open 24/7 on Amap. Of course, when we got there, it was closed. We’ll go back tomorrow. That was the first of many disappointments with Amap this trip—I hadn’t had that issue on previous visits.
We were exhausted after that sleepless flight. Night was falling, and we decided to grab a quick bite without much appetite. We shared a delicious vegetable fried rice for 12 yuan—we even left half of it. The portions are *huge*.
After a couple of small purchases, we headed back at 9 PM, wiped out, after walking 17 km between the airports and these first steps in Kunming. I expected to see quite a few Western travelers here, but we didn’t spot a single one. Instead, we met lots of curious Chinese people, many of them super friendly and helpful—almost *too* eager, like when they’d run to serve us as fast as possible. It’s a bit much, but it’s great to be back!
"So, my little wanderers, back at the decks? What’s this mystery destination you’ve got in store for us at the start of the year?"
Yes, the schoolyard bell’s ringing again! We’re hitting the road... or rather, the skies! At first glance, our destination might surprise more than a few. First off, simply because I was here exactly twenty years ago, and I don’t usually like retracing my own footsteps. Secondly, because the name of this place screams mass tourism—basically the opposite of what Flo and I look for.
Despite that, in this land of backsheesh, I’d promised myself I’d come back one day to experience it my way. And since Flo told me, during our wanderer chats, that this destination straddling Africa and the Middle East was in her top 2 travel dreams, the stars aligned for this roots-style trip to quickly make it onto our pharaonic festivities program! Unless you’re totally clueless in general knowledge, you’ve probably guessed by now—we’re off to Egypt! Of course, a few classics will be on our itinerary, but above all, we want to soak up a culture that can’t be appreciated in four-star resorts or on a Nile cruise boat. And let’s be clear, these next two weeks won’t be a walk in the park—neither for our two daughters who are joining us, nor for our bodies!
And that’s clear from the get-go: after our first flight, eight hours of trying (and failing) to sleep on Milan airport’s metal seats, our second flight, landing, passport stamps, our Uber ride, and our first Cairo kilometers, we finally drop our exhaustion at the little guesthouse we booked in Giza. Doesn’t all that energy deserve a little reward?
Oh, absolutely! And here it is: a full-on slap in the face for everyone! But just look at this view from our hotel terrace? For 20 € a night for four, even with this incredible view, I figured the room must be pretty shabby, right? Nope... Is the staff rude, then? Nope... Okay, so what’s the catch? You’re gonna tell me breakfast is included too? Well, yes! Honestly, this Egypt trip is off to a great start.
And the rest of the afternoon, spent rubbing shoulders with locals, only confirmed this vibe. After digesting our pyramid view, we dove into the hustle and bustle of our neighborhood with the goal of exchanging money, eating at street stalls, and testing the hospitality of the locals. Ten out of ten!
Eight little sun breads with baba ganoush and falafel? 80 pounds, or 1.5 €. A dozen Middle Eastern pastries? Same! 80 pounds! Two hawawshis, those little pita breads stuffed with meat and spices? 10 pounds each, or about twenty cents! Not to mention all those smiles and free "welcomes" left and right!!!
What a welcome! We end this first day with a sunset over the three sisters of Giza—where we’ll obviously be gawking tomorrow...
Preamble:
Africa was calling to me, so a year ago, with our usual travel companions, we decided to return to the continent we love so much.
Where to go?
Uganda quickly caught our attention—wildlife we’re used to seeing, plus gorillas and the shoebill we missed in Zambia.
We got in touch with Paul, who’s been mentioned several times on the forum back in September, booked our flight tickets, secured the gorilla permits, and by early October, the most important things were done.
We still had plenty of time to hold our "prep meetings" for the final itinerary.
Three days before departure, I sprained my ankle (my weak spot, as you’ll recall from our Colombia trip).
I wasn’t in great spirits, but after a year of waiting, nothing was going to stop me.
We’d see how it goes!
Off we went for our new adventures
After as many weeks as I have fingers on my right hand, we're hitting the road again, fully recovered from our pharaonic adventure. Back in France to drop off our daughters (sorry, girls!), this time it's just the two of us, ready to be welcomed by a new destination. They say it offers one of the richest cultural heritages in the world for those willing to put in the effort. It's the land of the ancient Silk Road, where we'll follow a journey steeped in history and discoveries straight out of *One Thousand and One Nights*. A former Soviet bloc region independent only since 1991, we'll be walking in the footsteps of Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, Alexander the Great, Marco Polo...
Another fun fact about this country: it's strictly forbidden to import porn on your phone. True story. The same goes for painkillers! Unless it's about sodomy—though the two don’t seem connected, that’s just how it is. Don’t ask me why! Anyway, I’m getting off track. Here’s the big question: Where do you think we’ve just landed?... To give you a hint, the locals are known for being incredibly welcoming. No sooner said than done—our first taxi driver, proud to transport French travelers, refused to let us pay for the ride. Great vibes for these two weeks ahead. So, any guesses?
Uzbekistan!!!
So, a new year has begun. It’s time to reconnect with the VF buddies and wish you all my best for 2026—a year I hope is obviously full of travel, since, as I just made up:
"If travel’s good, everything’s good" 😄.
To celebrate, I’m inviting you into my new "travel journal," the one from our latest trip in November 2025, a little two-week adventure.
This time, we headed to The Gambia, a tiny country tucked right in the middle of Senegal, before making our way to Casamance.
The Gambia is English-speaking, Senegal is French-speaking, but the locals? They couldn’t care less—because in this part of the world, they mostly speak Wolof, Fula, Jola, or Mandinka.
Hence the title: Senegambia 😉.
As usual, I’m sharing the live updates I sent to friends and family—super casual, of course.
I know this isn’t the kind of destination that draws crowds, but if you love adventure, laughter, and emotion, it might just be your thing 😊.
Alright, this year, we're heading back to South America!
The initial plan was to retrace the route we imagined in the summer of 2020: a trip to northern Argentina starting from Córdoba.
Unfortunately, the flight to Córdoba no longer exists, and airfares to Javier Milei’s country are both outrageously priced and involve multiple layovers.
So, I tweaked Google Flights every which way and finally found a flight within my budget—departing from Clermont-Ferrand!
Not to Argentina, though...
Our transatlantic flight will cross the snow-capped Andes, landing in Santiago, Chile, with a return from Lima!
In between, two domestic flights and a big road trip loop starting from the coastal city of Arica to explore the treasures of northern Chile.
Our mode of transport: a pseudo 4x4 that won’t take us through sand dunes or devilish tracks but will let us tackle the entire secondary network, including unpaved main roads, while still being insured.
Is the suitcase packed with all-season clothes?
Are the driver’s license and passport ready?
Bank cards and a few euros too?
Off we go for just over 3 weeks of southern wanderings!
--/--
To keep all my esteemed readers on track, here are a few maps outlining the Arica-Arica loop!
1- From Arica to San Pedro de Atacama via Pica and the Salar de Huasco
2- Around San Pedro
3- From San Pedro to Cariquima
4- From Cariquima to Putre
5 - From Putre to Arica
Gas stations in this part of Chile are located in Arica, Iquique, Pozo Almonte, Pica, Calama, and San Pedro de Atacama.
I hope this travel journal might interest some people, but since we were completely self-sufficient (tent, sleeping bag, pot, cooking over a wood fire…) almost every day, I don’t have many hotel addresses or great restaurant tips to share! Sorry!
We used the Maio map at 1:50,000 scale. It’s part of the Boa Vista/Sal/Maio map. Bought on Amazon, but currently unavailable as of the latest news.
The people of Maio are extremely welcoming and warm, and we were always more than well received in the villages where we pitched our tent!
We’re usually big hikers, but since Maio is a beach island (gorgeous ones, at that!), we alternated a few hours of walking in the morning with some relaxation in the afternoon: beach, reading, fishing, resting…
1 euro = 110 escudos
Day 1 (Friday) Transfers by plane: Fogo-Praia-Maio
We opted for the plane to save some time on transfers, as the boat connections between Fogo and Praia take a while, and those between Praia and Maio are almost nonexistent.
You should budget around 40-50 euros per flight per person.
There are 2 flights per week between Praia and Maio—on Tuesdays and Fridays when we were there (January 2016), but currently on Mondays and Fridays.
A bit of a delay leaving Praia, but we arrived on Maio without any problems around 4 PM.
We took an *aluguer* (shared transport, 200 escudos per person) to the center of Vila do Maio, but it’s totally doable on foot with a backpack.
Since it was already a bit late, for this first night, we dropped our bags at Big Game Maio. A standard European-style hotel run by a very nice Italian family. It’s a bit pricey for us (5500 escudos for 2 people with breakfast), but after our 2 weeks in a tent on Fogo, we were happy to find a little comfort. And the breakfast is ultra-generous, with fresh products (cured ham, fruit, cheese, bread) and top quality. The hotel restaurant offers dishes that are a clever mix of Italian and Cape Verdean cuisine. Excellent!
Little tip: We didn’t try it, but Big Game Maio offers big-game fishing trips, diving, and quad rentals.
The hotel is 2 minutes from Vila’s beautiful beach, and we went for a dip at sunset and took a stroll around town. They’re redeveloping the waterfront with pretty sidewalks and light stone walls.
Vila beach
Sunset behind Santiago
Day 2 (Saturday): rest day + fishing
After 2 weeks of hiking and since Vila is such a peaceful place where it’s nice to take your time, we decided to spend an extra day there. We took the path heading south along the coast to reach Ponta Preta beach in 20 minutes. The path isn’t very pretty because there’s quite a bit of construction going on, which prevents you from really walking along the shore. Lots of real estate agencies, especially Italian ones, have taken over the land. But Ponta Preta beach is a stunning black-sand beach where we had the whole place to ourselves. We decided to go fishing from the rocks.
At 1 PM, the sun was blazing, so we headed back to Vila and dried the fish for the following days.
At 6 PM, we went fishing again, but this time at night from the rocks at the end of Vila beach.
8:30 PM: back to shower and eat at the restaurant.
The rocks and sea at Ponta Preta
Day 3 (Sunday): from Vila do Maio to Calheta de Baixo, via Monte Batalha (path 101) Hiking time: 5h
Since there aren’t many “summits” on Maio, we decided to head to Calheta de Baixo but via Monte Batalha. We left at 8:20 AM and somehow made it to Monte Batalha by 11 AM (2h40 of hiking). But the path is really hard to find in the middle of the dry grass and acacia trees. We kind of cut through randomly, aiming for the summit. Even though it’s not very high (around 300 m), the view is amazing—you can see all of Maio at 360°!
Short 30-minute break. The descent through the “forest” of acacias is even worse for finding your way. We oriented ourselves a bit by the sun to find the road connecting Vila to Calheta. We arrived around 1:30 PM at Calheta de Baixo. A very pretty little seaside village with colorful houses. An idyllic beach, a newly renovated square, and super-friendly people. We pitched our tent facing the sea on the terrace of an abandoned house (after asking the locals for permission).
We cooked some of the dried fish we’d caught the day before, along with fresh beans we’d brought from Fogo (and were still carrying!).
At the summit of Monte Batalha
Calheta
Calheta de Baixo
Day 4 (Monday): From Calheta de Baixo to Morrinho on foot. Hiking time: 3h. Then hitching a bus to Cascabulho, and a car to Pedro Vaz.
We left around 9:30 AM heading north (path 201), following the coastline where the beaches just keep coming—each one wilder and more beautiful than the last: Praia de Soca, Calheta Braca, Ponta de Pau Seco, Calhetina. We reached the dunes of Baia de Santana. There’s no real path, so you have to follow the coast, then go around the dunes, and when you spot the 3 coconut trees, head east toward them to find the track leading to Morrinho. Again, we discovered a village with a Wild West vibe, with colorful houses lined up on either side of a paved road. Just enough time to accept a drink offered by a local before jumping onto the passing school bus that took us to Cascabulho. There, we waited for a ride. A political delegation of 10 cars drove right past us without stopping. Luckily, one of the cars had a flat tire and came by 30 minutes later—and that one, thankfully, gave us a lift! They were heading to the inauguration of a water pump in Pedro Vaz. So that’s where we stopped too. After getting permission from the school principal, we pitched our tent in front of the village school… and became the attraction for all the kids who kept us company until nightfall! A woman gave us 2 jugs of water, but with all that company, it was tough to take a peaceful shower!!
Dinner: pasta with beans.
We were woken up by rain during the night and had to rush to bring all our stuff inside the tent!
The beaches just keep coming...
The dunes
The 3 coconut trees, a landmark to find the track
Day 5 (Tuesday): Rest day and fishing at Boca da Ribeira beach
We packed up at 8 AM because the kids had school. We filled the 2 water jugs that the woman lent us and headed down to camp at Boca da Ribeira beach, which is a bit further east of Pedro Vaz. It took less than an hour to get there. This time, we really were alone in the world! We pitched the tent and spent the day fishing, reading, playing, and swimming regularly because the sun was beating down hard!!! We caught a nice fish that we grilled over the fire in the evening. With the crabs and shellfish we gathered, we made a seafood rice! Yum! What a feast!
That night, once the tent was zipped up, we felt something like rain on the tent fabric. I decided to go out and gather our things, and then—shock!!! It wasn’t raindrops we were feeling and hearing, but bugs attracted by the light!! Not just a few bugs—a huge swarm of them!!! Thousands of bugs covering the whole tent, the ropes, slipping into the seams and hems! Everywhere! The blue tent had turned green!!! After that, it was a real struggle to get back inside without letting any in! A real challenge, and there were always 3 or 4 that managed to sneak in anyway. Total war!!!
Boca da Ribeira beach
Day 6 (Wednesday): From Boca da Ribeira to Ribeira Dom João. Hiking time: 3h30
We woke up leisurely and waited for the sun to dry our things, damp from the dew. A man passed by, and we gave him the water jugs we’d borrowed, which saved us a trip back to Pedro Vaz to return them to the woman.
We left around 10 AM. We followed the sea to Alcatraz, then headed toward Pilão Cão. The path runs alongside the small hills on our right, and we passed above Lagoa Cimidor. The terrain is arid, and the path is hard to find among the many goat tracks.
After 3h30 of hiking, we reached Ribeira Dom João with 2 young people we’d met along the way.
Since it was a public holiday in Cape Verde, the kids didn’t have school, and with the principal’s permission, we pitched our tent in the kindergarten. She even kindly opened the school toilets for us. The neighbor gave us the water we needed to wash up and cook. We cooked beef steaks on charcoal. A nice change from fish!! Charcoal is a widespread artisanal product on the island. People almost never cook directly over wood but always with these big chunks of charcoal.
The hills on our right
Ribeira Dom João
Day 7 (Thursday): From Ribeira Dom João to Vila do Maio. Hiking time: 3h30
We woke up at 6:30 AM to clear out of the school by 8 AM. The neighbor made us coffee to save time. It took us 2 hours to reach Barreiro, another Wild West-style town! Since we didn’t want to walk on the road, we took the old track and reached Vila do Maio in 1h30.
Last night before taking the plane back to Praia the next day.
Barreiro
The old track
The church in Vila do Maio
That’s where this trip ends!
Maio is truly a magical island! A remote, isolated place with incredible, wild beaches and villages with a Wild West feel—colorful houses on either side of well-paved, well-maintained, and decorated streets. And the locals are so warm and welcoming.
Even for hikers like us, it was a great discovery, and we were able to alternate hiking and relaxation with great pleasure! Too bad the area around Vila do Maio is being overrun by real estate construction—ongoing, unfinished, abandoned…
And we still haven’t seen everything!
Before setting off for new horizons at the end of this year, it’s time for me to share my trip to Cape Verde this summer 2025.
I particularly love these spontaneous trips, and our stay in Cape Verde is one of those because it was only at the beginning of April that we decided on this getaway, which had been catching our eye for a while, given our love for the mountains.
As always—well, when it’s open—I turned to VF, and I want to immediately thank Marie, aka ptitortue, who helped me a lot in planning this trip through her travel journals and our exchanges!
Because Cape Verde is both small and vast! We decided not to rush from one airport to another, to enjoy the places and the people, but also to relax, since the work backlog from being stuck in May (see my previous travel journal 😅) had to be caught up on in June.
So, 4 islands will be our winners from 06/28 to 07/19:
Santiago first for logistical reasons, as round-trip flights from the capital Praia were the cheapest (650 €/person from Lyon via Lisbon with TAP, still!)
São Vicente, because it’s the gateway to the next one but ultimately more than that...
Santo Antão, pretty much the main goal of the trip since Marie (and the photos) had really sold it to me.
And finally, Sal Island, for some rest—a non-negotiable condition for my other half—and we’ll see that I should’ve listened to Marie...
That said, what a chatterbox I am—buckle up, flight attendants at the doors, off we go on new beautiful escapes! (Thanks to Sophie for the easy loan)
Last note for my eager fan club 😏: yes, there will be alcohol—how could there not be in the land of grogue!
Hi everyone, we're back from a DIY USA road trip we organized from July 31, 2026, to August 26, 2026.
The destination: The Southwest USA, including Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico. Roughly 7,000 kilometers covered.
The car: A Chevrolet Equinox for two, rented through BSP Auto and Avis. Inside, we had 2 suitcases, a travel bag, two carry-on bags, a Walmart cooler, photo gear, and water bottles (a 40-pack).
The route: Dallas DFW, Fort Worth, Houston, Austin, San Antonio, Alpine, El Paso, Tucson, Sedona, Albuquerque, Amarillo, and back to Dallas to finish with a departure from DFW.
The travelers: Two seniors well advanced in years (73 and 75) but still active (nothing too physically demanding—to stay alive and fund our trips), fully independent physically, though a bit less so mentally. Big USA fans, a country where anything is possible. More walkers than hikers, preferring 3-star hotels over roadside motels, Italian restaurants over US food, frequent stops for photos, museums over nothing, naps over forced marches. Not too whiny, just enough to stay French in the land of the "great Satan," as they say.
Not great with languages—street English (but handy), and my Spanish is non-existent except for: "Hola! Una cerveza por favor!" That’s about it. My wife understands everything but refuses to speak.
The cost of the road trip: Around 12,000 €, including AF flights, the car, gas, gifts, visits, and everything else. Well managed, since we’d budgeted 13,500 € initially.
The positive side: A delight, with those endless open roads. Museums to discover. The realization of the Hispanic presence and its important history in this part of America. Lovely locals. Tourists who were more or less friendly. A terrible Texan accent that was hard to understand. Gas stations that were like real stores, with prepared food, alcohol sold in Arizona and New Mexico, and employees who were always up for a laugh!
The negative side: The heat throughout the trip... 43°C in Dallas at the end. Impossible to walk the streets. Lots of homeless people in downtown Dallas. Hotel breakfasts that were always the same. You get used to it.
So, it was positive overall, but the concept is starting to wear us out. We might rethink the DIY road trip model for next time. If the man upstairs grants us more time.
Next up, we’ll wait for the first batch of sorted photos to go through the wringer.
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather,
A season that only exists in the southwest of America,
I remember very well what I told you that morning
A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago...
We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...
Traveling with just one spare pair of underwear, considering a hot shower a miracle, never staying in the same place too long by sleeping wherever night catches us, taking whatever local, improbable, and rickety transport we can find—this is the DNA of us wanderers. Except this time, the script for our movie is going to be a whole different genre. On paper, the destination doesn’t exactly scream epic adventure: Réunion! And what’s more... we won’t be two, or four, or even ten. We’ll be a solid thirty. All from the same family. Yes, thirty. At this point, it’s not just a trip—it’s a summer camp on the move! Why inflict this on such a peaceful island? Because my brother decided to get married there with his lovely bride. A great idea, you might say... especially when it involves relocating the equivalent of a small Ardennes village 10,000 kilometers from home for three weeks! So who’s stepping up to be the guide and wave the little flag?
So, for an exceptional trip, exceptional stories! Don’t worry, the debates at the supermarket over whether to choose plain chips or roast chicken chips, the beach picnics washed down with ti’ punch, and other rougail sausages to digest by the pool will only make it into the family archives. Here, I’ll stick to the tales of our beautiful escapes, the ones where we explore the wild corners of this little volcanic rock planted in the middle of the Indian Ocean. So where exactly are we headed?
For the first week—the subject of this first installment—we’re taking it easy. We’ll start by rediscovering the coastline, from the Souffleur in Saint-Leu to the Hermitage lagoon, before a little trip to the Cirque de Cilaos and its legendary road with 400 turns, just to get our legs warmed up.
"How about a Christmas market this year, huh? A little romantic weekend getaway...
- Yes! That’d be cool! Strasbourg? Colmar?
- Feels a bit déjà vu, doesn’t it? Plus, slim chance of snow there... And I’d love something a bit more exotic with a touch of originality..."
"Okay, Google, give me the list of the five most beautiful Christmas markets in Europe.
- In fifth place, the Christmas market in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania.
- Save your breath! Lithuania, here we come!"
We wanted cold, and cold is exactly what we got the moment we set foot in this new, unknown land. As for landscapes, forests and lakes stretch as far as the eye can see across this vast plain, its vegetation scorched by the frost of a winter that’s clearly already well underway here.
Lakes, in fact, set the scene for our first visit to Trakai Castle, whose brick-red towers and walls rise proudly against the azure sky of our first day. Lakes, because this castle was built on an island and is only accessible on foot via a series of walkways spanning half-frozen lake offshoots. I couldn’t have picked a better spot to build my castle! Translation: We’re totally sold! Proof is we spend two hours hiking around the area, alternating between forests, reeds, and cozy houses tastefully decorated for Christmas.
With my girlfriend Christelle, we’ve chosen South Africa for our first trip to Southern Africa, focusing on safaris—after a long debate with a Cape Town/Kruger combo.
But that would’ve meant cutting out St Lucia, which would’ve been harder to fit into another trip.
And St Lucia—thanks to Michel and all those travel journals—we really wanted to go there.
So our 11-night itinerary ended up like this, mostly shaped by school holidays:
- 3 nights in St Lucia
- 1 night in Hluhluwe
- 1 night at Mkhaya Game Reserve (Eswatini)
- 1 night at Hlane Royal National Park (Eswatini)
- 3 nights in Kruger (Berg en Dal / Satara / Tamboti)
- 1 night at Shindzela Tented Camp in the Timbavati private reserve
- 1 final night in Kruger at Lower Sabie
All of this in the off-season and rainy season, just a month after catastrophic floods that killed over 150 people and seriously damaged Kruger’s infrastructure.
I’ll jump straight to St Lucia and skip the loooong journey to get there (with a layover in Frankfurt, landing in Johannesburg, a domestic flight to Durban, and the rest by rental SUV—First Car Rental, perfect, no complaints).
To motivate readers—especially some familiar faces here—I’ll drop in a first photo.
This travel journal is therefore intended solely for my photos, to present a consistent style.
All the shots were taken with a simple Samsung Galaxy smartphone and with whatever was at hand.
All stays combined, I’ve spent the equivalent of three years at most in Thailand, and I’m not a big expert on the country.
However, after many trips, lots of reading on VoyageForum and other sites, and conversations with many locals as well as expats, my view of the country is becoming clearer, though it’s constantly evolving. You never stop discovering and learning.
I guess I wanted to piece together a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who miss it.
I don’t know if this minimalist sharing will interest anyone, but it’ll do me good to put it together. After so many months without traveling and then these other long months with VF closed, there’s plenty of material available.
There’ll be a mix of places, periods, and subjects, but it might well be intentional.
I suspect many Thais have dogs because they make excellent guards for the home. Nothing better to deter burglars or to signal the presence of a snake. You’ll often see Thais tapping the top of their dog’s head, but don’t be fooled: it’s a sign of affection from them. Judging by the dogs’ reactions, they’re used to it.
Thailand is one of the countries on the planet where rabies is still present, so keep that in mind. It’s not just bites that can be dangerous, so don’t let just any dog lick you. Especially on a wound, of course.
Even though dogs often fear humans—this dangerous and unpredictable predator—we still need to stay cautious.
Be careful when walking into alleys because the dog will defend its master’s big property, be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs.
It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t really made for walking around, and dogs are one of the reasons.
That said, it’s not uncommon to see them chasing bikes or scooters. Cars, though, are much rarer—they’re too big.
It seems Thais prefer to give their dogs freedom by not locking them behind gates. Though sometimes the gate is closed, the little side door is wide open. Oh, and sometimes there’s no gate in front of the property, or it’s been broken for years.
You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the side of the road, sometimes right on the road. When you arrive, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, which reminds visitors not to drive too fast. As a result, you’ll notice that dogs with injuries or missing legs aren’t that rare.
Since they believe in reincarnation and respect for all forms of life, they don’t chase dog packs away too much, and they don’t sterilize them enough. Seeing a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you might think it’s best not to cross paths with them at the edge of a field.
A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at temples on the brink of death, enduring terrible suffering. No one did anything about it. The image (and the smell) of one of them, dying and emitting the stench of death, still comes back to me sometimes.
Some of you may have seen the YouTube vlog of a French woman living in Phuket who was given a little pig by her Thai friends. The well-fed animal quickly became a happy, enormous beast with its own garden. Yet, it didn’t take long for it to fall seriously ill and become incurable. In her video, the French woman described how difficult it was to find a vet willing to perform euthanasia.
You’ll often see bowls by the side of the road. Thais leave food and water in them for stray cats and dogs. Overall, they have a big heart for animals.
If you ever pop into a shopping mall, you might see people pushing their small dogs in strollers. It’s not a gimmick—it’s just that these strollers are provided for customers to put their pets in, otherwise you can’t bring them inside. It looks a bit odd when you expect to see a baby.
When we started looking for a summer destination a few months ago, our first criterion was to avoid extreme heat and heatwaves. We had already been to Norway two years ago and are considering going back in the future for other occasions. So, we had some fun asking ChatGPT which destinations enjoyed a mild climate during the summer without going too far. Among the list provided by the AI were the Canary Islands... The idea of a place we wouldn’t have thought of first, both not too far away and exotic enough, appealed to us: “Hmm, why not?”
This destination had never really attracted me, though Magali was a bit more interested. Five years earlier, COVID had caused a short break in my professional activity, and I had planned a trip because the flight price was attractive, and I was looking for a destination different from what usually appeals to me, more than out of deep interest. From a distance and with a social judgment I acknowledge (it’s not great, but it’s not completely wrong), I had the image of a destination for party-goers enjoying the sun without the slightest interest in local culture, with concrete coastlines and denatured landscapes—everything I detest the most. Still, I had done some quick research on the different islands and spotted Lanzarote for its beautiful volcanic landscapes, hiking trails, beaches, and the impression of a good balance between activity and fewer crowds than Tenerife or Gran Canaria. Then I dropped the idea of going, without ever reconsidering traveling to the Canaries...
Until now! Because we started researching the different islands of the archipelago to see which ones might appeal to us the most. It was La Gomera, the third smallest island of the archipelago, more praised for its hiking trails and preserved nature than for its beaches, away from mass tourism (fifty times fewer tourists than Tenerife) but still a bit more developed than its wild neighbor El Hierro, that caught our attention. Contrary to what might be suggested later, I’m not at all addicted to AI, but I use it from time to time to synthesize quick research or simply for experimentation. Since ChatGPT had started anticipating my tastes lately as if it had become my buddy (often successfully, sometimes off the mark), I asked which Canary Island would suit me best for a trip with my family. The tool answered first with... La Gomera. So, I tested it and teased it a bit to see if this suggestion was well-founded, as the method sometimes makes it contradict itself. But no luck: “You’d appreciate the wild nature of El Hierro, but with family, you’ll find little activity for the kids. You won’t like the touristy vibe of the big islands like Tenerife, Gran Canaria, Lanzarote, and Fuerteventura. You could consider La Palma, but it’s really La Gomera that will suit you best, based on your interests and the criteria given.” So, we dug deeper into our research and were convinced without a shadow of a doubt that this island was the one waiting for us.
Without knowing it, we had Canarians in our circle who revealed their origins when they heard about our travel plans. One from Tenerife insisted we’d be better off choosing Tenerife (obviously...) because it also has preserved spots and that La Gomera, “you can explore it in two or three days, you’ll get bored quickly...” The other, a colleague from Gran Canaria who had never visited La Gomera, still recommended it without hesitation because it turned out her parents had just gone there on vacation: they loved it and had encountered few tourists. She also tended to think this destination was usually the subject of short stays, but according to what her parents told her, taking your time there was also a great idea. However, in our research, the idea that La Gomera is an island you can explore in three or four days max kept coming up. So, we considered combining its visit with La Palma or El Hierro, the other two that caught our eye. But hopping between islands by ferry represents a significant budget for non-Canarians, even more so for a family of four. Then, scrutinizing Google Maps, it seemed obvious that two weeks were too short to discover two islands as they deserve, and that there seemed to be plenty to see in La Gomera, given its very unique culture. After all, we read that some people spend several months a year there, others never even leave... Finally, these landscapes and this atmosphere, which seemed to us a mix of Europe, North Africa, and Latin America, tempted us. So, it would be two weeks in La Gomera, deal!
La Gomera is therefore the second... well, the third smallest island of the Canaries since La Graciosa was recently recognized as a fully inhabited island. It has the shape of a rough circle about 20 to 25 kilometers in diameter and has just over 20,000 inhabitants, half of them in its capital, San Sebastián de la Gomera, the only real town. Like its Canarian sisters, La Gomera is a volcanic formation that rose about 10 million years ago. The island is very mountainous and rugged, covered with red and black rocky landscapes. Geological activity has shaped, between the sprawling massifs that end in steep cliffs in the ocean, six coastal valleys with tropical vegetation that have favored human settlement. They divide the island like slices of a cake; from the north clockwise: the agricultural Vallehermoso, the rustic Agulo, the green, humid, and fertile Hermigua, the sunny capital San Sebastián de la Gomera, the southern and isolated Alajeró-Santiago, and the seaside Valle Gran Rey. They constitute the six municipalities (more like cantons to our French understanding) of the territory.
The large solidified magma massifs that shape the heart of the island have created a large depression more protected from the sun at its center, allowing the growth of a vast laurel forest, today grouped within the Garajonay National Park, La Gomera’s green lung, which has earned it the status of a World Biosphere Reserve. Its completely European appearance contrasts sharply with the rocky and tropical landscapes of the rest of the island. Thus, the climate varies greatly from one point to another on the island: in summer, you can quickly go from a dry and sunny valley at 35°C to a humid forest area at altitude at 18°C.
La Gomera was populated late. As with the rest of the Canaries, human presence is thought to have begun about 2,000 years ago. Groups of animist Berbers, probably fleeing persecution, gradually populated the archipelago, especially the western islands and La Gomera, becoming its small aboriginal population: the Guanches (or later Gomeros). The animist and pastoral civilization of the Guanches thrived until the Spanish takeover in the 15th century, which, after a short period of harmony and mixing with the indigenous people, suddenly ended in bloodshed... La Gomera later became the “Columbus Island” after Christopher Columbus’s stopover, increasing the blending of populations. In the 20th century, many Gomeros emigrated to Cuba and other Latin American countries in search of a better life, bringing back a mix of cultures and traits quite palpable in today’s Gomeran culture. It is, however, in La Gomera that the vestiges of Guanche culture seem to have left the most traces, in the language, gastronomy, social practices... Moreover, most Gomeros, especially in remote villages, have a particular identifiable type and proudly claim their ancestral roots, even making La Gomera a bit exotic in the eyes of other Canarians.
Perhaps that’s why it has never really wanted to develop its tourist infrastructure too much. If we set aside the tourists who visit for the day by bus or boat from Tenerife on a marked itinerary (and whom we ultimately rarely encounter), La Gomera has remained a hidden gem, a destination focused on nature discovery that attracts hikers, nature-loving divers, and scientists for its fauna and flora, and to a lesser extent, beachgoers who don’t seek overly developed coastlines. Tourist activity is therefore limited. Roughly speaking, you’ll find a majority of Spaniards, including a substantial number of residents from other Canary Islands, many Germans who have a particular fondness for La Gomera and spend long stays there or own second homes, to the point that the German cultural footprint is clearly noticeable in some places (it’s said to be Angela Merkel’s favorite holiday spot), and still quite a few French. The presence of other nationalities seemed negligible to us. Most travelers come mainly for hiking, but it’s also a prime spot for whale watching. Additionally, the seaside resorts of La Gomera—San Sebastián, Santiago, and especially Valle Gran Rey—are well-known destinations for hippies, especially German ones, ranging from chic boho hippies to old-school hippies who’ve been there for decades, quite similar to those you’d meet in India in Goa, Rishikesh, or Paharganj. Thus, practices like naturism, vegetarianism, and local organic production are quite well established in some areas.
Some practical info:
- The round-trip flight from Paris to Tenerife cost us 365 € per person (outbound with Transavia, return with EasyJet), including checked luggage and three seats reserved side by side.
- We chose two bases to explore the island: one week in Valle Gran Rey, reputed to be the most pleasant of the three seaside resorts, and one week in Hermigua, more mountainous and close to the natural park. We booked two houses with balconies and views: the first at 120 € per night, the second at 99 €.
- The round-trip ferry between Tenerife and La Gomera cost us 270 € with the company Baleària Canarias, including discounts for children aged 4 and 12, but I don’t have the exact details. It was a bit cheaper than with the other company, Fred Olsen.
- Finally, we rented a car through the agency Cicar for 360 € for 16 days, which comes to 22.50 € per day.
- Apart from that, we didn’t plan anything and decided the day before or even the morning of what we wanted to do. We didn’t invest in any paper guide on the Canaries, as information on La Gomera was scarce, but we used the very comprehensive site La Gomera Travel, a travel guide published by the Canary Islands Tourism Council, a real goldmine of almost exhaustive information on the island.
Alright, off we go for 16 days of adventure discovering La Gomera!
If I close my eyes and think of the Sultanate of Oman, I first smell a light scent of incense, feel the warmth of a sunbeam on my skin, before sand slips through my fingers. I taste the sweetness of a date, a real candy, then the flavor of coffee with a hint of cardamom and rosewater... I hear the desert wind whistling in my ears, the distant call of a muezzin, then the murmur of water. I open my eyes to see smiles, welcoming gestures, a turquoise sea, rocks ranging from ochre to purple, deep wadis where torrents burst forth, orange dunes, white sandy beaches where tiny crabs scurry at full speed. I see incredible oases emerging between arid mountains. I see abandoned villages that I’d dream were full of life, imposing fortresses overlooking valleys, and lively souks where offers are delicate and negotiation is a mutual courtesy.
All that, and so much more.
This is what I tried to capture in my illustrated travel journal, which I’ll fill in here and there with photos.
I drew this journal “cold,” after my return (actually, I made it this summer, while our trip was last winter). It’s a pretty special format—I bought it in Japan without really knowing what I’d do with it. Well, it found its purpose! Below is a photo of this accordion-style journal: here, it’s only partially open, because when fully unfolded, it’s 5 meters long!
For drawing enthusiasts: The accordion format is both a constraint (each sheet is 9 cm x 27 cm) and a freedom (you can create a fresco). The paper is also a bit special: it doesn’t allow for fine lines, but it takes ink well (liner pen). However, everything has to be done almost in one go (with a very light pencil sketch) because it erases poorly. It absorbs too much water for coloring with markers or watercolors (unless you avoid soaking it), but it works well with oil pastels and their use with a brush and solvent. Since it’s yellowish, it allowed me to create contrasts even with white pastel.
On the right, the "welcome marker"—those dates offered everywhere as a sign of hospitality. On the left, a tribute to those stunning doors worn by time, admired all over the old quarters, including the abandoned ones.
Oman is one of the world’s largest producers of frankincense resin. Incense burners are everywhere, from the simplest clay ones to the most precious handcrafted silver ones...
Hospitality will often lead you to accept a small coffee, an "Omani coffee," very light, subtly flavored with cardamom, maybe a touch of saffron, and occasionally rosewater.
Here, I’ve depicted a man in the common everyday attire of Omanis: the dishdasha, mostly white (during the week and daytime; colors are more common in the evening or on Fridays and Saturdays). While you’ll see some men dressed in Western clothes, they’re very few. The white dishdasha is truly the shared attire of all men. The dishdasha, which has no hood, is distinguished by a small pom-pom attached to the collar, the furakha, which is soaked in perfume. And believe me, Omanis go overboard with it! "It smells like the pom-pom" is an expression that’s now part of our shared language, my husband and I.
Another must of men’s attire is the kuma, a small round head covering, usually white with brightly colored patterns. The keffiyeh is also worn (but without the cord called an agal in Arab countries), and it’s mostly worn by those with roots in the desert, from what I understood.
And what about the women, you might ask? Some are veiled, some in full black (but not a burka—more like a chador + abaya), due to the influence of Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates, whereas the traditional outfit used to be a layering of very colorful dresses. Most of the women we saw wore neutral clothing, a plain veil over their hair, but with their faces uncovered. We also saw many saris and colorful veils—don’t forget that 40% of the population consists of Indian, Nepalese, and Bangladeshi immigrants, who work a lot in tourism, hospitality, restaurants, services, and construction.
Just to clarify, as a tourist, there’s no pressure to wear a veil, and never any disapproving looks. Of course, you’ll save the mini shorts, plunging necklines, bare shoulders, and midriffs for the hotel terrace—but I’d say that’s the same for men and women, and with the sun being strong, it’s better for your skin too.
Here’s the introduction! In the next post, I’ll tell you about my itinerary, and we can dive in!
My buddy Christian and I (Patrick) are off for 28 days in Argentina in March.
We’ve already shared several trips as a duo (Bolivia Peru, Namibia, Laos, Costa Rica).
Since we’re starting from the idea that at our age (65) we won’t be coming back here—there are just too many other corners of the world to discover—we did the "grand tour" of Argentina, with 6 domestic flights to make the most of our 28 days.
Here are our stops:
1) Departure from Brussels to Buenos Aires via Madrid
2) Arrival and first contact with Buenos Aires
3) Early morning flight to Ushuaia. Boat trip on the Beagle Channel
4) Ushuaia: hikes in Tierra del Fuego National Park
5) Ushuaia: last hike and flight to El Calafate
6) El Calafate to El Chaltén by bus. First hike
7) El Chaltén: hike
8) El Chaltén: hike
9) El Chaltén: hike and bus back to El Calafate
10) El Calafate: Perito Moreno Glacier
11) Flight to Bariloche. Car rental and surrounding areas
12) Seven Lakes Region
13) Nahuel Huapi National Park region
14) Flight to Salta. Car rental
15) To Tilcara
16) To Humahuaca
17) To Purmamarca
18) To Jujuy via the salt flats
19) To Cafayate
20) Around Cafayate
21) To Cachi
22) Back to Salta
23) Flight to Iguazu
24) Waterfalls on the Argentine side
25) Waterfalls on the Brazilian side and flight to Buenos Aires
26) Buenos Aires
27) Return flight
28) Morning arrival
Happy reading!..
We landed in Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, and headed straight to Kasane in Botswana to pick up our car.
Our vehicle is a 4x4 because in Zambia, it's practically impossible to use anything else, especially in the national parks. I’ve already had the pleasure of visiting South Luangwa National Park—it’s one of the reasons for this trip, the main one being to travel in Africa with one of my sons.
First stop: Livingstone on the banks of the Zambezi River. Along the way, we discovered a lovely restaurant at Socrates with a super-friendly owner (we’ll actually stop there again on our way back). We spent our first night in the rooftop tent after a stunning sunset, accompanied by the grunting of hippos in the river.
The next day, we set off early, heading to Kafue NP. In fact, we’ll always leave early—waking up between 5:00 and 5:30 AM and hitting the road an hour later. Kafue is a lesser-known park, mostly forested, and the animals are skittish because they’re not used to human presence. We crossed the park from south to north and came across various antelopes. Near Lake Itezhi-Tezhi, there are plains where wildlife is easier to spot.
After Kafue, we headed to South Luangwa. This journey requires stops in Mumbwa and Petauke. Two pleasant stops where we found lodges (a nice change from the rooftop tent) at affordable prices and met welcoming people.
For me, South Luangwa is Zambia’s most beautiful park—the river is stunning, the landscapes are gorgeous, and there’s a wide variety of wildlife, including, of course, big cats. A tip for those, like us, who aren’t with a guide: if you’re staying near the park for several days, don’t hesitate to do a "game drive" to scout out where the animals are so you can return the next day with your own vehicle. Of course, in the dry season, you’ll want to focus on waterholes to see the animals—and you’ll need a bit of luck too. The elephant population is growing, and we were lucky enough to see around sixty elephants crossing the Luangwa at dawn, spread across several groups. South Luangwa is the westernmost point of our trip, and we’re now heading east to Lower Zambezi.
Lower Zambezi is Zambia’s side of Mana Pools on the Zimbabwe side. We took a boat ride on the Zambezi to see elephants, hippos, crocodiles, and a multitude of birds living along the water and on the river’s islands. The sunset there is also magnificent.
To explore the park, we followed the waterways parallel to the Zambezi, mostly on the western side (see our route). Lower Zambezi is the last park we visit, and the final leg of our trip will be Victoria Falls.
Victoria Falls—or Mosi-Oa-Tunya ("The Smoke That Thunders")—are truly impressive, even during the dry season. We saw the falls from both countries: in Zambia for the overall view and the bridge that serves as the border, and in Zimbabwe to get as close as possible to the most spectacular parts of the falls.
This marks the end of our trip, which, despite a blown tire on the road, went off without any major issues. Zambia is a beautiful country that immerses you in wild, still-preserved nature.
The latest travel journal about Turkmenistan dates back to 2019. Here’s a quick update on this vast desert country, which is now a bit easier to visit than before.
This is my first travel journal. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. The country is slowly opening up, but it’s still possible to visit sites where you’ll be completely alone. In five days, I saw two Hongkongers, a few Germans, and a Chilean at the crater, ten Chinese people in a capital bazaar, and that’s it!
It’s possible to visit Turkmenistan from Uzbekistan. The easiest and most economical way is to take a taxi to the border from Bukhara. The trip takes a little over an hour.
Crossing the border takes quite a while because many Turkmen bring back items bought in Uzbekistan to resell in Turkmenistan. For example, diapers, baby products, or beauty products.
It took me over 2.5 hours to cross the border. To visit Turkmenistan, it’s mandatory to have a guide and go through a travel agency. British agencies often offer three-, five-, or seven-day trips for over 1,500 or 2,000 €.
But if your budget is more limited, you can contact a few Turkmen agencies directly by email, and they’ll make you an offer between 700 and 1,300 € for three to seven days. I took a five-day trip from Turkmenabat in the northeast of the country to Dashoguz in the north. The goal was to visit the main UNESCO-listed sites, including Merv, and archaeological sites like Nisa or Gonur Tepe.
Your guide will also be your driver. They’ll pick you up at the border. The formalities are very long because customs officers have to stamp multiple documents, and obtaining the visa you previously requested from your travel agency requires several checks. But the process goes relatively smoothly, even if each step takes a while.
Once on the other side, the first surprise is the brand-new highway all the way to Turkmenabat. A very long line of trucks stretches for several kilometers on the Turkmen side to cross the border into Uzbekistan. According to my guide, Turkmen trucks transport gas and cotton (though not this season, since the harvest is in September), but they mainly fill up their tanks because fuel is much cheaper in Turkmenistan. A full tank for a car costs about 3 €, which is unbeatable.
From the Farap border post, the goal is to reach the city of Mary, which is home to the UNESCO-listed site of Merv in its suburbs, about thirty kilometers away. This city is known as a foundation by Alexander the Great in the 4th century BC under the name Alexandria of Margiana. Several fortresses are visible.
After more than three hours on the road, we have lunch at a Turkish restaurant called Aladdin. Several quotes from the president are visible along the highway, but the road is in good condition, and we move along easily. This will be by far the best road in the country—things will get much worse later.
Roundabouts are particularly interesting because they feature emblems of Turkmen culture, like the dog, a carpet, the Ahal Teke horse, or Muslim symbols, even though the presence of Islamic artifacts is quite limited.
This time, I landed in Monastir on a direct flight from Nice, again with Tunisair. We left about ten minutes late, and the flight lasted around 1 hour 30 minutes. A meal was served on board (cucumber salad with Edam-like cheese, carrots, and two small portions of dishes I couldn’t identify—semolina with peppers, olives, and parsley, two small rolls, a square of processed cheese, and a chocolate cake). It’s worth noting because it’s not common on flights this short.
In February, France and Tunisia were in the same time zone, but now Tunisia is one hour behind. This time difference and the flight duration work perfectly for a short 15-day trip since it takes me a few days to adjust to jet lag.
Luckily, I’d asked my hotel about the taxi fare from the airport because the drivers (there were several around me) didn’t hesitate to quote outrageous prices. The actual fare is 20 dinars, but one asked for 120 dinars. I refused, and another offered 60 dinars. I replied, "That’s too expensive—I’ll take the metro!" (Having tried the Tunis metro, I had no desire to repeat the experience in Monastir with a suitcase!). I started walking toward the metro, and one of the drivers caught up with me, saying, "20 dinars is fine!" I’ll skip the details, but the negotiation took a little while.
When I arrived at the hotel, I told the receptionist someone had asked for 120 dinars. He put his hands to his head and said, "They’re awful!" He remembered our phone call two days earlier when I’d booked (he’s the one who told me I could take the metro).
The Mezri Hotel isn’t expensive. I got a sea-view room for 75 dinars (22 €). (I’d booked a balcony room for 90 dinars but wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it.) It’s well-located but noisy because there’s no double glazing.
The receptionist is a very kind older gentleman. He called a friend whose wife is from Tozeur to find out if I should take a bus or a *louage* tomorrow and what time.
I arrived at the hotel around 7:00 PM and had time to stroll along the corniche to the ribat. Despite some run-down buildings, the seaside seemed livelier and cheerier than Sousse’s.
Monastir is the hometown of former president Bourguiba. I passed his mausoleum by taxi. There are Tunisian flags along the avenue by the sea because every year on April 6—the anniversary of Habib Bourguiba’s death—the president of the Republic visits the Bourguiba Mausoleum in Monastir to pay respects.
The taxi driver mentioned other Tunisian presidents. He complained about rising prices and insecurity, blaming President Kaïs Saïed (I’d already heard that security was better under Ben Ali).
At the end of my stay, I’ll take time to explore Monastir, but tomorrow morning, I’m off to Tozeur—a long bus ride awaits me.
Here we go!!!
I left home at 4 AM on October 31st and headed to Barcelona. Driving through Barcelona on the ring road stresses me out a bit, but at 6 AM the traffic is smooth, and I arrive at the airport without any issues. I call the valet, who quickly comes to pick up my car. He takes photos of it from all angles before letting me go.
Baggage check-in hasn’t started yet, and there are already several of us waiting.
Once free, everything happens very quickly. The flight to Abu Dhabi is on time and goes smoothly. I’ve never had any problems with this airline, which I’ve been using for several years.
The flight to Bangkok arrives at 7 AM as scheduled. This is my first time in Thailand and Bangkok. I’m used to traveling in India, and I notice that everything here is well organized—the customs process is quick, and the luggage is already on the carousel.
I booked a taxi on Booking. All I have to do is find the right exit and door based on the agency’s instructions. A large sign with the names of people who booked is posted on a wall. A hostess greets me and calls the taxi, which arrives 5 minutes later. I booked one night at the Lost Inn BKK hotel in the Phra Nakhon district, and we arrive at 9 AM. The welcome isn’t warm, and I have to wait until noon, sitting on a chair, before I can check into my room. I’m exhausted, and sleeping sitting up isn’t ideal. Noon finally arrives—the room is small but clean, which is fine for one night. I quickly take a shower to wake up because I plan to spend the afternoon visiting the Grand Palace. First, I need to exchange some money, and the banks are all close together on the same street, which is very convenient. When I enter one, a hostess gives me a ticket and invites me to sit down. There are about twenty counters, and I wait quietly until my number is called. The exchange is quick, so I can head out to find the Royal Palace. It’s actually very easy, and the walk is pleasant.
Entry to the Royal Palace (500 baht).
It’s magnificent and grand, and there are quite a few of us visiting. The sky is gray, it’s very humid, and a shower interrupts the visit. It’s a vast complex of temples and palaces. The buildings are colorful and sparkling, with a great sense of serenity (without the tourists, of course). I quietly enjoy the place and try to take photos without tourists, which isn’t easy.
Very close to the Grand Palace is Wat Pho, one of the oldest Buddhist temples in the capital.
It’s very famous for its 46-meter-long reclining Buddha statue.
Walking around the temple, you can see different representations of Buddha, all covered in gold leaf.
Inside the temple, on one side, monks recite their prayers, while the other side is reserved for tourists who come to meditate in silence.
Before returning to the hotel, I have dinner at an Indian restaurant. I go to bed early because tomorrow’s wake-up call will be very early again.
Saturday, November 2nd
Wake-up at 4 AM, departure from the hotel at 4:30 AM. The taxi I booked via Booking is waiting for me and takes me to the airport. The trip is fairly quick—he takes small roads, and at this hour, there’s no traffic.
The flight to Phnom Penh is on time. Before boarding, I realize I left my fleece jacket on the carousel, but it’s too late to go back for it.
The flight goes well, and customs is quick.
At the exit, I take a tuk-tuk to Julieka’s GH near the museum. The welcome is friendly. I won’t be able to check into my room until noon, so I take the opportunity to exchange some euros on the market street. The street is lined with restaurants, and I’ll have my first meal there.
The museum is right across the street, so I don’t waste any time visiting it.
The representations of Hindu deities are very different from those in India, and I don’t recognize them. Many beautiful Buddhas are on display.
The museum is very pleasant, and there aren’t too many people, which is a plus.
At the exit, I return to the GH, settle into my room—which is decent and clean.
The Royal Palace is 1 km away. I walk along a garden, and at the end of the street is the Tonlé Sap, but I turn right. I arrive at a large esplanade and see the buildings with tiered roofs and glazed tiles. The entrance to the palace is a little further away.
At the entrance, I notice there isn’t the same crowd as at the one in BKK.
Khmer architecture is magnificent. The complex consists of gardens, palaces, pagodas with golden roofs, and slender spires.
The Silver Pagoda houses the small Emerald Buddha, which is actually made of jade. The silver flooring is covered with carpets. Photos are not allowed.
The walls surrounding the pagoda are covered with frescoes depicting scenes from the Ramayana.
My partner and I traveled from Sunday, July 5, 2026, to Wednesday, July 22, 2026.
We spent a long time debating whether to rent a car or use public transportation. In the end, after reading so many posts about travelers getting scammed by police or rental companies—even those recommended by blogs and reviews—we decided to stick with public transport. It worked out really well. Sure, we had a little less freedom to go where we wanted, but it was way less stressful for us.
Sunday, July 5:
Arrived at Cancun Airport. Withdrew cash from the ATM in the terminal just before exiting. The ADO bus counter (they pronounce it "A-Jee-O") is right behind you when you're facing the ATM. Bus to downtown Cancun cost 145 pesos per person.
Stayed at "Rose 5," booked on Booking. The studio was super clean and perfect for one night. The owner’s instructions for accessing the place were very precise, with photos included. Check-in was self-service with a code. The ADO bus terminal isn’t far, and there are shops and restaurants nearby. We really appreciated that the AC was already on when we arrived. By the way, I’d recommend always booking places with AC—it’s *really* hot in Mexico.
Monday, July 6:
Bought a SIM card with data from a TELCEL store. My partner, who’s on Free Mobile, was able to use her regular plan. Just so you know, I found the network pretty unstable. As soon as we left the cities, neither of us—me with TELCEL or her with Free—had any signal.
Another thing to watch out for: roaming charges. I had to turn my SIM back on for less than 30 seconds to get a bank SMS code, and my phone apparently connected to the internet—resulting in an 8-euro roaming fee.
Left on an ADO bus to Chiquila for 278 pesos per person. During our trip, ADO buses were always on time, comfortable, and clean. The AC is *cranked* though, so bring something to cover up with—it gets cold. Some routes were fully booked even in the low season, so try to reserve 1 or 2 days in advance either via the app (when it works) or at the counter.
When we arrived at the ADO terminal in Chiquila, the ferry company counters were right next to it. Ferries leave every 30 minutes, alternating between companies, so no need to book ahead. Just take whichever one is leaving next (330 pesos per person).
When we got to Holbox (pronounced "Hol-bosh"), we’d booked a place via Booking called "Casa de Nana." It was a huge studio with a fridge, cooking plate, and utensils. The best part? The *location*. It was 100 meters from the beach and 200 meters from a Chedraui supermarket. They provided bath towels and beach towels, and the AC worked perfectly. There’s a key box so you can leave your keys inside when you go out. The only downside was that no one was there to let us in when we arrived, so we had to wait a while. The Wi-Fi was good, which was lucky because during our 4-day stay in Holbox, the phone network *never* worked. According to locals, that’s pretty common in Holbox, along with water outages.
Luckily, I’d had the good idea to download an offline map, which helped us find our way back to the place more easily. You can walk there from the dock.
The restaurant next to our place (La Barracuda) was great if you like seafood—I’d recommend their octopus dishes.
Tuesday, July 7:
We did a kayak tour in Holbox’s mangroves at 6 AM. We were looking for a sunrise kayak tour with a French-speaking guide. That’s exactly what we got with "Kayaking Holbox," where Diego, the owner, speaks English and French. He was joined by Gustavo, another guide.
We’d booked for a group tour, but we were the only ones. Diego still went ahead with it instead of canceling due to lack of participants, so we got a private tour at the group rate—really professional of him. They showed us this amazing ecosystem for over 3 hours. We saw all kinds of birds: pink flamingos, pelicans, egrets, frigatebirds... rays, a horseshoe crab, and a little crocodile that was *so* well hidden. Diego and Gustavo have a real eye for spotting animals—I could’ve passed by the crocodile 100 times and never seen it, it blended in so well. Their explanations about the flora and fauna were super interesting. We also got a little break where we tasted mangoes and bananas that taste *nothing* like the ones in France. A real treat—those little Mexican yellow mangoes! I’d definitely recommend Diego and his agency for a French-language kayak tour (1000 pesos per person).
In the evening, we walked to Punta Coco to see the bioluminescence. No need for a guided tour—if you really don’t want to walk, you can take a taxi. At Punta Coco, you have to pass the beach bar/restaurant and then go left into a kind of inlet that forms a lagoon. You have to wiggle your feet or move your hands in the water to create movement, which makes the light appear. Just don’t expect the kind of photos you’ve seen online—they’re all edited! It’s fun to see, but you won’t be dazzled by the light...
Wednesday, July 8:
Whale shark tour with "My Holbox Tours." Why recommend this agency over others for swimming with whale sharks? Simply because Valérie surrounds herself with top professionals to make your experience unforgettable. We were with Captain Fernando, who does everything to position the boat perfectly and make your swim easier. In the water, we were with Humberto, who also goes above and beyond to make sure you have an incredible time. He doesn’t just "supervise" like some guides from other companies who leave you on your own. No, Humberto reads the whale shark’s trajectory and guides you—all you have to do is follow him. He really puts in the effort, even holding your hand to guide you through this quick but intense encounter. Humberto also films the moment and will offer to show you the videos and sell them to you. His footage is really high quality.
Fernando and Humberto also prepared food for us. Special mention for their guacamole! Valérie is there to make sure everything goes smoothly on the boat and to answer your questions in French, English, or Spanish about these animals. If you choose My Holbox Tours, you can be sure you’ll get a top-notch experience.
About the tour itself: before you go, you should know that the sharks can be *really* far away. The day we went, it took 3.5 hours by boat to reach them. The boats are small, and let me tell you—on the way there, when we weren’t going with the waves, it was *rough*. Out of 9 passengers, 4 got seasick. But once you’re face-to-face with the shark, you forget all about that. Even if swimming with a whale shark isn’t exactly a walk in the park—they swim pretty fast, so you need some endurance to keep up. You’ll usually get 2 turns. Our first swim lasted a little over 4 minutes, and the second about 2 minutes because the shark was moving fast and we were still tired from the first swim. It might seem short, but when you’re swimming, it feels *long*. Either way, it’s an experience you *have* to do—but choose your company wisely. On the way back, there’s a stop at Cabo Catoche. Honestly, the snorkeling is pretty disappointing if you’ve done it elsewhere in the world. But the lunch stop at Cabo Catoche is really nice for relaxing (white sand and hammocks).
Thursday, July 9:
Short morning walk to Punta Mosquito at 6 AM. Really nice.
Ferry to Chiquila (330 pesos per person) + ADO bus to Valladolid (300 pesos per person).
In Valladolid, we booked "Casa Lucia" via Booking. The hotel is gorgeous, with a colonial style, and very close to the ADO bus terminal and downtown. It’s super quiet and clean. There’s a shared kitchen you can use with a fridge, microwave, and water dispenser, plus a big table by the pool and a nice indoor terrace. Breakfast was simple but included. The only small downsides were the tiny room and bathroom, no mirror in the room, and a noisy fan.
Friday, July 10:
Not far from the ADO bus terminal is the colectivo station for Chichen Itza. They offer a round-trip to Chichen Itza with an option to stop at Ik Kil cenote on the way back and then drop you off in Valladolid for 370 pesos per person (Ik Kil entrance included).
For the Chichen Itza visit, we’d booked a tour with a guide often mentioned in groups—his name is Juan Pat. He’s a Maya who lives near the site and speaks excellent French. He reserves spots in advance for you and queues up to be the first on-site. It cost 500 pesos per person + entrance fees. His tour lasts 2 hours and focuses mainly on the main pyramid and the ball court. He’s passionate and fascinating, even if some of his claims, as a Maya, might be a little biased. I think it’s *really* important to have a guide—otherwise, you’ll miss so much. You can contact Juan Pat on WhatsApp at +52 985 121 2381.
Afterward, we went to Ik Kil cenote (showers and life jackets mandatory, lockers available). It’s *very* crowded, but still really beautiful with its lush vegetation.
Saturday, July 11:
Since we didn’t have a car but still wanted to visit other cenotes that seemed hard to reach by public transport, we decided to book a taxi for the day. We agreed on 1200 pesos to take us to 3 different cenotes and wait for us at each one. (To find taxis, just look where they park near the ADO bus station.)
He picked us up at Zaci cenote, which we’d walked to. We got there at opening time and were the first ones there—had the place to ourselves for a while! 150 pesos per person. A pretty cenote in the city center with lush vegetation. It’s a bit like Ik Kil but without the deep cylindrical effect.
Cenote Xcanahaltun: the most beautiful cenote we visited. Entry 250 pesos per person. It’s a closed cenote with a hole that lets light in—a cave-like setting. You can kayak inside. There are little fish at the edge that nibble dead skin off your feet. Since it’s closed, the water is *freezing*!
Cenote Palomitas: entry 250 pesos per person. Another stunning closed cenote, even more enclosed than Xcanahaltun. The hole in the ceiling is smaller, so it was pretty dark when we arrived—kind of an eerie vibe. But when the staff turned on the lights, it looked like a "Gothic cathedral" full of bright stalactites.
Cenote Sac Aua: entry 290 pesos per person. The ticket includes a guided cave tour (tip-based). This cenote is really unique with its central island and way less crowded than Suytun. Just so you know, the water is *really* cold in cenotes. In these three, in July, we had the place to ourselves for a while and never saw more than 2 families at once—so peaceful!
Sunday, July 12:
ADO bus to Bacalar (536 pesos per person).
In Bacalar, we stayed via Airbnb with a host named Luli, who offers several rooms with shared bathroom and kitchen.
The room is nicely decorated in a pleasant setting. It’s ideally located near the lagoon and downtown. The shared kitchen is handy. The mosquito net over the bed is useful because there are *a lot* of mosquitoes in Bacalar. Luli provides a water jug, which is really nice. The only big downside is the lack of water pressure in the shower—we had to rinse off by filling a bucket. Also, there’s no real door separating the room from the bathroom. We never met Luli in person, but she was very responsive via messages. The terrace in the middle of the vegetation is lovely.
From the ADO terminal to the place, we took a taxi for 40 pesos. Since this driver was honest about the price (we’d checked beforehand), we decided to use him every time we needed a taxi in Bacalar. Here’s his WhatsApp: +52 983 184 3585.
Monday, July 13:
We did a boat tour on the lagoon with "Bacalar Francophone Activities." Since we were just the two of us, it cost 3500 pesos. If we’d managed to be 4 people, it would’ve been 1000 pesos per person.
We had a private 4-hour tour on the lagoon with Steeve and his very comfortable boat. He’s from Quebec, so his French is perfect. During those 4 hours, Steeve showed us the lagoon’s iconic spots *and* places other boats don’t go. He told us about the lagoon’s history and gave great tips on where to go and where to eat. As a little bonus, he gave us a video taken with his drone during our swimming break.
Tuesday, July 14:
We went to Los Rapidos by taxi (400 pesos round trip) and entry was 225 pesos per person. It’s *very* touristy but really beautiful. You can eat there (expensive), relax, and go down the "rapids" as many times as you want. It’s worth it if you spend a few hours there. You can’t bring in food or drinks—you leave them at the entrance and pick them up on the way out.
Wednesday, July 15:
On Wednesdays, navigation is banned on Bacalar Lagoon, so we’d planned another excursion.
Visit to Calakmul from Bacalar with ABCtours (WhatsApp +52 983 319 8359).
This agency organized a trip from Bacalar to Calakmul with a French-speaking guide. Communication beforehand via WhatsApp was smooth. Mr. Checo, the driver, and Fernando, the guide (who spoke great French), picked us up on the day. Mr. Checo drove very carefully on the long road and always made sure we were comfortable. Fernando is passionate about flora and fauna—he’s a biologist with a degree in ornithology, so he knows *everything* about animals. The slightest sound or song, and he knows what it is. He’s got an eye for spotting them, from the biggest to the smallest.
During the trip, we stopped at km 27 for a short forest walk, then went to see the two main pyramids on the site. On the way back, we stopped at the bat cave for the magical spectacle of millions of bats flying out at dusk. In the end, we saw or glimpsed (some briefly) spider monkeys, howler monkeys, a toucan, 2 tapirs, turkeys, 2 deer, and lots of birds. If, like us, you’re more into flora and fauna than archaeology, I’d *highly* recommend this agency and tour with Fernando.
It’s not cheap, but the road between Bacalar and the site is *long* (3.5 hours). Price: 3900 pesos per person for 2 (3500 for 3, 3200 for 4).
Thursday, July 16:
ADO bus to Playa del Carmen (614 pesos per person).
In Playa del Carmen, we stayed in an Airbnb. The building is on the town hall square, next to the casino.
The best thing about this place is the *location*—super close to Fifth Avenue (La Quinta). The kitchen is pretty basic, but the fridge works well. There are supermarkets nearby. The rooftop pool is really nice. The two big downsides, though, are the soundproofing (you can *hear* the neighbor’s alarm and all the events on the square) and the *total* lack of water pressure in the shower. We had to fill a trash can with water to pour over ourselves. When we told the owner, he said it wasn’t normal and someone would come fix it, but we never heard back. Based on previous reviews, this seems to be a known issue that never gets resolved.
Playa del Carmen is *very* touristy on Fifth Avenue, but in a fun, musical vibe—we never felt unsafe. There are *tons* of little souvenir shops for tourists on this street. There’s a beautiful monumental sculpture on the beach (the two figures meeting in the air), next to which you can see the Voladores show (men climbing a pole, tying themselves with ropes, and descending headfirst while "flying" around the pole). The show is tip-based and happens several times a day. In our opinion, Calle 38 is prettier than Fifth Avenue—it’s lush, green, and quieter, with the sea at the end. Great for an early evening stroll. We had really good meals at great prices at "El Tio Noy" tacos, just a few meters from Fifth Avenue in a side street.
For souvenirs, we’d recommend going to Walmart instead of Fifth Avenue—you’ll find skulls, tequila, mezcal, keychains, mugs, glasses... at good, fixed prices.
Friday, July 17:
We did the excursion to Isla Contoy. Isla Contoy is an uninhabited, highly protected island. Only 200 people are allowed to land per day on a rotating basis, so only a few companies have permission to dock there. Most agencies subcontract the day to a third-party company.
We booked through VRM (Viviendo Riviera Maya), but it was Ocean Tours Mexico that handled the tour. Contoy is a little paradise. We were accompanied by multilingual guides, including French speakers, throughout the day. Steffy gave us info about the island during a short walk on the marked trails, and Leño Tlatemoa kept the mood up on the boat rides with music and dancing. Isla Contoy is *truly* stunning, and the lunch was delicious: grilled fish and chicken, guacamole and tortilla chips, rice, fruit, drinks (everything is brought and taken back by the guides). The snorkeling part was pretty disappointing if you’ve done it in Cozumel, though. The stop at Isla Mujeres isn’t very interesting either—it’s too short to explore, and the island is *extremely* touristy. Still, the excursion was very well organized, and we had a great day (2970 pesos per person).
Saturday, July 18:
We wanted to go snorkeling in Cozumel but thought the prices from French-speaking agencies were too high. Plus, for snorkeling, we figured we didn’t *need* a French-speaking guide.
So we found a much cheaper solution by taking the ferry from Playa del Carmen ourselves and choosing an agency in Playa. The round-trip ferry cost 663.50 pesos per person. Then we took a taxi to the snorkeling boat (100 pesos). The agency we chose is called Mystic Snorkel—they don’t have a physical office. The tour cost 1400 pesos per person. It was a small boat, but that day we were the only ones, so we got a private tour at the group rate. We stopped at 4 different sites, all very different and beautiful. We saw all kinds of fish, corals, a nurse shark, and turtles. El Cielo, with its huge starfish, is *exceptional*. If you’re going snorkeling in the Yucatan Peninsula, this is *the* tour to do—the other sites are pretty "poor" in comparison.
Sunday, July 19:
Morning dive with Triton Diving. I chose the Cozumel dive option. Great experience.
Booking via WhatsApp was easy. On the day of the dive, Selene, who speaks French, was our guide. She’s *very* attentive to the group’s safety. The briefings are clear and precise. In Cozumel, we did 2 very different sites: the first was a drift dive with lots of life—beautiful corals and fish. The second was a wreck, the C53, a 56-meter boat you can enter. Not much marine life, but a beautiful wreck intentionally sunk for divers—still in great condition. An unforgettable moment. Selene even took videos during the dive, which the club sends you for free afterward. I’d *highly* recommend this club.
Just so you know, in Playa del Carmen, the beaches were full of sargassum during our stay, despite barriers and daily cleanup. Locals told us the problem is getting worse and the sargassum is arriving earlier in the season. Tourism has taken a *big* hit this summer, and they’re wondering if tourism can even survive the sargassum season anymore. A lot of tourists are heading to the islands—Isla Mujeres and Cozumel—to enjoy the beaches, as the west side of those islands is sargassum-free.
Monday, July 20:
Colectivo to Puerto Morelos. First, a colectivo toward Cancun that drops you off between Puerto Morelos town and Puerto Morelos beach (40 pesos per person), then another from that junction to the beach (10 pesos per person).
In Puerto Morelos, we’d booked a room via Airbnb at "Piedra del Caribe." *Best* place we stayed in Mexico. It’s an aparthotel. Our room was ready before check-in, so they let us in early. The place matched the description—spacious, with a comfortable king-size bed. The shower had *great* pressure, which isn’t a given in Mexico. The staff was super friendly and welcoming. They let us use the pool, restrooms, and rooftop shower after check-out while we waited for our ride to Cancun Airport. They even kept our luggage. I *highly* recommend this place.
In Puerto Morelos, there was *way* less sargassum than in Playa del Carmen—it was actually swimmable.
We did the snorkeling tour with the fishermen’s cooperative for 450 pesos per person for 2 hours. The reef is close to the beach (you’re not allowed to swim there), so the boat ride is short. It’s not as pretty as Cozumel, but it’s nice and affordable. On Puerto Morelos’s page, you can also access a small, not-very-well-preserved reef. There’s also a cenote in the sea where fresh water mixes with saltwater—the water is murky there. We had a great dinner and excellent cocktails at "La Choza del Puerto."
Tuesday, July 21:
Wandered around Puerto Morelos (check out the church and read everything—it’s entertaining!), relaxed by the hotel pool, and left for Cancun Airport by taxi (400 pesos) booked via InDrive to head back to France.
Our highlights:
- Holbox
- The whale shark tour
- The cenotes
- The local flora and fauna (so present!)
- Isla Contoy
- Cabo Catoche (except for the snorkeling)
What we liked least:
- The bioluminescence (barely visible despite good conditions)
- The food—we found it not very diverse in taquerias
- The constant tipping
- The lack of water pressure in showers (fixed, wall-mounted, no hose or showerhead)
Don’t hesitate to ask if you have any questions while it’s still fresh in our minds.
Here we go—finally, the big day has arrived! A trip the whole family (my two kids, my husband, and me) had been looking forward to for so long.
To keep it short, we left from Nice, arrived in Namibia on June 25, 2025, and left again on the 21st—four weeks later.
We used an agency for all the camping reservations, activities, and the car rental. At least that side of things was taken care of. Michaël was our contact throughout the planning and the trip itself.
We spent our first night at Londiningi BB. A bit out of the city center but very quiet. The rooms were spacious and clean, and we could eat on-site that evening. Perfect for recovering from the flight.
This travel journal is our second on VoyageForum, following last year’s where we recounted our four weeks in Vietnam.
The goal remains the same: since some members on this site share tips, experiences, and great deals that help us prepare for our trips, we do the same after returning—both to give back a little and in the hope that our experiences might be useful to others in some way.
Our route was as follows: Bangkok, Siem Reap, Krabi, Suratthani, Koh Phangan, Koh Tao, Chumphon, Bang Saphan, Prachuab Khiri Khan, Sam Roi Yod, Hua Hin, Phetchaburi, Bangkok.
Beyond rediscovering Bangkok, our objectives were the long-held dream of seeing Angkor and exploring southern Thailand, much of which isn’t overly touristy.
A quick big thank-you to Barbot, who took the time to answer several of our questions.
12/07/2013
The cheapest flight we found earlier this year was a Paris-Bangkok route with a layover in Moscow for 1440 €, total for two people.
So, this time we tried Aeroflot. Airbus A318 for the first leg, A330 for the second. Nothing particularly annoying to report—the passengers were very calm, the cabin temperature was comfortable, and we had enough legroom.
That said, the quality of the meal trays was pretty mediocre, and the flight attendants weren’t exactly comedians.
We’d like to remind everyone that it’s best to exchange as little money as possible at the airport upon arrival, since the rate is about 5% worse than at city banks.
Of course, we made sure to take the airport exit where you can catch official taxis to avoid getting scammed. So, we queued up, a little lady gave us the ticket, and off we went with the driver.
Generally, this system works well because these drivers are registered, know their duties, and the risks they face if they break the rules. Except that day, right off the bat, we got the scammer of the day. His first move was to snatch the ticket from my wife’s hands—the one you’re supposed to keep in case of a complaint. My husband saw it, but after a full day of travel, we were a bit out of it, and honestly, there was no reason to be suspicious. But once we started driving, the guy refused to turn on the meter. We insisted more and more firmly, but nothing. So, I used the famous method of opening the door and starting to step out of the car. At 40 km/h, that scares the driver more than the passenger. He finally turned on the meter, but that didn’t calm him down—quite the opposite. For the next half-hour, he ruined the ride by demanding extra fees here and there. Having dealt with several scam attempts last year in Vietnam, this wasn’t exactly new, and we were proud of ourselves for staying pretty zen. Still, this guy was a little scary—he was completely wired and aggressive. Honestly, it was hard not to think he was on something. He’d be perfect for a *Scarface* remake. When we finally arrived at the hotel, he followed us to the entrance. We paid the two tolls (25 and 45 baht), gave him the usual 100 baht extra for the ride, and stayed polite but firm. So, meter: 245 baht + 100 baht + 25 and 45 baht for tolls—we paid the exact amount, no way we were tipping this guy. He left furious, but he was already like that before picking us up... Anyway, avoid Mr. Chartree Chidchen, number 089 826 7308, car E2663!
We were so relieved to finally settle in at Feung Nakorn Balcony hotel in the temple district. 42 € per night, great reception, all the staff is friendly. The AC works fine, the bed seemed hard at first but turned out to be comfortable. The hotel is quiet, away from the nightlife, but at this time of year, many places are less crowded than in high season. Even with a nice fish pond and outdoor breakfast area, it’s a decent hotel, though we felt we could’ve found something better.
After a night on the plane, the first afternoon is always a bit of a slog. We napped for a few hours, and when we woke up—guess what—we were starving. We visited a temple across from the hotel (nothing special) and then decided to take the Chao Phraya Express, the river shuttle that serves many piers along the river. It was a really enjoyable experience. The steel gangway wobbles when you board and disembark, the boat sits low in the water, and sometimes you get splashed. During peak times, you’re packed in like sardines, but most of all, there’s that exotic urban landscape passing by, especially the temple rooftops.
At that exact moment, the boat was packed. We didn’t see a ticket booth at the pier, and we tried in vain to pay the few baht for the ride. The cashier on the boat was too busy, and another employee we called didn’t have time to help us. Oh well, we weren’t going to force the issue. Still, this mode of transport is super practical for avoiding traffic, and at the piers, the lines with station names are clearly marked, with colors matching the flags on the boats. Combined with a map like the *Routard* guide, it’s easy to navigate.
We easily made it to the restaurant *Harmonique*, located near one of these piers. It’s a unanimous favorite on this forum, and let us tell you—it’s well-deserved. What a wonderful experience that evening! We only saw the outdoor gazebo because there was no way we were dining inside. It’s not flashy, so those looking for a luxurious setting should look elsewhere.
That night, the staff was a bit slow, and we had to track them down several times to move things along. But oh, my friends—what a feast on the plate! Start with the appetizer platter for two at 250 baht, featuring four specialties, each more tempting than the last, followed by their famous crab curry for 200 baht. There’s *so much* crab in there! The dish is so delicious and rich that when you finish, you feel—how to put it—like it was almost *too* good, to the point where you’re almost put off eating for days. And also, oh yes, we *will* be back. Their satay chicken is just as amazing, and it would be a crime not to mention their generous dessert with ice cream, warm banana, and chocolate, plus their *excellent* almond milkshake.
Later, we took a taxi to Kao San Road, mainly to book a Ko Tao-Chumphon trip for 600 baht per person at the Lomprayah counter. In hindsight, we should’ve booked all three of our trips there right away.
Kao San Road is *ultra*-touristy—better for younger crowds, but it’s still worth seeing. There’s rock ‘n’ roll, hippies, and crowds everywhere.
We walked back to the hotel, and when we got a little lost near a canal, a really nice older Thai man spontaneously appeared out of the night to kindly point us in the right direction.
Finally, a real long night of sleep ahead—we cranked up the AC. Sweet, the vacation has begun!
Hi there,
I just got back from a trip to Sri Lanka from December 18th to January 1st with 2 adults and 2 kids (12 years old).
If it helps, here’s my itinerary.
We left on December 18th from Madrid with Qatar Airways. No complaints. I booked my tickets back in March for 800 € per person. (I flew from Madrid because I live near the Spanish border and was too worried about strikes in France.)
We arrived on December 19th at 4 PM (local time). Before leaving France, I’d booked a taxi through MyTransfer for 59 € to Sigiriya. A van was waiting for us at the airport exit.
A never-ending 3-hour drive to Sigiriya. We stayed at Samana Guesthouse—very simple, clean, with a pool and an excellent Sri Lankan breakfast. Shower and straight to bed.
Friday, December 20th: Beautiful weather, but very humid and hot. We visited Lion Rock (36 € for adults) and then Pidurangala.
I loved both sites—they’re a must-do in my opinion.
Spent the late afternoon by the pool.
Saturday, December 21st: Another gorgeous day. The guesthouse manager offered us a free 2-hour tuk-tuk tour. We first visited a lake, rice fields, the temple, and the Sigiriya market, plus the usual tourist trap—the botanical garden (no pressure to buy anything at the end).
Then we took a tuk-tuk to Dambulla Temple, the Golden Buddha, and the wholesale market.
Sunday, December 22nd: Still beautiful weather. I’d booked a taxi for 8 AM. We did all the long trips by taxi to save time. I’d ask for prices from 2 or 3 WhatsApp taxi agencies 2 days or the day before—super responsive, always got replies within 5 minutes. We headed to Ella (4-hour drive) for 22,000 LKR.
Arrived in the afternoon at Rest Full Homestay—a small, family-run guesthouse. Clean, cozy, and an amazing Sri Lankan breakfast.
In the afternoon, we went to Nine Arches Bridge. It was a Sunday, a Sri Lankan holiday, so it was *packed*—mostly locals and very few white tourists! Even though it was crowded, it was cool because it was all Sri Lankans. We waited an hour for the train. It’s worth seeing, but honestly, I didn’t think it was that amazing.
Then we headed to the station to check if we needed to book tickets for the train to Haputale—turns out, no.
Monday, December 23rd: Beautiful weather. We hiked Ella Rock—a gorgeous trek. The final stretch is steep but shaded, so it wasn’t as tough as I’d read. The whole hike is stunning from start to finish. We saw the train pass twice (one blue, one red) and lots of women picking tea.
After that, we did Little Adam’s Peak. It’s not hard, but it was *packed* with tourists—meh. Luckily, at the top, you can walk a bit farther (down one side and back up) to get some space to yourself.
What I *didn’t* like was the commercial vibe at the big café/restaurant with a pool at the entrance of Little Adam’s Peak. Loud music, all that money being made right next to little souvenir stands run by Sri Lankans or tea-picking women. Felt off.
Ended the day buying souvenirs at one of the few shops we found during the trip.
Tuesday, December 24th: Beautiful weather. Took the train to Haputale. We got to the station 30 minutes before the 9:30 AM train. We could’ve taken 2nd or 3rd class—I went with 2nd (160 LKR per person).
It was crowded, but we managed to get seats—first 2, then 3. Only a 1-hour ride, but I *loved* it—windows and doors open the whole time.
Arrived in Haputale around 11 AM, and the mist was already rolling in.
We walked to our guesthouse, The Mist Holiday Bungalow. Simple but clean, with a great view of the tea plantations. The owner’s wife is Vietnamese and used to work for French tour operators, so her French is still pretty good—helpful for us since our English is terrible. They booked us a tuk-tuk for 4:45 AM the next day (2,000 LKR) to Lipton’s Seat.
Spent the afternoon wandering around Haputale. Not much charm, but there’s a nice fruit and veggie market and a short walk through the tea plantations.
Wednesday, December 25th: Beautiful weather. The tuk-tuk was on time to take us to Lipton’s Seat. We were the first ones there—the sky was just starting to turn pink. In the end, only about ten of us watched the sunrise. The guesthouse had packed us breakfast, and we walked back down (half on the road, half through the plantations). Didn’t see any tea picking since it was Christmas, but the walk was still incredible. We took detours through villages full of kids.
After that, we visited the tea factory. The tour was really interesting, and we took the bus back down to Haputale. Such a great moment—whole families were heading to mass, dressed up and made up. All so beautiful.
At noon, we left for Udawalawe National Park. Taxi for 14,000 LKR. Stayed at River Inn Safari Cottage. *Warning*: It’s the same place as Eagle Safari Cottage. I don’t recommend it. We’d always stayed with families before, but here it was just staff—totally different vibe. The pool was nice but not very clean (water was murky). The bungalow was big and fine, but it was brand new—so new the asphalt floor wasn’t fully dry. It’s in the middle of nowhere, so we had to eat on-site. Couldn’t leave a review on Booking because they never confirmed we’d stayed, and they canceled our reservation the next day.
Thursday, December 26th: Beautiful weather. I’d booked a safari through the hotel for 5:30–10 AM for 54 USD. Honestly, yes, there are a lot of jeeps, but it was great. The kids loved it—we saw everything there was to see.
Left by taxi at 11:30 AM for Welligama (12,000 LKR).
We didn’t stay in Welligama city but at Coconut Beach, between Welligama and Midigama. *Total crush* on the guesthouse: Sky Mountain Café with View. Such a lovely family. The mom makes amazing meals at reasonable prices. The view from the hill over the sea is unreal.
Spent the afternoon walking along the beach.
Friday, December 27th: Beautiful weather. My kids are surfers. Unfortunately, there weren’t any boards their size to rent at Coconut, so we took a tuk-tuk to Welligama Bay (1,000 LKR). They surfed from 8 AM to 5 PM—rental was 5,000 LKR for the day. Meanwhile, we walked the beach and swam. Water was 29°C.
Saturday, December 28th: Beautiful weather, rain from 4 PM until midnight. Same surf day. They were so well-behaved the whole trip, so this was their reward.
Sunday, December 29th: Beautiful weather. Beach day at Coconut. *Warning*: It’s a reef break. For surfers, there are three spots (Coconut Left, Middle, and Right). The boys bodysurfed (with fins) all morning, and at 1 PM, we took the bus to Hikkaduwa.
Stayed at Hotel Universal Beach. Nothing special—right on the water, but the rooms were dark even though they were clean. The manager was super nice, but the rest was meh, and breakfast was mediocre compared to what we’d had before (2 eggs and 3 slices of toast). Plus, it was late—8 AM.
First impression of Hikkaduwa wasn’t great—way too many Russians for our taste.
Monday, December 30th: Beautiful weather. Spent the whole day exploring. Turtle Beach, then the other side of the beach (toward Galle) near the fishing port. The beach there is much wider, with scattered hotels and super quiet. It’s beautiful—I should’ve booked somewhere in that area. Ended up having a great day away from the crowds.
Tuesday, December 31st: Overcast, then beautiful, rain at 4 PM. Had to end the year (and the trip) with some surf. Rented boards for the kids (3,000 LKR per board for the day). Bad luck—the waves were on a reef break but small. Not great for them, but no big deal. They still got out of the water by 2 PM. Walked the beach (which is gorgeous), had a juice, and went for a swim. Then back to surfing in the rain at 4 PM.
Wednesday, January 1st: Left by taxi at 5 AM (18,000 LKR). Flight at 10 AM. Arrived in Madrid at 8 PM.
I could have titled my travel journal like Carmen: "Some trips are born twice." Indeed, we had considered this destination back in February 2020. However, an honest tour operator advised us against traveling at that time due to the climate. So, we gave up and opted for Guatemala instead (see "On the Mayan Lands" on this site).
So, why this title? When I was in primary school, over 65 years ago, the illustrations in my history books (Machu Picchu) and geography books (Lake Titicaca) made me dream, and those images stayed in my mind. It took until 2026 to finally make this dream come true!
We prepared our trip with Tout Pérou, a French-speaking "agency." Everything was handled via email and WhatsApp exchanges with our contact: Laurent, who was both competent, friendly, and full of good advice.
For 200 €, Tout Pérou provided us with drivers and guides whenever we wanted, helped us buy our domestic flights (cheaper when purchased in Peru), booked shuttles between airports and hotels, and got us a discount on the train ride to Aguas Calientes, as well as on the buses between Chivay and Puno and between Puno and Cusco. In short, Laurent took care of all the logistics and the Machu Picchu tickets. It was up to us to book our hotels. Tout Pérou provided a list, but we weren’t obliged to follow it. Another advantage of the package: we didn’t have to pay in advance; we paid the service providers directly day by day.
We didn’t meet Laurent in person because he was on vacation in Europe. Before his departure, he gave us a briefing, provided a summary table with the entire program, the service providers, their phone numbers, their fees, the schedules, and gave us plenty of advice (money, exchange, safety, etc.). After returning at the end of our stay, he kept checking in on us.
Lastly, we had also gathered information from Arnaud Lagadec, who runs a hotel in Cusco and offers tours of the region. He gave us a lot of useful information. Another contact: Thomas Montaigne, very friendly, who runs an agency in Arequipa (Agence Pérou Exclusif).
Day 1 – Paris to Lima
Foreword
I’ll share our trip without any pretension—I don’t have the talent of some contributors on this forum—and I’ll illustrate it with a few photos (taken with an ordinary smartphone). My comments are personal and only reflect my own views. So, please be kind! Feel free to comment on my story as you like, but let’s avoid pointless debates.
Even though we live in the south of the Paris region, true to our habits when the flight is in the morning, we chose to spend the night before our departure in a hotel near CDG and parked our car in a parking lot in Garches. This way, we avoid the stress that often comes with traveling around Paris (accidents, roadworks, traffic jams, etc.).
Check-in and border control went smoothly on that Sunday morning. Our Air France flight was uneventful. In Lima, border control took a particularly long time, and for the first time, we didn’t get an entry visa stamped in our passports.
As planned, a driver took us to the Miraflores district, where our hotel was located. We were surprised by the numerous signs about possible tsunamis, having forgotten that Peru is prone to such events and regularly experiences earthquakes. We’d see the consequences of these during our journey.
Exhausted from the early wake-up, the 13-hour flight, and the 7-hour time difference, we had dinner at the hotel before a restful night.
Note that this day was Peru’s presidential election day. As a result, we weren’t served beer—the sale of alcohol was banned that Sunday.
We did the Langtang trek (hike) from September 10th to 17th, with the first and last days being the trip from Kathmandu and back—so 6 days of actual walking. It’s a fairly well-known trek but certainly not as famous or crowded as those in the Annapurna or Everest regions, which is why we chose it.
In theory, it’s mandatory to have a guide for this trek. In reality, it seems there are ways to bypass the regulations: we met at least two people hiking without a guide—a South Korean, a New Zealander, and possibly also a couple of English women and an American couple, though we’re not sure if they had a guide.
The agency we booked with had told us it was an affordable trek for relatively older people in good shape—which is our case (I’m 72 myself). I have to say upfront that we found it quite challenging, maybe because we didn’t have good weather—it was the end of the monsoon season. To be clear, no matter your fitness level, I’d say doing this trek in the middle of the monsoon season would be suicidal.
Day 1 – Journey from Kathmandu to Syapru Besi
On Monday, September 8th, there had been violent protests in Kathmandu against the government, which had, among other things, blocked access to social media and been accused of nepotism and corruption. There were 19 deaths. The situation was very tense on the day of our departure, Wednesday the 10th. The agency warned us that public transport was very unreliable. So, we decided to take a jeep, at an additional cost of $100 ($160 minus what was already budgeted for the bus).
We left a little before 7 a.m. and it took us a good hour just to reach the outskirts of Kathmandu. Along the way, we saw several houses and vehicles set on fire by protesters.
The road to Syapru Besi is only 120 km, but it’s frankly awful. It’s always narrow, winds through endless mountains, and the shoulders range from bad to confusing to nonexistent. Several sections are just dirt tracks. We didn’t regret opting for the jeep, as we could stop several times at our convenience—if only to let Y (my Thai partner) throw up everything she had. She’d taken her usual motion sickness medication, but the constant turns, accelerations, and braking eventually made her terribly carsick.
In Nuwakot, we stopped for breakfast at a nice little restaurant, Jimbu. It was around 8:30 a.m., and we’d barely covered 60 km. The restaurant has a lovely garden overlooking the Trishuli Ganga, the river flowing down from Syapru Besi. First photo: the river in the bottom right corner, mist and clouds over the mountain on the other side.
An hour later, my second photo: the hills along the Trishuli Ganga. You can see the different crops—lush green rice paddies in the lower right and corn, already yellowed and likely harvested, in the foreground on the left. And of course, the mist and clouds through which you can glimpse the mountain on the other side of the river.