Discussion · VoyageForum

Translated into English.

Max68 Globetrotter ·2017-05-16

Hey Voyajou 🙂,

Le Defender is for sale at a specialist garage.

Why’d you trade it in for a ride-on mower? 😉

I won’t lie—this isn’t exactly making me dream… or are you planning to explore new places between gardening sessions? 😏

https://apprentisvoyageurs.com

Diamina Globetrotter ·2017-05-16

Naked, I slip toward the terrace where two men are crouched in front of the woodpile, bagging it up. In one swift motion, I fling open a window and let out a mighty roar—the very one you need when a lioness charges at you in the Kalahari. The first guy hits the deck, the second grabs a full sack and bolts. By the time I open the door and grab a stick, I’m already in pursuit before realizing I’m stark naked. It’s the time when sporty South African women start their morning jog. Sheepishly, I give up, but not without hurling my stick at the fleeing thieves, who must be having a good laugh.

Any photos of this episode? 🤪

We hear the thunder and, at last, the water rages.

Nice!!!

It would be wise to close the valves up there.

Oh? Is there someone up there?

Miroslav Vitous jams on Universal Syncopations. I whistle a Down to Earth and puff on a Havana.

Love is a gypsy child, who’s never, ever known any law.......

I can just picture all those women around you—voluptuous goddesses—dancing the habanera!!

Then it narrows as it’s no longer maintained and starts to tackle the terrain.

Cool, I’ve become more educated: "étrécir" just enriched my vocabulary!!

Alas, no way to talk fashion with the shepherds in rags who only understand Afrikaans.

Haven’t you started learning Afrikaans yet?

The night before, alerted by jerks, I barely made it to a roadside campsite. When it came time to maneuver, I couldn’t engage any gear. I tried all twenty-eight possible combinations, but the car just crunched (crunch crunch crunch) and didn’t budge an inch.

What do we say about the clutch again??? Huh?

Nord Chili, NOA, Sud Lipez, La Paz août 2012 https://voyageforum.com/forum/mois_dans_andes_peripeties_en_altitude_D5526293/ Apologie du southwest en hiver https://voyageforum.com/forum/apologie_sud-ouest_etats-unis_en_hiver_D5851267/ Impressions d'Afrique et de Namibie

Zabazou ·2017-05-17

See you in 6 months?🙂

Given the nature of my activities—and my declining success here—I’m wondering if I shouldn’t switch to a gardening or DIY forum instead.

No, no, no! Not DIY or gardening, please. The silent majority appreciates your posts, and even if they’re rare, they’re all the more valued.

Ghislaine

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-05-18

Would there be a photo of this episode? 🤪

A photo of the fugitives was unnecessary since I had recognized one of them. As for the photo of their pursuer, publishing it would violate the Forum Charter and would be censored immediately.

I can just picture all those women around you, lush goddesses, dancing the habanera!!

In the meantime, I’ve got Carmen stuck in my head. Thanks, Madam, for this attentive reading.

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-05-18

In these noisy times, when those who stay silent are considered dead, I’m glad to learn that a silent majority may have survived. I hope you earned your role as spokesperson honorably and didn’t just appoint yourself.

I’ll take you to the garden to meet new plants. I’ll tell travel stories again there—I’ll talk about Bougainville, Poivre, and Bégon.

Dolma Globetrotter ·2017-05-29

What can I write that I haven’t already written so many times? What can I say that I haven’t already said so many times? Your words now ring out, stumble, swirl, resonate, blare, illuminate, darken, deafen, soothe, comfort...

Maybe I’m a silent reader, but as always, I’m a devoted and admiring one—always, I really do mean always...

See you soon for more snippets of your African life, then?

Dolma

un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-06-13

See you soon for more snippets of your African life, then?

I’ve just returned from ten days in Marseille and the Gard region. Lou-sorti-de-la-cuisse-de-Jupiter had already been there and recently exclaimed: « I see Africans... ». So, a few snippets of southern France for you?

Prudence was born in Chad, yet among her dim colleagues, she’s the one who lights up the evening. / In the Bourse district at dawn, laid-back rats do their grocery shopping in overflowing bins. / The Mucem is fantastic with its temporary exhibition « Life of Trash ». / After the sardine that once blocked the port, Marseillais have now found a way to double the number of boats at the docks: they installed a horizontal mirror covering a thousand square meters twenty feet above the quays. Meanwhile, on Rue de Suffren, mini-croissants cost the same as standard ones. And of course, the big wheel by the port put on a rainbow show. / At Place du Marché, the sailors of the coast greet each other roughly before hoisting the sails. The setup will be locked down for the arrival of tourist ships. / At the terrace of Tchin Tchin, the mature ladies have skin like snakes. And their tongues: absent friends get a toast. / On the Route des Crêtes, employees of a communications company are testing the new Abarth Spider. No one told me its horsepower, but the car is gorgeous. Upon further inquiry, it’s got more bark than bite: a young rooster’s car. / She used to spend her summer vacations in the water. Now that she lives on the coast year-round, she no longer wants to swim in the Mediterranean, which she sees as a cemetery. It must be said she’s the adoptive mother of two North Africans who arrived through legal channels. / A chic, stout lady carries a curly-haired bichon like an accessory. At the end of the leash, her grumpy husband looks like a pug. You can’t tell who’s walking whom, or why. / In the Gard, I savored a local wine, a cabernet-merlot blend—young, modern, and well-dressed. A worldly wine. Its name: Substance. A welcome change from the usual châteaux and domains. / Beyond the island, an unidentified floating object (UFO) cruises by: a rigid five-masted vessel rigged with pasta shells as sails. Such a setup wouldn’t give it that speed, but no jib in the mast—these things happen on the decks of the Club Med 2. The Chinese flag doesn’t stop the delights of Capua.

Magryelle Regular ·2017-06-13

but it's magnificent! I love Marseille and you can really feel the African influence there!

mayrig

Muriel18 Globetrotter ·2017-06-13

Wow! We’ve got more photos of Marseille than of South Africa (especially when you consider the time we spent there ). Anyway, I really enjoyed reading about a world that’s beautiful, wild, and harsh... something I never would’ve picked up without your recommendations 😉. Muriel

Si tu diffères de moi, mon frère, loin de me léser, tu m'enrichis (Saint Exupéry)

Michel85200 Globetrotter ·2017-06-14

Hi, Buffelsbaai (if we're talking about the same buffaloes and the same bay), Brenton, and Knysna have clearly suffered a lot...😕 😉 michel

michel85200

Dolma Globetrotter ·2017-06-15

So, a few snippets of Southern France?

When the prose is beautiful (actually, I skip the ugly stuff—you know that), I much prefer it in snippets or even tiny fragments rather than long blocks. So whether they’re from France or elsewhere, I’ll take your snippets and savor them...

Dolma

un chemin et la caresse du vent, alors je pars en voyage...

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-10-13

Would you like a Mocha?

Colonization, slave trade, apartheid.

Whether they paint or sculpt, photograph or film, contemporary African artists draw their inspiration from a painful history. That of the continent. And more than drawing from it, it undoubtedly imposes itself upon them—a bitter brew.

From a dimly lit room where a stunning black-and-white video fresco unfolds across multiple screens, depicting lines of Black individuals carrying the world, to the next, drenched in gold and light, the introduction is striking. Further on, gleaming bodies, weapons, fury. As you move through the rooms and corridors—architectural constraints oblige—the experience may be uneven, but the artists always seem close to their roots, with the possible exception of the Afro-American contributors.

The Zeitz MOCAA (Museum of Contemporary Art Africa) is built within the old grain silos of Cape Town’s port, from which the country once exported its cereals to Europe. An architectural feat, the surgical hollowing out of these silos—once the tallest structure in sub-Saharan Africa—preserved their spirit while making way for their new purpose. You enter in silence, at the heart of a cathedral’s grand organ.

Black artists, White visitors, White funding, Black workers. A story of wheat, always—exported in the past, now imported. Once thousands of farmers and laborers, now one investor and ten million tourists.

The scenography could be improved. Few major individual works, but the collective intent is powerful. A youthful misstep, likely, since most of the works displayed at the opening (September 22, 2017) came from a private collection. The founder is aware of this, seeing his initiative as a platform to enrich. Yet, communication demands it, and the MOCAA evokes the MoMA or the Tate as if it already played in that league. At the same time, it aspires to welcome Africans from all walks of life and has an education centre in the basement. Considering that in a room of about 150 square meters with classic proportions, only four small photographs are displayed, serious explanatory work will indeed be needed for the residents of townships who share makeshift shacks with entire families. And since space isn’t lacking, dedicating an area to the site’s memory would be entirely fitting.

The museum shares the silos with a new, overly high-end hotel—a night of international kitsch costs six months of a housekeeper’s salary—at the top of which a bar overlooks the city. In a whirl, the ports, urbanization, the mountain, and the ocean unfold, all the way to Robben Island, where Mandela was imprisoned. They serve a strong coffee with a hint of acidity worthy of the best mochas.

Many port cities have now "rehabilitated" their disused docks (unloved?). While often successful, these new uses are always unsettling.

(strange coincidence: these fleeting notes from a first visit are jotted down in a Moleskine notebook gifted by... Nespresso)

The museum’s website: zeitzmocaa.museum/

*

Diplomatic Luggage

With the decision to fly made late, the usual airlines’ offers seemed unappealing, while Ethiopian Airlines spread welcoming wings and upgraded for just a handful of birrs. Off we go, eastward bound, with Africa from takeoff.

At Roissy, the baggage check-in line for Paris/Addis Ababa is a slow, endless snake. Each passenger pushes a pyramid-like stack of suitcases, meticulously organized yet wobbling—something like a herd of diplodocus, back to Jurassic Park. The cargo hold will only be three-quarters full, but the weight onboard will certainly remain unchanged.

Dismayed, I express my gratitude to my roommate, who can’t give up her small import-export business and finds a thousand ways to fill a checked suitcase—just one—both ways. A diplomatic suitcase, whose essential contents I only discover late in the game.

*

Burglars

And of a kind that never read Arsène Lupin or listened to Jacques Dutronc.

Marlene lives on a small farm the size of a township, and the winter was harsh. In particular, she struggled with hungry baboons, which she wards off as best she can, refusing the only radical solution. While she was in town, the gentleman baboons broke in by smashing the windows, opened cupboards and fridges, looted everything, defecated on the excess, and trashed the rest.

*

Agriculture and Development

I stubbornly maintain a tiny patch of lawn, a legacy of the English in the desert. At the slightest neglect, it falls apart—and there’s been no shortage of neglect while I’ve been cultivating elsewhere. I reseed two or three rows of Kikuyu grass, which, according to the packet’s instructions, should be fertilized. Two schools of thought clash: compost or mineral? The former’s advocates argue for its sustainability, harmlessness, and the fact that the plant, having to synthesize nutrients itself, would grow stronger. The latter emphasize the efficiency and speed of pre-digested, easily absorbable nutrition.

Similarly, it’s better not to give those who lack everything but to teach them to fend for themselves.

I don’t recall a past life as a Kikuyu, but in this one, if I have a need, it’s not for the morality of the privileged.

*

"The best way to afford a suit is to work."

From their shelters on the outskirts, dozens came on foot to the farm. Before the sun rose, they climbed into the backs of pickup trucks. Dressed in tattered rags and wearing beanies worn thin by use, they huddled against the cold. Ten minutes down the dirt road before they could warm up all day at the end of shovels and pickaxes.

*

Denver is toothless, literally and figuratively. Yet, he has a dazzling smile—in his eyes. The only way to wipe it off is to scold him. Then, a dull gaze and a round mouth. As a result, I now only give him compliments.

*

Blonde Colleen used to wear her hair long, sometimes flowered, waving in the spring breezes. Then came haymaking season, she got it cut, and soon after, she withered.

*

According to the memory of the English and even the Afrikaners, and further back, the Khoisans confirm it: never had the rain forgotten the land with such consistency for so many years.

That the desert lacks water is nothing unusual, you might say. But now, the local gardening society received a delegation of Capetonians in grand style, searching for drought-resistant plants. Cape Town enjoys a Mediterranean climate with winter rainfall, but at the start of spring, its water reserves are at 27% when they should be around 80%. It’s said that swallows no longer fly this far.

The idea of a human sacrifice is gaining traction among those who think this newly arrived Breton would be perfect for the role. I’ll trade my divining rod for a club.

*

On the gable of an outbuilding facing the savanna, I’ve made a large opening fitted with a period sash window. Inside, I’ve placed a canvas chair, a folding table, and two mail trunks, then scattered a few fetish objects.

On a brick ledge, a perfect wooden replica of an off-road vehicle, like the ones children sculpt here. I regret it, but I won’t be leaving in a Toyota.

*

Magryelle Regular ·2017-10-14

Hi Jean Luc, We’ve talked a lot about your little Karoo town, and I still love your writing. But enough joking around—I’d go back to Cape Town just to see that famous museum!

mayrig

Max68 Globetrotter ·2017-10-14

Hello, tireless traveler,

I still love your updates, well done! 🙂

You don’t want a Toyota anymore, and you don’t want a Def either? 😮

https://apprentisvoyageurs.com

Slpb56 Regular ·2017-10-15

hi Jean Luc

What else can I say that others haven’t already? I don’t want to weigh down your whole story, but I just love your little pieces of Africa. To me, they’re like tiles that make up a mosaic, and when everything falls into place, you start to glimpse the complexity of that world. Here in my corner of Brittany, I love reading what so vividly describes these places I discover year after year—they brighten up my everyday life on those drizzly, gloomy days. Hope our paths cross someday, here or there. Sylvie and Sylvain.

slpb56

Magryelle Regular ·2017-10-15

We really loved your little Karoo town

Sorry: 'we really loved your little Karoo town'

mayrig

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-10-16

You should definitely visit the MOCAA. Especially since my notes are a bit harsh—I’ve been in the bush so long, all I can think about is going back.

And I totally understood that you were so enchanted by the little town where I have my habits that you were at a loss for words. 😉

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-10-16

Thanks Jeff. The square wheel of the legendary Defender or the ugly perfection of the Levant—that’s my conundrum. 🤪

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-10-16

When it comes to compliments, you can never give too many or lay it on too thick. 🙂 You were really inspired to go that way. I was thinking of writing, but you’ve taught me I’m actually a mosaicist—it all makes sense now. All I’ve got to do is not mix up the tiles.

Slpb56 Regular ·2017-10-16

Good evening Jean Luc, and yes, mosaic artist too! 😉

slpb56

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-10-21

Guineafowl in Southern Africa Oh sure, they don’t have manes or trunks, their horn reduced to a crest, their size like a rugby ball—so they rarely get mentioned in safari reports. And I’ve never seen one in a restaurant or on store shelves. Yet they trot around in numbers in the bush, always busy, even in the public spaces of upscale suburbs where no one would dream of plucking them. But their meat is both delicate and flavorful, nothing like domestic poultry. I’m told you can sometimes find them in a remote butcher shop in the backcountry (way out there). Or you’d have to hunt them yourself.

But there’s another kind of guineafowl. That’s what a young friend who’s been living in Cape Town for ten years tells me, giggling delightfully. She’s frantically pecking through her stash—*where did I put it?*—before triumphantly brandishing the object of her hunt: a book! A Guineafowl’s Life in South Africa, written by a French correspondent for northern newspapers, is a delicious read. Though young, the author isn’t a newbie: whether she’s visiting a sangoma or hitting the shebeens of Soweto with her rainbow crew, telling a car-jacker to fuck off, or sipping wine in a posh Stellenbosch estate, Sophie Bouillon serves up cracking, spicy portraits in her own style. (Incidentally, this book greatly enriched my vocabulary: eye-liner, blush, nail bar...)

P.S. I was skimming the last chapter, titled « Opposite Sex » with sections like Giver of Orgasms, Flirting at the Font, Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby!, Sexcapades for Whites Only, Sappho Unleashed, etc., when—you won’t believe this—for the first time, a little flock of guineafowl crossed my slice of desert. My next read is all set: *The Jungle Book*. I’m already slipping into my mini-short made of zebra hide. *

Dual Culture The small town where I spend a lot of time grew up on the fertile lands of a vast farm at the foot of the mountain that waters it. This was the era of pioneers leaving cities and coasts with an ox-drawn wagon carrying all their possessions. The journey ended near a river or a spring. Today, the town still preserves its smallholdings, properties of a few hectares where alfalfa and fruit trees grow, and sheep and horses graze. At the same time, it’s proud to have the country’s third-oldest library—proof that a dual culture thrives here. *

The Godfather The new neighbor from Central Europe, whose fortune’s origins are debated, was marrying off his son. The town braced for squadrons of helicopters and fleets of limousines. Instead, two wasps and half a dozen luxury SUVs showed up, the other guests arriving as they were. And there he was—the feared man, built like an inverted pyramid, quick with his fists and trigger, now cheerfully bow-tied behind the wheel of a vintage convertible GMC, driving the newlyweds. *

Multi-Taskers Many here juggle several jobs (what are the unions doing?). In the morning, Sipho is a server at a coffee shop; in the afternoon, he washes cars. Brent is a hairdresser and raises chickens and sheep. Volgens writes promising wellness books, roasts the district’s best coffee, hosts open-table lunches, and sells eggs from his happy hens. Madelyn is a singer, journalist, and French tutor, but the record-holder is Herman: he teaches yoga, massage, and cooking (separately), runs a restaurant with his Indian partner where they serve mostly local produce (a challenge), and is also a real estate agent. Sometimes he even practices aromatherapy with an excellent curry. Meanwhile, most residents of the nearby township struggle to land even one job. *

Bush Rave Dark, silent night except for the gentle breath of the mesquite (Prosopis glandulosa) fire, an inexhaustible sentinel that will watch over us until dawn. Suddenly, I crave different music, so Keith Jarrett lifts La Scala—restrained yet dazzling, building to chaos, ending like the first morning of the world. Whether they play Bach or improvise, musicians spend their days and evenings tied to the piano. The former are like translators, the latter like interpreters; the improvisers, like writers, face a blank score. That’s where the difference lies between craftsman and artist. *

Taste Week Another British legacy: a bird-feeding platform hanging from a ficus tree. Sometimes I offer a crust of bread, hoping they’ll sing in return—no luck. They demand a contract, and I haven’t managed to ban them from my airspace either. But I’d forgotten a small leftover seafood risotto in the fridge (not exactly locavore, I’ll admit). My dining companion bets they’ll only eat the rice, ignoring the fish they don’t know—even if it were breaded. I disagree: these fierce carnivores snatch grasshoppers and butterflies mid-flight, bigger than their beaks, and shake them until they pass out. They’ll surely try a tentacle or a saffron mussel. A few hours later, the desert birds had made up their minds: they turned up their beaks at... the peas. No trace of seafood. *

Another Matter of Taste I’d been dreading this moment, but it was inevitable. Her reputation preceded her, and we’d crossed paths anonymously before. Very old local family, unlimited properties, known for being difficult. I accepted an invitation to visit a construction site without realizing what I was getting into. Then a white 4x4 pickup screeches to a halt, and out steps a force of nature. ‘The owner,’ my architect-guide whispers, suddenly pale. Tall and slender, salt-lake eyes swept by a wavy silver mane, leather boots, predator’s stance, cheetah-like presence. During introductions, she sizes me up as if it were a dating scenario. Finally, she relaxes and welcomes us. Then she drives off with her truck loaded, leaving me behind (as they say in poker when you fold). *

It’s abnormally cold this spring, and climate change is to blame: battalions of icebergs have broken off from Antarctica and are half-encircling the country. The Atlantic doesn’t mind—it’s used to its northern cousin’s frosts—but the Indian Ocean shudders. *

I wish the poet would tell me in verse (and against all odds, even though I’m on the other side of the world) why this princess in glass slippers, with whom I shared a mint julep before takeoff—a quiet woman who keeps her thoughts to herself—why is she here tonight when she lives in Vaires (Marne)? It can’t be the color of the desert. *

Mamsissi Regular ·2017-10-22

Hooked from the first hit with no cash to score my fix, I mainline the travel tales of all the junkies of the southern lands. As an insider supplier, you’re top-tier. To your gazelle with glass-slipper hooves, greetings from a local of Vaires.

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-10-24

What a twist of fate for a native of Vaires to find herself so unprepared! Young grasshopper, didn’t you push past the midnight curfew your dad set? But hey, money isn’t everything—there are other kinds of riches. Your username reminds me of that sign at the entrance to Lesotho via Sani Pass: "Lesotho is not for sissies".

Thanks for the sweet high of compliments.

Mamsissi Regular ·2017-10-24

🙂

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-11-04

Misery (2x2) I didn’t dare ask him under what circumstances he’d lost them, but he no longer has either. He slowly makes his way up the gentle slope of the endless Church Street—I just hope he’s not searching for a miracle. Hobbling a few steps behind, dressed in flamboyant rags, just as ageless as he is, his wife keeps pace with the wheels. Both seem utterly spent—stripped of strength by necessity. But how does this double amputee manage to have frayed trouser legs still sticking out from the seat of his manual wheelchair? *

3x3, then 4x4 Leaning on his cane, he starts to leave the coffee shop with no access ramp. The path is tough but familiar. First, two steps, straight down (crack-crack-thump), then a right turn between planters and a railing he leans on. Two more steps cleared. Once on level ground, it’s painful to watch him swing one leg after the other for almost no progress. His wife, a spry round woman, has already bounded down the stairs and been in the passenger seat for ages. The old man circles the car and pulls himself into the driver’s seat using just his arms. Then, the Jeep Wrangler’s V6 engine growls. He’ll be home at the bottom of Church Street faster than it took him to leave the café. *

8x8 Per-Paol Jacq (let’s call him that) is the editor-in-chief of a magazine dedicated to off-road travel. We’ve been in touch for a few years, ever since he decided to buy a 4x4 in South Africa, but now he’s visiting me. While he waxes poetic month after month about the best the market has to offer, and his job has him testing untouchable vehicles, what do you think he bought for his vacation? A Defender from the last century! It’s baffling. In the driveway, the two beasts parked side by side make a convincing 8x8. *

Imagine I was at a conference by an elderly Xhosa sage—a myopic visionary—who in his youth smoked dagga with John Lennon—Imagine! « First, we’ll need to eradicate religions (by placing black banners on the front of places of worship: Praying kills. Excessive gullibility seriously harms). After that, borders will be all the easier to abolish since they’ll already have little physical existence. The longest step will be mandatory and widespread intermingling. Finally, we’ll need to distribute resources fairly. Then, no more bad reasons for fighting among the variants of the species. » All the listeners, as one—and me with them, even though I knew it would just be a fresh start, a reset, and we’d have to reprogram and cultivate human nature—immediately signed up to the project. We were ready to fight to impose such a vision...

With the same sense of charity that’s inherent to him, the guy next to me on the bench jabs his elbow into my ribs, snapping me out of the daydream: I’d dozed off during the reverend’s sermon—same old tune—which is the required ticket to hear the renowned men’s choir. A two-thousand-year-old Imagine that’s still just an incantation. *

Avoova (Is it the Year of the Fowl in South Africa?) In ostriches, everything is useful. First raised for their feathers (a century ago, no self-respecting Western lady would go out without them), they’re now mainly farmed for their skin, their meat (of little interest compared to local wild game), and, incidentally, their eggs (you need a hammer to crack one before cooking an omelet for a dozen people with just one). And now, reviving the San people’s tradition of making necklaces and bracelets from them, Avoova uses the broken shells to create art objects. This community initiative employs around fifty mosaic artisans in a workshop closed to the public. Some pieces take over a month to complete: painting, composing, assembling, inlaying, polishing. Most turn out well—harmonious, with a restrained extravagance that avoids kitsch. *

Evolution According to the sage, to live a successful life, a man must father a child, write a book, and plant a tree. Yet here we are, raising a Tamagotchi and keeping a blog while deserts grow. *

Little Madame Sans-Gêne Sitting on the terrace of the historic hotel—which has heard its share of epic tales—she talks to her mirror, a silver model with an apple logo, held twenty centimeters from her face, staring intently: We saw animals by the thooousands... and all five Big Five too... and Robert almost died... (interrupted by the mirror asking a question) ... yes, the weather’s nice... well, no... it’s not like home... it’s changeable... (the mirror chimes in again) ... the car’s fine, yes... but the driving... It’s the quiet hour, and the regulars take advantage—glances meet, eyebrows raise, then everyone goes back to their reading. I’m at the opposite end of the terrace, but I hear her epic tale as if she’s shouting in my ear, and it’s all the more annoying because this foreign language is familiar to me. Biting my tongue, I approach their table to let them know the sparse audience might not be interested, especially in French. The little madame pauses, then continues two notches quieter. Robert’s eyes widen as if he’s just spotted the sixth Big Five. *

Restoration Veld restoration is Sue’s profession. More than a job, it’s her mission, her life’s work. It involves sowing or planting indigenous plant species in the veld and eradicating aliens. Don’t mention palm trees, cacti, or mesquites to her—they’re adapted and widespread, but they don’t belong here. They weren’t brought by the wind or antelope droppings but by human will. Her own garden is a manifesto; she doesn’t intervene in it at all. Sand, pebbles, scrawny shrubs—that’s her ethos. Her ancestors arrived from Holland over three centuries ago, but she has no plans to return, as it would allow the veld to reclaim its original inhabitants. *

Turtledoves (It *is* the Year of the Fowl in South Africa) The feeling that no matter where you take refuge in the world, they’ll be there. Their relentless cooing grates on my nerves. What, so little vocabulary and in just one language, yet they dominate the international stage like this? I’ve dug out my slingshot, which has kept more than one baboon at bay at the campsite. The target’s smaller, but my aim’s improved. As for projectiles, no worries: I’ve got a pile of river gravel waiting (about 162,000 projectiles). *

Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·2017-11-04

A Defender from the last century! It's mind-boggling.

It's the mythical side of the beast and its, pseudo, reliability that drew him in.

It’s now mainly valued for its hide and meat (of little interest compared to local game meat).

It’s true that finding anything other than beef in a restaurant in South Africa is quite the feat, yet ostrich meat is really good—I eat it regularly in France.

And so, reviving the San people’s tradition of making necklaces and bracelets from them, Avoova uses broken shells to create art objects.

Their creations are stunning.

Sitting on the terrace of the historic hotel that,

Is this hotel in your area?

"Je suis africain, non pas parce que je suis né en Afrique, mais parce que l'Afrique est née en moi." Kwame Nkrumah.

"J'ai appris que le courage n'est pas l'absence de peur, mais la capacité de la vaincre." Nelson Mandela

https://www.en-voyages.fr

Ticapi Globetrotter ·2017-11-04

I’m also a silent reader, but full of admiration. This travel journal is gorgeous and so informative.

We just got back from South Africa—Cape Town and the surrounding area. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to visit the new contemporary art museum. Sometimes you have to make choices, and ours leaned more toward nature and hiking.

Thanks, Jean-Luc, for sharing! 🙂

Carmen

Max68 Globetrotter ·2017-11-04

"In the alley, the two animals side by side make a convincing 8x8." YEESSS! 🙂 😎 😉

https://apprentisvoyageurs.com

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-11-15

Yeah, but no. I just got back from ten days of 2x1 (one bike for beginners), backpack on, and I can’t believe some people do this for fun 😉. Then there was the time spent figuring out the breakdown (another hose issue, surprise), finding the part (ended up in Durban), sending the payment, waiting for it to arrive, and finally fitting it. In the end, the Defender fits my idea of travel perfectly: room for the unexpected.

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-11-15

Thanks for breaking your silence because, whatever the proverb says, it’s the silver words that make the gold of a forum. 😉

Note that it’s possible to hike around the Zeitz MOCAA using the black spiral staircases that serve the five or six levels. 😏

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-11-15

Is this hotel in your area?

Still on the lookout for great spots, Régis. Yes, this historic hotel is in the small town you're thinking of. 🙂

Diamina Globetrotter ·2017-11-15

hey V...ou,

Brake gnawed, I approach their table to let them know it’s not certain the meager audience is interested, especially in French. The little lady pauses, then resumes two notches lower; Robert’s eyes go round like he’s just spotted the sixth big five.

How annoying are these thoughtless people!!! I can just picture the faces they must’ve pulled!!! I’ve had the chance to make that kind of remark in an elevator, to a French couple in the US who were commenting on my sister and me, thinking we were Italian!!!!!!!

I pulled out my slingshot, which has kept more than one baboon in check at camp. The target’s smaller, my aim’s improved. As for projectiles, no worries: I’ve got a pile of river gravel waiting for walkways (about 162,000 projectiles).

Are you sure about your count? Did you collect them yourself, or was it a bulk delivery?? Is the condition for building the walkway that there must be exactly 162,000 pebbles?? 🤪 😄

Next, I’m reporting you to BB for aggression toward those poor birds, the doves, who, on top of it all, try to serenade you!!!! They’re amazed by your presence in these southern lands..... 🤪 Oh yes, they told me so....😏

With that sense of charity that’s inherent to him, the guy next to me on the bench jabs his elbow into my ribs, snapping me out of my daydream: I’d dozed off during the reverend’s sermon—we know the drill—which is the required entry ticket to hear the famed male choir’s melody.

grrrr pschitt grrrrrrrrr pchittttt..... What!!!! You mean he didn’t appreciate the sweet melody coming from your deep reflection?

Okay, I’ll try to catch up!!

Tchimbé raid pa molli!!

Ticapi Globetrotter ·2017-11-15

Note that it's possible to hike around the Zeitz MOCAA using the black spiral staircases that serve the five or six levels. 😏

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-11-17

Your shamelessness, thinking you could pass for Italians—did they only travel by elevator? 😮

Are you sure about your count? ... that there are exactly 162,000 pebbles??

Considering the truck’s chute delivered a perfect cone, and we know its diameter and height, applying Professor Gelato’s famous formula gives us the pile’s volume. Since the delivered size is 20/30, it’s elementary to get the number of projectiles: 162,000, by the wheelbarrow!

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-11-17

« Africa, My Desire » Every year, a festival dedicated to contemporary literature in Afrikaans takes place here. For this edition, a few English-language authors are featured, including an incorruptible judge who resembles Eva Joly—though upright—and has survived three assassination attempts. The conferences, discussions, and roundtables fill small venues to capacity. A concert we can’t miss closes the Festival: « Africa, My Desire », written in French on the poster. Under the auspices of the Cape Town Music Academy, a South African composer set West African and Malagasy French-language poems to music. Intriguing. She plays the piano standing up, white like her, accompanied by a Black rhythm section, a white bass, other black-and-white keyboards, a subdued gray drummer, and three Congolese singers—including one woman. No African instruments, and hardly any African sounds either. There’s rhythm, but it’s not blues. Disorienting. She recites the texts flatly, in a toneless, heavily accented voice, neutralized by the Congolese choirs’ far more expressive French—voices we’d have loved to hear reciting their elders’ poems, even if the texts themselves were weak. Disappointing. In the end, it feels like instrumentalization, amplified by a staging that never quite found its footing. For a successful intercultural collaboration (perhaps because it’s a duo of equals?), listen to Amanke Dionti (Ablaye Cissoko & Volker Goetze).

P.S. Listening to the Afrique mon désir CD leaves a better impression. The mixing is more polished, and above all, there’s a warm-voiced accordionist who passed away shortly after the recording. *

Sundial Their life in Johannesburg was a race against time. The house in the veld where they retreated is surrounded by terraces, pergolas, and stoeps. Moving in the opposite direction of the sun’s arc, from dawn to dusk, these two shadows circle it. Often, she precedes him by a few minutes, but in winter, their path is always shorter. *

Time Share For some time now, homo glandus has been trying out sharing the same living space at different times, but it seems far from a cure-all. For them, necessity makes strange bedfellows: the porcupine and the warthog share the same crude burrow—the first shelters there from the sun during the day, the second spends the night there. In my stretch of desert, two old buildings and one under construction. No permits. *

I So Wanted to Hate You This is the second time, twenty years apart, that French correspondents for a left-leaning sturgeon-like newspaper (the kind that swims with the current) in South Africa have been won over by the personality they’re interviewing—despite themselves, freed from the hexagonal prism. *

Duetists As often happens, the storm rages beyond the mountain range, so its heart-wrenching music doesn’t reach us. Only its aerial light show entertains us. The unleashed pianist responds in kind. Together, they improvise happy clashes. *

Mat-e! Once a week, introductory chess lessons are held at the POP Centre (Path Out of Poverty), a sort of community center in the heart of the township. A small group of young people—no girls, thankfully, because how would I have written « people »? Individuals?—come to learn how to anticipate several moves (moves that are hard to predict at home). Eight of them are selected for the South African championship, and they need fresh-blooded sparring partners, but there’s a dire shortage of white players here. For Black players, facing white opponents isn’t an everyday opportunity in this country. I take the hits, I dish them out, forehead to forehead. In chess, at the start of the game, the white pieces have the move (they play first). That advantage gives them the choice of opening and a one-move head start. Of course, it doesn’t stop Black players from sometimes defeating them, but still. It’s high time—let’s say as soon as the primordial battle for inclusive grammar is won—to challenge this inequality-creating convention. At the end of the evening, Shaun, the dark-skinned teacher, challenges me to a game. He drew the white pieces. With Black, I’m inevitably unsettled. I watch his diagonals (he has a reputation as a wild player). How many moves will it take him to checkmate me? (Far more than I feared, and I even came close to beating him.) *

Servant Determinism being what it is, few readers—how many, really?—know about this servant. Yet the services she provides are invaluable, greatly boosting the productivity of the working man. Here, she’s replaced by a male servant (everyone knows how enviable women’s status is in Africa), who scurries from the breakdown to the bakkie at the whim of the plumber, electrician, or mechanic’s terse orders: 13mm spanner! Flathead screwdriver! Multigrips! Needless to say, the latter is often white, and the assistant never is. The widespread adoption of rolling tool carts, like those found in modern workshops, offering all tools at hand, would destroy too many jobs in a country where one in three people is unemployed. *

(It’s the year of poultry) For want of thrushes, the furious wind strips the jacarandas, dressing the earth in a mauve floral gown.

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-12-01

Imitation?

He was born in the street, no more paved than the house was cemented. Before puberty, he joined a remote farm. Resourceful, he returned deflowered to the township and set himself up as a gardener. First, he hired a brother-in-law, then a cousin, two uncles. Unfortunately, the grandfather was no longer operational. Now there are about ten of them—the largest garden maintenance business in the small town, ahead of the municipality—unlike in other regions. He just changed his car for a bakkie, the local Rolex, the thing that marks you as the boss. Parading from one job site to another, a Samsung grafted to his ear or eye, alone in the cab, the others piled into the back with the lawnmower, shovels, and pitchforks. He ostentatiously enjoys his breakfast on the café terrace while his guys manicure the garden. Like a white man. *

Nothing to do with it

Anton is a police officer and, off-duty, a metalworker. When he’s done welding up troublemakers, he welds scrap metal with the same professionalism and care for fine workmanship. Between the crackling arcs and the scream of a grinder, I ask him questions. His police station is the only permanent one for the entire Municipality, covering an area of six thousand square kilometers. A Finistère, also bordered by infinity, but where the ocean has receded. Fewer than fifteen thousand inhabitants. There are about forty police officers, only half of them in the field. Alcohol, drugs, domestic violence, theft, rape, sometimes a murder—that’s the daily routine. Postscript that has nothing to do with it, though. In this same territory, on the white market (because the black market, by definition...), about fifty houses are for sale, hardly any building plots, but just as many farms, each larger than a Breton commune. This isn’t Morbihan.

*

Keep running!

Every Saturday morning, several dozen brave souls line up at seven o’clock for a five-kilometer race. This morning: fifty Black runners, twenty white, sixty young, ten older. For my part, I’m on the clock. The route through the bush forms a figure-eight, traced like a kindergarten drawing. Shortly after the start, the line of runners forms a rainbow in the chaos on the slopes of the kopjie, before turning around the maze built atop a small structure, skirting multicolored glass-fragment fish, and finally starting the descent over the rocks. Everyone came in whatever shoes they had: brand-name sneakers, knockoffs, flip-flops, barefoot. The first runner finishes in 19'44''23. First white runner in seventh place (no Kenyans here, though). First girl, Black, in twenty-fifth place; first white girl in thirty-second. First flip-flops in fortieth place, first barefoot runners in forty-ninth. The last ones, who came to walk, will finish in an unrecorded hour. Every child participant gets a ticket for a pancake to enjoy at the Saturday market, two kilometers away. The few available cars are swarmed: each day has enough trouble of its own. Record for the Land Rover: fifteen passengers, two curled up on the fridge, heads nearly touching the sky.

*

Dog’s life

Paul was the youngest born in Ireland into a family poorer than poor. His father died before he was born, in the war that followed the war to end all wars. His sisters were placed in those chaotic Catholic institutions that burned through everything—one lost her life there. Not lacking in brains, he continued his studies in England. Needless to say, the disdain tied to his origins was in his skin. To escape that suffocating environment, he accepted a construction site management job in South Africa at twenty-five. He was set in concrete by a local woman, like rebar. Of those who couldn’t stand apartheid, he couldn’t stand it almost physically. He believed a woman is a woman (same for men), regardless of her origins. What mattered was who she was, what he did (and vice versa).

*

Spinach doctor

For years, he’s been settled on the border between the white town and the township, behind warehouses where both sides have business. He treated those who paid and, at best, the others. On his land, he trained guys in organic market gardening and arboriculture before entrusting them with discretionary management. In exchange, he’s an honorary vegetarian. Basket in hand, we follow Havelin through an improbable succession of paths and beds, more English-style than French. It’s an open market, but the garden decides, not the customer. A few green zucchinis, then yellow ones, two tomatoes, a white eggplant, white onions, red ones, a nice handful of spinach, a cucumber, butter beans. Then, picked from the tree: apricots, blackberries, and raspberries. A quick glance at the basket, weighing about three kilos: 20 rands! I’ll teach them the rules of commerce: the same quantity of lower quality costs three times as much at the nearby supermarket. Let’s move on to animal proteins: sheep, geese, chickens, ducks. But that’s a reserved domain. Stop by the butcher on the way home.

*

A drink!

The town’s founders, the De Beers and the Lotzes, then their allies, the Cordiers, du Plessis, and de Villiers, were buried in a private cemetery. One hundred fifty graves, most of them simple cairns, which until recently disappeared into a thicket of dense acacias, blooming with succulents—but no appetite for long. The cemetery has been cleared, stripped bare, with only a few trees left struggling to provide shade. Now the ancestors are in full sun, as if it hadn’t been enough during their lifetimes. Adjoining the cemetery, a 150-cubic-meter concrete cistern, unfortunately abandoned. The thirty or so gravestones face east with their laments. The only one bearing the deceased’s name on the west side, located at the entrance and well-maintained, is that of an Avenant, Johannes by first name. It’s also the last grave dug here, the year apartheid ended. Is it pure coincidence? Did these families choose exile then?

*

Aside

Apartheid: did you know this term was built from French? In South Africa, the dividing line was based on ethnicity, skin color, and hair texture. So, rightly, we remember this political system for its racist character. But while it was racist in practice, its foundations were more complex. Its architects spoke of identity, culture, autonomy, separate development. So here’s a vision of social and political organization that’s very current and widespread... in Europe. (For the record, in the early nineties, opposite consequences of the domino-Gorbachev effect: South Africa abandoned separate development while the Balkans went to war over it. And now, Catalonia—a nervous breakdown.)

*

Max68 Globetrotter ·2017-12-09

Your tables are still so pleasant to read, even if they're very black and white 😉

Looks like you're really getting involved in the local life 🙂

Thanks 🙂

https://apprentisvoyageurs.com

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-12-09

You got a picture... in color. 😉

Mural in the township. (I’ll write a bit about them.)

Diamina Globetrotter ·2017-12-09

Hi there,

Now that I’ve finished filling out my reports for parent-teacher meetings, I can finally dive into reading and commenting.

Aparté

Apartheid: did you know that this term was actually built from French?

Thanks to you, I learned something new!

South Africa was abandoning separate development

But thanks to Mandela, the whites kept control of the economy, and the Black population only got a few crumbs, right?

And now, Catalonia, a nervous breakdown

Hey Voyou, forgetting your "e’s" now??

In this increasingly globalized world, I think identity crises are only going to become more common.

Just traded in his car for a bakkie—the local Rolex, the ride that says you’re the boss. Parading from one construction site to another, Samsung grafted to his ear or eye, alone in the cab while the others are crammed into the back with the lawnmower, shovels, and pitchforks. Savoring his breakfast ostentatiously on the café terrace while his guys manicure the garden. Like a white man.

It’s the same here. Black people who’ve made it flaunt their success and adopt the same condescending attitudes as the *békés* (descendants of the old colonists)!!!

For my part, I’m participating on the timing side.

Oh!!! I was expecting you to be actively running in the race, with the latest shoes and a well-deserved trophy haircut. Oh well! At least were you diligent with your timekeeping?

Record for the Land Rover: fifteen passengers, two of them curled up on the fridge, their heads nearly touching the sky.

Uh… are there Land Rover buses over there??? 🤪

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-12-11

(Half-dead laptop, iPhone in a coma, car running on three wheels—I’m replying as best I can)

A fit of rage

What? You haven’t heard about the ongoing reform of French grammar (that sexist, even macho tool)? Calling a fit of rage feminine is degrading. We’re entitled to our fits of rage too. 🤪 You, who’s used to hurricanes (m.), should be at the forefront of knowing the difference between seeing your house blown away by Robert or by Angela.

Mandela

Now that’s a broad and complex question, way too risky to tackle here. For how many centuries have the *békés* lost the privileges that underpin their current wealth? Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy. South Africans owe him this young country where there’s still so much to do—more than in France, but far less than in Zimbabwe, where a quarter of the population has sought economic refuge in... South Africa.

(In PE, I chose the ‘motorsports’ option.)

Lovely trills from this singer.

Zabazou ·2017-12-11

(Half-paralyzed computer, iPhone on its last legs, car running on three wheels—I’m answering as best I can)

A nervous breakdown

What? You haven’t heard about the ongoing reform of French grammar (that sexist, even macho tool)? Calling a nervous breakdown feminine is degrading. We’re entitled to our nervous breakdowns too. 🤪 You, who’s used to hurricanes (m.), should know the difference between seeing your house blown away by Robert or by Angela.

Mandela

Now that’s a broad and complex question—too risky to tackle here. For how many centuries have the *békés* lost the privileges that underpin their current wealth? Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy. South Africans owe him this young country where there’s still so much to do. More than in France, but far less than in Zimbabwe, where a quarter of the population has sought economic refuge in... South Africa.

(In PE, I chose the ‘motorsports’ option.)

Lovely trills from this singer.

This singer? ... There’s something of Amélie in him...

Ghislaine

Y7 Y7sag6er1 Veteran ·2017-12-11

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH you should get your South African road trip novel published! And ahhhhhhhhh Ablaye Sissoko, a little guy who’s come a long way— his brother now teaches kora in Paris. I love reading your posts, and I still miss the great Karoo a bit...😐 Welcome to the three-legged car club...

Diamina Globetrotter ·2017-12-11

(Half-paralyzed computer, iPhone in a coma, car on three legs, I’m answering you as best I can)

Don’t tell me you’re also lying there tetraplegic, typing with a spatula in your mouth!!!!!!!

For how many centuries have the békés lost the privileges that form the basis of their current wealth?

That’s exactly the problem—they’ve never lost their privileges!!!!!! They kept all the land, all the money, all the businesses. The French state substantially compensated them for the loss of their slaves, but the slaves themselves got nothing but their so-called freedom. And they paid their former slaves starvation wages, which those workers were forced to spend on the plantation just to buy food.

Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy.

About Mandela, you’re right—better to let it go. Exhausted, worn out, drained, separated from his comrades for months, he reached his limits and gave in. Oh well!

Lovely trills from that singer.

A beautiful flight, for sure!!!

(In PE, I chose the ‘motor sports’ option.)

Ah!!! So the "P" stands for "physics" of fluids, then???

Cheers,

Diamina Globetrotter ·2017-12-11

(Half-paralyzed laptop, iPhone in a coma, car on three legs, I’m replying as best I can)

Don’t tell me you’re also lying there tetraplegic, typing with a spatula in your mouth!!!!!!!

For how many centuries have the békés lost the privileges that form the basis of their current wealth?

That’s exactly the problem—they’ve never lost their privileges!!!!!! They kept all the land, all the money, all the businesses. The French state substantially compensated them for the loss of their slaves, but the slaves themselves got nothing but their so-called freedom. And they paid their former slaves starvation wages, which those workers were forced to spend on the plantation just to buy food.

Mandela was a pragmatist, not a dogmatist. Revenge wasn’t his driving force, nor was scapegoating his policy.

About Mandela, you’re right—better to drop it. Exhausted, worn out, drained, separated from his comrades for months, he reached his limits and gave in. Too bad!

Lovely trills from that singer.

A beautiful flight of song, absolutely!!!

(In PE, I chose the ‘motor sports’ option.)

Ah!!! So the "P" stands for the "physics" of fluids, huh???

Cheers

Rjulie95 Globetrotter ·2017-12-11

For Mandela, you're right, it's better to let it go. Tired, exhausted, wiped out, separated from his companions for several months, he found his limits and gave in. Too bad!

There’s the opposite example in Zimbabwe: all the land was taken from the farmers and redistributed. That country was Africa’s breadbasket... and now it’s nothing but misery. I don’t think Mandela gave in; he just thought that for the future of his country, he couldn’t follow Zimbabwe’s example—and thankfully so, at that.

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-12-12

From this singer... there's something of Amélie in him.

“Another manifestation of ethnocentrism”: that’s what I thought when I first read your report about Amélie (Catacomb, I presume?). I couldn’t leave it in doubt. The idea that the murals in the township could be inspired by Belgian—or even Western—culture was unthinkable. How far back would we have to go? Could the Bushmen’s rock paintings be plagiarized from Lascaux? I owed it to us to investigate, so I went to the site last night hoping to meet the artist. I finally found him in an unpainted corrugated-iron shelter at the back of a courtyard. He wasn’t holding a spray can or brush but a poker, which he used to poke at his headgear before answering. I confirmed it: he was wearing a stovepipe hat that was gently smoking (thicker puffs during the interview he graciously granted me). Here’s the account of our conversation, freely translated from Afrikaans.

- Good evening, sir. - Yeah? - (showing him Amélie on the screen) You’re the artist, right? - Could be. - ... - What for?

Anyway, I’ll cut it short. He doesn’t read (Amélie O’Tomb?). Seems annoyed that a foreigner used his work as inspiration for a costume. I play along, hinting at a big payout for damages. Turns out the painting is a portrait of his wife, who got tired of tangled roots and flew away with the birds one morning. Since she left, he claims the mural is a matrimonial ad. He’s cultivating a new ficus whose roots wrap around a black pipe, and he insists the chosen one must come with birds. I promise to bring the bride a black coat (I’m heading back soon and will make a detour through Belgium).

And in this other one, can you spot the protagonists?

Voyajou Globetrotter ·2017-12-12

... you should get your road-trip novel published...

But would I need to find a publisher? And later, sign autographs for lines of leeks? Would I need to hire a ghostwriter?

What’s present in all Southern African countries but not in Lesotho? It’s... it’s...

Y7 Y7sag6er1 Veteran ·2017-12-12

oh wow, this really takes me back to my family’s history... This super-rich cousin of mine owned 4,000 hectares of sugarcane fields—and maybe even more I’m forgetting—who kicked out the household staff from the "manager’s" house for fear they’d claim ownership. And yet, and yet, they deserved it so much. Now they live in little gray-brick shacks, but my cousin’s wife, who plays tennis with her friends in Empangeni, told me, "But they have a TV." One day, my cousin—a big-shot lawyer fighting for the white cause—took me to his new pepper-processing plant. I saw the girls working on the assembly line, and I told him it’d be nice if they worked with music. Africa without music isn’t Africa. That day was the breaking point. And yet, those kids were born in Lesotho, the country where everyone sings, laughs, and eats spinach at noon. I just didn’t get it. Still, I told him thanks—because of him, I saw the Big Five in Hluhluwe Park and Richards Bay, smoked cigarettes with his gardener, and cried a lot.

Y7 Y7sag6er1 Veteran ·2017-12-12

What do you mean another "nègre"? 😮 Hey there, elephants, if you only knew you're here because of the fox from Sudan... Anyway, for the full story, you’d have to go behind the waterfall with a few cans of Loxton, alright! 😉

Y7 Y7sag6er1 Veteran ·2017-12-12

apartheid... Who remembers it...? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luVpsM3YAgw

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Larri 21 hours ago

Pérou: un rêve d’enfant enfin réalisé

Préambule

J’aurais pu intituler mon carnet de voyage comme Carmen: « Il y a des voyages qui naissent deux fois ». En effet, nous avions envisagé cette destination en février 2020. Cependant, un TO honnête nous avait déconseillé le voyage à cette période en raison du climat. Nous avions alors renoncé et nous nous étions orientés vers le Guatemala (cf. « Sur les terres mayas » sur ce site). Alors, pourquoi ce titre? Quand j’étais à l’école primaire, il y a plus de 65 ans, les illustrations de mes livres d’histoire (Machu Picchu) et de géographie (lac Titicaca) me faisaient rêver et ces images étaient restées dans ma tête. Il aura fallu attendre 2026 pour enfin concrétiser ce rêve! Nous avons préparé notre voyage avec Tout Pérou, une « agence » francophone. Tout s’est fait par mail et par échanges WhatsApp avec notre interlocuteur: Laurent, à la fois compétent, sympathique et de bons conseils. Moyennant 200 €, Tout Pérou nous a fourni chauffeurs et guides quand nous le désirions, nous a aidés à acheter nos vols internes (moins chers en les achetant au Pérou), a réservé des navettes entre les aéroports et les hôtels, nous a fait bénéficier d’un rabais sur le trajet en train vers Aguas Calientes, sur les bus entre Chivay et Puno et entre Puno et Cusco. Bref, Laurent s’est occupé de toute la logistique et des entrées pour le Machu Picchu. Charge à nous de réserver nos hôtels. Une liste est proposée par Tout Pérou, sans obligation d’en tenir compte. Autre avantage de la formule: on n’avance pas d’argent, on rémunère directement les intervenants au jour le jour. Nous n’avons pas rencontré Laurent sur place car il était en vacances en Europe. Avant son départ, il nous a fait un briefing, donné un tableau récapitulant tout le programme, les intervenants, leur numéro de téléphone, leur rémunération, les horaires et nous a prodigué de nombreux conseils (argent, change, sécurité, etc.). Rentré en fin de notre séjour, il a constamment pris de nos nouvelles. Signalons enfin que nous avions pris des renseignements auprès d’Arnaud Lagadec, qui tient un hôtel à Cusco et qui propose des visites de la région. Il nous a également donné beaucoup de renseignements. Autre interlocuteur: Thomas Montaigne, très sympathique, qui tient une agence à Arequipa (Agence Pérou exclusif).

J1 – Paris-Lima Avant-propos Je vais vous narrer notre voyage sans prétention: je n’ai pas le talent de certains contributeurs du forum, et je vais l’illustrer avec quelques photos (smartphone ordinaire). Mes commentaires sont personnels et n’engagent que moi. Aussi, soyez indulgents! N’hésitez pas à commenter mon récit à votre guise, mais évitez les polémiques stériles et inutiles. Bien qu’habitants au sud de la région parisienne, fidèles à nos habitudes quand le vol est en matinée, nous avons choisi de passer la nuit précédant notre départ dans un hôtel à proximité de CDG et de garer notre voiture dans un parking à Garches. Nous évitons ainsi le stress que peuvent occasionner des déplacements souvent compliqués autour de Paris (accidents, travaux, bouchons, etc.). Enregistrement, contrôle aux frontières: tout est fluide en ce dimanche matin. Notre vol AF est sans histoire. À Lima, le passage de la frontière est particulièrement long et, pour la première fois, nous n’avons pas de visa d’entrée apposé sur nos passeports. Comme convenu, un chauffeur nous conduit jusqu’au quartier de Miraflores, où se trouve notre hôtel. Nous sommes surpris par les nombreux panneaux consacrés aux possibles tsunamis, ayant oublié que le Pérou est propice aux événements de ce genre et est régulièrement le théâtre de tremblements de terre. Nous aurons l’occasion d’en voir les conséquences lors de notre périple. Fatigués par le réveil matinal, les 13 h de vol et le décalage horaire (7 h), nous dînons à l’hôtel avant une nuit réparatrice. Notons que ce jour est celui de l’élection présidentielle au Pérou. Aussi, on refuse de nous servir une bière: la vente d’alcool est interdite ce dimanche.

Open

Attila 21 hours ago

Breathtaking Kyrgyzstan!

This trip had been on my mind for about fifteen years.

But the discomfort of overnight stays, the difficulty of communication, and the prices of the few car rentals kept making me postpone the project.

Then, everything suddenly fell into place—I told myself, it’s time!

The preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.

A bit of Kazakhstan? Not this time.

The south or not the south? Yes, the south it is.

Pre-book or play it by ear? Only two stops were left to chance.

To help me find the perfect route, I made great use of this forum (thanks to everyone for patiently answering my questions!), scoured travel journals and blogs (Christian, Jeff), zoomed in on Google Maps and Yandex, and bought the guide published by OunTravela on this destination (the guide has been updated since).

---/---

Got your passport, international driver’s permit, bank cards, and euros?

Off we go to Lyon—just one night left before our early morning flight.

Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping in Bishkek! (Steak for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)

You’ll find here a post with some practical tips.

And here, the uncommented version of the travel journal.

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Ellobo 21 hours ago

The Pearl of Africa - July-August 2026

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

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Muriel18 21 hours ago · Partirester

A few days in Lesotho and Zambia: the (difficult) return

After a first trip to South Africa in 2009 that enchanted us, we decided to return to this part of the world this year.

Given how much I enjoy reading others' travel journals, I'm mustering up the courage to try my hand at this kind of exercise (which I'm not used to at all 😕). Thanks, of course, to everyone who answered my questions and helped finalize this trip...

So, it's decided—it'll be Southern Africa... but where, with only two weeks of vacation? Victoria Falls, which we had to cancel in 2009 due to turbulent Zimbabwean elections, was automatically back on the itinerary (yes, I know some say "the falls, meh," but I wanted to see them 😛!). We added South Luangwa and ultimately swapped Chobe and Hwange for Lesotho. We have no experience driving a 4x4, which limited our routes in both countries, especially since it's not yet the dry season... but that didn’t stop us from bringing back amazing memories.

Sunday, April 14: After a smooth flight (and even quite comfortable in BA’s brand-new 747), we land early in the morning in Johannesburg. We pick up the car (a little Micra) and off we go toward Clarens, our first stop. We get back into the swing of driving (moving over to the right—sorry, to the left—to let others pass, flashing lights, hazard signals, "thank you," "you’re welcome"...).

I was expecting a small town, but Clarens looks more like a village: a large grassy square,

a few cars,

and dirt roads as soon as you leave the main street.

Still, we found the same quality of South African B&Bs here. We stayed at Patcham Place (the little white speck in the photo above is our Micra!).

We end the afternoon with a walk around Clarens and its surroundings. No doubt about it—it’s autumn...

Monday, April 15: We set off for Lesotho on nearly deserted roads, heading toward Malealea.

We quickly cross the border at Caledon Poort, and the atmosphere changes: more people on the roadside, animals, scattered huts... and lots of traffic police! We still managed to get stopped four times! Mostly, after checking our driver’s license, it was just to chat for ten minutes or so (police aren’t like that back home!). Well, one officer wanted to fine us for not waiting for him to wave us through after I stopped at a stop sign. After some tough negotiations, he let us go 😇.

We leave the main road and find ourselves in wilder landscapes.

The road narrows until it becomes a dirt track. A short climb to the gates of paradise:

... and then it’s just a matter of descending toward Malealea.

Malealea is like a village within a village. You’ll find different types of accommodations, a canteen-style restaurant (no menu choices, but the food is great, and it’s a fun way to chat with others around big tables), and lots of activities offered in partnership with the locals. We’re shown different rondavels to choose from... we pick this one:

Simple but clean and functional, with a private bathroom. On the bed, "real" Basotho blankets.

We decided to stay two nights to have a full day there.

Tuesday, April 16: We opted for a four-hour pony trek to the waterfall—nothing difficult, everything is done at a walking pace, with just a few "slightly" steep climbs and descents where you have to trust the Basotho ponies (no worries, they’re sure-footed 😏). The landscapes are truly stunning:

We walk down to the waterfall (which isn’t anything special—it’s the trek itself that’s worth it) and take the return path...

... crossing through Malealea village again.

We spend the rest of the day exploring the area, reading in the sun, and sipping marula coffee on the bar terrace. We really loved the family atmosphere in Malealea and how the locals were involved in the activities.

Wednesday, April 17: We hit the road again toward Katse. The owner of Malealea advised us against taking our car through Theba Tseka (I know Chris did it last year around the same time, but since we’re not very adventurous, we’ll go back through Maseru and Leribe—oh well, we’ll just take the same route back from Katse).

Quick aside unrelated to the story: putting together a travel journal is taking even longer than I thought 🤪... so, the rest will come a little later...

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Patbill 2 days ago · Nathalie971

A Slightly Less Touristy Japan

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

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Nathalie971 2 days ago

From Southern Shikoku, between land and sea, to the blue waters of Miyakojima and finally the Tokyo metropolis

From Southern Shikoku, between land and sea, to the blue waters of Miyakojima and finally Tokyo’s megacity

Hi everyone,

I have to admit, I really hesitated before deciding to write this travel journal... Writing one takes a lot of time and energy, and since this is my 4th trip, I wondered if it would even interest anyone other than myself (both for the discovery and the writing). But after a few people asked, "Are you going to write a journal?" and especially after rediscovering the joy of reading other travelers’ journals about Japan or elsewhere on this forum, I’ve decided to share my 4th installment in the Land of the Rising Sun here.

The itinerary: 27 full days, from late May to late June 2025, right in the middle of the rainy season, including:

-->13 days in Shikoku, from Kochi (Kochi Prefecture) to Matsuyama (Ehime Prefecture)

-->7 days in Miyakojima (Okinawa Prefecture)

-->7 days in Tokyo

The trip was decided on fairly last-minute again this year.

Since I regularly check flight prices to track fluctuations for this destination even without concrete plans, stumbling upon a slightly cheaper direct flight (900 €) than what I’d seen in previous months (around 1,200–1,400 € on average) for a Paris-Tokyo route with Japanese airline ANA was too tempting to resist the urge to return to this enchanting country. After much hesitation between exploring the San’in region (Matsue, Tottori, Yamaguchi) and Southern Shikoku, the decision was made—I took the plunge! The ticket is booked: Paris to Kochi with a layover in Tokyo, all with ANA, the airline I’d been dreaming of... for 1,120 € per person. Okay, it’s not cheap, but it’s better than in 2023.

Departure in 2 weeks! Now I just have to get everything ready!

Intense prep work over these next 2 weeks to:

finalize a more precise itinerary and reach an agreement—yep, because even though we both love Japan, our preferences differ slightly, and we have to choose between exploring new places or revisiting beloved spots... decide how much time to spend in each area without rushing while still exploring research places that might interest us and watch videos about Japan book accommodations: yes, it’s possible to do this on the spot, but last year, we realized that last-minute options were pretty expensive, so we’re booking ahead—though we’ll keep a few options open in case better deals pop up later reserve rental cars order yen check the weather regularly and wonder if choosing the *tsuyu* (rainy season) was really a good idea—are we going to be drenched the whole time???

"What hard work," you might say! Going to Japan for a month—what a tough life! Despite this being my 4th trip, the excitement is just as intense as the first time.

The only small downside is that when we booked the flight, there weren’t many seats left, so we’re only sitting together on the international return flight. Plus, on the way there, we have middle seats. Another lingering question: what French-language films will be available? According to the internet, the selection seems limited. Oh well, these are just minor details—it’s already time to fly! PS: I’ll be posting slowly and irregularly... so for those interested, be patient, and maybe set an alert...

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Zigomar67 2 days ago · MichelG78

Argentine and Chilean Patagonia from El Calafate to Ushuaia

This travel journal summarizes a trip I took in March to Argentine and Chilean Patagonia. It starts in El Calafate and ends in Ushuaia. During my planning, I considered looking into the Australis cruise from Punta Arenas to Ushuaia, as well as the W trek in Torres del Paine National Park. In both cases, I was put off by the prices. Instead of the cruise, I found two interesting wildlife excursions from Punta Arenas: whale watching in the Strait of Magellan and observing king penguins in Tierra del Fuego. The journey to Ushuaia was by bus. For Torres del Paine, things were a bit confusing, so I reached out to two agencies. In the end, I went with a rental car option, overnight stays on-site, and day hikes. I shared my full itinerary with the agency and ended up being taken care of by a local Argentine agency and a Chilean one. So, here we go...

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Jojoone1 3 days ago

All Over Thailand

You can post your personal photos in the following thread: https://voyageforum.com/forum/quelque-part-en-thailande-d10655574/

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 a year at most in Thailand, and I’m no great expert. 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 deliver a puzzle, mainly for those who want to get an idea of the country here and for those who feel nostalgic about 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 guardians 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 yard. Be careful at night, and be careful when they’re in packs. It sometimes crosses our minds that Thailand isn’t all that 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? 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 full of holes for years.

You’ll often see dogs sleeping on the roadside, sometimes right on the road. When you approach, they move aside nonchalantly—or not at all. It’s less funny when they suddenly appear from thick vegetation, reminding 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. When you see a small pack roaming freely in the countryside, you think twice about running into them at the edge of a field. A darker side of this is that euthanasia isn’t often practiced. Twice, we saw dogs at death’s door in temples, enduring terrible suffering with no one to help. The image (and the smell) of one of them, agonizing and exuding 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 animal, well-fed, quickly became a happy and 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 there 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 just for fun—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.

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Kola 4 days ago · Partirester

Desert Crossings... (Morocco)

The story of a trip to Morocco, from the first to the last day—otherwise, it wouldn’t have made sense... Marrakech... then four days on foot in the desert, alone with a guide, a camel driver, and two dromedaries... and Marrakech again. Everything mattered, even the smallest details, so this is a (very) long story. Behind the descriptions and anecdotes, there’s emotion, intimacy, and... soul-searching. All the things it’s strangely easier to share this way, all the things it’s strangely easier to share with people you don’t know... I have beautiful images in my eyes, but only a few are visible—if you read carefully, you’ll understand why. The other photos are imagined, created upon returning with souvenirs and a bit of staging. But everything is authentic.

Since I’ve been back, sometimes at night I open my eyes and don’t know where I am... Sleepless night, starry night, night of communion, connected night... In that suspended moment, between wakefulness and sleep, which makes you so receptive... Communion with whom? Connected to what? Lila gnawa... lila de derdeba.

The desert, a solitary path. You step in, and you’re immediately in the essential...

Wednesday... My companion drops me off at Orly Ouest... There are two hours before boarding. My MP3 player turns on but that’s it. It freezes—no commands work, and nothing fixes it... Smile... A trip without music, then? And the first anchor falls away.

(Photo...) ... Passport, tickets, receipts, labels...

Nose pressed to the window for the entire flight... Descending over Marrakech, at low altitude, a pretty mosaic—shades of pink and ochre dotted with green, but also, to the right, less harmonious, aligned cubes. Housing developments under construction? A bumpy, turbulent landing—the plane circles for a long time before touching down.

Welcomed by the familiar, unchanged sound of creaking doors and seats in the little taxis. In Casablanca, it was red Simca 1000s with meters; here, they’re yellow, and you have to negotiate the price. I have no talent for that, so here’s 100 DH!

Traversed and forgotten

Marrakech... Sunny, luminous, sensual. Torn between tradition and modernity... Shimmering and fragrant, very noisy... rather polluted? On the road, horses and donkeys still mingle with vehicles... and watch out for traffic when crossing! It’s always a strategic—and athletic—adventure: at what exact moment do you sprint to the opposite sidewalk? And why aren’t any street names marked?

Afternoon on foot, heading to the Bab Doukkala bus station... A landmark: the McDonald’s, then a square with a fountain. Then turn left onto Avenue Hassan II. There’s a bus to Zagora Friday morning, but I can only buy the ticket tomorrow. On the way back to the hotel, at a kiosk on the corner, I buy *Tel Quel*, which I read with great interest online.

Thursday... Early morning, walking to Place Jemaa el-Fna, calm and almost deserted... I don’t get a good deal buying two small daggers for my kids. No talent for haggling—it takes more than charm for that... So I’ll pick the rest of my gifts at the artisan center on Avenue Mohammed V, where prices are marked, and it’s a pleasure to watch the craftsmen work... For my daughter, a satchel and earrings. The satchel smells like goat. The earrings are hand-chiseled in front of me by a very young man with nimble fingers—marvels of delicacy and fragility. Then I linger for a long time in the souk alleys. Scents of leather, thuya and cedar wood, wool and copper... Familiar smells... Childhood memories...

Dear daggers

Earrings

Back at the bus station, an unexpected change: no bus Friday morning, but a departure tonight at 8:30 PM... I have a little time before packing, so I take a long detour: Boulevard de Safi, then right onto Avenue El Mansour to the Majorelle Garden... A quiet pause. Rare plants, all kinds of cacti—smooth, fuzzy, bristling with spines... strange, squat, or stretched-out shapes. An infinite variety of greens, and that famous blue... The song of birds, the sun and shadows playing in the water basins... Time flows lazily. I write postcards—they’ll arrive long after I’m back...

Back to the hotel. Avenue El Mansour, Boulevard Zerktouni—okay, but why are the small street names never marked?!! I get a little lost...

I hope you got my MMS, because before leaving, I left something for you at the front desk...

8 PM, night has already fallen. Arriving at the bus station, and then... Then, a step back... A dense crowd, a tangle of buses... Where to go?... Rare woman, lone foreigner, backpack... I’m quickly spotted, surrounded, poorly guided... Someone with a badge finally points me to the right sidewalk. The bus isn’t there, and the sidewalk is already packed, mostly with men. Will I even get a seat?... Three young men are particularly insistent... They want to know where I’m going and why, if someone is with me, if I’m expected... I answer with a smile. A bit tricky—choosing words, staying polite while evasive... Their French is hesitant, my Arabic is more than rudimentary... Actually, I shouldn’t have tried... Their tone becomes a bit... aggressive, and their eyes light up. Uh-oh... They say they’re students, but what of?... Want to know what I think of the Quran and Allah, what I think of holy war, if I’m "for the Americans," "for the Palestinians"... Other travelers intervene... And the bus still isn’t here... The speech turns fanatical... Then, my smile freezes a little... A small wave of panic, so I send a "freaked out" MMS... (But who else could I send it to?) Then, in this dark crowd, a light dressed in white... Nabila, a young student heading to Zagora for vacation, she speaks French... She plants herself in front of them and scolds them thoroughly. I didn’t catch everything, but it worked! The three troublemakers retreat. Plus, they weren’t on the right sidewalk, and their bus is about to leave without them...

Nabila and I manage to board and sit side by side... The bus leaves two hours late. The trip is long, a bit uncomfortable, slowed by many stops—it was very cold...

Friday... A little stiff, a little dazzled, a little chilled, arriving in Zagora at dawn with the sunrise... Magical! Craving something warm... And then, a heartfelt gift—kindness and hospitality—Nabila invites me to her home. Warm welcome from her mother and siblings, not at all surprised to see me show up so early to share their breakfast! A few hours in their company... We exchange addresses, and the youngest brother, Nouamare, gives me a children’s storybook...

Noon, at *La Fibule du Draa* Lahcen Sarti, the owner... I finally put a smile and a face to an email exchange... He shows me the trek route on the map, laughs when I tell him about my night on the bus, and sends me to rest by the pool... No swimsuit, so a lounge chair and a book... A book that will accompany me into the desert and which I’ll finish in Marrakech, in the Koutoubia Garden...

Saturday, Day 1... When I wake up this morning, I know the desert sand will also absorb my blood...

Early departure for four days and three nights, alone, as I wished, with a young guide, Mohammed, and a younger camel driver, Abdou. We’ll be together 24/7, and we won’t see a soul until we reach the fixed campsite on the third evening. Everything we need is loaded onto two dromedaries. And in those baskets, there are miracles—a *Prévert*-style inventory I’ll discover bit by bit, like... a tray for glasses, a basket for bread, a sugar loaf and small glasses for tea, but... large glasses and sugar cubes for coffee, spices, oranges, vegetables, raw eggs!... That won’t break, *La Vache qui Rit*... And so many other unexpected wonders, so surprising in the middle of the desert... (*La Vache qui Rit* is the desert butter. Every morning for breakfast, it was coffee with Nido powdered milk and *kesra* with *La Vache qui Rit* and Aïcha apricot jam... A delight.)

Start of the journey, and the beginning of a long, long walk... We’ll cover 80 km in three days, crossing all kinds of landscapes until the real desert of sand and dunes... I’ll drink water from wells, eat raw vegetables, sleep on a mattress that saddles the dromedaries by day... I’ll forget all the warnings and all my hygiene references... My body will quiet its complaints. No heat, no thirst, no fatigue, no trouble of any kind... just woken by the cold every morning around 6 AM... I take off my watch. Like my companions, I’ll live by the sun’s rhythm...

Abdou leads the dromedaries, so he walks at their pace. Sometimes, we’re grouped together. Sometimes the two guides are together, and I walk behind. Sometimes we talk. Nothing is forced, no discomfort. It’s a simple, harmonious dance—one foot in front of the other, following your shadow as it turns with the sun... Each step leaves behind the useless, the cumbersome, the superfluous... Room for intimacy... Room for silence... Room for the inner self... Facing yourself... I find seashells, and with my eyes closed, I smell the sea...

... One foot in front of the other...

I take out my camera... Capacity for a hundred shots, but it’ll be 10 photos, no more. It freezes—no commands work, and nothing fixes it... Smile... A trip without photos, then? And the second anchor falls... I think of my MP3 player...

... A few photos among the ten...

Noon... Unsaddling the dromedaries, which immediately wander off in search of food. And before the meal cooked by Mohammed, the mint tea ritual, prepared by Abdou in a tiny teapot... Thick, frothy, very sweet tea... He serves it on a tray with dates, peanuts, and raisins... And it’ll be like this every day, noon and night...

We gradually get to know each other... Mohammed, 25 years old... Calm, very introspective, almost ascetic, he knows the desert well and loves it... So at ease that he’ll walk in slippers or barefoot, no matter the terrain... When I’m behind him, the advertisement on the back of his sweatshirt makes me smile... There’s a date: January 8, 2003... A little wink from life? (I have a clear memory of that day.) Abdou, barely 20, with a round, jovial face. The mint tea master... When he hands me my glass, he says "Bismillah," and I respond in kind... A joker and a foodie. Thrilled that I only eat vegetables, he’ll have double the meat!

... Abdou and his teapot...

... Mohammed...

Late afternoon, a well... Abdou waters the dromedaries, and Mohammed fills the canteens. The caps aren’t watertight, so he wedges a piece of plastic bag found in one of the baskets and screws it on top... Forget all hygiene warnings...

First night in a tent at the foot of Jebel Baní...

... Jebel

Sunday, Day 2... Crossing and ascending Jebel Baní... A mineral, lunar landscape—rocks the color of burnt bread and anthracite gray. I pick up pretty pebbles, and Mohammed finds me a fossilized stone... Lunch in a deserted nomad oasis... When we resume our walk, the wind picks up. A wind that only blows in April, violent, terrible—the *Sahli*... Swirls of sand and gravel. Where’s the sky, where’s the earth... everything is dust, everything is yellow and opaque... The gusts are so strong they make us stagger. At times, we even have to crouch to avoid falling. In the acacia forest, Abdou and the dromedaries are only a few meters ahead, yet we can’t see them... We’ll later learn that on that day, planned excursions were canceled... That a group got lost and had to be picked up by 4x4... But Mohammed has a sense of the desert. He’s calm, he guides us... so we continue, and I trust him. He wraps a *chèche* around my head—a fragile barrier against these onslaughts... We have to keep moving, and it’s difficult... But the desert has accepted me, so without resistance, I accept it... And the sand gets everywhere... in my mouth, crunching between my teeth, in my eyes, ears, and nostrils... in my hair... A fine ochre layer covers my face and body, even under my clothes. I’ve become a sand woman... Communion... Fusion with the mineral. I absorb the desert’s prodigious power, just as the desert absorbs my blood...

We walked for four hours, pushed by this furious wind, before stopping for the night under an acacia... There, we had to set up the tent, which they did with difficulty. Then we had to weigh it down... So the utensils and the mint tea tray served as shovels to cover the edges with sand. Then Abdou took care of the dromedaries, holding one of their front legs bent with a rope to keep them from wandering too far... Then we brought everything into the tent and collapsed... but not for long.

Mohammed prepared kingly meals at noon and night with the wonders in the baskets: finely chopped raw vegetable salad, vegetable tagine, soup (and not from a packet!)... Even the canned sardines were garnished with thin orange slices... After this exhausting day for all of us, I told him that bread with *La Vache qui Rit* would be enough... He looked at me with a big smile and said his evening ritual phrase: "Now, Laurence, sit down, take your time, take your book..." He pulled his sand-filled utensils from the miraculous basket, his stove, some vegetables, and made us couscous (and not from a box!), couscous he rolled between his hands... Meanwhile, Abdou took out his sand-filled teapot, his sugar loaf, the peanuts, the dates... The mint tea ritual, like every day, noon and night...

Outside, the wind keeps blowing, stirring up sand whirlwinds... So I won’t go out like the other night to brush my teeth and hair. Just a wipe on my face to remove the dust... Mohammed turns off the gas lamp, and I curl up in my sleeping bag. The dromedaries have moved closer to my side of the tent, and the moonlight stretches their shadows on the canvas. They’ve settled in and make strange noises... We fall asleep very quickly...

Monday, Day 3... My two companions are still asleep when the cold wakes me at 6 AM, like every morning... Everything seems so calm—the wind has stopped... I untie the tent door and... A pure blue sky, gradually tinted with pink and flaming orange. The sun rises before my dazzled eyes. A day of light begins: no trace of yesterday’s storm, except sand... everywhere.

So, breakfast with sand... Then we shake out everything that can be shaken, sending clouds of dust flying... Then Abdou gives the dromedaries back their fourth leg, and we continue the journey.

After the expanses of stones and shrubs on the first day, the rocky ridges of Jebel Baní, and the acacia forest on the second day, the landscape changes, softens... We arrive in the desert as you imagine it, as you dream it, as you’ve seen in thousands of photos: endless golden dunes, in harmonious hollows and curves... The desert of sand... vast, fascinating...

Last meal for the three of us... Tonight, we’ll arrive at the fixed campsite, and we won’t be alone anymore. The break stretches on... So, a little apart on the smooth sand, I write a few words... an obvious truth... entrusting a secret to the desert. In a small box, I’ll bring back some of this magical sand...

.. A secret in the desert...

Abdou grabs my notebook and draws the dunes. Mohammed draws Abdou and his dromedaries... I learn to do dishes with the contents of a single glass of water... A tiny bird lands on my bag... A bird!... in the middle of nowhere!... The dromedaries seem to relish the acacia branches, thorns and all...

Desert drawings

We set off again... The dunes are higher... Easy to climb, the desert has sensual, feminine curves. A giant’s hand would fit its reliefs like a caress on a soft, supple body... The setting sun gives the landscape colors of amber and spices, cinnamon reflections... The sand offers me pink pebbles and pieces of white quartz that sparkle... I also find a black stone... Mystery...

Pink pebbles, fossilized pebbles, sparkling pebbles, and a black stone

Late afternoon, arrival at the fixed campsite at the foot of Erg Lihoudi... The guardian, Lahcen, a whirlwind of chatter and energy, welcomes us with mint tea. He quickly pegs me: "You do yoga, right?" He tells lots of anecdotes about his "clients," ending every sentence with: "No problem! *Machi mouchkil*... *Machi mouchkil*, no problem!" Around the tents, dozens... hundreds of big black beetles swarm on the sand... As I shudder, Lahcen gently picks one up and wants to put it on my hand: "*Machi mouchkil*! It doesn’t sting!"... I hold out a hesitant palm... Despite Lahcen’s infectious enthusiasm, I don’t like this last evening. Two groups arrived by 4x4 to spend a night in the desert... Noise of engines, cameras, voices, and exclamations... An intrusion into my bubble... I keep my distance... They’ll leave very early the next morning...

Memory of beetles

Tuesday, Day 4... Standing still on a sand dune, I see both the full moon and the sun in the same sky... A luminous face-off. Magical, overwhelming... Then the moon paled, and the sun blazed brighter. It wasn’t quite night anymore, but day wasn’t far off... The Sacred, Mystical universe unfolded before me... A moment of grace that made my heart beat a little faster... Something indescribable gradually filled me, with infinite gentleness, to the depths of my soul... Facing this unlikely encounter, hesitations, reluctance, and fears seem so trivial... What are we if not fragments of this universe where everything is united... everything is connected...

Then comes the intention of a new message: "I’d love to put a face to..." But in this exchange scattered with misunderstandings, could you receive the intention without interpreting it?...

I stayed a long time on that dune, under the spell... Standing, barefoot and rooted... heart open... Receptive... in Unity between the infinitely small grain of sand and the infinitely vast universe... I hadn’t come to seek anything, yet the generous Earth offered its energy, its subtle strength to every cell of my body, and filled my soul with light... In exchange for this blood spilled on the sand over these four days?...

Give to Receive... Receive and Give... like a signed pact.

What exiled me from my life, disrupting all my bearings, drew me here... A necessary passage through space, withdrawal, and silence... for another birth?... The real desert after the symbolic desert... Pausing for a moment, as if at a crossroads. Connecting before continuing... If this path leads to the essential, then this path has a heart and will continue...

At the foot of the dune on the way down, I found a little Fatima’s hand made of beads. A gift from the desert...

Gift from the desert, good luck charm?

Mohammed and Abdou leave Erg Lihoudi with other people—our shared adventure ends here... Emotion... looks and gestures speak louder than any words... Thank you, from the bottom of my heart...

Return to Zagora in a rickety, bumpy 4x4... After the track, we cross a vast palm grove... Shimmering colors, lush vegetation, palm trees growing in wheat fields... Tender green of the ears, faded green of the fronds, all shades of green contrast with the ochre and pink stone walls... My eyes rediscover green... My eyes rediscover colors... On a narrow path, the 4x4 finds itself facing a donkey carrying three children on its back... Impossible to pass. Who will back up?... Well, roaring progress bowed to four-legged tradition: in a cloud of dust, the 4x4 reversed for several hundred meters... The donkey passed calmly... On its back, the three children waved their hands...

Noon, arrival at *La Fibule du Draa*... Smiling welcome from Lahcen. He offers me a shower—I refuse... Even if he seems a little surprised, he has the delicacy not to show it too much... Strangely, I don’t feel dirty. Yet my clothes are the same, and my body hasn’t seen a drop of water since the day I left... But I want to keep the warmth and the smell of sand on my skin... reconnecting with forgotten, instinctive, animal sensations... So, I transfer my meticulousness and civilized conditioning to my bag... I take everything out, empty it, shake it... hunting down the smallest grain of sand... Futile effort! (I still find some today...) The afternoon stretches lazily by the pool... I contemplate my pebbles and make a lovely encounter...

The Zagora-Marrakech bus leaves at 7 PM... It’s the night of the full moon, and as soon as night falls, the sky fills with stars... Points of light without beginning, without duration, without end... Tiny lights so distant and so close...

Wanting to share this moment... And with whom else? If you look up, you’re the only one seeing the same sky as me. So, the intention of another message. But in this fragile, stumbling exchange... marked by misunderstandings... could you receive the intention without interpreting it?

The trip is shorter than on the way there, but barely more comfortable. A speaker right above my seat blares music and incantations the whole way... Halfway through, the same unusual stop in a village lit up and bustling as if it were daytime (Taddart, I think...). Along the main street, the ground is checkered black and white. Butcher stalls display entire beef carcasses... Smells of smoke and grilling... People are busy... Others, seated, are eating... in the middle of the night.

Arrival in Marrakech at 2 AM. Taxi strike, no room until tonight... Uh-oh! My backpack draws attention: a car stops and offers to take me for 80 DH... Trust... Five minutes later, I push open the door of *Le Toulousain*... The guard offers to let me finish the night on one of the lobby benches. I unfold my sleeping bag and slip into the desert’s scent... No sleep. But with my eyes closed, I see the stars... You came to pick up my bulky envelope.

Wednesday... Difficult early morning... Now, I feel dirty, my clothes bother me, my shoes hurt... Craving a long hot shower, wanting to find my body, wash my hair, put on cream, do my nails, and... It’ll be a long shower... cold! The hotel is charming but a bit run-down.

Clothes from 4 days...

Afternoon on foot in the quiet Hivernage district, searching for a childhood memory that may have changed names: the *Holiday Inn* hotel... I didn’t find it, or didn’t recognize it. Long stroll in the Menara Gardens, and return to the hotel at sunset...

Thursday... Last day... Wanting to see the Marrakech Museum because the founder was a friend of my father’s... So, the familiar route: the McDonald’s, the square with the fountain, Avenue Hassan II, Bab Doukkala... but this time, I pass through the ramparts, and in the old city—sensual, charming, enchanting—I get lost, found, and lost again... I tracked down the museum and the Ben Youssef Madrasa at the end of a maze of alleys... Followed scents of mint, olives, honey, and cinnamon... Savored, moved, the same donuts as in my childhood—golden fried dough rings with a hole in the middle, tied together with a blade of grass... (I don’t remember the name...) I filled my eyes with pretty things and exchanged smiles... Received, just like that... A gift... a ring for my little finger... Someone called out to me: "Hey, gazelle," and it made me happy...

.. Still lost!...

Afternoon in the sun in the Koutoubia Gardens. I finish my book—sand falls from between the pages...

.. Started on the plane... read in the desert... finished in Marrakech...

Melancholy of the last evening... So, on the way back to the hotel, I buy *kesra* and *La Vache qui Rit*...

Long, long sleepless night... Flight in a few hours... Happy to see the ones I love again, too.

Thoughts, emotions, sensations, images... Questions... One question... So, more than reason, going over and over the question... What there is to live, it’ll have to be lived...

The desert, a solitary path... like all paths that lead to the essential...

3:30 AM, your message, read by the metallic voice of a voicemail. And you, facing physical failure, past mistakes, fear... A solitary path. Also. Like all paths that lead to the essential...

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Aleph240758 5 days ago

Villages around Hazaribagh in West Bengal

Wednesday, April 1st

Hazaribagh I’ve got a meet-up with Adam Iman, a guide and painter. He picks me up from the hotel at 10 AM. Another traveler from Bangalore is supposed to join us, but while we wait for him to arrive, Adam takes me to see the paintings his mother and sister created at Hazaribagh station. The town became famous thanks to these murals, which can also be found in several surrounding villages. This art form has earned recognition and is now protected, a sign of its cultural importance. Once the visit is over, we go to pick up the other traveler and then head to our first village: Belwara, where Sohrai art is practiced. At the entrance, a sign proudly announces that we’re entering an artists’ village, where this art is created by women organized into micro-enterprises. Some even offer workshops for those who’d like to learn this tradition.

Sohrai art is tied to the harvest season, from October to mid-November. The motifs, in natural colors, celebrate fertility and abundance. The artists use pigments from the earth: red oxides, ochre, white kaolin, and black manganese. On the walls, you’ll see animals, fish, birds—all symbols of life and prosperity. As I look closer at the murals, I start to realize that each motif tells a story. Large animals like cows or bulls often take center stage. Their bodies are filled with intricate, almost hypnotic patterns. They symbolize wealth and prosperity for the household, as well as the deep respect for cattle, which are essential to daily life. On some facades, elephants stand out—massive and decorated with the same precision. They evoke quiet strength and protection. But it’s when I stop in front of one of the houses that I really take the time to look. The wall, a soft ochre, is entirely covered in murals. Two large animals stretch out on either side of the door, their elongated bodies fitting the length of the wall. Their silhouettes are filled with geometric patterns and incredibly fine curved lines, as if every space was patiently filled. Around them, stylized plants, flowers, and small decorative elements fill every gap. The door, dark and worn, becomes almost the silent center of the composition, framed by these living, protective forms. To the right, a more colorful motif catches the eye—a flower or a stylized lamp—like a touch of light on the earth. The whole thing gives an impression of perfect balance, between the rigor of the patterns and the freedom of the gesture.

Elsewhere, birds and freer forms bring movement. Peacocks, recognizable by their stylized silhouettes, embody beauty and vitality, while fish symbolize water, fertility, and the continuity of life.

On some paintings, the scenes become almost narrative: you can make out figures, everyday gestures, like a memory of the village inscribed in the walls. The decorative frames around the doors aren’t left to chance either—they symbolically protect the house, like a boundary between the inside and the outside world.

During the Sohrai festival, cattle are led into the jungle in the morning. Meanwhile, the women finish the *aripans*—these floor paintings—and continue the wall murals. Around noon, the animals return to the village, and the bulls’ horns are anointed with oil and vermilion in a gesture of gratitude, amid the vibrant colors adorning the houses. We visit several artists, including Parvat Devi, a well-known woman who has received many awards. Her arms are adorned with intriguing tattoos, which I’ll talk about in more detail later.

On another wall, the style changes completely. Here, no massive animals—just birds occupying the space, light and graceful, as if caught in mid-movement. Two silhouettes face each other, their long necks arched almost like mirrors, while their outstretched wings seem to vibrate with the patterns that compose them.

The design is more graphic, almost airy. The lines are smoother, more fluid, as if drawn in one confident stroke. The birds’ bodies aren’t solid—they’re filled with repetitive motifs like scales, stylized feathers, and spirals, giving a sense of continuous movement. Around them, everything comes to life: flowers burst open, arabesques swirl, and even the simplest shapes seem alive. What strikes me here is the sense of lightness. Where the large animals evoked stability and grounding, these birds bring something freer, almost joyful. They seem to embody movement, the circulation of life, like a breath flowing through the village.

The colors remain the same—deep reds, intense blacks, and chalky white—but the rhythm is different. Faster, more spontaneous. As if each wall had its own personality, while still speaking the same language.

That’s probably why I’m so moved. I’d heard about these paintings from my friend Raja, and last year, I saw an exhibition in a village near my home. That first encounter made me want to come here. But seeing them in person is a whole different experience. These paintings are unique. This ancient art is passed down from mother to daughter, or mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, in a quiet, deeply living continuity. At first glance, it might seem almost childlike in its simplicity and pared-down forms. And yet, everything is thought out, balanced, mastered. Nothing is left to chance.

That apparent simplicity, combined with such rich symbolism, touches me deeply. There’s something sincere and essential in these walls—and that’s what moves me.

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Oliverte64 5 days ago

Short video of our trip from northern Vietnam to Yunnan via Upper Laos

Here’s a little clip we filmed in November–December 2019 (just before Covid) of a trip from Hanoi to Cat Ba Bay and then on to Xishuangbanna via Luang Namtha.

https://youtu.be/suZYN3LvgkQ

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Aleph240758 6 days ago · Bananette

A month in Cambodia in November 2024

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.

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Aleph240758 6 days ago · Explora30FER

New adventures from Perpignan to Ranchi (Jharkhand)

March 2nd — Departure by bus from Latour at 6:50 AM. The journey isn’t direct: we pass through Elne then Corneilla. In Perpignan, I switch to a BlablaBus heading to Barcelona’s northern bus station. Before reaching Le Perthus, French police stop us to check IDs. Several people aren’t in order, but after about fifteen minutes, we’re on our way again. We’re checked again at La Jonquera: this time, the wait lasts almost forty-five minutes while police identify those in violation and wait for a vehicle to pick them up. The driver then tries to make up for lost time; we finally arrive at our destination half an hour late.

I quickly head to the Arc de Triomphe metro station, located 200 meters away: you have to cross the bridge along the bus parking lot, then walk through a large garden; the station is on the right before the garden entrance. The trip to the airport isn’t direct: I have to change at Tomasso and take the line to the airport, where I arrive at 1 PM.

At the Emirates counter, I learn my flight was just canceled due to the war in Iran; they offer me another flight for the next day. I have to wait at the airport until 7 PM before being taken to a hotel; the next morning, I’ll take a flight to Vienna (with an 8-hour layover), then an Air India flight to Delhi, and finally a flight to Kolkata. I agree: I don’t know Vienna, so it’ll be an unexpected discovery.

At 7 PM, a small group is taken to the hotel, 35 minutes from the airport, where we’re served a light dinner upon arrival.

March 3rd — A taxi picks me up at 6:30 AM; the flight to Vienna takes off at 9:30 AM and arrives at noon. I’m free until 7 PM; the metro is direct to the city center. The weather is pleasant and not too cold, luckily, since my clothes are light.

When I exit the metro, I spot the St. Stephen’s Cathedral tower in the distance and approach it: the roof, made of glazed tiles, is remarkable.

Entry is free, and the interior, a mix of Gothic and Baroque styles in the center, is stunning.

Not far from there is St. Anne’s Church

, also Baroque, adorned with beautiful frescoes

—a music concert adds an enchanting atmosphere to the visit. I continue my walk at random through the pedestrian streets lined with magnificent buildings: I’m charmed by the city.

Before heading back to the airport, I stop at a lovely tea salon. My flight will eventually leave with a delay.

Wednesday, March 4th — Delhi and a little luggage scare We arrive in Delhi shortly after noon. Immigration is quick, and good news: my bag was checked through from Barcelona to Kolkata. I head to the connecting terminal and arrive half an hour before boarding: the flight goes smoothly. Upon arrival, the luggage comes out quickly… except mine. After filing a report, I’m told my bag is in Delhi—I have to retrieve it before taking another flight. I didn’t know (or had forgotten): with the delays, I wouldn’t have had time to pick it up and make the connection.

I take a taxi to the Ichamati Hotel. The welcome is warm, and the room is clean but very small. Without my bag, I feel a bit lost—I have nothing to change into.

Tonight, I’m dining with Raja and his friends at a beautiful restaurant, an old colonial house turned into a hotel.

We’re happy to see each other and have a comforting evening together.

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Bibouns51 6 days ago · JeffPrX

Off on a winter adventure in the American West!

Day 1 – February 14

We all have two lives. And the second one kicks off the day you realize you only have one, with the determination to spend the time you have left on what truly adds sparkle to your life, Kevin! I like to elegantly introduce a trip with a philosophical quote. First, it gives you the illusion that I’m some kind of deep thinker, and second, it lets me fill up the first few lines of my blank page when I don’t know how to tell you I’m diving back into what really lights up my life: another adventure beyond the horizon! And nearly every other year, like a toxic relationship, my horizon tends to take shape in Uncle Sam’s backyard. And this, despite his cousin Donald calling the shots. Speaking of which, it was partly that impulsive guy who pushed us to be just as impulsive and snag our four flight tickets at a ridiculously low price—a direct result of foreign tourism taking a hit from BetaMax’s repeated antics... Four tickets? Who are the other lucky ones? In this case, our lucky ones are actually lucky ladies: My Flo, always up for exploring the world with me on foot, camelback, or scooter, is obviously in on the fun. The other two seats went to our daughters, Sasha and Luna, both thrilled to be part of this new American adventure...

But what’s the American West like in February?... A gamble. Let’s call it Russian roulette since we’re not landing during peak weather season. That’s why we encouraged our transportation and accommodation to get cozy and produce a little camper van, so we can stay ultra-flexible in the face of any weather tantrums. We’ll be roaming in Kara the van with the motto "Follow the sun!" Bad weather? We bolt. Snow? We speed up. Sunny? We act like it was the plan all along and soak it up.

"Okay, but why keep coming back to the same corner of the globe? After ten American adventures, you must be tired of seeing the same things, right?" But I’m not crazy, you know!... The American West is like making love to your gorgeous wife over and over, always enjoying it just as much. And contrary to what you might think, the American West isn’t just the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley, Las Vegas, and Bryce Canyon. Proof is, after ten trips to the U.S., my retinas are still untouched by three-quarters of the places I scribbled on a napkin for this adventure... Oh, and add to that my wife, who I’ve easily converted to my religion, and boom... relapse is even easier! Because yes, we’ve landed in Los Angeles after a sunny flight over Greenland, still under Danish flag for now. And we’re already heading east through the XXL traffic of L.A.’s eight-lane highways, eager to dive into our first discoveries. But first, night is taking over the sky, and second, we’ve been officially awake for 24 hours, so I suggest wrapping up this intro. I’ll tell you more tomorrow morning. Sound good?

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Patbill 7 days ago · Tulipe57

Three beautiful weeks during the Japanese autumn

I’m sharing our three-week trip to Japan from late October to mid-November 2025. There were four of us—my partner and a couple of friends. I’ve traveled often with my friend Christian (Bolivia, Argentina, Costa Rica, Namibia, Laos), but this time our partners joined us. The rough itinerary: Arrival in Tokyo. Visiting Shinjuku/Shibuya districts + day trip to Kamakura 5 days in the Japanese Alps, from Matsumoto to Kanazawa (via Kamikochi, Hirayu Onsen, and Takayama) 5 days in Kyoto Nara, Osaka, Koyasan Return to Tokyo (Asakusa district), with a day trip to Nikko We booked our flights well in advance (9 months ahead): the flight cost 1086 € per person. Compared to over 2000 € if we’d booked for the same dates just 3 months prior. For accommodations, we mostly used Booking.com. The onsen was booked via Japanican, and in Kyoto, we stayed in an Airbnb. We also made 5 train reservations a month in advance on Klook or directly on the train’s website.

Day 1: Departure from Brussels (October 24, 2025) Early morning takeoff at 6 AM to Munich (1.5-hour layover) with Lufthansa, then a 12-hour flight with ANA, arriving the next morning at 7 AM at Tokyo Haneda.

Day 2: Arrival in Tokyo Airport formalities were quick. The eSIM we bought before leaving activated as soon as we landed (10 GB plan with Saily—more than enough for our mobile internet needs, mainly Google Maps and Google Translate). We’d received 4 ICOCA cards from our neighbors, which we loaded with 15000 ¥ each. We took the Keihin train, then the Yamanote Line. It’s easy to navigate since everything is in English, and each station is announced on scrolling displays in English too.

We got off the Yamanote Line at the station just after Shinjuku because it’s easier to exit that massive station with our luggage. So we ended up in Shin-Okubo, right in the Korean district. A 10-minute walk took us to Villa Fontaine Hotel. A great hotel, well-located north of the Kabukichō district. The room even seemed bigger than we’d expected.

It was 15°C, but it rained—and kept raining on and off all day. Belgian weather, basically. We went for a walk in Shinjuku Gyoen Park. Not as pretty in the rain, but the big greenhouse was interesting.

Then our first ramen (hearty and for 1000 ¥—pretty much the price of all our ramen during the trip). We headed back to the hotel since check-in was after 3 PM. Shower and relax before going out for dinner. Dinner was barbecue at Shichirin Yakiniku Anan (1700 ¥ each—good and cheap). Ordering via tablet wasn’t easy, but luckily it was in English.

We ended the evening with a stroll through Kabukichō before a well-deserved sleep.

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Phil64 last week · Kola

Live from India - Act III (on the way to the Himalayas)

Namaste! Here I am live from Delhi, past midnight, at least 30 degrees.... I wanted to post the start of this France travel journal but couldn’t find the time, so here it is live! Off we go for a third trip, but this time for double the duration—6 weeks with the goal of discovering Ladakh and Spiti, starting with a detour to Varanasi to meet up with Babeli and her family.

Phir milenge for the rest of the adventures...

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MirandaMouse 2 weeks ago

Mice in Switzerland, the Other Cheese Country!

I'm starting my first travel journal since VF reopened!

This will mostly be to share my impressions and some photos, with a few days' delay, but I'm starting this journal while I'm still here.

First, I'd like to thank those who helped me prepare for this trip.

I was able to organize this stay in one of the most expensive countries in the world thanks to the home-exchange principle. Not necessarily a direct swap, but through a points system, which is more practical for choosing where you want to go without it having to be a reciprocal exchange.

For this trip, there will already be two different accommodations. We'll see how it goes after that.

The first place is near Yverdon-les-Bains, close to Lake Neuchâtel.

So, we're going to explore this area!

We arrived under capricious weather that won’t leave us for the next few days!

We had dinner at a pizzeria recommended by *Le Routard* in Yverdon, then took a little nighttime stroll through the town center before heading inland to settle into our accommodation.

We discovered a very large, quiet house—and especially the cat that stayed behind! Funny for a couple of mice! He’ll be sleeping with us 😹

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Montagnard74 2 weeks ago · Muriel18

Turkey 2026: Riviera, Antalya, and Cappadocia

Hi everyone!

If you're looking for great tips and offbeat spots, if you love exploring uncharted parts of a country, if the exotic is your adrenaline, then move along!

Our 15 days in early May in this part of Turkey (a country I first discovered during a city trip to Istanbul in 2017) will only tread well-worn paths and revisit popular routes. Simply because I kept hoping until the very end that our flight to Jordan wouldn’t be canceled. Events in the Gulf proved me wrong, so we left with: Zero preparation. Not a single hotel booked (well, except the first one), no visits planned, just a flight ticket bought three weeks earlier. No guidebook, no app—just the desire to explore southern Turkey and Cappadocia, whose images and the chance to stretch our legs had caught my eye.

Oh, wait—I did bring along a new guide: Gemini! Yes, my friends, generative AI was my chief advisor throughout the trip for sites to visit, accommodations, routes, and even restaurants! An experiment I wanted to try to form my own opinion on using this new technology. And what better way to test it than a Turkish getaway?

The verdict? You’ll have to wait for the trip recap to find out!

The main idea of the trip is also relaxation.

So, the plan is Antalya for a few days, the Turkish Riviera for a few more, Cappadocia as the highlight, and a return via Antalya to wrap up the trip. And it was all planned by AI!

So, if you're ready, fasten your seatbelts—cabin crew, doors to automatic and cross check—boarding for Turkey now!

A little sneak peek?

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GeorgesOZ 2 weeks ago · Hypnos

Langtang – Trekking in the Rain

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.

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Calisson94 2 weeks ago

Back to Swedish Lapland: Trekking the Kungsleden and Crossing Sarek

Summer 2022 left me with a sense of unfinished business, so here I am back in Swedish Lapland for summer 2024, ready to attempt the Sarek crossing again—and this time, tackle part of the Kungsleden too.

After much hesitation, my partner Jean Marie and I decided to start with the Kungsleden, which is, from what we’ve read, stunning but very busy (and it really is!!), and finish with the wilder option: SAREK! This park is known as Europe’s last true wilderness—sounds like a dream, right?! The downside of this plan is that there’s no way to resupply in Sarek, and the Kungsleden isn’t exactly set up for long-distance trekking either, so we’ll have to carry a lot of food for the first part of the trip with Sarek in mind. Oh well, we’re motivated!

Our plan is to start in Abisko (the classic route), head to Vakkotavare (also classic, but with some variations to avoid the official trail and the crowds), then continue the Kungsleden from Saltoluokta. Before reaching Aktse, we’ll set off on an east-to-west crossing of Sarek (weather-dependent, since aside from the Skarja hut in the center of the park, there’s no shelter if conditions turn bad). At least we’ll be on the right side of the park to climb Skierfe and enjoy the jaw-dropping view of Rappaladen if we have to bail on Sarek.

All in all, that’s 17 days of trekking, including 1 rest day and 1 buffer day for weather delays.

So if you’re interested, I invite you to follow our fully packed backpacks!

08/03 - Abisko – 5km before Abiskojaure Some info (guides we used for prep, SFT map, sending food to Saltoluokta) 08/04 – 5km before Abiskojaure - on the east shore of Lake Alisjavri 08/05 – East shore of Lake Alisjavri – just before Tjaktja 08/06 – Just before Tjaktja – above the Salka hut via Nallo 08/07 - Salka – just past Singi + side trip to Djalson Lake 08/08 - Singi – Teusajaure 08/09 - Teusajaure - Vakkotavare (end of the first section of the Kungsleden) 08/10 – rest day in Saltoluokta + round trip to the Sámi village of Pietjaure 08/11 – Saltoluokta – Sitojaure 08/12 - Sitojaure - Skierfe - Sarek or no Sarek? 08/13 – Skierfe – somewhere above Rapadalen 08/14 – Somewhere above Rapadalen – above the Skarki hut 08/15 – Above the Skarki hut - Skarja 08/16 – Camping at Skarja 08/17 – Ruohtesvagge 08/18 – Ruohtesvagge - Padjelantaleden 08/19 – Padjelantaleden - Ritsem – End of the trek 08/20–24 - End of the trip (Lullea - Stockholm) And of course, the recap

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RichardXI 2 weeks ago

Page by Page on the Assisi Way – 1,200 km on Foot

Preamble

June 2024. While hiking with my brother on the GR 36 Tour du Morvan, I catch sight now and then of strange rectangular markers fixed to tree trunks. Against a bright orange background, a deep black Greek tau topped with a white dove. My first encounter with the Assisi Way. The Way of St. Francis: a pilgrimage route linking Vézelay in Burgundy to Assisi in Italy, covering nearly 1,800 km. It felt like an obvious next step—I immediately knew I’d take it on, attempt the adventure solo.

In the months that followed, I talked about my project to everyone—family, friends, my partner. An avalanche of comments, more or less the same but varying depending on each person’s character and life experiences. But deep down, it all boiled down to one legitimate question: why?

And the answers? Hesitant, awkward, partial, even confused. I quickly realized they weren’t so easy to find. It was as if my project seemed more like a whim, a kind of intimate caprice, rather than a well-thought-out plan. Of course, I knew the reasons that pushed me to leave—you always have to give some. Loved ones need to understand to feel reassured, and that’s understandable. But I fear that when I list them, they’ll sound like the same old checklist anyone embarking on this kind of journey might give. Of all the reasons I could mention, I’ll highlight just one here: the call of the road, the solo adventure that brings a powerful sense of freedom. A bit like Monsieur Seguin’s goat, who from her comfortable pen gazes longingly at the unconstrained horizon of the mountain. But if I’m being honest, I think I didn’t really know what I was looking for—or, more importantly, what I’d find. Deep down, when I reflect on it, one word keeps coming up that explains nothing and everything at once: desire.

Now well past sixty, I know that when I ask myself who I am or where I’m going, two things bring me fully back to myself: hiking and writing. And my intention was also to anchor this adventure through words, day by day. Writing down my feelings, emotions, discoveries, and reflections each evening. The famous travel journal that grounds the daily experience in reality. When I discovered the app "Polarstep," which was initially just meant to keep my loved ones updated and reassured, inform them of my progress, and maintain a connection, I found an opportunity to do it a little differently than usual. No retrospective notes polished up after returning, but spontaneous writing—recounting everything that crossed my mind during the day and publishing it immediately. A journey lived in real time.

This text is the exact transcription of my daily writings. Rereading them, I didn’t change a thing—just corrected a few mistakes and tweaked some awkward phrasing here and there. Short texts, fitting the format imposed by this kind of app. Writing as if addressing others.

Now, all that was left was to walk. April 18, 2026 – Vézelay.

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Cendryon 3 weeks ago · Eole34

Kattegat Tour and Norway’s Majestic Fjords – 32 Days (Denmark, Sweden, Norway)

Kattegat isn’t just the name of the village in the TV series *Vikings*—it’s also the stretch of water separating Denmark from Sweden... the sea, basically! And further north, you’ve got Norway and its fjords! Originally, I’d planned to just do a loop around Kattegat, with the *Under* restaurant in Lindesnes as our anniversary treat... but along the way, we thought, why not "push" a little further north, keeping an eye on the budget since we’d chosen to travel by car in June 2025 through Scandinavia.

Why by car when most travelers opt for a camper van, while others prefer the comfort of cruises? Well, because we don’t own a camper van, renting one is pricey, and then you’ve got to add fuel costs (those things guzzle gas!), ferry fees, and other "tolls." All things considered, we went for mostly rentals—especially since there were four of us at the start of the trip. We spent the first week in Denmark with our daughter and son-in-law. Then they flew back to Belgium, and we continued our adventure as a couple. For accommodation, we mainly booked Airbnb apartments, which helped keep costs down and, most importantly, let us prepare our own meals (diet, diet!). In this travel journal, you’ll discover (or rediscover, for those who followed my older ones) our unbridled love for theme parks, museums, unique experiences, and—especially in Denmark—Legos! Unfortunately, we didn’t do any hikes this year because the unpredictable weather had made the trails slippery, and since I’d already taken three tumbles during the trip, I didn’t want to risk another! In the end, we traveled for 32 days, covered 6,200 km, and most importantly, discovered the charming country of Denmark, marveled at Norway’s breathtaking fjords—all without suffering the heatwave that hit France and Belgium that June! If you’ve got any questions, don’t hesitate to ask!

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Servanel 4 weeks ago · Vandfaure

Two weeks in Malaysia in September 2017

Hi there,

Here’s our account of our trip to Malaysia from September 11th to 27th. I hope our tips can help others as much as this forum has helped us!

Day 0:

Departure from Nantes with a transfer in Amsterdam via KLM (720 €).

Day 1:

We arrive at KLIA1 in the early afternoon. First challenge: figuring out where to pick up our luggage. Turns out the answer is right under our noses—we need to take the airport’s internal metro! Once we’ve got our bags, we withdraw some cash from a Maybank ATM right there. Next up: SIM card! Just outside the arrivals hall, several kiosks offer them. We go for a Celcom 5 GB card (70 RM). Then it’s taxi time to get to KL, in the Bukit Bintang area—about 85 RM in a slightly old taxi with weak air conditioning. We check into our Airbnb apartment, which is clean, more spacious than a hotel room, and—best of all—has a charming balcony with a gorgeous nighttime view!

We end up hanging out on that balcony, reviewing our plans for the next day. After dark, we take the monorail just a short walk away to enjoy our first evening on a rooftop at the 34th floor: Hélipad (Raja Chulan station—you have to enter the Menara Tower at the base of the station) with a panoramic view of the city and its iconic towers.

Finally, we head to Jalan Alor to grab a bite in this super busy street. Big sleep ahead! 😴

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Muriel18 4 weeks ago · Puma2A

Two weeks under the Puglia sun

After a pretty disastrous weather-wise trip to Gran Canaria, we’re hoping this time the sun will shine in Puglia. It’s not a sure thing, though—the weather’s been awful all over Europe in early May.

For those who’d like to (re)read the story without the digressions, it’s here.

Saturday, May 16: This time we’re flying out of Charleroi (Brussels South): the ticket prices, flight times, and proximity all worked for us. The airport (Ryanair) was recently renovated... but it’s still not very well organized. There are hardly any seats in the boarding areas, and... the restrooms cost money!!! The flight goes smoothly, though, and we land in Bari a little late.

We quickly pick up our rental car, a very local-looking Pandina (even more so than the Fiat 500 in this region), and hit the Italian roads... and their unique driving quirks (like the fact that the countless road signs along the streets and in towns are purely decorative 😏, and that Italian cars don’t have turn signals 😮... except for rental cars).

About an hour later, we arrive at our first accommodation, right in the middle of the countryside near Monopoli. The owner isn’t there, but they’ve left us a ton of info via messages and even turned on the space heater, which is a nice touch. We explore the property:

And the next morning before breakfast, its immediate surroundings:

Sunday, May 17: After our "seaside" experience in Gran Canaria last weekend (packed with people and locals), we decide to start inland. After a hearty breakfast,

we head toward Alberobello, a super touristy village famous for its trulli—those stone houses with conical roofs. We easily find a free parking spot on a street near the Aia Piccola district, where some trulli are still lived in year-round.

We almost immediately come across the Trullo Sovrano (the only two-story one), which you can visit (but we skip it—it’s opening time, and there’s already a line).

From there, we head down toward the Basilica of Cosma e Damiano... but we don’t go in because there’s a mass.

Now we’re on the main Piazza del Popolo, which connects the two districts of Alberobello: Rione Aia Piccola and Rione Monti, the more touristy one.

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Fabhyène 4 weeks ago · Chrisfenua

3 weeks in Laos, stress-free

Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...

This trip was in 2023, but when I wanted to write my travel journal, VF was still closed to contributions... So, now that I've just finished my Japan travel journal here, I figured it was high time to honor this destination we came back from so enchanted. Disclaimer 1: This is a written travel journal. There’ll be text! Too much, for some! Disclaimer 2: This is an illustrated travel journal. There’ll be photos! Too many, for some!

I have to say, every time I try to discipline myself, to keep it shorter, to include fewer photos... I end up adding more. It feels like my dear Aunt Nicole, who exhausted us with her slide-show evenings in the 70s/80s, decided to take her revenge. The upside for you, readers, is that you can slip away anytime without offending Aunt Nicole. I won’t even notice!

Anyway, since I love maps, here’s one to give you an idea of where I’m taking you. As you can see, we only saw a tiny part of Laos (the areas circled in red); we only had 3 weeks for ourselves (my husband’s newly retired, I still work), and we prefer taking our time over rushing around like crazy.

In broad strokes, it was very classic:

First, we “settled in” at Luang Prabang (8 days), because we wanted and needed to. From there, we took three days to venture a little further north—not far in kilometers, but as we know, distances aren’t just about km! Then we flew south to Paksé, letting ourselves drift down to the 4,000 Islands while stopping by the pre-Angkorian archaeological sites. We wrapped up with the Bolaven Plateau.

A few practical notes: We arrived via Bangkok, then took a Bangkok-Luang Prabang flight, having picked up our luggage in Bangkok to check it in for Luang Prabang. No issues—the Bangkok airport, which many of you know, is very well organized. We got our visas on arrival in Luang Prabang. Quick, but to be fair, we were on a “small” plane, and the big flights had arrived earlier, so we weren’t too crowded in line! At the end of our trip, we didn’t fly out of Paksé but from the nearby airport in Thailand, Ubon Ratchathani (a 2.5-hour drive from Paksé), then Bangkok and Paris. You’ll notice we skipped Vientiane to stay longer in Luang Prabang. That said, there’s now a high-speed train between Vientiane and Luang Prabang—good to know—and soon the (Chinese) train will go all the way to Bangkok and even Kuala Lumpur!

With that intro out of the way, let’s dive into the heart of the matter. To be continued: Slowing down the pace... in Luang Prabang

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Torpan 4 weeks ago · Tulipe57

Japan: First Discovery!

Here’s a little story about my first trip to Japan with my partner. We went for our first visit from October 29 to November 13, 2024.

I had planned this entire trip back in November 2020, but given the health situation at the time, I had to cancel...

Here’s the classic route we took:

We booked everything ourselves and got a regional pass for the area from Kyoto to Hiroshima. The hotels were reserved 3 months in advance on Book... and Agod... (1030 € for 2 people for 13 nights = 80 €/night). For the flight, we chose a Qatar Airways flight with a layover to break up the long journey (950 € per person). We also got a pass on the same site (Japan-Experience) to take the train connecting Narita Airport to Shibuya Station (the N'EX Narita Express). Since the airport is 75 km from central Tokyo, we opted for this mode of transport, even though there are cheaper alternatives. After reading various posts on VoyageForum, I understood how important it was to have a Welcome Suica card to pay for public transport (subway, tram, bus, boat throughout the country), and we were able to buy one at Narita Airport. It turned out to be super useful! After a long but smooth journey, we found ourselves at Narita Airport in the evening. Even though we had a pass for the Narita Express, we had to go to a counter to make a reservation for the train (mandatory). Then, once we arrived at Shibuya Station, we took the subway for 2 stops and finally reached our hotel, exhausted (Hotel Asia Center of Japan – 270 € for 3 nights with breakfast included).

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Fabhyène 4 weeks ago · Tulipe57

Draw Me Your Japan...

Hi there!

I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.

Let’s start with the shotengai...

Our first "wow" moment came as we stepped out of the subway in Asakusa, the Tokyo neighborhood where we’d booked our hotel for our first five nights. Exhausted after our long flight, we finally arrived and took an exit that led straight into a shotengai—one of those covered shopping streets that pop up in city centers and flourished between the 1950s and 1980s.

It was an instant aesthetic shock, like a close encounter of the third kind between the modern city, a typical Asian market with its street stalls, the vintage vibe of the arcade, the sheer abundance of goods, and the bustling crowd—a mix of tourists, pilgrims (thanks to nearby Senso-ji Temple), and locals (it’s a very working-class area). In the end, it set the tone for a feeling we’d experience throughout the trip. Wherever we went, shotengai turned out to be fantastic spots for finding little restaurants, shops, or even fresh produce. Some are like real mazes, like in Kyoto, where we spent ages trying to relocate a restaurant we’d loved ;-)

In Kanazawa, the Omicho Market:

And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:

To be continued...

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Holigirl last month · Solene40

South Africa in safari mode: February/March 2026

Hi everyone,

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.

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Caroki last month

Three weeks in Albania with two older teens

We went to Albania in August 2025. Our itinerary included adventure (sporty activities, site visits), naps on the beach interspersed with swims, incredible natural sites, and a bit of culture.

I booked all our accommodations on Booking.com. Note: almost all places ask to be paid in cash!! You can obviously withdraw from banks, but the fees are pretty high. Luckily, we had plenty of cash, and the country is very safe. You can pay in euros most of the time, which avoids exchange fees. We started in Tirana. I’d read a really interesting post about Albania’s bunkers (link in my profile). We chose to visit Bunk’Art with a guide from the agency that wrote the post. It was fascinating—not only to better understand the country’s history but also because her grandfather was repressed by the regime, and she shared her family’s experience with us.

Bunkers are everywhere! In Tirana, Bunk’Art is the most interesting and largest. You’ll see the dictator Enver Hoxha’s office, where he would’ve taken refuge in case of an attack on the country. Bring a sweater—it’s really cold in the underground tunnels and their huge corridors. You can visit other bunkers around the country, in Tirana and elsewhere. Almost all are just abandoned. The cable car up Mount Dajti is right next to Bunk’Art. The view is stunning—you realize Tirana is so close to the mountains and the sea... But otherwise, it’s not that exciting for older teens (17 and 19) and their parents. We picked up a rental car in Tirana—it’d be ours for the next three weeks. We used Goalbania’s agency to avoid any hassles. First, there aren’t many cars available in Albania in summer. Second, French credit cards can be a nightmare abroad. So we preferred to sort that out in advance. After Tirana, we headed to Permet. Just a heads-up: the roads are in great condition except in the mountains. And Albanian drivers aren’t stressful to deal with. Though you might suddenly encounter a herd of goats crossing the road—haha—but if you’re not going too fast, it’s fine. In Permet, I’d been dreaming of rafting on the Vjosa, one of Europe’s last wild rivers. And we did it with a local agency! It’s beautiful, accessible to everyone, not too physical but still a bit lively—just how we like it. You can even jump into the river in some spots. In Permet, we also hiked through a canyon and visited a lovely little church.

And we took a workshop to make their local culinary pride: gliko. It’s a jam with whole fruits inside. We’d seen it on Goalbania’s site, and it was really fun. We were with a family where the secret to making gliko has been passed down for generations... Next, we headed to Gjirokastër. A city we loved: its old traditional houses (Skendulli and Zekate), its grand castle, the Ali Pasha Bridge. Along the way, we stopped for artisanal ice cream at a little shop run by a grandmother who’s been making it herself for ages.

One afternoon, my husband *had* to go to the coast in the south, to Ksamil (he’d read it was better than Sarandë). Verdict: we didn’t like it. Parking is a nightmare, the beaches are super noisy and crowded. The sea is packed with jet skis, boats, pedalos, and ropes. Avoid it.

On the other hand, we really liked Himarë, where we went next. We stayed at a campsite where we rented tents with mattresses and sheets inside. Right by the sea, on a low cliff (about 2 meters high). You can hear the waves at night... Magical!! To swim, you either jump straight into the sea (almost from the tent) or climb down a ladder, which you’ll need to climb back up to get out.

I was a little worried the campsite wouldn’t be very comfortable, so afterward, I’d booked a small place in Gjilek. Turns out, the place was really tiny (one room for four, no kitchen) and pretty expensive (over 100 € a night). We’d drive to the beach or restaurants—it’s on a steep slope, so not very accessible. Parking near the sea is tricky. But the (private) beaches were nice—we’d rent an umbrella not too close to the music and spend the day there. We also went to a wilder beach, harder to reach, via a long path. Behind the beach, there’s an amazing canyon where we’d sometimes climb using ropes (already in place, no need to bring your own) over big boulders rolled around by the stream, which must swell a lot in spring. So, the sea in Albania: it’s nice if you like swimming and relaxing, but it’s not the most interesting part of the country. There are so many other amazing things to see and discover—so many stunning sites! Maybe an agency could’ve helped us find more practical accommodations and avoid Ksamil and its surroundings. We left the coast to head to the beautiful city of Berat and its "thousand windows." We explored the city, its fortress, and its icon museum.

Then we discovered the Osum Canyon—it’s incredible. The view from the top is breathtaking. And at the bottom, it’s magical. There’s little water in summer, so rafting isn’t an option. We weren’t tempted by the big-tube descent offered by an agency—it looked fun, but the group had 40 people. We preferred hiking on our own as a family of four. We scouted the area on Google Maps... and found where to descend. We walked in the water, then it rose to our waists, then our shoulders... We weren’t moving fast. And how to get back up?? Eventually, we followed a group with a guide—the path was hard to find.

After that unforgettable hike, we visited the Bogovë Waterfalls. It’s pretty, and we swam, but the water was *really* cold. We passed through Tirana again and then headed to Shkodër. We explored a bit—its charming little streets, the Rozafa Fortress. There’s a tiny museum where you can see *huge* Ottoman stone cannonballs. And they tell you the (charming) story of the young woman who was walled alive in the castle’s foundations to ensure its strength... Shkodër is mostly a stopover to head into the mountains and discover Theth. Our goal: hiking in the Valbona Valley, from Valbona to Theth. We organized the trip ourselves, without an agency, but it took some time to figure everything out. So I’ll save you the trouble—haha. Book your tickets on the Komanilakeferry website. The ticket includes: 🙂 minibus transfer from downtown Shkodër to Koman 🙂 ferry ticket from Koman to Fierze. This ferry ride is *gorgeous*—between mountain slopes covered in pine trees, and sometimes a little house with a few fields...

🙂 minibus ticket from Fierze to Valbona. Now you’re in the mountains! The minibus drops you off near your accommodation—pick one as close as possible to the start of the hike (if that’s your goal!). The ones at the far end of the village add up to 1.5 hours of walking. Our choice: Guesthouse Dioni. The host is really lovely, it’s in the woods, and it’s basic but great. After a day of hiking, we arrived in Theth. What beautiful mountains! Then we explored Theth and the surrounding area. It’s pretty busy, but you can still enjoy the Blue Eye of Theth and its swim. It’s *so* cold! But so beautiful!

🙂 minibus ticket from Theth back to Shkodër. After a night in Shkodër, we drove to Kepi i Rodonit. A guidebook (I forget which one) raved about its beauty. And it *is* beautiful!

But the view is ruined by plastic bottles and other trash in the bushes, along the paths, and of course on the beaches. The only peaceful spot: the private beach at Kepi i Rodonit, which is cleaned. You can rent an umbrella and have lunch there. That’s where we spent our last few days—very relaxing. In short... Albania turned out to be perfect for us and our teens!

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Attila last month · ReneVoyageur

Albania in Autumn Colors

A new work assignment means our vacation dates can't stay the same.

We had planned to go to the Canary Islands, but flight prices are skyrocketing with this new holiday schedule.

So, I’m looking for an alternative to Gran Canaria and El Hierro and found two round-trip flights with Wizz Air to Tirana.

398 €, including baggage and seats—perfect!

Plus, the departure and return times are great, which is pretty rare for a low-cost flight!

All that’s left is to rent a car, plan the route, and book accommodations.

With two weeks, we’ll have to make some choices!

Here’s the final itinerary: Shkodra (2 nights), Valbonë (3 nights), Tirana (1 night), Lake Ohrid (1 night), Korçë (1 night), Përmet (1 night), Gjirokastër (1 night), Himarë (2 nights), Berat (2 nights), and Krujë (1 night).

A mix of countryside and small towns, a bit of the Mediterranean, and some mountains!

Late October isn’t the best season, so let’s keep our fingers crossed for the rest...

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