THE REAL SRINAGAR BEHIND ITS BAD REPUTATION

Srinagar is a destination that’s hardly popular with tourists. Because of the ongoing war between India and Pakistan, we often hear about soldiers being killed in Srinagar.

I’d also heard that tourists weren’t welcome, but that wasn’t my experience at all.

I went there without listening to all the warnings people kept shouting in my ear, and I discovered a charming city where locals constantly approach you to have tea or chat. I was never alone during my 3 days there—I was always being approached or invited into someone’s home.

I’m creating this post to break the stereotypes about this incredible city and to share what I experienced during one of my best trips in India.

(Update July 2019): I just noticed that Srinagar is marked as a red zone (strongly discouraged) on the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ travel advisory map. That doesn’t change the fact that my best memories were in Srinagar and that nothing at all happened while I was there. However, some might not be as lucky as I was. Nothing’s stopping you from going, and I’m tempted to recommend it, but be aware that you’re entering an uncertain area. Safe travels!

Arriving in Srinagar When I arrived, I hurried to find a mechanic to weld the front fender that was scraping my wheel. I went from garage to garage, each one sending me to another and then another… It was pretty hard to find someone who could weld that fender since the screw thread was stripped.

I kept searching until I came across this scrap dealer cutting metal with a hammer:



The man in the checkered shirt told me he could fix my bike, but I had to go with him to his place. So we went together, and I was invited to have tea with his family. He introduced me to everyone, and they seemed really happy to meet a tourist. They kept smiling at me and offering me local sweets. I have to admit, I was a little embarrassed—all I wanted was to get my bike fixed!



The scrap dealer’s nephew was very interested in my camera. I showed him how to use it and let him play around with it, which resulted in some great shots while they were fixing my bike—something I only found out later.





What really struck me were the cables connected to the battery he used for welding. They were just stripped, laid on top of each other, and suspended. When he needed to pass by, he’d lift a wire with his hand, walk under it, and put it back down. I wondered how he’d survived this long!

On top of that, here in India, all the welders in small garages weld with sunglasses, and I’m really not sure how effective those are.





Once the bike was fixed, I asked him how much I owed him. Very generously, he told me to decide for myself. I gave him a little more than I usually do for a weld. This family was incredibly kind—I’d just arrived, and I was already invited to eat with them.

Exploring the City The whole city is crisscrossed by a network of streams where locals transport goods by boat, creating some truly magical moments:







Following these streams, I reached the city center, where I met locals who were surprised to see me but thrilled to get to know me. A really rich social experience!









The Local Market A local market is always open near the mosque I mentioned earlier—it’s a must-visit! The market isn’t big, but it’s a social and cultural experience you shouldn’t miss.







Taking the Road Across the Lake Across from Nishat Bagh Park, there’s a road that crosses Dal Lake, which is full of lotuses. The path is tough to take by bike—I know from experience—but what you’ll see is worth the detour!

It all started last December, after another price alert from Gilou for United/Lufthansa flights at 250 € from Paris to San Francisco. Meanwhile, I was planning to spend a week alone with our three kids (Maxime, 14, Rachel, 12, and Timéo, 8) somewhere in France for the February break.

But this time, Gilou really outdid himself—way too tempting! 😮 His great tip worked for both the February and Easter breaks. I know April is the ideal month, especially if you love hiking! But for family reasons, only February would work for us.

Isn’t February a month to avoid for the Southwest? To keep our summer trip budget intact, I was thinking of camping as much as possible. After checking weather sites for temperature histories in key spots (Furnace Creek, Saint George, Page, Sedona), nighttime temps over the past two years ranged from +5 to -2°C. So, it seemed doable...

I started discussing (aka negotiating, even begging) with my better half. The kids caught on fast that there was a chance we’d go, and they were thrilled! She finally gave her consent to make the kids happy 😎. I quickly checked that our ESTAs were still valid, and 48 hours later, I had the tickets in hand 😎😎. But five days later, Laetitia changed her mind—her "Yes" turned back into a "No." No way were we going without her to her favorite country!!

Damn it 🤪! I had to tell her I’d already bought the four tickets (without bringing it up again, of course—a "Yes" is a "Yes," right?). And since the tickets were non-refundable, there was no going back... Apparently, with women, some "Yeses" mean *really* yes, but others mean, "I said yes in principle, but I wasn’t actually on board—and I never thought you’d have the nerve to buy the tickets without telling me!!" I had no idea 🤪!

Us guys? We’re way more straightforward—binary, even monetary... Yes means yes! And no can mean yes too 😏!! Anyway, in a lovely family atmosphere, I opened a thread to start planning and thanked Trois14 and Bluemesa for their help. On Trois14’s advice, I booked 5 nights in motels around St. George-Page at super tempting rates—around $35-40 a night...

On that note, Christmas cost me an arm and a leg... Gotta try to make up for it 😛!

Here’s the theoretical itinerary:

Death Valley (2 days) Valley of Fire The White Dome (hike up and down via Squirrel Canyon) 4 nights in the Kanab-Page area Sedona (2 days) Route 66 Alabama Hills / Trona Pinnacles Drive back to SFO via Highway 1

That’s the plan, at least...

In reality, it turned into a whole different story. I learned that in February, you’ve got to be flexible—*very* flexible sometimes—to dodge the weather. Halfway through, a cold snap made our second week (planned 100% camping) impossible, completely upending the itinerary.

So, a huge thanks to PapJ59, Noyellebis, and especially Caribou44 and Simonic. 🙂 A thousand thanks for your quick responses, availability, and sound advice, which let us have an original and unforgettable second week—Organ Pipe Cactus NM, Yuma, Salvation Mountain, Anza Borrego SP, a palm grove in Joshua Tree, then back to SFO!! Without you, we’d have been miserable on the spot, but instead... 😇

A big shout-out to Thibaut and his famous blog (rightfully praised on VF—it’s one of the few that details Organ Pipe), to travel journal writers for inspiration in general, and to those who helped me prep or during the trip (journals by Pong, Hiacinthe, Zitounet, and Laetitia).

Now, for the story...

I’d heard—and rightly so—about the incredible kindness of Taiwanese people. I had just spent a few weeks in Korea, a country of teddy bears, where the locals loved telling me about a place full of… more teddy bears. It was going in circles.

So I arrived in Taipei with stars in my eyes, ready to face all that generosity. Yet, surprisingly, the guard posted in front of the presidential palace wasn’t exactly courteous. And then, the countless military vehicles really struck me. Have you ever seen a teddy bear driving a tank?

I spent most of my evenings in a bar along a very large avenue. I’d go alone and always find company—men, women, it didn’t matter as long as I could blend into this new country, discover its people, their culture, their history.

The heat made me sweat nonstop, my beard had grown back, I was wearing a black T-shirt as worn-out as possible, and my face bore the marks of several months in Russia and Korea. In short, I looked like the perfect globetrotter—the kind I’d probably dreamed of being as a kid.

So there I was, sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a Taiwanese friend, when a fight broke out between an Italian and an American—two drunk, stupid beasts. Shouting, shoving, we kicked them out. Well, *we* didn’t. My friend didn’t move; I was the only one who reacted, letting my temper get the better of me. He looked at me and said, without malice, that white guys had also fought two days earlier. I turned my head toward the room—I was the only foreigner. I was used to it, but tonight was different. The looks in the mirror were full of distrust. I felt like an idiot for all the others. I felt like an idiot. I said goodbye to my friend; I was convinced I’d never see him again. As I headed toward my hostel, my brain was racing. Asia had confronted me with a side of travel I didn’t know. I’d always managed to blend in, to go unnoticed, but when your features and skin color prevent that, the game changes. And this hyper-globalization, this hyper-communication, the fact that poor guys like me can enjoy travel—is it really a good thing? Does it create an expectation, a need for a mass of tourists who couldn’t care less about the country they’re visiting? No, really, I felt like an idiot. And then all those damn tanks, and what’s with those dozen tents in front of the presidential palace? It intrigued me. It was late, but there was movement. Hey! Hey! How are you? Good, just a little drunk. Ha ah aha! What are you doing here? Why are there so many military personnel around you? Ha ha ah! You can come if you want! Oh really? Yeah, yeah!

I climbed over the fence and learned. I learned that in the mountains to the east of the island, the island’s natives still live. I learned that their culture is disappearing, that they themselves are disappearing. That nothing is being done to preserve the very origin of this country. That all those tanks and military personnel were there for about thirty cheerful troublemakers who had made the trip. Because by being there, they were announcing: *Yes, we’re still here.* I spent the rest of the evening with them until early morning. They showed me how to weave my own shoes (flip-flops), plied me with endless coffee, laughed when a cop took my picture and I shouted, *Yes, I’m a French spy*, and gave me a bracelet. I left with a new look in my eyes. This trip will end as it began, but the next one will be different. I’ll be prepared; it won’t just be an escape or an adventure. Travelers destroy more than they preserve—it’s not easy to tip the scales, but I’m going to try anyway.

Excellent bike path almost entirely off-road, with a really scenic route. We joined it in Bad Tölz after coming from Strasbourg and left it 100 km before Venice to stay in the mountains and connect with the end of the Via Claudia, which is probably on next year’s program. The trail is often on packed gravel, but even though some short sections aren’t great, our 32C tires were enough—though wider would’ve been better. Mostly wild camping, often by a lake or river. The signage is top-notch. The only downside is the noise from cars in some valleys—out of sight but not out of earshot.

Sites that explain it better than I can: https://italy-cycling-guide.info/ An English site—check the INTERNATIONAL CYCLE ROUTES section.

It’s almost *too* detailed—a 1:200,000 map is plenty.

And here’s a photo to inspire you!

Following a question I was asked in a private message, here are some personal photos of Porto in October.

Hello fellow travelers!!!! I want to warn as many people as possible about what happened to me in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, during my trip across Southeast Asia. I know there are already several posts on this forum about this topic, but I think one more won’t hurt—to help stop the activities of this gang of Filipinos operating across Asia. I was extorted out of $4000 after being lured into an underground Black Jack game. They invite you to their place for some innocent reason, drug you, make you play, and then rob you. To my great regret, this bad experience has happened to several people, but I realized it too late. What happened to me is as much my fault as theirs: my naivety and their dishonesty. So, be careful when you travel—don’t trust people too quickly. I hope this post helps. Cambodia remains a magnificent country for me, and most of the people are wonderful. Big up!!!!! Travel safe, Julien

Just back from Georgia and Armenia. Trip in April 2011 with a small Renault Trafic van. No particular difficulties... except the GMR.

A few years ago, I went with a group of friends to lend a hand at a small rural school near Thiès, Senegal. It was a relaxed but hardworking atmosphere—hands in the mortar, laughter, exchanges, and everything that a COOPERATION project can bring. Today, the little project is flying on its own.

Wanting to explore Senegal’s riches, we set off for some tourism in the Siné Saloum. One girl in our group fell ill (a malaria attack), and we decided to take her to see a doctor at a large tourist complex nearby. Despite her condition, we had to "show our credentials" (if I may say so) just to get in. She was treated and has been fine since.

This "stop" at a Club Med-style resort with a Teutonic twist—resembling Le Grau-du-Roi but fancier—was a horror show for us: pools, massive artificial basins dyed blue, pink, or green (!!!!), animators shouting around wet T-shirt contests or coconut tree climbing, and sunburned (or sun-pinked) *toubabs*. The entire hotel was surrounded by a huge wall, behind which a small souvenir-seller slum had sprung up, worthy of Dakar’s outer neighborhoods. On leaving, we saw a minibus of guests returning from an "excursion," loaded with masks, fabrics, and djembés—African souvenirs? Maybe those will be *theirs*? What impression did the kids clustered at the hotel gates get? What about the Black servers in "traditional African costumes," serving cocktails and ice cream nonstop?

For me, who experienced Africa very young and in the bush, this remains a haunting image.

On VF, this kind of vacation doesn’t seem to be the norm among users, and that’s exactly why I signed up.

Have you ever experienced this kind of interstellar travel? Do you understand the Martians? Are their motivations peaceful?

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.

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...

I hesitated about writing this travel journal... This summer, we only did the classics (the 3 northern parks and Zanzibar) and let a local agency take care of everything from start to finish.

No craziness, no risks, no sleeping under the stars, no self-drive, no venturing off the beaten path, no incidents, and not even any delays in the pre-planned itinerary...

But don’t think we were disappointed! The whole family (there were 6 of us) came back with smiles and memories of great moments spent together. So, if you're looking for a "classic" way to discover Tanzania, this is the place to be.

Our 2-week itinerary: - Arusha (1 night upon arrival) - Tarangire (1 night) - Ngorongoro (2 nights in Karatu then Irmisigiyo) - Serengeti (3 nights in Robanda, Togoro Plains, and Seronera) - Zanzibar Stone Town (1 night) - Zanzibar Matemwe (3 nights) - Zanzibar Jambiani (3 nights)

Hakuna matata!

"400 pages of verbal pyrotechnics and animal magic" — The Times

"Bulawayo leans into exaggeration and irony to tell hard truths. *Glory* is jam-packed with comedy and farce, poking fun at an autocratic regime while illustrating the absurdity and surreal nature of a police state." — The Guardian

The cruelty and savagery of Zimbabwe’s (and Africa’s in general) "powerful animals"

Zimbabwean author NoViolet Bulawayo has written a novel that illustrates better than any documentary the complexity of colonial legacy. In doing so, she revisits George Orwell’s Animal Farm. Her novel *Glory* is a political satire about Zimbabwe—and it’s brimming with humor.

For thirty years, Zimbabwe has been stagnating under Robert Mugabe’s presidency. Human rights violations, corruption, and international sanctions have kept the population mired in poverty and oppression, while the regime exploits the meager earnings of the economy. As the 2017 elections approach, a power struggle erupts over the succession of the very elderly Father of the Nation (Mugabe). On the streets, people hope for long-awaited reforms; the people feel their moment has come.

And indeed, the army ousts Mugabe and his wife—"with her Gucci heels" (p.32)—who was positioning herself for the presidency. Hopes are dashed, however. The generals install former vice-president Emmerson Mnangagwa in power; the regime merely changes faces, but the problems remain the same.

In the novel, the country is called "Jidada, with a -da and another -da" (p.1); there’s no mistaking that this fictional state is Zimbabwe.

For *Glory*, her second novel, NoViolet Bulawayo invents a whole series of codes whose strength lies precisely in how easy they are to decipher. Like George Orwell’s Animal Farm, the characters populating Bulawayo’s universe aren’t humans but horses, goats, or crocodiles with all-too-human traits. Mugabe and Mnangagwa are horses, the spiritual leader is a pig, the soldiers are all bloodthirsty dogs, while the populace consists of goats, chickens, donkeys, and cats. The shift to the animal world serves only to better grasp the laws of despotism—and to ridicule real-life models. On one hand, the animals are humanized: they tweet, torture, travel in private jets. On the other, their greed, stupidity, and brutality stem from their animal nature.

It’s the old trick of fable: dressing men in animal disguises to make them easier to recognize. That’s how Orwell, in Animal Farm, traced how the promise of liberation from the Russian Revolution turned into Stalinist terror. In his 1945 fable, George Orwell describes how the animals of a farm drive out their farmer to organize the exploitation themselves, collectively. For a time, they truly taste freedom, but a clique of pigs ends up taking control. The central figures of the Soviet story—Stalin, Trotsky, Molotov—were easily recognizable.

Yet Bulawayo departs sharply from Orwell. She’s less concerned with precision and the force of argument than with satirical exaggeration. The deposed president is a senile old man who believes he can control even the sun’s course. The new stallion in power is a greedy debaucher. His soldiers sniff respectfully at his tail and backside.

In Bulawayo’s *Glory*, things are more complicated, but her novel also tells of a failed, incomplete liberation. In the author’s Animal Farm, Jidada, the colonial exploiters are followed by new forms of oppression. Because the former liberators become tyrants themselves. And because global power dynamics persist in neocolonial structures.

Wouldn’t that be enough to fuel a deeply depressing narrative? No—Bulawayo turns it into a blazing satire, full of wit and uncompromising criticism of power, a thread running through contemporary (not just) Zimbabwean history. The old warhorses in NoViolet Bulawayo’s Jidada, who continue to act as pack leaders, are easily recognizable as caricatures of the longtime dictator Robert Mugabe and his successor, current president Emmerson Mnangagwa.

The plot kicks off in high gear with independence day festivities. From the crack of dawn, everyone waits on Jidada Square for the Old Horse, the Father of the Nation and former liberator, whose reign "was nearing all of—not one, not two, not three, but four solid decades" (p.1). Everywhere, the colors of the Jidada Party shine; everywhere, true supporters cheer. Even the scorching sun plays its part: "At this point the sun, upon seeing arrive the leader who was decreed by God himself to rule and rule and keep ruling, a leader who'd in turn decreed the very sun to head his cheerleading squad, took a deep, deep breath and thoroughly blazed to impress" (p.2).

Finally, the Old Horse’s luxury carriage approaches "with the slowness of a hearse" (p.2), and "hoping to catch a glimpse of the legendary Father of the Nation," which causes "the animals fell over themselves like intoxicated frogs" (p.2). The sovereign’s speech is delayed a moment longer: "what I really want is a nap," groans the Old Horse as he takes his seat with such care "like his backside was made of expensive porcelain" (p.6).

Meanwhile, Bulawayo parades his entourage: the president’s wife (who earns her doctorate at Jidada University faster than "you could say diss, for dissertation. Tholukuthi it was as easy as ordering from a KFC drive-through, or perhaps even easier being that it was cheaper than KFC; it in fact cost her nothing and the degree actually came with a zero-calorie Diet Coke and a purple straw" (p.41), and she’s now known as Dr Sweet Mother. The cabinet includes "the Minister of the Revolution, the Minister of Corruption, the Minister of Order, the Minister of Things, the Minister of Nothing, the Minister of Propaganda, the Minister of Homophobic Affairs, the Minister of Disinformation and the Minister of Looting" (p.9). And of course the vice-president, who will soon become interim president when the Old Horse finally kicks the bucket—and then settle in as the new long-term president, who in the novel is called Tuvius Delight Shasha, or "Tuvy" for short (p.253), none other than Emmerson Mnangagwa. It’s him Bulawayo reserves her most merciless character description for.

"New Dispensation" (p.109) is Tuvy’s slogan for Jidada, and he loves repeating it so much he even named his parrot after it ("So inspired was Tuvy by the realisation that he rechristened his new pet parrot with the name New Dispensation—tholukuthi the bird having been acquired explicitly for the purposes of tweeting eulogies and accordingly glorifying the Saviour throughout the airs and skies of the nation. Tuvy then went on to hire a lecturer in English from the University of Jidada to teach New Dispensation to say the phrase 'New Dispensation'" p.110). But Tuvy’s Zimbabwe remains a nation without free, fair, and credible elections ("#freefairncredibleelection" p.161), and the promised equal treatment applies only insofar as Zimbabweans now queue up without discrimination in endless lines—and everyone is as poor as the next in the "queuenation" (p.283). Except for the powerful. They can "yes, tholukuthi, her immeasurable riches theirs to take. And take they did—

just take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take—take" (p.249-250).

In short: Bulawayo brilliantly depicts how former independence fighters become exploiters themselves. And how the country threatens to suffocate under the weight of corruption and repression. But she also literally stages the polyphony with which the people oppose imposed obedience to the official line.

Controversial online discussions keep interrupting the narrative—dialogues and social threads (see photo below) that Bulawayo masterfully integrates. From a literary standpoint, it’s a brilliant idea. And it shows, above all, that the author’s sympathy—so likeable—goes to all those who refuse to let their dream of true freedom be stolen, not even by the corrupt elites of their own country.

In the book’s acknowledgments, the first tribute goes to "The Jidadas of the world, clamouring for freedom on many fronts—A luta continua." (p.401) This reflects the realization that, not only in Jidada-Zimbabwe but in many other corners of the world, the end of colonial domination is still far from meaning the freedom hoped for by the vast majority of people. But it also means, more broadly, that this freedom must be won "on many fronts" (see above), both domestically and geopolitically.

That’s precisely what *Glory* so vividly highlights: how complex the project behind the term "postcolonialism" really is. With *Glory*, Bulawayo also delivers a scathing critique of the persistence of colonial mindsets in the West.

In the novel, the murder of George Floyd, racist police violence, and white-supremacist ideology in Trump’s United States perfectly illustrate the persistence of racism. It’s especially in the final chapters that Bulawayo lets Jidada’s inhabitants explicitly and unflinchingly criticize a neocolonial world order:

"It was not lost on us how the West, which loved to 'save' Africa and announce every action to the whole world, did so with one limb while manipulating, looting and fleecing us with the rest of its limbs so that more money in fact poured out of the continent than trickled in." (p.376)

"It was no mistake that multinational corporations yearly reaped and shipped colossal profits from Africa back to their countries as had been the case during colonial times. Even the sticks and stones would tell you that the African earth at any given time howled and shook and heaved from the extraction of its precious minerals that rarely benefited its own miserable children." (p.376)

"(...) we vowed to wage yet another war for Africa's second Liberation from neocolonial oppression. From exploitation. From plunder. From Western dominion. From indignity. From Abuse. We wanted real freedom. We wanted greedy, thieving paws off our wealth. We wanted Justice. We wanted a new world; we wanted a brand-new world so much we didn't sleep a wink that night." (p.377)

The Jidadas of this world must fight two enemies: Western neocolonialism and the autocratic instrumentalization of that argument; the persistence of Western racism and the populist appropriation of that humiliation by tyrants from their own ranks. Neither of these obstacles to freedom diminishes the historical and current guilt of the other. But the path to postcolonial liberation must overcome all these forms of oppression. After all, the colonizers didn’t bequeath democracies to formerly dominated nations, but instability and the principles of oppression and exploitation—which the so-called liberators have also internalized. Yet the fact that a satirical novel can capture the complexity of historical relationships while remaining, despite all the darkness of the subject, hilarious—well, that’s truly astonishing.

Finally, *Glory* ties into a major trauma in Zimbabwe’s post-independence history: the so-called Gukurahundi massacres. Between 1983 and 1987, tens of thousands of civilians were murdered by Mugabe’s bloody henchmen, most of them Ndebele. The State Security Minister and head of secret services at the time? You guessed it—Emmerson Mnangagwa.

When *Glory* turns to the massacres, the novel’s tone shifts completely. The story is now told through the narrative of the goat called Destiny, who, like NoViolet Bulawayo herself, left her home country at 18 for the United States and only returned after 13 years. In the book, the city of Bulawayo becomes a village where Destiny retraces her family’s history—and learns that part of it was also brutally murdered during the massacres.

The abuse of power and life under a dictatorship, dispossession, and a fiercely proud awareness of the psychological wounds and emotional vulnerability of a uprooted and disenfranchised people who had to forge a new language—a new set of names—to express their lived experiences are at the heart of this wonderful Zimbabwean author’s literary work, NoViolet Bulawayo. Shortly after her studies, she was already writing short stories about postcolonial power dynamics in Africa. But her playful, masterful, and often unconventional approach to language also plays a key role in her work. With virtuosity, she shifts from cynical images of power-obsessed elites to compassionate descriptions of the people’s suffering, ending with a hopeful sermon on courage—the courage to break free from fear and thus gain the strength for change ("And every one of them understood that whatever they heard within those hearts was the new national anthem, tholukuthi an anthem that spoke of the kind of glory that burns eternal and glows with living light." p.400). This novel is a genuine pleasure to read. And it’s exceptional. Good, African...

Book info (original English and German translation):

NoViolet Bulawayo. Glory. Chatto & Windus, 2022. NoViolet Bulawayo. Glory. Suhrkamp, 2023.

Hery

The books (in English, in German)

Author NoViolet Bulawayo, Zimbabwe

Threads (p.164-165)

Hi there,

Last February, I made a trip using "public transport" from France to southern Senegal via Spain, Morocco, Western Sahara, and Mauritania.

It’s a journey of about 5,000 km, where I took trains (as far as Marrakech), ferries (to cross Gibraltar and then to reach Casamance from Dakar), and mostly buses on the long desert straightaways. I hadn’t planned any stops in advance or booked any hotels, except for the very first train to Spain, which left plenty of room for the unexpected. Why travel by land and sea? In recent years, flight-free travel has been gaining popularity. On social media, posts explaining how to cross Europe by train as quickly as possible go viral. Traveling without flying—and making sure people know about it—has become a great way to earn a badge of eco-responsibility: an essential totem for anyone wanting to prove both their dedication to the ecological cause and the wisdom of slow travel. I haven’t flown in years, and this journey to West Africa could easily be filed under "responsible travel." But it wouldn’t be honest to say that: in reality, it wasn’t really my aversion to flying that motivated this long trek. I see overland travel primarily as a way to experience the world’s geography at a grounded, earthly pace—the pace of the locals. Besides, I’ll be flying back, which disqualifies any claim to being a model of sustainability. So no eco-badge, and no adventurer’s badge either: you won’t find any heroic tales of camel rides in lost lands or mineral train wagons in this account (popular with influencers, the Mauritania iron ore train now attracts tourists from all over the world, turning "the experience" into something you "have to do at least once in your life"). This five-part story, written on the road, has no other ambition than to recount a journey through places and people, and to share the thoughts they inspire in me. As simply and, I hope, as humbly as possible.

I’m posting the episodes here, which you can also find on my blog (with more photos) at the following links:

Episode 1: Spain, from Avignon to Algeciras

Episode 2: Morocco, from Tangier to Tarfaya

Episode 3: Western Sahara, from Tarfaya to Guerguerat

Episode 4: Mauritania, from Guerguerat to Nouakchott

Episode 5: Senegal, from Rosso to Saloulou

To help those who might want to make the same trip, I’ve also put together a summary of the route with recommendations—you can read it at the end of the story and on the blog: From France to Senegal Without Flying: Route and Itinerary Recommendations

Happy reading, and safe travels!

Introduction: For years, I’ve heard about Costa Rica, which seems like a country "made for me"—nature, not cities. I almost went in 2019, but a family issue made me cancel. Initially, I wanted to spend at least three weeks there, planning to go in our summer despite it being the rainy season. Then I realized what I wanted to do could fit into two weeks, so I ended up going in February. Plus, January’s weather was so awful that some sunshine should do me good. I found a flight at a decent price, but with two downsides. The first is that it leaves from Paris CDG, and the second is that it’s with Air France—a airline I’d sworn off after my misadventures with them back in 2008. We’ll see how it goes!

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I inherited my love of travel from my parents and some of my grandparents. A strong passion, but one that was unfortunately limited by our family’s modest resources. Back then, living in northern Alsace, a simple trip to the southern part of the region—with the Wine Route as our destination—felt like an extraordinary journey to a land of plenty for the little boy I was in the late 60s and early 70s. Everything seemed so huge when you were still just a kid. Back then, I was overwhelmed by countless sensations—I was already highly sensitive, with a keen mind and a nose and taste buds that were developing like a pro’s. Which, as I’d later realize, wasn’t always an advantage.



Those magical days always began with a gentle late-spring or midsummer morning. The interior of the white Peugeot 404, license plate 210 LZ 67, had already soaked up the sun before the engine purred to life, and the cabin gave off a scent I could still recognize today—a fragrance I found so pleasant. Back then, I had no idea it was just the smell of warm plastic from the car’s interior. Yes, the scents of the 404 on sunny days became my madeleine de Proust... What’s more, the whole family was unusually cheerful because those moments of relaxation and leisure were rare. Everyone worked, and no one had an easy job or was well paid. Without the *Trente Glorieuses*, these experiences might never have happened.



Once we crossed the canton’s borders, I felt like I was light-years away from my everyday surroundings, and every kilometer plunged me deeper into *terra incognita*. It was thrilling. Far from my so-called "medium-sized" town, wheat fields, cornfields, and cabbage patches stretched out, punctuated by tall poles connected by long wires and topped with vegetation—like giant clotheslines without laundry, where magical beanstalks might grow to touch the sky. Back then, I was still far from tasting their product, which was simply beer. At the time, there was still a significant local hop production. Fun fact: it wasn’t until 2002 that Anglo-Saxon scientists proved hops and cannabis belong to the same biological family.

After the fields, the landscape took another step up as it rolled past the little boy’s eyes, often glued to the windows. First came modest hills, then a succession of rolling slopes that soon formed an unbroken chain. Their 700 meters in altitude felt like Himalayan peaks to me—impressive, inert giants, a whole new world. Gazing at them, an intense emotion welled up somewhere between my stomach and lungs, nearly taking my breath away. What mysteries, what treasures did these heights hold? And then there were the cherries on top—the crowning touch that made the scene even more magical: proud, majestic castles perched on the summits like impassive sentinels. Monuments from the past, yet firmly rooted in the present on their rocky spurs. The little boy’s eyes sparkled—he’d been given a castle for Christmas, complete with battlements, towers, a drawbridge, and fully armed knights. He’d watched and lived *Ivanhoe* on the only French TV channel that existed back then.

Only once did my paternal grandfather join us on one of these trips. A tall, intelligent man with a face that could shift from stern to mischievous, clearly full of humor and charisma. Sadly, his relationship with alcohol had taken a toll on his life and, by extension, those of his loved ones. He had a strong personality—if his boss crossed the line, he wouldn’t hesitate to punch him, which meant he went through a lot of different jobs. Back then, you could quit one job and easily find another. It was quite something to see him in his final stages, hallucinating pink elephants and even drinking perfume when he had nothing else left. The last time I saw him, he’d slipped away from the doctors and nurses while hospitalized in pretty bad shape—at least, I assume his liver was the issue. We were sitting down for a family lunch when the door burst open, and there he stood in his pajamas, eyes twinkling with mischief, clearly pleased with the dramatic entrance. That theatrical moment didn’t spare us from burying him a few months later at the age of 71. One day, my mother told me the family doctor had quietly remarked that it was a shame—with his robust constitution, he could’ve lived to be a hundred. Yes, the family doctor—this was the man who’d come treat you any day, at almost any hour, just for a phone call. It really existed, it’s not a myth!

That day, his wife—my paternal grandmother—was also along for the ride. Everyone agreed that Jeannette was a good woman. She worked as a waitress at *Le Tigre*, the biggest brasserie in town, right in the center. Most customers preferred to be served by her, including local dignitaries and even the mayor. As a kid, I didn’t find her very fun, open, or warm—she seemed a bit stern. Back then, women in their fifties already had the face and build of grandmothers. Same went for men, don’t get me wrong. I had no idea about the struggles she faced because of her husband. I didn’t know that 30 years earlier, she’d had to flee Alsace while pregnant, under threat from Nazi fighter-bombers. I didn’t know she’d had several miscarriages, and that my father—her only surviving child, born prematurely in March 1940 at the other end of France—weighed less than a kilo at birth and was so tiny he could fit in a shoebox. Hard to imagine he’d grow into a strapping man nearly 1.80 meters tall, tipping the scales at 100 kilos. When you come back from summer camp in early August and ask why she didn’t pick you up with your parents, and they gently tell you she’s "in heaven," you don’t realize she passed away at 54 after suffering greatly from stomach cancer that had spread.

Back to that family outing, that enchanted parenthesis. I even remembered where we’d had lunch when I passed through Dambach-la-Ville decades later. One of those charming, flower-filled towns Alsace produces in abundance—and preserves so well. This one sits high on a hill, and I was a bit stunned on the parking lot because the view stretched far, revealing the Alsace plain below—its fields, villages, hills, and forests. The world seemed so vast and enticing that day, even though I was only glimpsing a tiny fraction of it.



The region was already very touristy, but I wouldn’t notice the downsides until much later. That Sunday noon, I discovered a large restaurant filled with diners. I can still see the enormous piece of meat they served me, decorated with a little wooden skewer topped with a flag. I kept that one for a long time. Those were the golden days of rich, flowing, thick sauces—so flavorful—and the era of the world’s best fries, made on the spot with the best potatoes. To top it off, I was *exceptionally* allowed a small bottle of apple juice, Orangina, or—even better if possible—Sinalco. Yes, Sinalco—like Orangina, but better. A brand that must’ve disappeared in the 70s, but why, and what a shame! Since then, Orangina’s little bubbles have taken the brand to the other side of the planet—it’s now Japanese.

Year after year, I’d eagerly await that ecstatic moment when the most beautiful castle in Alsace, the Haut-Koenigsbourg, appeared in my field of vision. The perfect model, the archetype that blended into the landscape at the height of a child’s dreams. The trip home always felt like a reality check—less jarring than an alarm clock, but more diffuse and melancholic. From then on, there was only one wish: *When do we leave again?*

Hello everyone,

It’s something we often notice in this forum—and many others—this behavioral shift.

A long-time member, or even a new one, asks a question. They get one or more answers, some brief, some detailed, and then... nothing???

Not even a simple thank you!!!

From what I’ve gathered, if the answers don’t align with what they wanted to hear, it seems natural for the asker to just disappear!! 😕 Unless—(and I fear this is the case)—basic politeness is no longer part of our society????

Please forgive my little rant.

Wishing everyone all the best. Cheers,

Puma2A



...

Some trips are born twice.

Ours was supposed to happen in 2020. Everything was ready: the itinerary, the flight tickets, hotel reservations and Machu Picchu, the rental car, dreams of high altitudes and wide-open spaces. And then the world stopped.

Like so many other plans, our trip to Peru was put on hold. Disappointment was followed by a more concrete reality: paperwork, endless back-and-forth, and battles to recover some of the costs we’d already paid.

The years went by. Life moved on, with its shifting priorities and unexpected twists. Rescheduling this trip wasn’t possible until 2025.

The itinerary stayed mostly true to what we’d imagined five years earlier. One major difference, though—in 2020, we’d planned to rent a car and explore the roads completely independently. Most importantly, we hadn’t included the three-day Ausangate trek, due to lack of time.

For 2025, our plans evolved. 4x4 rental prices had skyrocketed, and when we looked at our schedule more closely, we realized quite a few days didn’t actually need a vehicle. So we made a different choice and opted for private drivers instead. A decision we never regretted. Always punctual, thoughtful, and available... they were so much more than just drivers.

All our reservations were made in January, except for the trek, which we booked in February.

Finding reliable drivers on our own was tough, so we asked Laurent from Tout Pérou to handle it for us. Going through Tout Pérou also gave us a discount on the train ride to Aguas Calientes, so Laurent booked those tickets too. He also bought our Machu Picchu entrance tickets at the same price we would’ve paid on the official website. When comparing domestic flight prices, we found it was cheaper to book from Peru, so Laurent took care of those as well.

This time, nothing was going to stop us. Peru was waiting. And we were ready. 🙂

Hi there,

I arrived in Tunisia this afternoon for a full 14-day stay.

I took a direct Tunisair flight from Nice, which departed about thirty minutes late (that’s nothing compared to the "nightmares" I’ve had on some of my recent trips).

The flight lasts around 1 hour and 20 minutes, and a small snack was served on board (a sort of quiche with chickpea purée, a small bread roll, a portion of cheese like La Vache qui rit, and a small chocolate cake). It’s worth mentioning because it’s becoming increasingly rare on short flights. I was seated between two Tunisian gentlemen who gave me some great tips for my trip, especially about negotiating prices. One of them is a former cameraman for France Télévisions, very cultured and well-traveled—his daughter is a journalist at France Télévisions (I found some of her articles online). In short, the flight was very pleasant and quick.



I’m staying at the Hôtel Royal Victoria. I booked it yesterday afternoon by email without providing my credit card number. The room costs 241 TND (71 €) with breakfast included. It has heating, a small fridge, a safe, a hairdryer, Wi-Fi, and a TV with international channels. There’s a police van permanently parked in the square where the hotel is located.

This hotel is housed in the former British consulate and later embassy. It has a lot of charm with its painted wood ceilings and doors, and its bathroom covered in ceramic tiles. The tiny elevator is from another era. The main advantage of the hotel is its location between the medina and Avenue Bourguiba. Nearby, there’s the Magasin Général, where you can find groceries and some typical products like rose water, geranium water, and tons of halwa (a customer kindly explained how to eat it and which is the best).

After nightfall, I took a short stroll down Avenue Bourguiba. There weren’t many people around—it’s windy and cold.

I’ve already noticed the warm welcome from Tunisians. The supermarket cashier welcomed me to Tunisia, and a gentleman I asked for directions to the Magasin Général (I was about to climb stairs leading to a mosque!) insisted on inviting me for coffee, but I declined.

The rest of my itinerary will depend on the weather. If it doesn’t rain tomorrow, I might visit Carthage since the Bardo Museum is closed on Mondays, as are the museums in Sidi Bou Said.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Hi, I’m leaving this Saturday for Northern India from 15/02 to 27/02. I’m planning to visit New Delhi, Agra, Chand Baori, Jaipur, Ranthambore, Bundi, Udaipur, and Jodhpur.

What’s the best way to get around? I was thinking of doing everything by train. Maybe taking the bus for some stretches?

As for renting a car with a driver, it seems expensive, so I’ve pretty much ruled that out. Unless someone’s got space for the same dates?

Thanks for your insights!

NAMASTE NEPAL! PRACTICAL INFO AND EXPERIENCE FEEDBACK

Stay from March 25 to April 16, 2025

· Flight tickets Air India (via Delhi) (via Skyscanner) = 1130 € per person · Planned budget (and respected without too many restrictions and while buying a few small gifts) = 2000 € for the stay for two. Buses, taxis, and entrance fees to various sites represent a budget to consider. Meals are cheap. Drinks like beer/Coke, however, are not cheap and cost the equivalent of a meal. · Exchange rate of the rupee during our stay = 0.0064 € (the exchange rate is almost identical everywhere, including at the airport). · At the airport, purchase of two SIM cards (phone) = 1000 NPR x 2 for 28 days. · Kathmandu: we had booked the hotel upon arrival: Kathmandu Boutique Hotel (+977 015 357 446 – email: booking@kathmanduboutiquehotel.com), very well located in a quiet alley off the street, south of Thamel, a 10-minute walk from Durbar Square. A hotel like Nepal knows how to do, where tall people will have to duck. Night + breakfast = 18 € for two. Very warm welcome, great location, excellent value for money. · Bhaktapur: we had also booked a hotel for the end of our stay because the chance of the year 2025 made the Nepali New Year and Bisket Jatra particularly festive in Bhaktapur: Manju Baha Hotel School (+977 976 7234014 – email: manjubahahotel@gmail.com) located in an old monastery. "A social enterprise transforming an old monastery into a charming hotel, offering professional hospitality training to underprivileged Nepali youth." Night + breakfast = 32 € for two. Beautifully decorated room. Very warm welcome. Don’t miss the Changunarayan site (near Bhaktapur), it’s amazing. And if you’re lucky enough to be in Bhaktapur in mid-April for 3 days, there’s the Bisket Jatra festivities (Newari festival), joyful, noisy, fun, and wild… · Pokhara (hotel recommended by the Kathmandu hotel): Hotel Green Tara, Lakeside, 10th street, set back, quiet (Tel. +977 61 462698 – email: greentara_67@hotmail.com) · Trek permit (Lower Mustang, no need for an agency or guide, permits checked at Ghasa and Jomsom) = 2000 NPR per person (2 ID photos) · Bus Kathmandu/Pokhara and return = 2000 NPR per person · Bus Pokhara/Jomsom, 2 one-way tickets = 2800 NPR. · Taxi: negotiation with a driver we recommend, Vicky (+977 984 075 599). You explain what you want, negotiate the price, and he waits for you during the visit. Very charming, we used him several times. For example: departure from our hotel at 10 AM -> Boudhanath/Pashupatinath/Patan return at 5 PM to the hotel = 6500 NPR – Swayambhunath (round trip) = 1200 NPR · Site prices: https://ntb.gov.np/plan-your-trip/before-you-come/heritage-site-entry-fees o Visitor Pass for Kathmandu Durbar Square (for the duration of the stay, show your visa) = 1000 NPR per person (1 ID photo) o Bhaktapur Durbar Square (old town) = 1800 NPR per person o Patan = 1000 NPR per person o Swayambhu Stupa = 200 NPR per person o Boudha Stupa = 200 NPR per person o Pashupatinath Temple = 1000 NPR per person (interesting to take a guide) o Changunarayan Temple (6 km north of Bhaktapur) = 400 NPR per person o Mountain Museum in Pokhara = 750 NPR per person · E-cigarettes: e-cigarettes are banned in India and confiscated whether they’re in carry-on or checked luggage. On the way there, we had kept them in our carry-on, they were confiscated in Delhi. On the way back, learning from our previous experience, we put them in our checked luggage. Someone came to get us to take them out of our bags and confiscate them… You can find e-cigarettes and products in Kathmandu.

* * *

I’m 74 years old. I went to Nepal in 1982, 1983, and the last time in 1986. I wanted to introduce this beautiful and endearing country to my husband, and it was… now or never. So we decided it was now.

I knew the trek starting from Pokhara: Naudanda/Birethanti/Ghorepani/Tatopani/Kalopani. There was no way I was going to do that trek, especially the 1000-meter staircase to reach Ghorepani… You have to stay humble with age.

Back then, the road didn’t exist. I didn’t consider, with the construction of this road (NH48) along the western bank of the Kali Gandaki, doing a trek along a windy and dusty road. Was there an alternative hiking trail on the eastern bank? No one answered my question on VoyageForum, so I did my research online. And I found this site: "Andrées de Ruiter and Prem Rai - Trekking the Annapurna Circuit, including the new NATT trails that avoid the road - A guide to one of the most beautiful trekking regions in Nepal and the world (2011) - NATT = New Annapurna Trekking Trail".

Phew! A solution was emerging. This circuit from 2011 wasn’t fully marked. The idea was to go from Jomsom to Tatopani, so we needed to make sure the path was well-marked all the way, which we did, and the path exists, marked in red and white!

So, with the walking times information, we built our 8-day circuit:

· Jomsom/Thinigaon · Thinigaon/Chimang · Chimang/Saura · Saura/Kokhetanti · Rest day or, if in good shape: loop to Sekong Lake · Kokhetanti/Jhipra Deurali · Jhipra Deurali/Kopchepani · Kopchepani/Tatopani

It’s a senior trek, after all. So the walking times noted on the sites indicated 3 hours or even 4 hours for the two longest stages. That pace suited us fine.

On March 29, we left Kathmandu (1400m), after visiting the must-see sites, by bus to Pokhara: 200 km and 8.5 hours on a chaotic road under construction. I had a memory of Pokhara where it was the first city where you could see the Himalayan range, especially Machhapuchhare. But the pollution is such, the dust raised by traffic and construction, that no horizon is visible except the first hills around Pokhara.

We stayed 24 hours in Pokhara (820m), and on March 31, we left our luggage at the hotel and set off with our lightest backpacks: change of clothes, toiletries, first aid kit, anti-chafing cream, water bottle, sleeping bag liner, and light shoes for the stages.

We took the bus to Jomsom: 160 km/7.5 hours including stops for bathroom breaks, tea, and lunch. The road is nothing but a chaos of potholes, landslides, construction, dust, rebuilding, and mudslides. In Ghasa, the bus stops, and we’re told we’re at a checkpoint and that the two foreigners in the bus, my husband and I, need to have our permits checked, which takes a few minutes. The driving is rock-and-roll, surprising, and courteous. The drivers have their codes, and on these improbable roads, they’re virtuosos.

We could have chosen the plane, but several reasons dissuaded us: if there’s too much wind, the planes don’t take off; personally, I wasn’t reassured about landing in Jomsom, and this transport has a cost.

We arrived around 2 PM in Jomsom (2720m), and despite the early wake-up, the nearly 8 hours on the bus, and the altitude, we decided to head straight to Thinigaon (2840m). At the Jomsom checkpoint, they told us it was a 30-minute walk. Great! Except we took an hour and a half on an uphill road, bent over to fight a strong wind. But the Himalayan range is there! The Dhaulagiri, the Nilgiri, the Annapurnas as a reward.

In Thinigaon, we found a room at the "Nilgiri View Hotel" run by a didi (big sister in Nepali). From the lodge’s roof, she proudly showed us the different peaks surrounding the village and told us, worried, that it hadn’t snowed here for 3 years. She said there are very few tourists, that the season is rather in September/October/November. It seems there’s not a soul in this village, yet mules pass through the narrow street paved with large flat stones, their bells ringing. We dine at 6 PM and go to bed… Room = 1200 NPR and dinner, breakfast, and drinks = 2560 NPR.

On April 1, we set off at 9 AM, not for Chimang as planned but for Marpha! The didi from the Thinigaon lodge had said it was a 3-hour walk. The first part of this stage is attractive, the mountains are magnificent and imposing, the landscape is superb, there’s no one around, a feeling of being "alone in the world." We follow Dhumbra Tal, this small green lake. The path is a rocky track that climbs steeply. Then, around a hill, we start the big descent that joins the Kali Gandaki. We face the wind head-on, and the violent gusts take our breath away, throw us off balance, and envelop us in dust. We see the road on the other side of the Kali Gandaki. We arrive in the village of Chhairo at 2 PM, completely exhausted and with blistered feet, after 5 hours of walking instead of the planned 3.5 hours.

We’re welcomed by the village nurse, who tells us there’s a lodge in the village. Chhairo is a Tibetan village, a 20-minute walk from Marpha (according to the locals, multiply by 2 or even 3 for us…). We’re going to revise our trek plan and, first of all, spend the night in Chhairo.

The lodge is quite pleasant, and Karma, the hostess, is very friendly. She asks about our plans and suggests we stay in Chhairo the next day, from where we can visit Marpha and also Chimang, a 1-hour walk away, in light mode, meaning without backpacks. She invites us to participate in a village ceremony the next evening.

We immediately accept the proposal, as our feet need rest and the welcome is so warm… Dinner and bed!

We reworked our trek plan, which was too ambitious for our untrained bodies and, let’s face it… no longer in our first youth. In the initial plan, we thought there wouldn’t be too much elevation gain following the Kali Gandaki, but checking the map, we realize there might be significant elevation changes between Sauru and Sirkung. So we plan:

· Tomorrow: visit Marpha (2670m) and Chimang (2744m) · April 3: bus from Chhairo (2700m) to Kalopani (2530m) and continue on foot to Ghasa (2010m) · April 4: Ghasa/Pairataplo (1940m) · April 5: Pairatapla/Gadpar (1580m) · April 6: Gadpar/Narchyang (1510m) · April 7: Narchyang/Tatopani (1190m) · April 8: return to Pokhara.

Normally, it’s all downhill…

April 2, a rest day then… We set off in the morning to explore Marpha. We have to take a temporary bridge because the suspension bridge is closed due to road construction. We join the road and arrive in Marpha, a village famous for its apple orchards, brandy, cider, and apple juice production. This village is magnificent with its stone houses and monastery clinging to the hillside. The road construction spared it. There are people, but very few Western tourists.

We have lunch in Marpha and go back through Chhairo to take the path to Chimang. We cross a fragrant pine forest and find the rocky path; the landscape is splendid. We walk quietly, passing peaceful buffaloes and cows, and arrive at the foot of a stone staircase… 275 steps (which we counted on the way back) leading us to the village of Chimang. Chimang is an isolated Newari village that seems a bit desolate. Despite the slopes, there are crops on every little bit of land. Thankfully, we changed our initial program because there’s no lodge in this village, contrary to what we saw on a map… We wander through the village, which seems very deserted, have coffee in a house from another world, and then head back to Chhairo.

A rest day? = 5 hours of walking!!

Dinner and village ceremony. From what we understand, this ceremony is in honor of the Dalai Lama. Men, women, and children in traditional costumes gather twice a month; they dance, make, and offer small sweet cakes with Tibetan tea (made from tea, yak butter—often rancid—water, and salt). Surprising for first-timers…

Around 10 PM, we leave the ceremony; tomorrow morning, we need to be on the roadside by 7 AM to catch the bus to Kalopani…

This village of Chhairo is very pleasant and welcoming, no tourists, just two motorcyclists who arrived in the evening, one of whom participated in the ceremony and discreetly poured his Tibetan tea outside.

Lodge: "Norsang Tibetan Guesthouse and Restaurant". Total bill for 2 nights, 2 dinners, 2 breakfasts, and drinks = 8000 NPR.

April 3: bus from Chhairo to Kalopani, about 1.5 hours for the 20 km (200 NPR per person). We descend on the right bank of the Kali Gandaki. We find the red and white markings to resume the trek toward Ghasa. We’re in a fragrant pine forest, the Dhaulagiri on one side and the Annapurnas on the other, magnificent, and the path is pleasant and easy. We get a bit lost in this forest, always looking for the markings. Near Lete, two trekkers pass us, and we meet them again a little further on with two very young children, to whom we give the 2 hard-boiled eggs I didn’t eat this morning. They accepted them without hesitation.

We arrive in a village and ask for directions to Ghasa. The young girls point the way. But we come across a forest being logged, trees cut in all directions. We turn back and ask for confirmation. They confirm… But the two young girls catch up with us and clear the way. We have to step over, go around, and cross the felled trees, with no indication at all. Through this pick-up sticks of felled trees, the girls lead us to the top of a stone staircase, indicating that was the path. It’s the only place where we saw rhododendrons in bloom.

We descend the staircase. At the bottom, to the left, there’s a bridge to go toward Choyo, and to the right, a path to Ghasa. We take the right path and join the road. We should normally find the red and white markings, but we don’t… So we continue on the western bank road of the Kali Gandaki.

A little before the village of Misi, we see fumaroles on the opposite bank that seem to come from the ground. We don’t understand. We stopped to eat in the village of Misi (noodle soup = 600 NPR), but it’s hard to communicate with the elderly people running the guesthouse.

We continued on the road, not finding the marked path parallel to the road. Landslides, both on the left and right banks, seem to have taken over the marked routes. It’s a place where the Kali Gandaki gorge narrows, and on the opposite bank, the mountain smokes more and more, and we now hear the crackling of fire. Across from us, the mountain is burning… Our initial plan had us passing on that burning bank right now…

We arrive in Ghasa at 3:30 PM, a 6.5-hour stage but with a 1-hour stop at noon. We’re at the "Florida Guesthouse and Restaurant." From our room, we see the mountain smoking on the other side of the river, and at night, we see the flames. In this village, posters show Himalayan eagles and vultures that seem to be protected species. Indeed, we saw (and heard) 3 eagles circling today.

April 4 – Today, heading to Pairothapla or Kopchepani depending on our feet, accommodation options, and simply our desires.

No more smoke on the mountain this morning. It’s chilly, 7:45 AM, the sky is clear, just a smell of smoke outside.

Price of the lodge = 1000 NPR for the night + 3580 NPR for meals.

We cross Ghasa, which stretches over more than a kilometer. We have a drink at the last guesthouse in the village, and the didi, when she learns our destination, tells us to be careful because the villages we’re going to aren’t safe. Should we distribute our rupees in different pockets? Nah, we kept going.

At the exit of Ghasa, we find the red and white markings and take the suspension bridge to cross the boiling waters of the Kali Gandaki. The passage is impressive because the river is tumultuous. Lots of climbs and even more descents. We’re back on the eastern bank. It’s hot! On the narrow path, we meet a group of buffaloes. Who has the right of way? We decide to stick as close as possible to the rock wall and move forward calmly. The buffaloes look at us, chewing placidly, with no intention of jumping on us. Phew!

After a 5-hour stage (including stops), we arrive in Pairothapla, with hot feet and firm thighs, and decide we won’t go any further. It’s a good thing because there’s a lodge, the most basic so far, but with a great welcome. We have a meal and a short nap. The buffaloes we met on the way belong to this house. They come to drink at the fountain by the path.

Our host, very pleasant, doesn’t know what to do to please us and is very attentive. He wants to chat. He has two children, a 4-year-old girl and a 7-year-old boy. Where do they go to school? Do they go? He tells us that the fires in the mountain are caused by people, but for what reason? We won’t find out, but it’s illegal. From here, we can still see smoke rising in the distance. The wife is a bit less friendly. Corn kernels dry on a woven straw mat on the ground, and the mom sorts them.

From where we are, we overlook the valley and see the road under construction winding along the mountainside on the other bank.

Dinner on the terrace of the house overlooking the path, windbreaker and fleece on: dal bhat chicken for me and chicken curry for my husband: "organic" products, at least local production. There are small vegetable gardens everywhere with all sorts of vegetables.

April 5 – While we’re having breakfast on the terrace of our lodge, 5 porters, straps on their foreheads, heavily loaded, pass by on the path. A few minutes later, a group of 9 people appears. It must be said that since the beginning of our journey, we’ve met very few hikers. Two backpackers in Chhairo, the two hikers near Lete, two female hikers passed us before Pairothapla, a solo female hiker passed us…

The lodge in Pairothapla is called "Bimala Lodge & Thakali Kitchen" – Price for night + 4 meals + 2 breakfasts = 3000 NPR.

The descent toward the Kali Gandaki involves climbs whose steps we didn’t count. Clearly, the landslides on the mountain cause changes to the official ACAP trek marked in red and white, and the marking updates can’t keep up with the pace of these landslides. It’s almost always by chance that we find the markings. Fortunately, we can follow the power line that guides us somewhat.

Drink stop in Kopchepani, the legs are fine, but the feet don’t like being tightly enclosed. A group of trekkers with porters passes on the path. We met buffaloes that we kindly let pass; the path was wide enough, but it was a staircase going up, and we didn’t want to take any risks.

Across, a view of the magnificent Rupse Waterfall on the other bank of the Kali Gandaki, at the bottom, lots of vehicles and people.

Arrival in Gadpar after crossing a rather unwelcoming small village and cultivated gardens between dry stone walls, each better built than the last.

First lodge spotted, first lodge adopted to answer the call of our feet, and a very warm welcome from the owner. Since we hadn’t eaten at noon, we had Tibetan bread/jam. 6-hour stage including 1 hour of stops. Night + dinner + breakfast + drinks = 5060 NPR

April 6 – Today, heading to Narchyang.

For several days, we’ve seen banana trees with their bunches of fruit and even a prickly pear with large fruits ripening.

This stage is quite peaceful and pleasant. We take a suspension bridge to cross a tributary of the Kali Gandaki. While we’re resting for a moment before crossing the bridge, a couple of porters, a man and a woman, arrive and start across the bridge with their wood load in a basket held by a strap on their forehead, making them bend. We set off too… lighter than them.

On the other side of the bridge… a stone staircase, and it climbs steeply. The porter couple didn’t take this staircase; they went right on the path.

At the top of the staircase, we arrive in Narchyang after a 4-hour stage. A magnificent waterfall overlooks the village. We get lost in this fairly large village looking for a lodge. After wandering around for a while, we ask for directions, and an 84-year-old man takes us through the whole village and accompanies us to a very nice lodge run by a woman.

We chat with our hostess, who asks where we’re from and where we’re going. We explain that we want to reach Tatopani the next day and then return to Pokhara. She tells us there are 4x4s going directly to Pokhara and that it would probably be easier than taking a bus that might be full in Tatopani. After a quick consultation, we decide to return to Pokhara the next day by 4x4. She finds us a 4x4 with 2 seats left, departure at 8 AM – 5 hours on the road and 1500 NPR per person. A charming didi who does everything to be pleasant and helpful.

Narchyang community lodge = night + snacks + dinner + breakfast = 3000 NPR.

There you go, our trek ends tomorrow. Many necessary changes and adaptations to our initial trek, but no regrets, it was superb and a great experience that, for my part, I won’t be able to repeat. Always this encounter with the endearing, welcoming, curious, and very kind Nepali people. It was now or never, and we did it!

* * *

In conclusion, 3 full weeks in Nepal is a duration that allows visiting Kathmandu, Patan, and Bhaktapur, enjoying the various sites, and soaking in the atmosphere and urban Nepali life.

The trek, even revised and corrected, allowed us to get close to the impressive Annapurna and Dhaulagiri peaks. One or two acclimatization days might be necessary to get the body in tune with this magical and extraordinary land.

Hey fellow travelers!

So, a new year has begun. It’s time to reconnect with the VF buddies and wish you all my best for 2026—a year I hope is obviously full of travel, since, as I just made up: "If travel’s good, everything’s good" 😄.

To celebrate, I’m inviting you into my new "travel journal," the one from our latest trip in November 2025, a little two-week adventure.

This time, we headed to The Gambia, a tiny country tucked right in the middle of Senegal, before making our way to Casamance.

The Gambia is English-speaking, Senegal is French-speaking, but the locals? They couldn’t care less—because in this part of the world, they mostly speak Wolof, Fula, Jola, or Mandinka. Hence the title: Senegambia 😉.

As usual, I’m sharing the live updates I sent to friends and family—super casual, of course.

I know this isn’t the kind of destination that draws crowds, but if you love adventure, laughter, and emotion, it might just be your thing 😊.

Hugs 😘

Hello everyone,

After sharing some safari photos from southern Tanzania, I’d like to show you those from our latest safari in Kenya in October 2025.

First, I’d like to thank Sylvie56, whose previous travel journals about this country inspired our trip choices. Thanks also for the info you sent us via PM. THANK YOU!

The following account is from a simple wildlife enthusiast. You won’t find anything here but images of landscapes, mammals, and birds. The stated purpose of this trip was purely and solely wildlife-focused. (It was in no way a discovery of the country or its people).

This stay/safari began (and ended) in Nairobi, with flights between France and Kenya operated by Qatar Airways departing from Nice.

Over two weeks, we first visited the reserves of Tsavo West and Tsavo East, then after a long road trip, the two reserves of Buffalo Springs and Samburu.

= Please wait until the end of the journal to ask any specific questions (or send them via PM) to keep the story flowing without interruptions or off-topic comments.

Thanks for your understanding.

...

Previous Kenya safari trip in 2017, here:

http://www.image-nature.com/forum/viewtopic.php?f=162&t=61119

...

Hi there,

When I run searches on Skyscanner, I see that only Lufthansa has flights to Seoul with just one stop. Air France doesn’t show up, even though I thought the French airline served Seoul? I can’t even log into the Air France website—it keeps glitching.

Hi everyone,

I hesitated for a long time before publishing this travel journal since it’s been 8 months now since I left Nisyros. But in the end, I found it too beautiful to keep quiet about. So here we go—I finally got around to writing it. Nisyros is a stunning little Greek island, and luckily, it’s well hidden. Located a good twenty hours by boat from Athens, its distance from the Greek mainland deters most tourists from visiting. That’s what makes it an off-the-beaten-path destination. So much for the general info.



Before diving into the details, I should mention that I visited by bike (despite its severe and constant volcanic elevation) as part of a solo trip from France to Turkey. Why this detail? Because out of the ten countries I crossed and the dozens of sites I saw, Nisyros is one of my top three favorites (along with Pag Island, off-season, in Croatia, and Albania for its overall beauty—stunning natural landscapes and the incredible hospitality of its people). Anyway, welcome to this travel journal dedicated to the lovely little volcanic island of Nisyros…



I arrived one beautiful morning in Mandraki, the island’s main port. The twenty-hour boat ride from Athens went by like a breeze. I slept on the deck for three or four hours, sprawled on a bench that was more or less sheltered from the wind. At this time of year (it’s May 2nd), tourists aren’t exactly flocking here, so the boat was far from full. My first glimpse of Nisyros is classic Greek island scenery: blazing sun, an azure sky, and an even deeper blue sea. The trip is off to a great start. I quickly found a small, out-of-the-way hotel (I’m one of those people who avoids crowds as much as possible when traveling, which is getting harder and harder to do). While everyone else from the boat turned right out of the port toward the center of Mandraki, I went left! My nice little hotel was just a hundred meters away, facing a pretty little Orthodox church whose red color contrasted beautifully with the deep blue sea.



I dropped off my panniers in my room so I could ride light for once, then headed toward the next village: Pali. It’s a small fishing village that apparently comes to life a bit in the summer with a few tourists.



As I pedaled along the dock, I passed right by a guy sitting in a chair in full sun. Unfazed despite the sweat pouring down his forehead, he untangled his fishing net with a precision that commanded respect. I gave him the obligatory kalimera (good morning), but he reacted like a deaf-mute—no response at all. On the other hand, his employee answered me kindly from the trawler docked right next to him. Standing on deck, he was also untangling a mess of nets and invited me aboard to chat. That’s Mohamed.



Communication wasn’t easy since he only spoke Greek and I didn’t, but he was cheerful, and his joy was contagious. He proudly showed off their catch of the day: two beautiful rays and a few brightly colored fish. We chatted like that for about fifteen minutes.



When it was time to hit the road again, I said goodbye to Mohamed, who smiled back. But this time, his boss—still dripping sweat in his chair under the scorching sun—greeted me too. Turns out he wasn’t deaf or mute after all.



I continued along the coast since that’s where most of Nisyros’ beaches are. They start lining up just outside Pali. These are black sand beaches, which can’t hide their volcanic origins.



Yesterday afternoon in Athens, I met Peter and Michelle, a Dutch-French couple, while we were waiting for the ferry to depart. The Greek sailors were on strike, so we ended up waiting about twelve hours before setting off. Anyway, we had plenty of time to chat, and Peter, who’s lived on Tilos—a small island near Nisyros—for about twenty years, told me that many migrants pass through these two islands. Most come from Afghanistan and Syria, fleeing authoritarian regimes and the massacres that come with them. They’re looking for *anywhere* else where the future can’t possibly be worse. Peter explained that you often find their belongings on the local beaches. And sure enough, I didn’t have to look far to spot some—clothes, life jackets…



I glanced around, hoping to see one of them to maybe exchange a few words, but no—no one. I was completely alone.



I got back on my bike and spent the rest of the day wandering aimlessly, just exploring this beautiful part of Nisyros. I also picked up some supplies because tomorrow, I’d be heading inland for two days, deep into its four-kilometer-wide caldera to explore the volcano. I’d be sleeping in a tent, so I needed to stock up on food. After a restful night in a real bed—something rare on this bike trip (and I won’t even mention the shower…)—I finally set off for the volcano (I’ll share details about that charming little hotel with the amazing breakfasts at the end of the journal). To reach Stefanos (the name of the main crater), I had to climb to the top of the caldera. It was hot, and some of the slopes were between 10 and 15%, which is steep, especially with a 54 kg bike. But who cares? I was admiring the scenery, and I have to say, I was surprised by how green it was. The higher I climbed, the more beautiful the vegetation became. It stood out against the blue of the sea, and the landscapes inside the island were truly stunning. So, I stopped every five minutes to take photos. Every now and then, I’d come across cows in the middle of the road—or goats in the trees! They climbed with the agility of monkeys to munch on the leaves. I couldn’t get a photo of them because they’d all scatter before I got close. It was actually the noise they made climbing down that tipped me off to their presence. Two villages sit at the top of the caldera: Emporios and Nikia. I passed the first one without climbing up to it, then continued to the second. And let me tell you, Nikia was love at first sight! I found myself pedaling through tiny streets, some barely wider than my bike with its panniers. The walls were white, and the doors were painted in all sorts of colors—green, blue, red… The streets were empty, and silence reigned. But it wasn’t a dead silence. It was more like the kind you find in small, secret, peaceful places. The village exuded tranquility, calm, and well-being. I leaned my bike—with all its gear—against a wall without locking it. It was the first time on this trip that I’d done that. Sure, its weight made it more like a tank than a bike, so you’d have to be *really* motivated to steal it, but here, for some reason, I felt completely at ease. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, but I go a lot by instinct, and here, it felt right. So I left my bike there and went to eat a little farther away, at a small restaurant on the village’s main square. It’s famous all over Greece for the beautiful mosaic that covers and decorates the floor. Once I’d eaten and drunk my fill, I hopped back on my bike, which had waited patiently without running off. And the best part? After riding uphill all morning to reach the top of the caldera, all I had to do now was coast downhill to the volcano. Pure bliss in such breathtaking scenery.

Hey there, VF crew!

After wrapping up our travel journal on Java (link below), we’re now diving into our recent adventure in Puglia! Happy reading... Off we go on an adventure in Java (and a bit of Bali) | Travel journal > Indonesia | Voyage Forum

Day 1 - October 19

When you tell your friends and family you’re itching to escape to the other side of the planet to mingle with the Mongols, you can usually expect a barrage of questionable jokes and terrible puns. For this new adventure, it’s a different destination but the same old story—this time, we’re visiting the "pouilleux" (the "scruffy" ones). We’re taking off straight for Puglia! If you need a cheat sheet to remember where this oddly named place is on a world map, just think of it this way: Puglia is the maiden name on the ID card of the heel of the Italian boot! Personally, I prefer to remember it as the land of creamy burrata, the smell of focaccia fresh from the oven, orecchiette shaped by mamas, golden olive oil that shines like the sun (which beams down here 300 days a year), amaretto that makes you happy, and those famous trulli—those little hobbit-like dry-stone houses straight out of a movie set...

But I’ll stop spoiling the rest of our trip and focus on a factual rundown of this first Puglian day. So, are you joining us on this new adventure beyond our Gallic borders? Either way, Sasha (my youngest) and Luna (Flo’s daughter) didn’t need much convincing to stick with us and keep up the pace!

Our plane drops our little crew in Bari, the site of a famously tragic battle lost in 1991. But revenge is sweet! After renting a motorized carriage, we escape the landing zone and head to our military base of operations: Ostuni, a strategic little town where we’ll set up camp for the next four days. Why Ostuni? First, for its central location, which lets us explore a region packed with must-see gems. Second, for its vibe and beauty, which have earned it quite the reputation. Perched high on a hill, the *città bianca* (the "White City") lives up to its nickname. It literally dazzles visitors. The reason? The whitewashed facades of its houses, a testament to the region’s rich architectural heritage.





We arrived late last night, so only the two bravest soldiers volunteered to scout ahead at dawn, while the younger recruits stayed behind—for now. But not for long! After the first wave of streets and the next round of exploration, headquarters made the inevitable call to retreat. Reinforcements were needed! A few strategic errands, a breakfast ration, and our battalion marched in tight formation, flag held high, to conquer Ostuni the White! *Charge!* In my squadron leader’s memoirs, I’ll write that I didn’t expect Ostuni to put up such a fight. What I thought would take two hours to conquer turned into a humbling experience—we could only bow in respect to its beauty, its relentless charm. The alleys are whiter, more labyrinthine, narrower, and more photogenic than the last. *Veni, vidi, vici*—but what an entrance, my troops!

Hi there, I’ve been traveling for 18 years now, at least 6 months a year, and as the years go by, I actually enjoy coming back to France more and more—a feeling I struggled with at first. I mean, we always think the grass is greener elsewhere. But in the end, I find meaning in that saying about how there’s no place like home. I still love traveling just as much, but now my trips are shorter, and I enjoy spending more time in our beautiful country, even though I don’t hesitate to criticize it. How about you? How do you handle coming back from your travels?

Hi everyone,

We traveled to Norway in the summer of 2025, from July 17 to 29, to visit Senja Island and the Lofoten archipelago with a rental car. The common thread of these twelve days was clearly hiking, along with a few visits and experiences, and nights spent in a tent or in the car (which made it possible). We chose Narvik Airport for both arrival and departure for several complementary reasons: the desire to visit nearby Senja Island, slightly more affordable airfare, and finally, the rental price of the vehicle—especially the car model we were looking for. We only made one reservation, for the first campsite, as sleeping in a tent made things much easier. But we had the whole structure of the trip planned, a flexible outline that could adapt to the weather conditions we’d encounter. Senja Island isn’t part of the Lofoten archipelago, and during the early stages of planning this trip, we hadn’t planned to visit it. But its relative proximity to Narvik Airport and, above all, its unique geography definitely made us change our minds. We arrived in Evenes, where Narvik Airport is located, nearly 60 km from the city itself. Our first stop was 40 km further in Bjerkvik on the way to Senja, where there’s a Rema 1000 (a very common supermarket chain in Norway). We needed to buy some food and a gas cartridge for our stove. I’d emailed the store manager beforehand, who told me they didn’t sell them but that the two gas stations in the village were likely to have some in stock.

It was only at the Esso station that I found what I needed, but unfortunately, only one cartridge. Luckily, we quickly realized that most campsites (like in Iceland) have a shared kitchen with hotplates. That single small cartridge was just enough for the few nights we spent outside of campsites... We got our first taste of Norway’s characteristic landscapes:

When we arrived at the Senja campsite, it was already 9:30 PM. A sign announced it was full, but luckily, I’d booked it 10 days earlier. By 10:30 PM, as we settled in to eat, it was still broad daylight, and the thermometer read 25°C—despite being at a latitude of 69° North! We went to bed around midnight, exhausted but under the light of a sun that was still very much present. Thanks to Earth’s tilted axis. We’d anticipated this by buying opaque sleep masks because, yes, at this time of year, it’s daylight all the time.

Friday, July 18:

Today, we planned two hikes on the island and a few stops along the way. The map clearly shows that the deepest fjords are in the north and west. Due to time and accessibility, we focused on the northern part of the island. Our first stop was at the viewing platform in Bergbotn:



Then we headed toward Skaland, the starting point for our first hike. Along the way, we found plenty of reasons to stop—especially since, on this first day of travel, our thirst for Nordic landscapes was far from quenched.



The town of Skaland is very practical: free parking, picnic tables for after the hike, and a Joker convenience store right next door. Our goal was the summit of Husfjellet: 670 m of elevation gain, between 8 and 9 km in length, and an estimated 4 hours and 30 minutes.

This hike offers two major viewpoints. The first overlooks the Bergsoyan islands to the west:



At the summit, the view shifts to the Steinfjorden fjord:



You can even clearly see the "Devil’s Teeth," which we’d see from below later:



In total, the hike took us 4 hours and 30 minutes, including all the breaks. We treated ourselves to an ice cream in Skaland to recharge for the next hike. We hit the road again and stopped at Tungeneset to get a closer look at the Devil’s Teeth:



We continued to Fjordgard, the starting point for our second hike. Fjordgard isn’t very welcoming. There was a time when you could park right at the start of the hike up Mount Segla. Now, everything’s blocked off, and locals have even taken to blocking all possible parking spots nearby. You now have to park outside the town at a paid parking lot (90 NOK for 3 hours), adding an extra 2 km (round trip) of walking. Still, that was just a minor inconvenience because the hike that followed quickly made us forget all about it. The hike is fairly short (2 hours) but still has 520 m of elevation gain. This hike was a stark contrast to the first. This morning, we had sweeping views of the vast landscape. Here, Mount Segla, perched on the edge of the cliff, dominates the foreground:





For those prone to vertigo, it might be best to stay at the foot of the mountain, as the trail climbs right along the cliff edge. And from that point on, you quickly understand what verticality really means...



In total, we took 2 hours and 50 minutes, including breaks and the extra walk to the parking lot. The day was already well underway, and with 1,200 m of cumulative elevation gain, it was time to find a spot to eat and sleep. Since we hadn’t made any reservations, we’d planned to bivouac for the night. We weren’t too picky—just practical—so we decided to sleep in the car at the parking lot for tomorrow morning’s hike, just 5 km from Fjordgard.

Hi everyone!

That was about all the Spanish I could speak before we left... Luckily, Tom, 15 and in high school, gets by just fine! And Caroline did a year of Duolingo before we took off... Anyway, after 55 days in the American West three years ago, it’s Mexico’s turn for this second long adventure.

A quick intro to the crew:





- Oscar, 10, a sporty and lively little boy who loves swimming and basketball, - Tom, 15, a high schooler, sporty and tall, who loves swimming and American football, - Caroline, 47, a PE teacher, sporty , loves hiking and snorkeling, - and me, Sylvain, 50, a science teacher, sporty, loves traveling and always has a possible next trip in mind

We mostly travel by swapping our house to discover beautiful France and the world: 135 swaps over the last 13 years.....

Our itinerary is pretty classic since it’s our first time in the Yucatán, and we’ll make a little 10-day detour to Belize...

See you soon...

Hi everyone,

After letting our backpacks gather dust for several years, we’ve decided to set off on another adventure—this time as a family, with our 10- and 12-year-old kids! We’re planning a trip from mid-June to the end of July, with two stops: Cambodia (2 weeks) and Indonesia (4 weeks). But before diving into the details, we’ve got quite a few questions and doubts.

About Cambodia: We know this period is the rainy season. Is it really a good idea to go then? And if so, is it better to start with Cambodia and then move on to Indonesia, or does the order not matter from a climate perspective? Here are the activities and sites we’ve shortlisted: · The Mekong and Irrawaddy dolphins: do we actually have a chance of seeing them? · The Mondulkiri Project (elephant sanctuary): is this an ethical project? We want to avoid any form of animal exploitation. · The temples of Angkor: are 2 or 3 days enough to fully enjoy them? · Floating villages: where should we go for an authentic experience? Is it possible to spend the night there? · Hikes with waterfalls, lakes, etc.: are there any must-do treks? · And most importantly, what activities or sites would appeal to kids?

For Indonesia: We were there 15 years ago and loved our itinerary: Yogyakarta / Borobudur → Bromo → Kawah Ijen → Bali → Gili Trawangan. This time, we’re torn: · Retracing part of that route to share it with our kids (even if revisiting the same places isn’t super appealing), · Or exploring new regions. What’s almost certain is that we’d like to spend about two weeks in Raja Ampat. For the other two weeks, we’re undecided. We’re looking for kid-friendly ideas for places and activities, while avoiding too many connections for budget and environmental reasons. Since we’ll already see temples in Cambodia, we’d like to mix things up.

And finally… On our last trip to the region, we traveled without kids and went super free-spirited: only the round-trip tickets were booked, and we improvised the rest day by day without any major issues finding accommodation, food, or accessing the activities we’d spotted. Do you think this style of travel is still doable with two kids? Or has it become too risky or stressful? Are there regions where the "backpacker" approach is still possible, and others where it’s better to book in advance? And for certain activities or sites, is it recommended to hire guides?

Thanks in advance for your tips and experiences!

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.