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Morocco: Four Medinas for One Enchantment
Hello everyone! 🙂
No wonder Tangier has inspired so many artists, writers, painters, and musicians… The "Pearl of the North" will be the first stop on a 12-day journey that will take us through Rabat, Fez, and Meknes.
This is my 15th trip to Morocco, and I’d never been to Tangier before! A round-trip flight from Carcassonne for just 55 € sealed the deal, and here we are, landing two hours later.
Four medinas, four perspectives—an enchantment that remains untouched. Once again, Richard and I will combine our viewpoints in a travel journal, sharing them with you—his through words, mine through images.
No wonder Tangier has inspired so many artists, writers, painters, and musicians… The "Pearl of the North" will be the first stop on a 12-day journey that will take us through Rabat, Fez, and Meknes.
This is my 15th trip to Morocco, and I’d never been to Tangier before! A round-trip flight from Carcassonne for just 55 € sealed the deal, and here we are, landing two hours later.
Four medinas, four perspectives—an enchantment that remains untouched. Once again, Richard and I will combine our viewpoints in a travel journal, sharing them with you—his through words, mine through images.
Villages around Hazaribagh in West Bengal
Wednesday, April 1st
Hazaribagh I’ve got a meet-up with Adam Iman, a guide and painter. He picks me up from the hotel at 10 AM. Another traveler from Bangalore is supposed to join us, but while we wait for him to arrive, Adam takes me to see the paintings his mother and sister created at Hazaribagh station. The town became famous thanks to these murals, which can also be found in several surrounding villages. This art form has earned recognition and is now protected, a sign of its cultural importance. Once the visit is over, we go to pick up the other traveler and then head to our first village: Belwara, where Sohrai art is practiced. At the entrance, a sign proudly announces that we’re entering an artists’ village, where this art is created by women organized into micro-enterprises. Some even offer workshops for those who’d like to learn this tradition.
Sohrai art is tied to the harvest season, from October to mid-November. The motifs, in natural colors, celebrate fertility and abundance. The artists use pigments from the earth: red oxides, ochre, white kaolin, and black manganese. On the walls, you’ll see animals, fish, birds—all symbols of life and prosperity. As I look closer at the murals, I start to realize that each motif tells a story. Large animals like cows or bulls often take center stage. Their bodies are filled with intricate, almost hypnotic patterns. They symbolize wealth and prosperity for the household, as well as the deep respect for cattle, which are essential to daily life. On some facades, elephants stand out—massive and decorated with the same precision. They evoke quiet strength and protection. But it’s when I stop in front of one of the houses that I really take the time to look. The wall, a soft ochre, is entirely covered in murals. Two large animals stretch out on either side of the door, their elongated bodies fitting the length of the wall. Their silhouettes are filled with geometric patterns and incredibly fine curved lines, as if every space was patiently filled. Around them, stylized plants, flowers, and small decorative elements fill every gap. The door, dark and worn, becomes almost the silent center of the composition, framed by these living, protective forms. To the right, a more colorful motif catches the eye—a flower or a stylized lamp—like a touch of light on the earth. The whole thing gives an impression of perfect balance, between the rigor of the patterns and the freedom of the gesture.
Elsewhere, birds and freer forms bring movement. Peacocks, recognizable by their stylized silhouettes, embody beauty and vitality, while fish symbolize water, fertility, and the continuity of life.
On some paintings, the scenes become almost narrative: you can make out figures, everyday gestures, like a memory of the village inscribed in the walls. The decorative frames around the doors aren’t left to chance either—they symbolically protect the house, like a boundary between the inside and the outside world.
During the Sohrai festival, cattle are led into the jungle in the morning. Meanwhile, the women finish the *aripans*—these floor paintings—and continue the wall murals. Around noon, the animals return to the village, and the bulls’ horns are anointed with oil and vermilion in a gesture of gratitude, amid the vibrant colors adorning the houses. We visit several artists, including Parvat Devi, a well-known woman who has received many awards. Her arms are adorned with intriguing tattoos, which I’ll talk about in more detail later.
On another wall, the style changes completely. Here, no massive animals—just birds occupying the space, light and graceful, as if caught in mid-movement. Two silhouettes face each other, their long necks arched almost like mirrors, while their outstretched wings seem to vibrate with the patterns that compose them.
The design is more graphic, almost airy. The lines are smoother, more fluid, as if drawn in one confident stroke. The birds’ bodies aren’t solid—they’re filled with repetitive motifs like scales, stylized feathers, and spirals, giving a sense of continuous movement. Around them, everything comes to life: flowers burst open, arabesques swirl, and even the simplest shapes seem alive. What strikes me here is the sense of lightness. Where the large animals evoked stability and grounding, these birds bring something freer, almost joyful. They seem to embody movement, the circulation of life, like a breath flowing through the village.
The colors remain the same—deep reds, intense blacks, and chalky white—but the rhythm is different. Faster, more spontaneous. As if each wall had its own personality, while still speaking the same language.
That’s probably why I’m so moved. I’d heard about these paintings from my friend Raja, and last year, I saw an exhibition in a village near my home. That first encounter made me want to come here. But seeing them in person is a whole different experience. These paintings are unique. This ancient art is passed down from mother to daughter, or mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, in a quiet, deeply living continuity. At first glance, it might seem almost childlike in its simplicity and pared-down forms. And yet, everything is thought out, balanced, mastered. Nothing is left to chance.
That apparent simplicity, combined with such rich symbolism, touches me deeply. There’s something sincere and essential in these walls—and that’s what moves me.
Hazaribagh I’ve got a meet-up with Adam Iman, a guide and painter. He picks me up from the hotel at 10 AM. Another traveler from Bangalore is supposed to join us, but while we wait for him to arrive, Adam takes me to see the paintings his mother and sister created at Hazaribagh station. The town became famous thanks to these murals, which can also be found in several surrounding villages. This art form has earned recognition and is now protected, a sign of its cultural importance. Once the visit is over, we go to pick up the other traveler and then head to our first village: Belwara, where Sohrai art is practiced. At the entrance, a sign proudly announces that we’re entering an artists’ village, where this art is created by women organized into micro-enterprises. Some even offer workshops for those who’d like to learn this tradition.
Sohrai art is tied to the harvest season, from October to mid-November. The motifs, in natural colors, celebrate fertility and abundance. The artists use pigments from the earth: red oxides, ochre, white kaolin, and black manganese. On the walls, you’ll see animals, fish, birds—all symbols of life and prosperity. As I look closer at the murals, I start to realize that each motif tells a story. Large animals like cows or bulls often take center stage. Their bodies are filled with intricate, almost hypnotic patterns. They symbolize wealth and prosperity for the household, as well as the deep respect for cattle, which are essential to daily life. On some facades, elephants stand out—massive and decorated with the same precision. They evoke quiet strength and protection. But it’s when I stop in front of one of the houses that I really take the time to look. The wall, a soft ochre, is entirely covered in murals. Two large animals stretch out on either side of the door, their elongated bodies fitting the length of the wall. Their silhouettes are filled with geometric patterns and incredibly fine curved lines, as if every space was patiently filled. Around them, stylized plants, flowers, and small decorative elements fill every gap. The door, dark and worn, becomes almost the silent center of the composition, framed by these living, protective forms. To the right, a more colorful motif catches the eye—a flower or a stylized lamp—like a touch of light on the earth. The whole thing gives an impression of perfect balance, between the rigor of the patterns and the freedom of the gesture.
Elsewhere, birds and freer forms bring movement. Peacocks, recognizable by their stylized silhouettes, embody beauty and vitality, while fish symbolize water, fertility, and the continuity of life.
On some paintings, the scenes become almost narrative: you can make out figures, everyday gestures, like a memory of the village inscribed in the walls. The decorative frames around the doors aren’t left to chance either—they symbolically protect the house, like a boundary between the inside and the outside world.During the Sohrai festival, cattle are led into the jungle in the morning. Meanwhile, the women finish the *aripans*—these floor paintings—and continue the wall murals. Around noon, the animals return to the village, and the bulls’ horns are anointed with oil and vermilion in a gesture of gratitude, amid the vibrant colors adorning the houses. We visit several artists, including Parvat Devi, a well-known woman who has received many awards. Her arms are adorned with intriguing tattoos, which I’ll talk about in more detail later.
On another wall, the style changes completely. Here, no massive animals—just birds occupying the space, light and graceful, as if caught in mid-movement. Two silhouettes face each other, their long necks arched almost like mirrors, while their outstretched wings seem to vibrate with the patterns that compose them.
The design is more graphic, almost airy. The lines are smoother, more fluid, as if drawn in one confident stroke. The birds’ bodies aren’t solid—they’re filled with repetitive motifs like scales, stylized feathers, and spirals, giving a sense of continuous movement. Around them, everything comes to life: flowers burst open, arabesques swirl, and even the simplest shapes seem alive. What strikes me here is the sense of lightness. Where the large animals evoked stability and grounding, these birds bring something freer, almost joyful. They seem to embody movement, the circulation of life, like a breath flowing through the village.
The colors remain the same—deep reds, intense blacks, and chalky white—but the rhythm is different. Faster, more spontaneous. As if each wall had its own personality, while still speaking the same language.
That’s probably why I’m so moved. I’d heard about these paintings from my friend Raja, and last year, I saw an exhibition in a village near my home. That first encounter made me want to come here. But seeing them in person is a whole different experience. These paintings are unique. This ancient art is passed down from mother to daughter, or mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, in a quiet, deeply living continuity. At first glance, it might seem almost childlike in its simplicity and pared-down forms. And yet, everything is thought out, balanced, mastered. Nothing is left to chance.
That apparent simplicity, combined with such rich symbolism, touches me deeply. There’s something sincere and essential in these walls—and that’s what moves me.
New adventures from Perpignan to Ranchi (Jharkhand)
March 2nd — Departure by bus from Latour at 6:50 AM. The journey isn’t direct: we pass through Elne then Corneilla. In Perpignan, I switch to a BlablaBus heading to Barcelona’s northern bus station. Before reaching Le Perthus, French police stop us to check IDs. Several people aren’t in order, but after about fifteen minutes, we’re on our way again. We’re checked again at La Jonquera: this time, the wait lasts almost forty-five minutes while police identify those in violation and wait for a vehicle to pick them up. The driver then tries to make up for lost time; we finally arrive at our destination half an hour late.
I quickly head to the Arc de Triomphe metro station, located 200 meters away: you have to cross the bridge along the bus parking lot, then walk through a large garden; the station is on the right before the garden entrance. The trip to the airport isn’t direct: I have to change at Tomasso and take the line to the airport, where I arrive at 1 PM.
At the Emirates counter, I learn my flight was just canceled due to the war in Iran; they offer me another flight for the next day. I have to wait at the airport until 7 PM before being taken to a hotel; the next morning, I’ll take a flight to Vienna (with an 8-hour layover), then an Air India flight to Delhi, and finally a flight to Kolkata. I agree: I don’t know Vienna, so it’ll be an unexpected discovery.
At 7 PM, a small group is taken to the hotel, 35 minutes from the airport, where we’re served a light dinner upon arrival.
March 3rd — A taxi picks me up at 6:30 AM; the flight to Vienna takes off at 9:30 AM and arrives at noon. I’m free until 7 PM; the metro is direct to the city center. The weather is pleasant and not too cold, luckily, since my clothes are light.
When I exit the metro, I spot the St. Stephen’s Cathedral tower in the distance and approach it: the roof, made of glazed tiles, is remarkable.
Entry is free, and the interior, a mix of Gothic and Baroque styles in the center, is stunning.
Not far from there is St. Anne’s Church
, also Baroque, adorned with beautiful frescoes
—a music concert adds an enchanting atmosphere to the visit. I continue my walk at random through the pedestrian streets lined with magnificent buildings: I’m charmed by the city.
Before heading back to the airport, I stop at a lovely tea salon. My flight will eventually leave with a delay.
Wednesday, March 4th — Delhi and a little luggage scare We arrive in Delhi shortly after noon. Immigration is quick, and good news: my bag was checked through from Barcelona to Kolkata. I head to the connecting terminal and arrive half an hour before boarding: the flight goes smoothly. Upon arrival, the luggage comes out quickly… except mine. After filing a report, I’m told my bag is in Delhi—I have to retrieve it before taking another flight. I didn’t know (or had forgotten): with the delays, I wouldn’t have had time to pick it up and make the connection.
I take a taxi to the Ichamati Hotel. The welcome is warm, and the room is clean but very small. Without my bag, I feel a bit lost—I have nothing to change into.
Tonight, I’m dining with Raja and his friends at a beautiful restaurant, an old colonial house turned into a hotel.
We’re happy to see each other and have a comforting evening together.
I quickly head to the Arc de Triomphe metro station, located 200 meters away: you have to cross the bridge along the bus parking lot, then walk through a large garden; the station is on the right before the garden entrance. The trip to the airport isn’t direct: I have to change at Tomasso and take the line to the airport, where I arrive at 1 PM.
At the Emirates counter, I learn my flight was just canceled due to the war in Iran; they offer me another flight for the next day. I have to wait at the airport until 7 PM before being taken to a hotel; the next morning, I’ll take a flight to Vienna (with an 8-hour layover), then an Air India flight to Delhi, and finally a flight to Kolkata. I agree: I don’t know Vienna, so it’ll be an unexpected discovery.
At 7 PM, a small group is taken to the hotel, 35 minutes from the airport, where we’re served a light dinner upon arrival.
March 3rd — A taxi picks me up at 6:30 AM; the flight to Vienna takes off at 9:30 AM and arrives at noon. I’m free until 7 PM; the metro is direct to the city center. The weather is pleasant and not too cold, luckily, since my clothes are light.
When I exit the metro, I spot the St. Stephen’s Cathedral tower in the distance and approach it: the roof, made of glazed tiles, is remarkable.
Entry is free, and the interior, a mix of Gothic and Baroque styles in the center, is stunning.
Not far from there is St. Anne’s Church
, also Baroque, adorned with beautiful frescoes
—a music concert adds an enchanting atmosphere to the visit. I continue my walk at random through the pedestrian streets lined with magnificent buildings: I’m charmed by the city.
Before heading back to the airport, I stop at a lovely tea salon. My flight will eventually leave with a delay.
Wednesday, March 4th — Delhi and a little luggage scare We arrive in Delhi shortly after noon. Immigration is quick, and good news: my bag was checked through from Barcelona to Kolkata. I head to the connecting terminal and arrive half an hour before boarding: the flight goes smoothly. Upon arrival, the luggage comes out quickly… except mine. After filing a report, I’m told my bag is in Delhi—I have to retrieve it before taking another flight. I didn’t know (or had forgotten): with the delays, I wouldn’t have had time to pick it up and make the connection.
I take a taxi to the Ichamati Hotel. The welcome is warm, and the room is clean but very small. Without my bag, I feel a bit lost—I have nothing to change into.
Tonight, I’m dining with Raja and his friends at a beautiful restaurant, an old colonial house turned into a hotel.
We’re happy to see each other and have a comforting evening together.
3 weeks in Laos, stress-free
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...This trip was in 2023, but when I wanted to write my travel journal, VF was still closed to contributions... So, now that I've just finished my Japan travel journal here, I figured it was high time to honor this destination we came back from so enchanted. Disclaimer 1: This is a written travel journal. There’ll be text! Too much, for some! Disclaimer 2: This is an illustrated travel journal. There’ll be photos! Too many, for some!
I have to say, every time I try to discipline myself, to keep it shorter, to include fewer photos... I end up adding more. It feels like my dear Aunt Nicole, who exhausted us with her slide-show evenings in the 70s/80s, decided to take her revenge. The upside for you, readers, is that you can slip away anytime without offending Aunt Nicole. I won’t even notice!
Anyway, since I love maps, here’s one to give you an idea of where I’m taking you. As you can see, we only saw a tiny part of Laos (the areas circled in red); we only had 3 weeks for ourselves (my husband’s newly retired, I still work), and we prefer taking our time over rushing around like crazy.
In broad strokes, it was very classic:
First, we “settled in” at Luang Prabang (8 days), because we wanted and needed to. From there, we took three days to venture a little further north—not far in kilometers, but as we know, distances aren’t just about km! Then we flew south to Paksé, letting ourselves drift down to the 4,000 Islands while stopping by the pre-Angkorian archaeological sites. We wrapped up with the Bolaven Plateau.
A few practical notes: We arrived via Bangkok, then took a Bangkok-Luang Prabang flight, having picked up our luggage in Bangkok to check it in for Luang Prabang. No issues—the Bangkok airport, which many of you know, is very well organized. We got our visas on arrival in Luang Prabang. Quick, but to be fair, we were on a “small” plane, and the big flights had arrived earlier, so we weren’t too crowded in line! At the end of our trip, we didn’t fly out of Paksé but from the nearby airport in Thailand, Ubon Ratchathani (a 2.5-hour drive from Paksé), then Bangkok and Paris. You’ll notice we skipped Vientiane to stay longer in Luang Prabang. That said, there’s now a high-speed train between Vientiane and Luang Prabang—good to know—and soon the (Chinese) train will go all the way to Bangkok and even Kuala Lumpur!
With that intro out of the way, let’s dive into the heart of the matter. To be continued: Slowing down the pace... in Luang Prabang
Back in Tunisia (live account)
Hi there,
On this forum, I shared my first trip to Tunisia from mid-February to early March (https://voyageforum.com/forum/impressions-tunisiennes-en-direct-d11460662/), a stay I enjoyed so much that six weeks later, I’m back in Tunisia for a full 15 days (I return on April 27).
This time, I landed in Monastir on a direct flight from Nice, again with Tunisair. We left about ten minutes late, and the flight lasted around 1 hour 30 minutes. A meal was served on board (cucumber salad with Edam-like cheese, carrots, and two small portions of dishes I couldn’t identify—semolina with peppers, olives, and parsley, two small rolls, a square of processed cheese, and a chocolate cake). It’s worth noting because it’s not common on flights this short.
In February, France and Tunisia were in the same time zone, but now Tunisia is one hour behind. This time difference and the flight duration work perfectly for a short 15-day trip since it takes me a few days to adjust to jet lag.
Luckily, I’d asked my hotel about the taxi fare from the airport because the drivers (there were several around me) didn’t hesitate to quote outrageous prices. The actual fare is 20 dinars, but one asked for 120 dinars. I refused, and another offered 60 dinars. I replied, "That’s too expensive—I’ll take the metro!" (Having tried the Tunis metro, I had no desire to repeat the experience in Monastir with a suitcase!). I started walking toward the metro, and one of the drivers caught up with me, saying, "20 dinars is fine!" I’ll skip the details, but the negotiation took a little while. When I arrived at the hotel, I told the receptionist someone had asked for 120 dinars. He put his hands to his head and said, "They’re awful!" He remembered our phone call two days earlier when I’d booked (he’s the one who told me I could take the metro).
The Mezri Hotel isn’t expensive. I got a sea-view room for 75 dinars (22 €). (I’d booked a balcony room for 90 dinars but wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it.) It’s well-located but noisy because there’s no double glazing. The receptionist is a very kind older gentleman. He called a friend whose wife is from Tozeur to find out if I should take a bus or a *louage* tomorrow and what time.
I arrived at the hotel around 7:00 PM and had time to stroll along the corniche to the ribat. Despite some run-down buildings, the seaside seemed livelier and cheerier than Sousse’s.
Monastir is the hometown of former president Bourguiba. I passed his mausoleum by taxi. There are Tunisian flags along the avenue by the sea because every year on April 6—the anniversary of Habib Bourguiba’s death—the president of the Republic visits the Bourguiba Mausoleum in Monastir to pay respects.
The taxi driver mentioned other Tunisian presidents. He complained about rising prices and insecurity, blaming President Kaïs Saïed (I’d already heard that security was better under Ben Ali).
At the end of my stay, I’ll take time to explore Monastir, but tomorrow morning, I’m off to Tozeur—a long bus ride awaits me.
TO BE CONTINUED....
On this forum, I shared my first trip to Tunisia from mid-February to early March (https://voyageforum.com/forum/impressions-tunisiennes-en-direct-d11460662/), a stay I enjoyed so much that six weeks later, I’m back in Tunisia for a full 15 days (I return on April 27).
This time, I landed in Monastir on a direct flight from Nice, again with Tunisair. We left about ten minutes late, and the flight lasted around 1 hour 30 minutes. A meal was served on board (cucumber salad with Edam-like cheese, carrots, and two small portions of dishes I couldn’t identify—semolina with peppers, olives, and parsley, two small rolls, a square of processed cheese, and a chocolate cake). It’s worth noting because it’s not common on flights this short.
In February, France and Tunisia were in the same time zone, but now Tunisia is one hour behind. This time difference and the flight duration work perfectly for a short 15-day trip since it takes me a few days to adjust to jet lag.
Luckily, I’d asked my hotel about the taxi fare from the airport because the drivers (there were several around me) didn’t hesitate to quote outrageous prices. The actual fare is 20 dinars, but one asked for 120 dinars. I refused, and another offered 60 dinars. I replied, "That’s too expensive—I’ll take the metro!" (Having tried the Tunis metro, I had no desire to repeat the experience in Monastir with a suitcase!). I started walking toward the metro, and one of the drivers caught up with me, saying, "20 dinars is fine!" I’ll skip the details, but the negotiation took a little while. When I arrived at the hotel, I told the receptionist someone had asked for 120 dinars. He put his hands to his head and said, "They’re awful!" He remembered our phone call two days earlier when I’d booked (he’s the one who told me I could take the metro).
The Mezri Hotel isn’t expensive. I got a sea-view room for 75 dinars (22 €). (I’d booked a balcony room for 90 dinars but wouldn’t have had time to enjoy it.) It’s well-located but noisy because there’s no double glazing. The receptionist is a very kind older gentleman. He called a friend whose wife is from Tozeur to find out if I should take a bus or a *louage* tomorrow and what time.
I arrived at the hotel around 7:00 PM and had time to stroll along the corniche to the ribat. Despite some run-down buildings, the seaside seemed livelier and cheerier than Sousse’s.
Monastir is the hometown of former president Bourguiba. I passed his mausoleum by taxi. There are Tunisian flags along the avenue by the sea because every year on April 6—the anniversary of Habib Bourguiba’s death—the president of the Republic visits the Bourguiba Mausoleum in Monastir to pay respects.
The taxi driver mentioned other Tunisian presidents. He complained about rising prices and insecurity, blaming President Kaïs Saïed (I’d already heard that security was better under Ben Ali).
At the end of my stay, I’ll take time to explore Monastir, but tomorrow morning, I’m off to Tozeur—a long bus ride awaits me.
TO BE CONTINUED....
From Avignon to Casamance Without Flying
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!
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!
What circuit to do from Monastir?
Hi there,
I’m leaving for Tunisia in five weeks for a full 15-day trip. I’ll be arriving in Monastir and departing from there as well.
I’d like to do a route that’s a bit different from my first stay, which was more focused on cities and culture (Tunis, Sousse, Kairouan, El Jem).
I’ll be getting around by public transport.
I’d like to head south toward Tozeur, and I saw that you can take a *louage* from Monastir to Sbeitla (2h30). I imagine it’s not too complicated to get to Tozeur from there afterward? The issue is the return trip to Monastir and safety in Sbeitla.
If this route seems too complicated, I might opt for Djerba instead, which looks simpler.
Thanks in advance.
I’m leaving for Tunisia in five weeks for a full 15-day trip. I’ll be arriving in Monastir and departing from there as well.
I’d like to do a route that’s a bit different from my first stay, which was more focused on cities and culture (Tunis, Sousse, Kairouan, El Jem).
I’ll be getting around by public transport.
I’d like to head south toward Tozeur, and I saw that you can take a *louage* from Monastir to Sbeitla (2h30). I imagine it’s not too complicated to get to Tozeur from there afterward? The issue is the return trip to Monastir and safety in Sbeitla.
If this route seems too complicated, I might opt for Djerba instead, which looks simpler.
Thanks in advance.
From the Awakening to Travel to Morocco in the 90s
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?*
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?*
Trip to Thailand and Laos
Hello! 🙂
January 2026 Here we go again for new adventures and the pleasure of sharing them with you here! First of all, I’d like to thank everyone who helped me with the preparations, even with some last-minute improvisations just days before departure. Thanks to Montagnard74, Jojoone1, Songsam, Attila, Dennis2, NadegerFERM, and the authors whose travel journals about Laos inspired me (Montagnard74, Muriel18, Mavietongs...).
In this story, written by Richard and illustrated by me, we’ll tell you about the journey of four friends: Catherine, Richard, Nathalie, and Bruno. A reinvented but overall successful trip, filled with discoveries and surprises, the scents of spices and frangipani flowers, (too) spicy food, sunsets, and... one big mess.
January 2026 Here we go again for new adventures and the pleasure of sharing them with you here! First of all, I’d like to thank everyone who helped me with the preparations, even with some last-minute improvisations just days before departure. Thanks to Montagnard74, Jojoone1, Songsam, Attila, Dennis2, NadegerFERM, and the authors whose travel journals about Laos inspired me (Montagnard74, Muriel18, Mavietongs...).
In this story, written by Richard and illustrated by me, we’ll tell you about the journey of four friends: Catherine, Richard, Nathalie, and Bruno. A reinvented but overall successful trip, filled with discoveries and surprises, the scents of spices and frangipani flowers, (too) spicy food, sunsets, and... one big mess.
Backpacking itinerary in Tunisia
Hi there,
I'm urgently planning a trip to Tunisia in November, backpacker-style (no agency, no guide or taxi, public transport, youth hostels or small hotels, local restaurants). I'm not interested in the beach, and I like to take my time at archaeological sites and museums (twice as long as the average visitor). I'm aiming for about two weeks, give or take.
First, I'm trying to roughly outline a route/schedule so I can book my flight as soon as possible (no desert in the south this time—I went there years ago and want to stay independent). I’ve sketched out the following itinerary, knowing that apparently, there are quite a few towns without budget-friendly hotels (even on Airbnb), which means I’ll be staying longer where they’re available. Three questions: 1. Does this seem reasonable overall (time spent in each city)? 2. Should I add other cities, maybe in the northwest? 3. For hotels, in November, is it better to scout options on booking sites first, then book on the spot for cheaper rates (no site commission + possible negotiation)? Also, are hotels not listed online and found randomly on-site much cheaper?
ROUGH ITINERARY (order to be confirmed)
TUNIS 5 days (cheap accommodations: 13 or 19 €) 2 days: Medina, souks, Bardo Museum, Royal Mausoleum of Tourbet El Bey, Zitouna Mosque (exterior) 1 day: Sidi Bou Said 1 day: Carthage 1 day: A-R Dougga (bus to Tebersouk 2h + taxi) – pack a picnic + option: hike to Zaghouan (750m+, 10km round trip) – worth it? Doable alone?
KAIROUAN 2 days (very expensive room: 40-50 €!) Great Mosque, Medina, Three Doors Mosque, medieval cemetery, Sidi Sahbi Mosque...
SOUSSE 3 days (room 15 €) 2 days: Medina, archaeological museum, Port El Kantaoui, the Ribat (fortress), Contemporary Art Museum Dar Am Taïeb, Dar Essid (17th-century traditional house) 1 day: A-R El Jem (60km away) + option: 1 day A-R Monastir? Worth it? + option: 1 day A-R Mahdia (or 2 days sleeping there)?
OPTIONS -> Gabes to mix things up? But is it easy to find cheap lodging and get around/visit alone? -> Other sights or stops to sleep: Sfax, El Kef, others? -> Kerkenna Islands (easy accommodation?)
Thanks for your thoughts and opinions on these options. Once I’ve adjusted the duration, I’ll book my tickets for early November! (By the way, do you think I should arrive and depart from two different airports?)
I'm urgently planning a trip to Tunisia in November, backpacker-style (no agency, no guide or taxi, public transport, youth hostels or small hotels, local restaurants). I'm not interested in the beach, and I like to take my time at archaeological sites and museums (twice as long as the average visitor). I'm aiming for about two weeks, give or take.
First, I'm trying to roughly outline a route/schedule so I can book my flight as soon as possible (no desert in the south this time—I went there years ago and want to stay independent). I’ve sketched out the following itinerary, knowing that apparently, there are quite a few towns without budget-friendly hotels (even on Airbnb), which means I’ll be staying longer where they’re available. Three questions: 1. Does this seem reasonable overall (time spent in each city)? 2. Should I add other cities, maybe in the northwest? 3. For hotels, in November, is it better to scout options on booking sites first, then book on the spot for cheaper rates (no site commission + possible negotiation)? Also, are hotels not listed online and found randomly on-site much cheaper?
ROUGH ITINERARY (order to be confirmed)
TUNIS 5 days (cheap accommodations: 13 or 19 €) 2 days: Medina, souks, Bardo Museum, Royal Mausoleum of Tourbet El Bey, Zitouna Mosque (exterior) 1 day: Sidi Bou Said 1 day: Carthage 1 day: A-R Dougga (bus to Tebersouk 2h + taxi) – pack a picnic + option: hike to Zaghouan (750m+, 10km round trip) – worth it? Doable alone?
KAIROUAN 2 days (very expensive room: 40-50 €!) Great Mosque, Medina, Three Doors Mosque, medieval cemetery, Sidi Sahbi Mosque...
SOUSSE 3 days (room 15 €) 2 days: Medina, archaeological museum, Port El Kantaoui, the Ribat (fortress), Contemporary Art Museum Dar Am Taïeb, Dar Essid (17th-century traditional house) 1 day: A-R El Jem (60km away) + option: 1 day A-R Monastir? Worth it? + option: 1 day A-R Mahdia (or 2 days sleeping there)?
OPTIONS -> Gabes to mix things up? But is it easy to find cheap lodging and get around/visit alone? -> Other sights or stops to sleep: Sfax, El Kef, others? -> Kerkenna Islands (easy accommodation?)
Thanks for your thoughts and opinions on these options. Once I’ve adjusted the duration, I’ll book my tickets for early November! (By the way, do you think I should arrive and depart from two different airports?)
Yet Another Travel Journal in this (Too) Familiar Rajasthan, But with Family and Kids
Prologue
This journal recounts a trip to Rajasthan that’s already over a year old and that I’ve only now found the chance to write about. The summer of 2024 marked my return to India—my tenth trip—after six long years away since my last solo wanderings in Tamil Nadu in 2018 (the journal of which is published on this site). That absence was partly (but not only) due to the long COVID and post-COVID period, which saw a complete halt and then a major slowdown in global tourism. To top it off, Voyage Forum announced its closure in an end-of-the-world atmosphere. A sad time for our favorite social activity…
A few weeks after returning from Rajasthan, I tried to motivate myself to start writing a journal to publish on a forum claiming to be VF’s successor, which I’d eventually signed up for out of desperation. But I kept hesitating and putting the project off because, for one, I no longer have the time I used to. For another, the vibe wasn’t really taking off on that forum—it was overrun with ads and not very active, contrary to what its host’s name suggested. Despite its good intentions and commendable role as a stopgap, it also turned out to be very impractical to use, especially when you don’t have much time like me. I’ll admit I’d occasionally check back on VF to see if anything was happening. But all the discussions remained frozen in time, stuck in that fateful year, 2020. Then, rumors swirled online about shady reasons behind its closure, leaving little room for hope.
And then, one fine morning, I got a message at work from Marien informing me that VF had reopened. What a huge surprise! Even though the forum’s “end” had played out in a somewhat apocalyptic atmosphere, the memories of passionate and heated discussions, the frank debates, and the useful exchanges that made this site a traveler’s goldmine and a unique hub of conviviality all came rushing back to me like a breath of fresh air. I finally saw a sign and tried to motivate myself to find the time to publish the journal of this tenth trip to India and fifth to Rajasthan. But in the end, I got bogged down in professional and family obligations and never managed to find the time to get started. That’s now fixed, though, because I had two reasons for wanting to do it: I find that looking back on a trip to tell others about it is a highly beneficial introspective exercise. Also, I thought this journal could be useful to other travelers on a few points.
Because, “do we really need yet another journal about Rajasthan?” you might rightly ask! Especially in a time when so many journals about the “Land of Kings” have been published since VF’s return, not to mention the countless stories you can already find online about this region, one of India’s most touristy. And I’d add, why go back to Rajasthan for a fifth time, where I’ve already dragged my feet more than enough—through its forts, deserts, temples, cities, villages, bumpy roads, train stations, tasty street food stalls, cheap guesthouses, and more? Where some might see just another overhyped tourist destination full of the same old *Arabian Nights* clichés, worn to a thread, that I mentioned earlier, when there’s so much else to see in India? Well, first because it’s a magnificent country I never tire of, where I started an academic study and made so many connections. It’s also packed with places where you won’t find a single tourist (right, Marie-Jo?), even in the heart of well-trodden paths and classic itineraries. And most importantly, as I said earlier, things have changed in recent years. First, after six years without traveling far, the urge to go back to India was getting stronger. But this time, no more solo trips (often) or duo adventures (sometimes)—now it’s a team of four that has to come along! And even if you can argue with that, what better place than Rajasthan to introduce India to people who’ve never seen it? To kids you want to amaze? Plus, traveling with your new little family to your favorite country isn’t the same as going solo in often spartan conditions that only affect you. It’s a different challenge, but ultimately probably much harder. So, is it really reasonable to take two kids to India, including a two-year-old baby? That’s one of the main goals of this journal (but not the only one)—to try to answer that question.
As you can tell, it’s not so much the destination but the slightly unusual setup of this trip that, in my opinion, will make this journal interesting. Despite my experience and expertise (yes, I dare say it) in India, there were plenty of questions before we finalized the plan and said, “Alright, let’s go!” The questions were flying for us parents. Is it wise to travel to India with a two-year-old? What would we do (it happened) if the kids got very sick? Would they be able to handle a road trip on Rajasthan’s bumpy, dusty roads using public transport? Could they handle the shock of such a different world—the dirt, poverty, pollution, noise (…and the smell, as they say), the spicy food, monkeys, mosquitoes, snakes, tigers, leopards, and so on? In short, all the clichés that I usually joke about suddenly became potential realities. Another concern: as a mixed Franco-African family (not me, but my partner and her oldest), wouldn’t we risk not always being well received, given what you sometimes hear about that in India? How would Indians react to seeing a mixed-race family, the ultimate taboo in a country of purity and social segregation, which would undoubtedly raise many questions for them? Of course, not everything went as expected… Because, as you know, with India—and what makes it charming for some—there are always complications: sometimes where you don’t expect them… and sometimes where you do. I’ll go into detail about that in the journal to come (not right away) and in the final review (even later). These experiences could be useful to travelers who find themselves in similar situations and have the same questions we did before embarking on such a journey. And maybe it’ll spark the curiosity of those who aren’t concerned and will read yet another Rajasthan journal, but with its own unique twists.
Despite my unchanged constraints, which mean I have little time to write this, I don’t want to rush the story, so I’ll take my time. There will probably be lulls. I hope that won’t stop people from coming to react, debate, share their impressions, or ask for information.
This journal recounts a trip to Rajasthan that’s already over a year old and that I’ve only now found the chance to write about. The summer of 2024 marked my return to India—my tenth trip—after six long years away since my last solo wanderings in Tamil Nadu in 2018 (the journal of which is published on this site). That absence was partly (but not only) due to the long COVID and post-COVID period, which saw a complete halt and then a major slowdown in global tourism. To top it off, Voyage Forum announced its closure in an end-of-the-world atmosphere. A sad time for our favorite social activity…
A few weeks after returning from Rajasthan, I tried to motivate myself to start writing a journal to publish on a forum claiming to be VF’s successor, which I’d eventually signed up for out of desperation. But I kept hesitating and putting the project off because, for one, I no longer have the time I used to. For another, the vibe wasn’t really taking off on that forum—it was overrun with ads and not very active, contrary to what its host’s name suggested. Despite its good intentions and commendable role as a stopgap, it also turned out to be very impractical to use, especially when you don’t have much time like me. I’ll admit I’d occasionally check back on VF to see if anything was happening. But all the discussions remained frozen in time, stuck in that fateful year, 2020. Then, rumors swirled online about shady reasons behind its closure, leaving little room for hope.
And then, one fine morning, I got a message at work from Marien informing me that VF had reopened. What a huge surprise! Even though the forum’s “end” had played out in a somewhat apocalyptic atmosphere, the memories of passionate and heated discussions, the frank debates, and the useful exchanges that made this site a traveler’s goldmine and a unique hub of conviviality all came rushing back to me like a breath of fresh air. I finally saw a sign and tried to motivate myself to find the time to publish the journal of this tenth trip to India and fifth to Rajasthan. But in the end, I got bogged down in professional and family obligations and never managed to find the time to get started. That’s now fixed, though, because I had two reasons for wanting to do it: I find that looking back on a trip to tell others about it is a highly beneficial introspective exercise. Also, I thought this journal could be useful to other travelers on a few points.
Because, “do we really need yet another journal about Rajasthan?” you might rightly ask! Especially in a time when so many journals about the “Land of Kings” have been published since VF’s return, not to mention the countless stories you can already find online about this region, one of India’s most touristy. And I’d add, why go back to Rajasthan for a fifth time, where I’ve already dragged my feet more than enough—through its forts, deserts, temples, cities, villages, bumpy roads, train stations, tasty street food stalls, cheap guesthouses, and more? Where some might see just another overhyped tourist destination full of the same old *Arabian Nights* clichés, worn to a thread, that I mentioned earlier, when there’s so much else to see in India? Well, first because it’s a magnificent country I never tire of, where I started an academic study and made so many connections. It’s also packed with places where you won’t find a single tourist (right, Marie-Jo?), even in the heart of well-trodden paths and classic itineraries. And most importantly, as I said earlier, things have changed in recent years. First, after six years without traveling far, the urge to go back to India was getting stronger. But this time, no more solo trips (often) or duo adventures (sometimes)—now it’s a team of four that has to come along! And even if you can argue with that, what better place than Rajasthan to introduce India to people who’ve never seen it? To kids you want to amaze? Plus, traveling with your new little family to your favorite country isn’t the same as going solo in often spartan conditions that only affect you. It’s a different challenge, but ultimately probably much harder. So, is it really reasonable to take two kids to India, including a two-year-old baby? That’s one of the main goals of this journal (but not the only one)—to try to answer that question.
As you can tell, it’s not so much the destination but the slightly unusual setup of this trip that, in my opinion, will make this journal interesting. Despite my experience and expertise (yes, I dare say it) in India, there were plenty of questions before we finalized the plan and said, “Alright, let’s go!” The questions were flying for us parents. Is it wise to travel to India with a two-year-old? What would we do (it happened) if the kids got very sick? Would they be able to handle a road trip on Rajasthan’s bumpy, dusty roads using public transport? Could they handle the shock of such a different world—the dirt, poverty, pollution, noise (…and the smell, as they say), the spicy food, monkeys, mosquitoes, snakes, tigers, leopards, and so on? In short, all the clichés that I usually joke about suddenly became potential realities. Another concern: as a mixed Franco-African family (not me, but my partner and her oldest), wouldn’t we risk not always being well received, given what you sometimes hear about that in India? How would Indians react to seeing a mixed-race family, the ultimate taboo in a country of purity and social segregation, which would undoubtedly raise many questions for them? Of course, not everything went as expected… Because, as you know, with India—and what makes it charming for some—there are always complications: sometimes where you don’t expect them… and sometimes where you do. I’ll go into detail about that in the journal to come (not right away) and in the final review (even later). These experiences could be useful to travelers who find themselves in similar situations and have the same questions we did before embarking on such a journey. And maybe it’ll spark the curiosity of those who aren’t concerned and will read yet another Rajasthan journal, but with its own unique twists.
Despite my unchanged constraints, which mean I have little time to write this, I don’t want to rush the story, so I’ll take my time. There will probably be lulls. I hope that won’t stop people from coming to react, debate, share their impressions, or ask for information.
Tozeur - Visiting the Palmeraie and other sights in a morning
Hi, I’ve got a long morning in Tozeur in mid-April (I need to be at the airport by 2 p.m.). I’d like to visit the palmeraie and the main sights in Tozeur and the immediate surrounding area within a few kilometers. Looking for ideas and tips—what to see and how to do it? If needed, I can keep my rental car (or take a taxi). Thanks so much!
Denied boarding due to visa with the wrong date
Today I ended up being denied boarding at CDG. I booked the trip through a physical travel agency with no assistance for the visa application. I applied in plenty of time and got the approval. Except I put the 9th (the day I left France) as the date instead of the 10th, which is the arrival date in India. That’s what caused the denial. I’m guessing I don’t have any recourse? Thanks for your replies.
Rapatriement de camping-car suite au décès de ma mère au Maroc
Bonsoir,
Nouvelle sur le Forum, je viens demander des conseils si vous pouvez m'aider.
Ma mère était partie en voyage au Maroc avec son Camping-Car. Malheureusement, pendant son voyage, elle est décédée. Le camping-car a été mis sous scellé par le procureur du roi et l'assistance ne peut pas récupérer le véhicule malgré ma procuration. Le consulat ne peut pas intervenir car la camping-car est du domaine privé.
Quelqu'un aurait-il déjà eu un cas similaire et pourrait-il me donner des informations ?
Je vous remercie d'avance
Marie07260
Nouvelle sur le Forum, je viens demander des conseils si vous pouvez m'aider.
Ma mère était partie en voyage au Maroc avec son Camping-Car. Malheureusement, pendant son voyage, elle est décédée. Le camping-car a été mis sous scellé par le procureur du roi et l'assistance ne peut pas récupérer le véhicule malgré ma procuration. Le consulat ne peut pas intervenir car la camping-car est du domaine privé.
Quelqu'un aurait-il déjà eu un cas similaire et pourrait-il me donner des informations ?
Je vous remercie d'avance
Marie07260
Entrer en Tunisie avec deux colliers de dressage pour chien (formalités)
Bnj, est il possible de faire entrer en Tunisie avec 2 collier de dressage pour chien ? Merci
Retour d'un mois au Vietnam, des montagnes du nord au delta du Mekong
Après 2 premiers carnets de voyage publiés sur VF consacrés à des régions indonésiennes peu touristiques
"La traversée des Célèbes (Sulawesi) en photos"
ou même pas du tout touristique
"Les Moluques: splendeurs (et galères) d'un archipel inconnu des touristes
voici un nouveau récit abondamment illustré sur un voyage au Vietnam.
Même si de nombreux beaux carnets ont déjà été publiés sur le Vietnam, j’espère que ce voyage en images rappellera de bons souvenirs aux uns, fournira des renseignements utiles aux autres pour leur prochain voyage ou plus simplement vous fera passer un bon moment en parcourant ce magnifique pays.
Avant de partir, quelques rapides infos sur le contexte (certaines rubriques seront détaillées plus loin au fil du récit, par ex la météo à cette période) :
- voyage réalisé de mi-septembre à mi-octobre 2019 - onzième voyage en Asie du Sud Est- en couple comme chaque fois, c'est bp plus simple - déplacement en bus, taxi, minibus (limousine) et avion (1 fois) réservés sur place 1 ou 2 jours avant, et en voiture particulière la 1ere semaine - logements : du basique chez l'habitant à un très bel hôtel à Ho Chi Minh, avec une préférence pour les petits hôtels de charme - bp de temps passé sur les forums et les guides avant le départ pour recenser les lieux qui nous intéressent, puis parcours modifié au jour le jour en fc de la météo, des envies, de la fatigue, des rencontres, etc .. Avant le départ, on a une superbe liste de lieux "à voir absolument", et sur place on s'aperçoit que ce magnifique programme est bien trop ambitieux. On supprime alors tel ou tels endroits pour ne pas transformer le voyage en une épuisante course de vitesse. - on aime bien prendre notre temps, s’arrêter qqs jours si un lieu nous plait, sauter des visites "incontournables" si ça nous barbe (fatigue, chaleur, overdose de visites, ...). - à la suite de très bons conseils de forumeurs qui se reconnaitront (un grand merci a eux), on a fait une entorse à notre façon de voyager (aucune réservation avant le départ, excepté l’hôtel le jour de l'arrivée) en réservant 8 jours avec une agence locale pour parcourir les montagnes du nord avec chauffeur et guide francophone. Partir avec une agence était en effet la meilleure solution pour découvrir cette région dépourvue de bus en de nombreux endroits, et le guide est bien utile pour ne pas se perdre en randonnée.
Allez, on y va 🙂
Nos étapes : - Extrême nord (Ha Giang - Meo Vac) vers les ethnies montagnardes et rizières - Baie de Lan Ha "la jumelle de la baie d'Halong" - Hanoi - Tam Coc, "la baie d'Halong terrestre" - Hue - Hoi An - Delta du Mekong - Ho Chi Minh
Episode 1 : A la rencontre des ethnies des montagnes du nord
Pour nous qui voyageons seuls d'habitude, nous apprécions d'être attendu à l'aéroport d'Hanoi à 6h30 par Vinh notre guide Vinh et Near notre chauffeur, direction le nord. Aux 11h de vol, on ajoute donc 5-6h de voiture pour Bac Ha, dont la moité environ sur une belle autoroute déserte.
Bac Ha est une petite ville au milieu des montagnes, avec seulement qqs petits hotels de milieu de gamme et des guesthouse, ce qui fait qu'on y rencontre qqs touristes, mais sans excès. 2h après notre arrivée à Bac Ha, nous voila parti pour une 1ère randonnée au milieu des rizières qui dominent la ville.
Ce ne sont pas les plus belles de la région, mais on passe un très agréable moment à se dégourdir les jambes après le voyage dans un tel environnement.
Comme convenu avec l'agence, 2 à 3h de marche entre villages et rizières seront chaque jour au programme : nous découvriront des villages, rencontreront des habitants de plusieurs ethnies au hasard des chemins, et marcherons tout simplement dans de magnifiques paysages de rizières.
Ethnie Hmong bariolé
La région de Bac Ha est majoritairement habitée par de Hmong, ici Hmong à fleurs : (par la suite, si des erreurs se sont malheureusement glissées sur les noms d'ethnies, je ne me vexerai pas si les spécialistes rectifient 😉)
La récolte va bientôt commencer, les rizières commencent à passer du vert vif au jaune, nous les verrons jaune d'or dès le lendemain. Partout des paysans sont au travail : par l'intermédiaire de Vinh, nous échangeront à plusieurs reprises, eux qui sont aussi curieux sur nous que nous sur eux.
Le lendemain direction le marché de Can Cau a 45 min de Bac Ha (18km) sur une route zigzaguant dans un beau paysage de montagne (ce sera le régime de la semaine a venir).
67 ans de présence française ont laissé ces beaux souvenirs le long des routes :
Notre parcours a été étudié avec l'agence pour être sur les marchés de Can Cau le samedi, de Bac Ha le dimanche et de Lun Phin le mercredi suivant Le marché de Can Cau est situé en pleine nature, à flan de montagne.
Hmong des alentours viennent y vendre ou acheter toutes sortes de produits, vêtements, nourritures, animaux vivants, oiseaux, etc ... :
Hmong à fleurs(dessus et dessous)
Certains repartent avec des vêtements
d'autres avec un porc ou une chèvre (pour l'achat de buffle la mobylette n'est pas conseillée)
On est les seuls touristes. Le jour du marché est aussi l'occasion pour tous les villageois des alentours de se retrouver autour d'un thang cô (viande et intestins de bœuf dans un bouillon de sang, épices et herbes aromatiques) accompagné d’alcool de riz ou plus surprenant de Red Bull (!!) ... on n'arrête pas le progrès. On n'a pas gouté ce thang cô , le petit déjeuner n'étant pas loin .... excuse minable 😊
Red Bull et pipe
La suite très bientôt
Même si de nombreux beaux carnets ont déjà été publiés sur le Vietnam, j’espère que ce voyage en images rappellera de bons souvenirs aux uns, fournira des renseignements utiles aux autres pour leur prochain voyage ou plus simplement vous fera passer un bon moment en parcourant ce magnifique pays.
Avant de partir, quelques rapides infos sur le contexte (certaines rubriques seront détaillées plus loin au fil du récit, par ex la météo à cette période) :
- voyage réalisé de mi-septembre à mi-octobre 2019 - onzième voyage en Asie du Sud Est- en couple comme chaque fois, c'est bp plus simple - déplacement en bus, taxi, minibus (limousine) et avion (1 fois) réservés sur place 1 ou 2 jours avant, et en voiture particulière la 1ere semaine - logements : du basique chez l'habitant à un très bel hôtel à Ho Chi Minh, avec une préférence pour les petits hôtels de charme - bp de temps passé sur les forums et les guides avant le départ pour recenser les lieux qui nous intéressent, puis parcours modifié au jour le jour en fc de la météo, des envies, de la fatigue, des rencontres, etc .. Avant le départ, on a une superbe liste de lieux "à voir absolument", et sur place on s'aperçoit que ce magnifique programme est bien trop ambitieux. On supprime alors tel ou tels endroits pour ne pas transformer le voyage en une épuisante course de vitesse. - on aime bien prendre notre temps, s’arrêter qqs jours si un lieu nous plait, sauter des visites "incontournables" si ça nous barbe (fatigue, chaleur, overdose de visites, ...). - à la suite de très bons conseils de forumeurs qui se reconnaitront (un grand merci a eux), on a fait une entorse à notre façon de voyager (aucune réservation avant le départ, excepté l’hôtel le jour de l'arrivée) en réservant 8 jours avec une agence locale pour parcourir les montagnes du nord avec chauffeur et guide francophone. Partir avec une agence était en effet la meilleure solution pour découvrir cette région dépourvue de bus en de nombreux endroits, et le guide est bien utile pour ne pas se perdre en randonnée.
Allez, on y va 🙂
Nos étapes : - Extrême nord (Ha Giang - Meo Vac) vers les ethnies montagnardes et rizières - Baie de Lan Ha "la jumelle de la baie d'Halong" - Hanoi - Tam Coc, "la baie d'Halong terrestre" - Hue - Hoi An - Delta du Mekong - Ho Chi Minh
Episode 1 : A la rencontre des ethnies des montagnes du nord
Pour nous qui voyageons seuls d'habitude, nous apprécions d'être attendu à l'aéroport d'Hanoi à 6h30 par Vinh notre guide Vinh et Near notre chauffeur, direction le nord. Aux 11h de vol, on ajoute donc 5-6h de voiture pour Bac Ha, dont la moité environ sur une belle autoroute déserte.
Bac Ha est une petite ville au milieu des montagnes, avec seulement qqs petits hotels de milieu de gamme et des guesthouse, ce qui fait qu'on y rencontre qqs touristes, mais sans excès. 2h après notre arrivée à Bac Ha, nous voila parti pour une 1ère randonnée au milieu des rizières qui dominent la ville.
Ce ne sont pas les plus belles de la région, mais on passe un très agréable moment à se dégourdir les jambes après le voyage dans un tel environnement.
Comme convenu avec l'agence, 2 à 3h de marche entre villages et rizières seront chaque jour au programme : nous découvriront des villages, rencontreront des habitants de plusieurs ethnies au hasard des chemins, et marcherons tout simplement dans de magnifiques paysages de rizières.Ethnie Hmong bariolé
La région de Bac Ha est majoritairement habitée par de Hmong, ici Hmong à fleurs : (par la suite, si des erreurs se sont malheureusement glissées sur les noms d'ethnies, je ne me vexerai pas si les spécialistes rectifient 😉)
La récolte va bientôt commencer, les rizières commencent à passer du vert vif au jaune, nous les verrons jaune d'or dès le lendemain. Partout des paysans sont au travail : par l'intermédiaire de Vinh, nous échangeront à plusieurs reprises, eux qui sont aussi curieux sur nous que nous sur eux.
Le lendemain direction le marché de Can Cau a 45 min de Bac Ha (18km) sur une route zigzaguant dans un beau paysage de montagne (ce sera le régime de la semaine a venir).
67 ans de présence française ont laissé ces beaux souvenirs le long des routes :
Notre parcours a été étudié avec l'agence pour être sur les marchés de Can Cau le samedi, de Bac Ha le dimanche et de Lun Phin le mercredi suivant Le marché de Can Cau est situé en pleine nature, à flan de montagne.
Hmong des alentours viennent y vendre ou acheter toutes sortes de produits, vêtements, nourritures, animaux vivants, oiseaux, etc ... :
Hmong à fleurs(dessus et dessous)
Certains repartent avec des vêtements
d'autres avec un porc ou une chèvre (pour l'achat de buffle la mobylette n'est pas conseillée)
On est les seuls touristes. Le jour du marché est aussi l'occasion pour tous les villageois des alentours de se retrouver autour d'un thang cô (viande et intestins de bœuf dans un bouillon de sang, épices et herbes aromatiques) accompagné d’alcool de riz ou plus surprenant de Red Bull (!!) ... on n'arrête pas le progrès. On n'a pas gouté ce thang cô , le petit déjeuner n'étant pas loin .... excuse minable 😊
Red Bull et pipe
La suite très bientôt
Auroville, une halte intéressante?
Bonjour,
J'hésite à faire une halte de 2-3 heures, entre Mahabalipuram et Puducherry, pour découvrir la cité expérimentale AUROVILLE.
Que me conseillez-vous ?
Faut-il avoir recours à un(e) guide locale ?
J'y serai autour du 24 novembre 2019.
Merci d'avance pour vos conseils, remarques et suggestions. Jocy
Merci d'avance pour vos conseils, remarques et suggestions. Jocy
Train de nuit Tozeur - Tunis
une agence de location de voiture me dit qu'il n'y a plus de train de nuit Tozeur - Tunis (en fait plus de train du tout). Or le train existe sur le site de la SNCT. Et la gare est injoignable. Comment savoir ce qu'il en est ? Merci
Quelques jours dans le Sud tunisien
Bonjour !
nous prévoyons quelques jours dans le sud avec mon mari (arabophone) et mon fils de 12 ans (donc décors Star Wars bienvenus). Nous pouvons louer une voiture si besoin et j'ai l'habitude de conduire en Tunisie mais n'ai jamais conduit de 4x4.
Tout paraît immense, nous ne voulons pas trop cavaler (c'est moi qui conduit) et ne savons pas quels secteurs privilégier. Nous voulons voir des villages troglodytes, des dunes de sable, de beaux paysages. Merci !
Cure ayurvédique au Sri Lanka
Bonjour je recherche un endroit pour faire une cure ayurvedique de qualité avec de vrais médecins et un encadrement technique de santé compétent
je ne recherche pas un hotel spa avec massage, mais vraiment un centre dans lequel un bilan et un suivi vous sont apportés et des soins quotidiens offerts. Je viens de voir un reportage sur Arte mais ne sais pas où se situe ce centre qui avait l'air d'être en bord de mer ? Est-ce que quelqu'un a déjà eu cette expérience et si une adresse à recommander ? Je sors d'un gros cancer et j'ai vraiment besoin de détox et rééquilibrage corporel et mental ! Merci de votre retour rapide !
