Results for "Iran+sécurité"

Nous revenons d'un tour du monde de 4 ans en famille et en camping-car.

Si ça intéresse quelques voyageurs, voici notre site :

periple.fr.st

N'hésitez pas pour les questions.

Team

Bonsoir à tous,

Voilà, je suis presque décidé à partir 3 semaines en Turquie orientale début Septembre. Au cours de ce voyage, un sommet mythique m'attire particulièrement : le mont Ararat.

Je suis à la recherche de tout type d'infos permettant de m'aider à réaliser ce projet. Je suis sur que certains parmi vous ont déjà gravi cette montagne. Est ce que l'autorisation de monter le sommet est vraiment obligatoire? Un voyageur de passage à Dogubayazit m'a dit qu'on lui avait proposé une ascension pour le lendemain. Alors que la procédure standard demande 2 mois ! Quelle est la difficulté technique? J'ai une petite expérience d'alpinisme, que je suis en train de parfaire tout cet été, en même temps que ma condition physique. J'ai aussi dépassé la barrière symbolique des 4000m à plusieurs reprises. Je sais qu'avec un guide j'y arriverai sans problème, mais je me demande si en solo c'est jouable. J'ai lu sur un site bien documenté que le glacier était seulement présent à partir de 4800m et qu'il était très peu crevassé. Du coup les expés montent avec la corde dans le sac, seulement au cas où. Ca me surprend un peu... Comment sont les conditions météo à cette époque? J'ai contacté une agence locale (demavend travel) pour avoir une idée du prix (guide+nourriture). Si je suis tout seul c'est hors de prix. Par contre, si on est au moins 3, le prix peut descendre autour de 250/300 Euros par personne. Du coup je fais appel à tous les motivés de la planète : y a t'il 2 ou 3 personnes tentées par cette ascension (compter 4j AR depuis Dogubayazit, avec un jour d'acclimation inclus, entre 3000 et 40000m). On pourrait se partager les frais de guide, ou bien le faire sans guide si qq1 a vraiment le niveau. Si qq1 a des adresses email de guides à recommander, je suis également preneur. Ce qui me gène le plus c'est cette histoire de permis...==> la contrainte fait qu'il faudrait se décider d'ici 1 semaine et demi... J'ai l'impression que certains trouvent des moyens de le contourner (comme un journaliste de Montagnes magazine qui apparemment a réussi à monter sans, il a peut etre du slalomer entre les militaires😉).

Merci d'avance à tous pour votre aide et vos réponses nombreuses et fournies!

Jn

Je vais essayer de poster ce message également sur des forums d'alpinisme pour avoir le plus d'infos possibles.

Bonjour!

Je pars avec un ami, en Ouzbékistan fin septembre pour 3 semaines. Tashkent, Samarcande, Boukkara, Kiva, la mer d'Aral, et si possible une virée dans la vallée de Fergana. Je viens de lire les messages, mais peu parlent du budget à prévoir... Les hôtels me parraissent d'un prix élevé, il serait interessant d'avoir quelques infos de voyageurs ayant visité récemment le pays, concernant les tarifs qu'ils ont payés. Quels guides de voyages utiliser: le petit futé? Lonely Planet ou Olizane? Merci de vos réponses. Pour ceux et celles qui partiront à la fin de l'été je serai là-bas du 289 au 2010.

Salut!!!

Nous voudrions, mon ami et moi faire la traversée de la Tunisie au Burkina Faso... à pied, en chameau, en bus... mais sur terre!!!!

L´idée de traverser le désert du Sahara Algérien à dos de dromadaire nous séduit beaucoup... mais au delà des problèmes de visa, de moyens... je me demandais si quelqun pouvait me donner une estimation du temps ke metraient nos charmants dromadaires??

Ca marche à quelle allure ces grosses bêtes Lá??

Merci d´avance!!!

Qui a voyagé dans ces deux pays. Que me conseillez vous de faire en premier ?

Y a t’il encore des coins peace en Turquie, pas trop touristiques, ou l’on peut passer des heures à discuter de la vie avec les gens du pays autour d'un verre de thé ? Y'a t'il autre chose que de gros complexes touristiques sur la côte méditerranée (bungalows, guest houses) ?

Pourriez-vous me parler un peu du Yemen...Les faits marquants quand on y débarque pour la première fois, la bouffe, les gens...et surtout les incidents qui peuvent nous arriver.

Merci

Fatima

Hello, I’m looking for testimonials from Pieds-Noirs who have recently returned to Algeria.

There can’t be many left after 65 years of the country’s independence.

I’m planning to go back myself soon to reconnect with my roots... before I pass away...

I’ve started making a few pre-bookings for hotels and apartments to rent in Algiers. At first, I received friendly and welcoming responses. Then, when I mentioned I wanted to stay for two or three weeks—maybe even a month—explaining that my trip wouldn’t be strictly touristy but more of a pilgrimage to the places of my childhood, and that it would likely be a very emotional journey, I expected a positive and warm reaction to my approach. Instead, I suddenly stopped getting replies from the three or four people I’d contacted. So now I’m wondering about the reception former Pieds-Noirs can expect...

Anyone here who can share their experience of returning? I specified “recently” because it seems that right now, diplomatic relations between the two governments are extremely tense, not to say hostile... even if Macron claims otherwise...

So, even before starting my explanation, I’d like to introduce myself since this is my first post on the forum :) I’m Jérôme, a huge Asia enthusiast, and I’m currently in the process of moving to Japan with my family in 2028.

Now, onto the topic :)

We’re a family of four traveling together to Seoul, with two separate bookings.

Our original itinerary was: Madrid → Doha → Seoul (March 23–24)

The issue is that our entire outbound flight was canceled, and the airline simply rescheduled the Madrid → Doha leg. Now we’re left with an incomplete journey, with no solution to reach our final destination (Seoul).

Since then:

- Can’t modify flights online (technical error every time) - Can’t get help via chat or WhatsApp - Phone support is unreachable, and the usual French number isn’t working right now

We don’t want a refund. We just want to be rerouted to Seoul, as our original ticket promised.

We’re flexible:

- On dates (we can leave on March 21 or 22 instead of the 23rd) - On the itinerary (different layovers if needed)

Have any of you dealt with this before? Do you know how to unlock a booking in this case or get a rerouting? We’re considering going straight to the airport to resolve it at the Qatar Airways counter....

Thanks so much for your help! 😊

Hi everyone, Okay, here I go—I haven’t done a cruise review in ages, and even longer since I’ve posted one on this forum. So, this is kinda your fault, Catherine, if I’m getting back into it... I just hope I haven’t lost my touch!

It’s a transatlantic cruise, so there are a lot of sea days. That means this review will mostly focus on the ship, especially the "Haven" section, which doesn’t get much coverage on this forum. There’ll definitely be some comparisons with MSC’s Yacht Club, since they’re direct competitors.

This will be my third cruise with NCL—a company I really love—but my first in The Haven.

My two previous cruises were on smaller ships: the NCL Sun for the Chilean fjords and the NCL Spirit in February 2025 in Asia, departing from Taiwan and arriving in Korea. I *loved* the Spirit.

Alright, let’s get started!

This trip was booked almost last-minute in early October for late November, after I had to cut short my August trip for medical reasons.

At first, when I looked at this cruise, I hadn’t specifically decided to go for The Haven. I wanted a relaxing cruise but still with destinations I hadn’t been to before. I kinda stumbled upon this one, and the itinerary appealed to me. I also found the balcony cabin price pretty good—around 2800 € for a balcony cabin (for two), all-inclusive package included. Not including flights, of course. In the end, we decided to try The Haven (obviously not the same price), but I think we got a great deal for the promised perks.

Itinerary: Departure from Lisbon, arrival in Galveston, Texas. Stops: St. Martin, St. Thomas, La Romana, Cabo Rojo, Falmouth in Jamaica.

“Hey, your Marker... - My Marker? - The one you used to make hitchhiking signs.”

The marker in question is sitting proudly on the kitchen table. Marielle found it at the bottom of a moving box.

I’ve been meaning to tell the long story of my love affair with hitchhiking for years. Here we go.

To be honest, I’m not quite sure when it started. My earliest memory goes back to a fair with a bike race in my maternal grandparents’ village. I was with my cousin, my little sister, and three girl cousins. There were six of us, ages ranging from six or seven to thirteen or fourteen. Our parents stayed at the fair, and we’d had enough. So we decided to walk home. Only it was four kilometers away. So we hitchhiked. A guy driving an old car picked us all up and dropped us off at the farm. He probably found it amusing to see us thumbing a ride by the side of the road, but maybe it also worried him a bit. With everything you read in the papers...

Around fifteen or sixteen, I started hitchhiking regularly, alone or with a friend, to go to the nearby town. But it was especially when I started boarding school in Orléans that it became more regular. The first year, I’d leave Monday morning and come back Saturday noon by bus. It was an old, uncomfortable bus where we froze in winter. To make matters worse, I often got motion sickness if, as was too often the case, I ended up sitting in the back. In the spring, a high school friend suggested I hitchhike back. It meant a slight detour, but the advantage was taking only national roads.

So that’s how, from the end of tenth grade to twelfth grade, I’d thumb a ride every Saturday on the Pont de Bourgogne. Drivers were used to seeing young people hitchhiking, and it worked pretty well. Our biggest fear? Soldiers! At that time, military service was still mandatory, and on weekends, it wasn’t rare to see them competing with us. They’d keep their uniforms on to go home. That gave people confidence—with everything you read in the papers—and they’d rarely wait more than five minutes. We, with our long hair, were definitely less popular. From time to time, three big red-faced guys in a van coming back from a construction site would flip us off, yelling things like “go get a haircut, you bums!” Those were the good old days.

We still had a good laugh, though. Patrice, the friend I’d hitchhike back from school with on Saturdays, is a musician—I’d later discover he’s an excellent composer. A die-hard Beatles fan, he knows their repertoire by heart and spends his time singing at the top of his lungs while we thumb a ride. One Saturday late morning, we’d been waiting for a while at the exit of Châteauneuf-sur-Loire when a little lady came up to him and asked if he could please sing a little quieter: a baby was sleeping in the house. He put on the most sorry face: “Oh, sorry ma’am, we didn’t realize.” No sooner had the lady gone back inside than he started again. Luckily, a car stopped just then, sparing me the embarrassment of seeing the lady come back out.

Saturday was also the day when the cigarette pack was dangerously low. So before leaving, we’d go buy some “Parisiennes,” the “P4s” as we called them back then. They were slightly thinner cigarettes with a mix of tobacco scraps. Sometimes they tasted like light tobacco, sometimes like dark. Not great, but by the end of the week, our pocket money was gone. They were sold in small packs of four, hence the name P4. We’d only pay 20 centimes. On Saturdays, it was rare for the two of us to manage to scrape together 1.50 F to buy a whole pack of Gauloises...

The last twenty kilometers, I’d usually do alone, Patrice having reached his destination. From time to time, luck would smile on me: an acquaintance would just happen to pass by and stop. One January Saturday, at the exit of Gien, I ran into another guy from Argenton whom I knew a little. That day, the weather was nice, but the temperature was well below zero. It was around noon, and it was the off-peak hour. We were shivering, stamping our feet by the side of the road, when a Citroën “Tube” arrived: it was his father’s boss’s, a mason. They were both sitting in the front, but since they were obese, they had us climb onto the open back. Even though we huddled against the cab to shelter from the wind, the twenty kilometers felt very long, especially since we were only going sixty kilometers an hour. Our hands and cheeks were blue when we finally arrived.

The year I took my baccalaureate, a friend with a 2CV would take me Monday mornings with one or two others we’d pick up in nearby villages. We’d share the gas costs, but it was still cheaper than the bus. And in winter, the bus was my nightmare. You had to get up at five to catch it at six. Not enough sleep, and outside it was freezing or raining—or both. The 2CV was luxury. Plus, Philippe would pick me up at home. On the other hand, since I didn’t have class Saturday mornings—well, I did, but we only had PE the first two hours and nothing after—I’d skip class and slip out right after breakfast to thumb a ride at the Pont de Bourgogne.

Those three high school years were formative in this optional subject that was hitchhiking. Little by little, I learned the rules of the game. First, you shouldn’t walk along the road while thumbing. Cars go too fast and can’t stop easily. Accepting a ride that’s too short is also a no-go. The guy who offers to take you a little way but drops you off at some vague crossroads in the middle of nowhere? No thanks. You need to get dropped off in a town. If it’s a fairly big city, you often have to cross it from one end to the other, but it’s better. At the exit, you have to choose your spot well. Actually, you have to put yourself in the driver’s shoes: they need to see you early enough, not be going too fast, and be able to stop easily without risking an accident. So when leaving a city, it’s better not to go too far. It’s wiser to find a spot where cars go slowly and can stop easily. And preferably near a café. The café is for when you still have a few coins for a coffee and need to warm up. From time to time, you’d run into someone nice who’d make a detour to drop you off at a better spot to start again. Finally, if possible, avoid hitchhiking on Sundays. Cars are packed with whole families who, most of the time, aren’t going far. And then there’s the little worry of those people who rarely leave home: with everything you read in the papers...

During those high school years, it was only short trips, rarely exceeding a hundred kilometers. Later, I aimed bigger, and things were a bit different. In 1973-74, I crossed part of France for the first time on two or three occasions, coming back from the German border or returning to Bordeaux, where we lived briefly. Since there weren’t many highways back then, we took national roads. It was during these trips that I realized it was better to leave in the evening. As I said earlier, Sunday is to be avoided, but on weekdays, there’s another problem: if you leave in the morning, you only make short hops. First, it often takes longer to get going because drivers are people going to work nearby. Which brings us back to those who drop you off in a bad spot, far from everything. There, you have to know how to refuse. You thank the driver for stopping—oh, if only everyone could be like you—while explaining why you’d rather stay put. People don’t take offense, by the way. Those who pick up hitchhikers often hitchhiked themselves when they were in the military or before they had a car. In the late afternoon, you’d often run into salespeople or truckers, in other words, people who drive a lot. At that time, salespeople no longer had appointments and were more relaxed. They wanted to talk about something other than the merits of their products. On the radio, it was time for *Les Grosses Têtes*. You’d also quite often run into small business owners, professionals, or even hippies. The conversations were pleasant and often enriching. A little later in the evening, truckers would take over. They’d already driven a few hundred kilometers, and the depot or customs was still far away. So they’d gladly take a hitchhiker to stay awake at the wheel and chat. The radio with Max Ménier’s show *Les routiers sont sympas*, you’d eventually get tired of it. So a hitchhiker was a change. Others, who’d hit the road at midnight to be at their destination by morning, were nice and offered to let you lie down on the bunk while they drove. When you’d been hitchhiking since six in the evening, freezing in the wind between two vehicles, you weren’t unhappy to take a little nap.

Speaking of Max Ménier, he’d often make announcements for hitchhikers. One evening, I called him. It was getting late, and I still had quite a way to go. No luck: the show had ended for good the day before!

In short, it’s better not to rush, sleep in, and leave after lunch, or better yet, in the late afternoon. Obviously, I’m talking about when you have several hundred kilometers to cover. That’s when you have to play it pro.

First thing, especially at night, but it also applies in the middle of summer when the light is blinding: dress to be seen from far away. I’ll admit I have an advantage over most other hitchhikers: I’m small and don’t scare people. To balance that out, racist drivers often take me for an Arab and are less likely to pick me up, but overall, the balance tips in my favor. Back to the need to be seen: at night, I wear light-colored clothes. In headlights, you can see me from far away.

Second thing: travel light. Forget the big backpack with a frame. Drivers don’t always have room in the trunk or on the back seat, especially if it’s rained and the ground is wet. Plus, it forces them to get out of the car. If they’re nice enough to pick up a hitchhiker, you shouldn’t ask for too much either.

Third thing: bring a cardboard sign and a big marker—like the ones in the photo at the start of this post—to write the name of your destination. In the early 80s, I ran a tourist house in the Cher, but I lived in the Netherlands. In the off-season, it was only open on weekends. On Fridays, I’d leave Holland and return on Mondays. 1200 km round trip. On the way there, in Paris, I’d stand at Porte de la Chapelle. At that spot, the road is very wide, and drivers could stop easily. Obviously, on the sign, I didn’t write Eindhoven, which not everyone knows, and even less Amsterdam because of its seedy reputation. In that case, you’d expect to see a police car stop and two officers in kepis ask for your papers. So as a first destination, I’d write Compiègne. We were well out of Paris, and since it wasn’t too far, a trucker or salesperson was less reluctant to stop. Once past Compiègne, I’d take out my Lille sign. Once in Belgium, it wasn’t really necessary to use a sign anymore, since everyone was going in the same direction. Usually, the guy who picked me up at Porte de la Chapelle would say he wasn’t going far but could take me a little way. Before that, I’d still ask if there was a gas station on the highway where he could drop me off before exiting. While talking, the guy would realize he wasn’t dealing with a dangerous criminal. He’d pretend to check his watch, think for a moment, then say that actually, he was going to Belgium and could take me to the border or a little beyond. To leave Paris on the way back, I’d take the train to Melun, where it was easier to hitchhike than at Porte d’Italie.

Over all those years, I think I was pretty lucky. Or maybe philosophical enough not to imagine a car would stop after a few minutes. An hour’s wait was average. Sure, I sometimes waited three, four, or five hours. Most often at odd hours and in terrible weather. When it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But there’s always a moment when things pick up. Sure, when you’re soaked in freezing rain in the early morning after a sleepless night, you’re less philosophical than when I’m writing these lines comfortably at my computer, but it still holds true.

Earlier, I mentioned clothing and the importance of being well-rested before leaving. When you’ve eaten well and just gotten out of the shower, shaved, you’re in a better mood. And somehow, drivers sense it. Or at least, that’s the impression I’ve always had. It’s better to look in shape than disgusted at standing there, half-heartedly thumbing a ride. In short, when I’d start to get fed up with waiting, I’d go into the first café I saw for a coffee. Coming back out, I’d be refreshed, and most of the time, a car would stop within minutes. I’ve often said that when I stood by the side of the road thumbing a ride, I felt a bit like a gambler in front of a slot machine. It was a matter of giving luck a chance. And well, it worked out pretty well.

Then, there are countries where hitchhiking works really well and others where it’s harder. In the 70s-80s, it worked best in Germany and England. In the late afternoon, it wasn’t rare to be invited for tea. Well, that was in England. Tea meant being offered room and board. In Germany, they’d offer you coffee. Once there, they’d first show you the guest room and point out the bathroom before sitting you down in front of a big plate of cold cuts. In the evening, they’d go out in town, and the next morning, they’d usually drop you off at a good spot for hitchhiking. On the other hand, in Mediterranean and Scandinavian countries, you’d better be patient. In Spain or Italy, it’s better to take the train, which was dirt cheap back then. However, if you’re a couple traveling light, it’s already easier in most countries.

In 1982, I went on a trip around Turkey with my girlfriend. We only had two small bags, which was plenty. It was November-December, and we wore our warm, bulky clothes. Leaving Eindhoven at nine in the morning, we arrived in Graz, near the Yugoslav border, at eleven at night. 1300 km in a day! In just four or five vehicles. One to the German border, about fifty kilometers from Eindhoven, the second to Hagen in the Ruhr, the third to Salzburg, and the last to Graz at the Yugoslav border. Record broken. During the night crossing of Yugoslavia, we ran into a trucker close to retirement who lent us the truck’s bunk. So we arrived fresh and rested near Skopje the next morning. We continued to Thessaloniki in northern Greece before taking the train to Istanbul. In Turkey, we traveled a good part of the country by hitchhiking too. With truckers in old, overloaded, slow trucks that climbed hills at fifteen kilometers an hour, but also in cars where five or six people were already crammed in. And every time, we were invited for tea. Once, we were even picked up by a big shot in his Mercedes with a chauffeur. Until then, the average speed was around fifty kilometers an hour. There, we were going two hundred. On a national road, not a nice European highway.

I’ve also hitchhiked in Nepal, from Lumbini, Buddha’s birthplace, to a village on the way to Pokhara. It must have been midday. No bus until the next day. I gave it a try. A small truck overloaded with rice sacks, with two or three young people already perched on top, stopped. I rode on the roof of the cab. At fifty kilometers an hour when it was going well, with a breathtaking view. Coming back from India, I also crossed part of Iran by hitchhiking, from Tehran to the Turkish border. I did this trip with an Austrian I met at the hotel who, like me, had to watch his pennies. We gave it a shot. There was almost no traffic, but to our great surprise, the first car that passed in the area would always stop. They’d just ask for a modest contribution for gas, and it cost next to nothing.

Sometimes, you get scared too. After leaving Turkey in early December 82, we spent about two weeks in the southern Peloponnese harvesting olives. A few days before Christmas, we hitchhiked back to Holland. A girl picked us up in her little Fiat 500. We were driving on a mountain road, and that morning there was a bit of black ice. After crossing a pass, we saw the old Ford Taunus ahead of us at fifty meters start to skid. The driver let out a “heeee!” while grabbing my knees. I reflexively grabbed the wheel. Finally, the Taunus got back on track. And we didn’t swerve. But those few seconds felt very long.

In January 77, while I’d been living in Germany for a few months, I decided to spend a few days in Italy. By hitchhiking, of course. I left in the early afternoon, and by ten at night, I wasn’t far from Frankfurt. I saw a big Mercedes stop. The four or five young people crammed inside were listening to Schlager at full volume. Beer cans littered the floor. They didn’t have a precise destination, and as long as they were going south, that was fine with me. They’d finished their military service that very day and had clearly already celebrated their discharge. The driver was going 160, zigzagging dangerously from one side of the highway to the other. I should have realized he wasn’t entirely sober either. Luckily, there was almost no traffic. Finally, I managed to get dropped off at a gas station just before Frankfurt, relieved. I hope their trip didn’t end tragically.

Another time, coming back from Holland with my wife, we were picked up early in the morning near Senlis by two guys from Lille. They were going to work near Tours and could drop us off at Porte d’Italie. Apparently, they were coworkers but barely knew each other. The driver offered us a beer—at six in the morning, sure!—before opening another can for himself. He was clearly having trouble staying in the right lane. We politely declined, the passenger too. Everyone was tense. Luckily, it was rush hour on the ring road, and we were going slowly. When we got out of the car, the passenger said goodbye with the look of a guy being offered the condemned man’s rum and cigarette.

Finally, there are the annoying remarks from drivers who are either gay when you’re alone or turned on by the sight of your girlfriend when you’re a couple. In those cases, I’d get in the back so the guy wouldn’t feel too confident. And if the conversation got a little too suggestive, we’d deflect until we got dropped off.

And luckily, there are the times, not so rare after all, when you run into really nice people who invite you to eat and sleep at their place and drive you to a good spot the next morning. In Germany and England, that was common. And then there are the big strokes of luck, like during our trip to Turkey when we crossed most of Germany in one car, or that other time when some Germans drove me from the exit of Geneva all the way to the Costa Brava.

Going back to “with everything you read in the papers” and its variant “with everything you see on TV”—and now on the internet—it’s always left me perplexed. Personally, I’ve never heard of hitchhikers assaulting drivers, even if it may have happened. On the other hand, what was most common were hitchhikers being assaulted, especially girls. Anyway, even armed, it seems a bit stupid to assault the driver—wouldn’t that risk causing an accident?

Finally, since that time, I’ve occasionally wanted to hitchhike somewhere far away in France. Most often, too busy with work, it never happened, but the nostalgia hasn’t completely disappeared.

* * *

Other Hitchhikers

And then one day, I... settled down to become a driver myself. Ten years had passed, and you saw fewer and fewer hitchhikers. Or maybe I saw fewer because I had a regular job and wasn’t traveling the same way. And then I understood a few things.

Several times, I was tempted to pick up a hitchhiker, but they didn’t meet the required conditions. They were walking along the road instead of staying at the exit of the previous town. Hard to stop without risking an accident. Or the guy looked really scruffy. Or he was sulking, if not both. Then you think of that famous “with everything you read in the papers.” Not that I was scared, but unfortunately, the few hitchhikers I did pick up later were rarely interesting.

A few years ago, we picked up a young guy at the exit of a small town in Sologne. Not an easy spot for hitchhiking. Bad luck, he was a pretentious little jerk. He was barely 20 or 25 and talked like a bitter old man. He was a waiter in a restaurant. According to him, it was lucky he was there, otherwise the boss would have closed up shop long ago. You’d think he had thirty or forty years of professional experience behind him. As we approached Blois, he started ranting about Arabs, blaming them for all evils. And he laid it on thick. That morning, we were going to a teenager’s funeral who had just committed suicide, so he really got on our nerves, Mr. Know-It-All. Out of anger, I dropped him off next to a shopping center a few kilometers from downtown. Not nice, but it felt good.

Some time ago, we were driving around the Limousin on a Sunday to try out the used Twingo we’d just bought. We picked up a guy in his forties. A German who spoke French well. He started talking about the environment. He was a green Khmer. He got worked up all by himself with his pseudo-eco rant and, after a few kilometers, was almost yelling at us. As we were about to leave the main road for a small one, I dropped him off at a crossroads in the middle of nowhere. Normally, I would have made a little detour to take him to a better spot, but this time, I didn’t feel like doing the... eco-warrior a favor.

On the other hand, I’ve still done my good deed a few times. One June morning, coming back from Orléans, I saw a man in his sixties hitchhiking. The poor guy had had a rough time. He was from Montpellier and was coming back from Caen, where he’d been promised a job. Once there, they bluntly told him the position was already taken, and he had to go back. Except he didn’t have enough money left for the train. He’d spent the night hitchhiking without success. I could only take him as far as Lamotte-Beuvron, where I dropped him off near the fire station. Apparently, there was some vague shelter there or something, but it only opened a few hours later. In the meantime, he settled on the grass in a corner to sleep a little. While he was doing that, I quickly went to the train station to check the price of a ticket to Montpellier. It was within my means. Since he was sound asleep, I slipped the train ticket and 100 francs into his pocket. I couldn’t imagine him continuing to hitchhike all the way to Montpellier. And I bet he didn’t even have a piece of cardboard and a marker!

When we go to Brazil, we usually rent a small car. One day, we were coming back from Paracuru to Fortaleza when we saw a whole family hitchhiking. Two adults and two or three small children. Here near the equator, the sun sets very quickly, and it would soon be night. There was little traffic, and trucks wouldn’t stop because there was no room in the cab. As for the rich people driving big 4x4s, they wouldn’t stoop to picking up the lower classes. The only hope for this kind of family was usually a farmer or artisan who’d let them ride in the back of his pickup. Obviously, they were a bit surprised to see us. Everyone crammed in as best they could in the back of our little car. When we dropped them off, we got a whole string of “Deus lhes abençõe”—God bless you.

Still in Brazil, we were on the road from Barreirinhas to São Luís do Maranhão. About 150 km of deserted road with an isolated mud house here and there. A young woman flagged us down. She was very pregnant and had to get to the clinic twenty or thirty kilometers away to give birth. Someone was supposed to drive her, but the first signs of labor started earlier than expected, and the driver was unavailable. Even driving fast, we weren’t feeling great: it would be just our luck if she gave birth in the car!

Today, we’re in the age of smartphones and carpooling apps. Safety. With everything you see on TV... Three or four years ago, we signed up on a platform. Our first, and only, “client” was a little jerk who didn’t say a word the whole trip. No hello, no goodbye, and certainly no thank you. The next day, we found his Ray-Bans in the car. We didn’t run after him to give them back. Ha!

Mid-June, two Auvergnats on the starting blocks—off we go to the former Yugoslavia! We’d already explored some nooks and crannies of northern Croatia back in 2019, so we’re keeping the momentum going by planning a trip to the south of the country and then Montenegro.

On the way back, we’ll drift into Bosnia-Herzegovina just to mix things up a bit!

We’re a little unsure about what to expect in terms of tourist crowds.

Dubrovnik has a reputation for being the hardest-hit city by overtourism, and Kotor and the whole Dalmatian coast aren’t exactly empty...

Luckily, most European countries haven’t started school holidays yet, and some measures seem to have been put in place to limit the flow (like restrictions on the number of cruise ships allowed to dock at the same time).

Maybe we’ll manage to escape the promised hell?

For now, we’re slamming the doors of the Scirocco and heading off to our first stop: northern Italy!

Hi there. About a month ago, I posted a potential itinerary for Bulgaria and Istanbul, but in the end, since we found some relatively cheap flight tickets to Istanbul, we decided to go for a trip to Turkey instead.

When? 2 weeks, late August (14th to 29th) Who? Dad, mom, a 17-year-old teen, and an 11-year-old child

Here’s our plan: do you think it’s doable? Any practical tips?

We start with 4 full days in Istanbul (5 nights) Then, we rent a car and head to Ephesus. We stay there for 1 day (2 nights) After that, we drive to Kaş. We stay there for 4 full days (5 nights), enough time to relax a bit, see Kaputaş Beach and Kekova, the site of Myra, the site of Patara, and possibly the site of Çıralı/Olympos—even though it’s a bit far—and Saklıkent Gorge. From Kaş, we spend 2 nights near Denizli to see Pamukkale and Aphrodisias. Is it possible to visit both sites in the same day? Then, we travel from Pamukkale back to Istanbul, return the car, and spend one last night in Istanbul.

Thanks for your thoughts!

Hi there,

The title might be a bit long, but I hope it’s completely understandable!

When it comes to choosing your next trip, what tips the scales in favor of Eritrea over Ibiza?

Why pick Canada over French Polynesia?

The price? A magazine or TV report, a travel journal, an Instagram ad? Ease of travel? Minimal time difference? The country that has the most in common with all the trip participants? Activities? Relaxation? The desire to push your limits?

A photo?



What else, I wonder...

Personally, I often prioritize simple destinations (no administrative hassles), where I’m not at risk (nothing extraordinary like getting kidnapped by Daesh or ending up in a jail cell because the current geopolitics aren’t favorable to my passport, etc.), and where I can drive.

Wide-open natural spaces are more my thing than urban anthills.

Finally, I try not to spend three days on a plane to reach my destination, and I aim for a maximum budget of 3500 € (for 3 weeks) in comfortable conditions—that means charming hotels, good meals, etc.

What about you?🙂

This catchy and somewhat mysterious title comes from several questions I’ve been asking myself.

VF has been back open for a reasonable number of weeks and months now. The number of visitors overall matches past averages, but the number of members online in the last 24 hours seems relatively lower than what we used to see.

Yet, to my surprise, I’m seeing fewer travel journals, way fewer messages, and way fewer questions. I don’t see many new registered users online, and I notice a number of members who are logged in but either aren’t participating or have stopped participating.

Something’s not adding up for me because, in my opinion, VF is still appealing, and I don’t see which other sites could really compete.

Was there a real break between pre- and post-Covid? Does it just take more time for some people to discover the site or learn that it’s active again? Do people now prefer quick consumption on sites like FB or others I’m not familiar with? Where have the site’s old-timers gone, and what are they doing with their time now? What’s really going on here?

Hi,

I’m starting this thread after a digression that began in the India section and continued in a travel journal about Kerala.

The original topic was whether India is—or isn’t—a nature destination.

I’ll let you all discuss and share your own definition of a nature destination. 🙂

Hi everyone,

I was wondering how the coronavirus pandemic has impacted the way you travel or plan your trips. I know some of these points have been discussed before, but what I’m interested in here is the concrete, present, and personal—no politics and nothing post-COVID.

Here are a few ideas—do any of these resonate with you?

- Traveling shorter distances / for shorter durations - Favoring rural or less crowded areas over urban or overcrowded ones - Opting for private transportation over public transit - Traveling solo or at least in pairs rather than in groups - Waiting until the crisis is over and saving money in the meantime - Reassessing health risks (and updating your first-aid kit/medications and vaccinations) - ...

I’m sure you’ll have other things to add. The floor is yours!

Bonjour,

En janvier je pars au Proche Orient, j’atterris à Amman et je vais visiter la Jordanie, faire un saut en Israël (Jérusalem), revenir en Jordanie puis partir pour la Syrie.

J'ai deux passeports : l'un sur lequel sera apposé mon visa syrien et le deuxième vierge.

Problème : comme je veux aller et en Israël (d'abord) et en Syrie (ensuite), je voudrais savoir si je peux demander à l'aéroport d'Amman un tampon d'entrée jordanien sur mes deux passeports (celui avec le visa syrien et l'autre) ?

Je m'explique : je vais passer en Israël avec mon passeport vierge (pour éviter un interrogatoire, s'ils voient le visa syrien, c'est même pas la peine d'essayer), mais il faut que j'ai un tampon d'entrée en Jordanie, sinon ils (les gardes-frontière israéliens) vont trouver ça louche, à juste titre.

Si je fais l'aller-retour en Israël depuis la Jordanie, je n'aurai pas de tampon sur mon passeport (juste sur une feuille volante à conserver).

Par contre ensuite, lorsque je vais aller en Syrie, je n'aurai pas de tampon d'entrée jordanien sur mon passeport contenant le visa syrien, du coup pareil, ils vont trouver ça louche et je risque fort d'être refoulé.

Pensez-vous que je puisse obtenir ça en expliquant la situation à l'aéroport ? Ou demander une lettre de l'ambassade de Jordanie à Paris ?

Merci pour vos conseils, on ne sait jamais, qui ne tente rien n'a rien...

Hey everyone,

I’m sharing a slightly unusual travel journal with three goals. To make it work, this discussion should stay in the travel journal section so we can find it easily and keep adding info to existing posts.

This journal is meant to help "newbies" discover these magical places.

We go to Southern Africa not just for the animals, but also for that soft light, the atmosphere, and those incredible wild campsites where you feel so at home... I’d love for you all to share your favorite spots here—those we miss so much.

The last goal is figuring out how to photograph them. Honestly, I’m not happy with my photos because they don’t capture the feeling I get when I’m there or that unique atmosphere.

I’ll start with one of the first spots that, for me, is one of the most beautiful in Southern Africa: Passarge Valley 2 in the Central Kalahari. There, you’re alone—completely alone. The next campsite is over 25 km away, and that’s a half-day of 4x4 driving. In front of you, there’s nothing but the CKGR plains with herds of springboks... absolutely stunning 😎