Results for "Pérou+hébergement"
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Séjour de quinze jours à Cuba fin avril
Bonjour à tous,
je pars avec ma copine à Cuba pour environ 15 jours (du 27 avril au 10 mai) et après avoir fouillé le forum et regardé quelques agences (pour se donner des idées), nous envisageons le programme suivant : - jour 1 : vol - arrivée à La Havane - jour 2 : La Havane - jour 3 : La Havane - jour 4 : La Havane - vallée de Vinales - jour 5 : Cayo (par exemple Jutias) - jour 6 : Soroa et las terrazas - jour 7 : Guama - jour 8 : Cienfuegos - jour 9 : Trinidad - jour 10 : Topes de Collantes - jour 11 : Cayo Coco - jour 12 : Cayo Coco - jour 13 : Santa Clara - jour 14 : La Havane
Que pensez-vous de ce parcours ? Est-il possible de dormir tous les soirs en casa particular (sauf évidemment à Cayo Coco) ? Enfin, pour ce parcours, la location d'une voiture est-elle nécessaire ou est-il possible de le faire en bus (et éventuellement scooter, par exemple pour Cayo Jutias ou Topes de Collantes) ?
Merci d'avance pour vos retours avisés :)
je pars avec ma copine à Cuba pour environ 15 jours (du 27 avril au 10 mai) et après avoir fouillé le forum et regardé quelques agences (pour se donner des idées), nous envisageons le programme suivant : - jour 1 : vol - arrivée à La Havane - jour 2 : La Havane - jour 3 : La Havane - jour 4 : La Havane - vallée de Vinales - jour 5 : Cayo (par exemple Jutias) - jour 6 : Soroa et las terrazas - jour 7 : Guama - jour 8 : Cienfuegos - jour 9 : Trinidad - jour 10 : Topes de Collantes - jour 11 : Cayo Coco - jour 12 : Cayo Coco - jour 13 : Santa Clara - jour 14 : La Havane
Que pensez-vous de ce parcours ? Est-il possible de dormir tous les soirs en casa particular (sauf évidemment à Cayo Coco) ? Enfin, pour ce parcours, la location d'une voiture est-elle nécessaire ou est-il possible de le faire en bus (et éventuellement scooter, par exemple pour Cayo Jutias ou Topes de Collantes) ?
Merci d'avance pour vos retours avisés :)
Découverte des textiles du monde en tour du monde
Bonjour à tous
Dans la vie je fais de la reconstitution archéologiques (moyen âge, croisades...) et me passionne aussi pour l'ethnologie... J'accomplis aussi des missions humanitaires (Népal, Indonésie, Egypte...) ; le voyage est important pour la santé de mon ciboulot.
J'ai donc eu envie de joindre tous mes centres d’intérêt en accomplissant un tour du monde des textiles. (départ dans quelques semaines, durée : entre 6 mois et 1an)
Rien n'est programmé pour le moment (je cours après quelques derniers sous et sponsors) Mais en attendant, j'aimerai organiser mon périple avec vous 🙂
Je prévois de parcourir les pays traversés par la fameuse et ancestrale Route de la Soie, mais aussi des régions d'Amérique du sud (laines de lama, alpaga…), l'Amazonie (tissages de coton et broderies), l'Afrique centrale (tissu d'écorce)…
Quand je dis "TEXTILES", je pense aussi bien aux tissus, mais aussi aux tapis et papiers... Tant qu'ils sont fabriqués à base de fibres NATURELLES (Coton, Lin, Chanvre, Bananier, Lotus, Laine, Soie…) Fabriqués artisanalement, à la main ou avec des outillages traditionnels, préservant ainsi les traditions des peuples…
J'ai commencé à recenser les techniques classées "patrimoine immatériel de l'humanité" par l'UNESCO. J'aimerai ajouter à cela des sites inconnus, un village perdu dans la jungle laotienne, une mamie croisée à Bakhtapur filant sa laine, des chasseur en Ouganda transformant l'écorce en vêtement...
Que pouvez-vous me conseiller comme produit textile purement représentatif d'une ethnie, d'une région ou d'un pays ? Lors de vos voyages, avez-vous déjà été marqués par un textile en particulier ? Comment puis-je trouver des villages très isolés dans la jungle ou la steppe qui pratiquent encore le tissage ?
N'hésitez pas à poser des tas de questions, conseiller ou déconseiller des choses, partager vos expériences, vos témoignages, etc 🙂
J'ai besoin de me rassurer avant de partir ! Merci d'avance 😉
Dans la vie je fais de la reconstitution archéologiques (moyen âge, croisades...) et me passionne aussi pour l'ethnologie... J'accomplis aussi des missions humanitaires (Népal, Indonésie, Egypte...) ; le voyage est important pour la santé de mon ciboulot.
J'ai donc eu envie de joindre tous mes centres d’intérêt en accomplissant un tour du monde des textiles. (départ dans quelques semaines, durée : entre 6 mois et 1an)
Rien n'est programmé pour le moment (je cours après quelques derniers sous et sponsors) Mais en attendant, j'aimerai organiser mon périple avec vous 🙂
Je prévois de parcourir les pays traversés par la fameuse et ancestrale Route de la Soie, mais aussi des régions d'Amérique du sud (laines de lama, alpaga…), l'Amazonie (tissages de coton et broderies), l'Afrique centrale (tissu d'écorce)…
Quand je dis "TEXTILES", je pense aussi bien aux tissus, mais aussi aux tapis et papiers... Tant qu'ils sont fabriqués à base de fibres NATURELLES (Coton, Lin, Chanvre, Bananier, Lotus, Laine, Soie…) Fabriqués artisanalement, à la main ou avec des outillages traditionnels, préservant ainsi les traditions des peuples…
J'ai commencé à recenser les techniques classées "patrimoine immatériel de l'humanité" par l'UNESCO. J'aimerai ajouter à cela des sites inconnus, un village perdu dans la jungle laotienne, une mamie croisée à Bakhtapur filant sa laine, des chasseur en Ouganda transformant l'écorce en vêtement...
Que pouvez-vous me conseiller comme produit textile purement représentatif d'une ethnie, d'une région ou d'un pays ? Lors de vos voyages, avez-vous déjà été marqués par un textile en particulier ? Comment puis-je trouver des villages très isolés dans la jungle ou la steppe qui pratiquent encore le tissage ?
N'hésitez pas à poser des tas de questions, conseiller ou déconseiller des choses, partager vos expériences, vos témoignages, etc 🙂
J'ai besoin de me rassurer avant de partir ! Merci d'avance 😉
Du Salar d'Uyuni au Pantanal: projet d'itinéraire
Bonjour à tou(te)s,
Une nouvelle année voit le jour , de nouveaux projets de voyages aussi ! 😉
Voici l'esquisse d'un parcours en Bolivie et au Brésil sur un mois :
Arrivée par Santa Cruz de la Sierra (2 nuits)
Location d'une voiture puis :
- Cochabamba (2 nuits) - Lago Poopo via Oruro (1 nuit) - Uyuni (2 nuits) - Potosi (2 nuits) - Sucre et environs (3 nuits) - Samaipata et parc Amboro (3 nuits)
Retour du véhicule sur Santa Cruz puis bus pour San José de Chiquitos (2 nuits)
Bus pour la frontière brésilienne.
Pantanal : une semaine
Vol pour Rio (2 nuits) puis retour en France...
J'aurais voulu vos avis sur la faisabilité de ce parcours et vos bonnes adresses (confort - charme) en chemin !
Je m'interroge particulièrement sur l'étape entre Cochabamba et Lago Popoo (trop long ?)ainsi que sur les possibilités d'hébergement près de ce lac.
Je ne vois pas non plus comment articuler la partie Pantanal : déplacement en Bus ? Coût d'un lodge confort mais pas luxe ?
Quant à la température en août : vêtement de sport d'hiver à Uyuni (froid très froid ou juste froid ?) et robe légère dans le Pantanal (été ou printemps) ?
Je précise que je connais le nord de la Bolivie, Atacama et Rio.
Merci d'avance !🙂
Agnès
Une nouvelle année voit le jour , de nouveaux projets de voyages aussi ! 😉
Voici l'esquisse d'un parcours en Bolivie et au Brésil sur un mois :
Arrivée par Santa Cruz de la Sierra (2 nuits)
Location d'une voiture puis :
- Cochabamba (2 nuits) - Lago Poopo via Oruro (1 nuit) - Uyuni (2 nuits) - Potosi (2 nuits) - Sucre et environs (3 nuits) - Samaipata et parc Amboro (3 nuits)
Retour du véhicule sur Santa Cruz puis bus pour San José de Chiquitos (2 nuits)
Bus pour la frontière brésilienne.
Pantanal : une semaine
Vol pour Rio (2 nuits) puis retour en France...
J'aurais voulu vos avis sur la faisabilité de ce parcours et vos bonnes adresses (confort - charme) en chemin !
Je m'interroge particulièrement sur l'étape entre Cochabamba et Lago Popoo (trop long ?)ainsi que sur les possibilités d'hébergement près de ce lac.
Je ne vois pas non plus comment articuler la partie Pantanal : déplacement en Bus ? Coût d'un lodge confort mais pas luxe ?
Quant à la température en août : vêtement de sport d'hiver à Uyuni (froid très froid ou juste froid ?) et robe légère dans le Pantanal (été ou printemps) ?
Je précise que je connais le nord de la Bolivie, Atacama et Rio.
Merci d'avance !🙂
Agnès
Itinéraire pour un mois au Chili, déplacements, budget?
Bonjour à tous, j'ai besoin de votre aide afin de préparer notre voyage au chili pour 1 mois. Nous sommes 2, et nous voulons absolument visiter ces merveilles:
Valparaiso, Vina del mar, Torres del Paine, San pedro de Atacama. On aime l'aventure, les sports, La plage...les vins.
Donc si vous avez des idées d'itinéraires, car j'ai aucune idée combien de temps rester à chaque place et combien $ prévoir comme budget selon l'endroit. Les distances apparemment sont tres importantes....j'aimerai alors avoir un cpoup de pouce pour bien preparer les déplacements.
1 mois est-ce que c'est possible de visiter ces endroits? Merci beaucoup, toute aide est appréciée!! Karen
1 mois est-ce que c'est possible de visiter ces endroits? Merci beaucoup, toute aide est appréciée!! Karen
Conseils pour voyage en Argentine du 16 novembre au 10 décembre 2012?
bonjour tout le monde,
Avant de vous demandez toutes choses, je tenais à vous remercier, pour vos nombreux conseils postés sur ce forum. C'est grâce à vous que j'ai constitué un voyage que j'attends depuis plus de 10ans.
Bon voilà, le voyage approche à grands pas (vraiment hâte d'y être!!!) 😎😎😎. Je pars avec une amie du 16nov au 10déc. Nous avons choisi de nous "restreindre" aux merveilles du Nord Ouest Argentin et de ne pas nous étendre au delà des frontières argentines, comme nous voulions au départ.
Je vais vous faire part, avant toute chose, de notre périple argentin:
17/18 Nov : Arrivée sur BA et visite de la ville. Bus de nuit vers Puerto Iguazu 19 Nov : Iguazu coté Argentin. 20 Nov: Matinée Iguazu coté Brezil. 14H20 depart en le Bus pour San Ignacio. Nuit à San Ignacio. 21 Nov : Matinée à San Ignacio. Aprem départ en Bus pour Salta (Nuit dans le Bus). 22 Nov : Visite de Salta 23 Nov : Location de Véhicule pour la visite de Colorados/Cardones/Cachi/Molinos/Angastaco/Cafayate. 24 Nov : Cafayate/Quilmes/Cafayete/Salta/San Juan de Jujuy 25 Nov : Purmamarca/Salinas Grandes/San Antonio de Los Cobres/ Salta (on rend la voiture) Nuit à Salta. 26/27/28 Nov : excursion pour trois jours à Tolar Grande avec Oneromworldtravel 29 Nov :laguna brava (mais je viens d'envoyer un message à runacay donc je n'ai pas encore les infos concernant le nombre de jours de cette excursion). j'aimerai aussi ajouter les deux parcs Talampaya et Ischigualasco. Et pourquoi pas passer encore un peu de temps dans cette partie de l'Argentine pour faire le trek "crater de la corona del Inca"
je passe quelques jours puisque je ne me suis pas encore organisée.
05/06 Dec : Mendoza (où je retrouve une famille que j'avais rencontré lors de mon voyage au Pérou, on avait partagé le "trek de l'Inca" 🙂 ). Trek prévu avec la famille que je connais et visite de vignoble et de caves (hummmmm du bon vin Argentin😛) 07/08/09/10 Dec : Buenos Aires avec journée visites/shopping 🙂😊 (eh oui je reste une femme et j'adore ça malgré mon coté routard).
Je voulais avoir quelques conseils concernant la préparation du sac. J'ai vu qu'apparemment, nous allons subir un traumatisme climatique avec Paris, mais pour ce qui est des températures en montagne, fait-il froid la nuit? dois-je prendre mon sac de couchage -10° ?
Pour ce qui est de l'hébergement, nous irons au maximum en auberge de jeunesse.
Est ce que mon voyage vous parait un peu trop rempli??
des conseils sur les lieux à éviter? à privilégier?
Pour les moustiques, est ce utile de traiter les vêtements? prendre des produits pour pays exotiques? (j'avais du en prendre lors de mon voyage au Pérou à Puerto Maldonado).
Merci beaucoup pour vos réponses qui me seront d'une énorme utilité. Je suis adepte de tous vos conseils!!! même si j'ai passé énormément de temps sur ce site à lire vos messages.🙂 (ce qui fut un énorme plaisir)
Mélanie
Avant de vous demandez toutes choses, je tenais à vous remercier, pour vos nombreux conseils postés sur ce forum. C'est grâce à vous que j'ai constitué un voyage que j'attends depuis plus de 10ans.
Bon voilà, le voyage approche à grands pas (vraiment hâte d'y être!!!) 😎😎😎. Je pars avec une amie du 16nov au 10déc. Nous avons choisi de nous "restreindre" aux merveilles du Nord Ouest Argentin et de ne pas nous étendre au delà des frontières argentines, comme nous voulions au départ.
Je vais vous faire part, avant toute chose, de notre périple argentin:
17/18 Nov : Arrivée sur BA et visite de la ville. Bus de nuit vers Puerto Iguazu 19 Nov : Iguazu coté Argentin. 20 Nov: Matinée Iguazu coté Brezil. 14H20 depart en le Bus pour San Ignacio. Nuit à San Ignacio. 21 Nov : Matinée à San Ignacio. Aprem départ en Bus pour Salta (Nuit dans le Bus). 22 Nov : Visite de Salta 23 Nov : Location de Véhicule pour la visite de Colorados/Cardones/Cachi/Molinos/Angastaco/Cafayate. 24 Nov : Cafayate/Quilmes/Cafayete/Salta/San Juan de Jujuy 25 Nov : Purmamarca/Salinas Grandes/San Antonio de Los Cobres/ Salta (on rend la voiture) Nuit à Salta. 26/27/28 Nov : excursion pour trois jours à Tolar Grande avec Oneromworldtravel 29 Nov :laguna brava (mais je viens d'envoyer un message à runacay donc je n'ai pas encore les infos concernant le nombre de jours de cette excursion). j'aimerai aussi ajouter les deux parcs Talampaya et Ischigualasco. Et pourquoi pas passer encore un peu de temps dans cette partie de l'Argentine pour faire le trek "crater de la corona del Inca"
je passe quelques jours puisque je ne me suis pas encore organisée.
05/06 Dec : Mendoza (où je retrouve une famille que j'avais rencontré lors de mon voyage au Pérou, on avait partagé le "trek de l'Inca" 🙂 ). Trek prévu avec la famille que je connais et visite de vignoble et de caves (hummmmm du bon vin Argentin😛) 07/08/09/10 Dec : Buenos Aires avec journée visites/shopping 🙂😊 (eh oui je reste une femme et j'adore ça malgré mon coté routard).
Je voulais avoir quelques conseils concernant la préparation du sac. J'ai vu qu'apparemment, nous allons subir un traumatisme climatique avec Paris, mais pour ce qui est des températures en montagne, fait-il froid la nuit? dois-je prendre mon sac de couchage -10° ?
Pour ce qui est de l'hébergement, nous irons au maximum en auberge de jeunesse.
Est ce que mon voyage vous parait un peu trop rempli??
des conseils sur les lieux à éviter? à privilégier?
Pour les moustiques, est ce utile de traiter les vêtements? prendre des produits pour pays exotiques? (j'avais du en prendre lors de mon voyage au Pérou à Puerto Maldonado).
Merci beaucoup pour vos réponses qui me seront d'une énorme utilité. Je suis adepte de tous vos conseils!!! même si j'ai passé énormément de temps sur ce site à lire vos messages.🙂 (ce qui fut un énorme plaisir)
Mélanie
Cyclo-trip sur les routes de France
Bonjour à tous, cyclotouristes et cyclorandonneurs!
Je prévois de partir sur les routes de France mi-novembre prochain pour un mois ou deux et voir où ça me mène.
Au programme: tour de France, semi-tour de France, visites des petites villes, villages et des grandes villes.
Et comme les voyages sont bien plus passionnants quand on les partage, je me disais que s'il y en a que ça tente, ils sont les bienvenus!
De même, si vous avez des conseils sur des coins à voir, des petites perles à visiter, je suis toute ouïe!
Quant au camping sauvage en hiver, je n'ai jamais testé, donc je ne suis pas contre toutes les petites astuces que vous connaissez!!
Bonne journée à tous!!
Marie
Des tours du monde de prévus en 2013/2014?
Bonjour à tous!
Mon copain et moi préparons notre voyage autour du monde pour un départ prévu en octobre 2013.
Y en a t il parmi vous qui prévoient un tel voyage pour 2013 ou 2014?
Ça pourrait être sympa de partager nos expériences de préparation et de voyage, et de s'échanger nos adresses de blog.
En ce qui nous concerne, nous partirions pour un voyage de 11 mois, et notre itinéraire serait le suivant: - Népal (+ escale au Tibet?), Inde du nord: octobre-novembre, 9 semaines - Thaïlande, Laos, Vietnam du nord, Cambodge, Birmanie: décembre-début mars, 14 semaines - Australie, Nouvelle Zélande: début mars-mi-mai, 10 semaines - Chili, Argentine, Pérou, Bolivie, Brésil ou Équateur: mi-mai-début septembre, 16 semaines.
Pour l'instant nous n'avons pas plus avancé dans les préparatifs...
Et vous, ou en êtes vous?
Marion
Mon copain et moi préparons notre voyage autour du monde pour un départ prévu en octobre 2013.
Y en a t il parmi vous qui prévoient un tel voyage pour 2013 ou 2014?
Ça pourrait être sympa de partager nos expériences de préparation et de voyage, et de s'échanger nos adresses de blog.
En ce qui nous concerne, nous partirions pour un voyage de 11 mois, et notre itinéraire serait le suivant: - Népal (+ escale au Tibet?), Inde du nord: octobre-novembre, 9 semaines - Thaïlande, Laos, Vietnam du nord, Cambodge, Birmanie: décembre-début mars, 14 semaines - Australie, Nouvelle Zélande: début mars-mi-mai, 10 semaines - Chili, Argentine, Pérou, Bolivie, Brésil ou Équateur: mi-mai-début septembre, 16 semaines.
Pour l'instant nous n'avons pas plus avancé dans les préparatifs...
Et vous, ou en êtes vous?
Marion
Information: budget de tour du monde
nous voila revenu d'un tour du monde de 7mois a peut pres au tour du monde.
tous les messages que j'ai pue recolte nous ont bien aide! donc voila, a notre tour!
BUDGET PREVU BUDGET DEPENSE nbr jour prix/jour total TOTAL prix par jour total REEL realiser par jour DIFFERENCE Hong Kong 5 30 € 150 € 35 € 175€ 115 € japon 15 160 € 2 400 € 100 € 1 500€ 2 300 € chine 30 35 € 1 050 € 30 € 900€ 1 020 € Laos 20 25 € 500 € 20 € 400€ 480 € vietnam 10 30 € 300 € 28 € 280€ 272 € thailande 24 40 € 960 € 40 € 960€ 920 € LA 8 50 € 400 € 60 € 480€ 340 € Mexique 25 40 € 1 000 € 40 € 1 000€ 960 € guatemala 20 35 € 700 € 35 € 700€ 665 € perou 21 35 € 735 € 35 € 735€ 700 € bolivie 20 35 € 700 € 27 € 540€ 673 €
budget billet d avion billet tour du monde: 3400euro
PREVU DEPENSE montpellier - paris - montpellier 100 € 100,00€ hongkong - tokyo 250 € 249,58€ vietnam-thailande 240 € 175,00€ Beijing - x'ian 140 € 110,00€ x'ian - kunming 120 € 100,00€
voila j espere que ça aidera
BUDGET PREVU BUDGET DEPENSE nbr jour prix/jour total TOTAL prix par jour total REEL realiser par jour DIFFERENCE Hong Kong 5 30 € 150 € 35 € 175€ 115 € japon 15 160 € 2 400 € 100 € 1 500€ 2 300 € chine 30 35 € 1 050 € 30 € 900€ 1 020 € Laos 20 25 € 500 € 20 € 400€ 480 € vietnam 10 30 € 300 € 28 € 280€ 272 € thailande 24 40 € 960 € 40 € 960€ 920 € LA 8 50 € 400 € 60 € 480€ 340 € Mexique 25 40 € 1 000 € 40 € 1 000€ 960 € guatemala 20 35 € 700 € 35 € 700€ 665 € perou 21 35 € 735 € 35 € 735€ 700 € bolivie 20 35 € 700 € 27 € 540€ 673 €
budget billet d avion billet tour du monde: 3400euro
PREVU DEPENSE montpellier - paris - montpellier 100 € 100,00€ hongkong - tokyo 250 € 249,58€ vietnam-thailande 240 € 175,00€ Beijing - x'ian 140 € 110,00€ x'ian - kunming 120 € 100,00€
voila j espere que ça aidera
Trek dans le massif du M'Goun (Maroc)
Bonjour à tous,
Nous sommes un jeune couple partant dans 1 semaine pour Marrakech et souhaitons nous rendre directement dans le massif du M'Goun afin d'y faire un trek d'environ 7 jours avec notamment pour objectif de faire le sommet...
Nous avons des propositions "tout compris" de guides locaux avec une prise en charge dès l'aéroport mais envisageons peut-être de nous rendre par nos propres moyens à Azilal ou Tabant afin d'organiser le trek directement sur place (en espérant payer moins cher).
Est-il facile de trouver un guide et un muletier/cuisinier en dernière minute en septembre à Tabant? Quel budget faut-il compter pour une semaine de trek tout compris (guide, muletier, nourriture, hébergement)?
Merci d'avance à ceux qui prendront le temps de nous lire et de nous répondre,
Bons voyages à tous !
Nous sommes un jeune couple partant dans 1 semaine pour Marrakech et souhaitons nous rendre directement dans le massif du M'Goun afin d'y faire un trek d'environ 7 jours avec notamment pour objectif de faire le sommet...
Nous avons des propositions "tout compris" de guides locaux avec une prise en charge dès l'aéroport mais envisageons peut-être de nous rendre par nos propres moyens à Azilal ou Tabant afin d'organiser le trek directement sur place (en espérant payer moins cher).
Est-il facile de trouver un guide et un muletier/cuisinier en dernière minute en septembre à Tabant? Quel budget faut-il compter pour une semaine de trek tout compris (guide, muletier, nourriture, hébergement)?
Merci d'avance à ceux qui prendront le temps de nous lire et de nous répondre,
Bons voyages à tous !
Road trip seule en Amerique Latine
Bonjour à tous!!!!
Nouvelle sur le site, je viens vous demander de l' aide ainsi que des conseils. Je souhaite partir en octobre 2013 en amerique du sud pour une duree d un an. Pas mal de questions se bousculent dans ma tete: - qu' elle est le meilleur moment pour acheter les billets d avion?! - qu' elle est la meilleure formule pour les billets (1 aller/retour; 5 vols..) - comment bien definir mon itineraire selon les saisons et les pays - qu'elle sont les endroits à ne pas rater dans chaques pays - qu'elles zones eviter, voyageant toute seule il me faut se genre d infos - je compte me baser sur du couchsurfing, qu en pensez-vous?! - le matchu-pitchu pour reserver est ce plus interessant sur place ou sur site internet?!
Je pense en avoir pleins d autres mais deja si vous pouvez m aider sur celles ci je vous en serai reconnaissante 😛
Nouvelle sur le site, je viens vous demander de l' aide ainsi que des conseils. Je souhaite partir en octobre 2013 en amerique du sud pour une duree d un an. Pas mal de questions se bousculent dans ma tete: - qu' elle est le meilleur moment pour acheter les billets d avion?! - qu' elle est la meilleure formule pour les billets (1 aller/retour; 5 vols..) - comment bien definir mon itineraire selon les saisons et les pays - qu'elle sont les endroits à ne pas rater dans chaques pays - qu'elles zones eviter, voyageant toute seule il me faut se genre d infos - je compte me baser sur du couchsurfing, qu en pensez-vous?! - le matchu-pitchu pour reserver est ce plus interessant sur place ou sur site internet?!
Je pense en avoir pleins d autres mais deja si vous pouvez m aider sur celles ci je vous en serai reconnaissante 😛
Vivre une semaine auprès d'une tribu en Amazonie brésilienne
Bonjour,
Je souhaite vivre une semaine en amazonie brésilienne dans une tribue. Je ne sais pas comment m'y prendre, où trouver un guide, ni comment trouver une tribue qui vit encore selon ses traditions à l'ancienne.
Je vous remercie d'avance pour votre aide
Je souhaite vivre une semaine en amazonie brésilienne dans une tribue. Je ne sais pas comment m'y prendre, où trouver un guide, ni comment trouver une tribue qui vit encore selon ses traditions à l'ancienne.
Je vous remercie d'avance pour votre aide
Budget, visa, vaccins... en Argentine?
Bonjour,
Je prepare pour un tour du monde (de 10-12 mois) avec ma copine, on en est à choisir l'itinéraire. Pour pofiner nos choix j'ai quelques questions sur les pays pré-choisit et donc il y a l'argentine Nous pensons être en argentine en mars (2015 c'est dans assez longtemps mais la preparation permet de rever donc notre tdm durera donc plus de 3 ans😉)
Est ce une periode porpice pour y voyager ? (Sinon quels sont les periodes favorable?)
Quelle durée préconisez vous pour pouvoir s'impregner un minimum de la vie en argentine ? (combien de temps y êtes vous resté ? etait-ce trop long ou trop court?)
Combien de temps y êtes vous restez et quel budget pour cette période? (en precisant le mode de vie utilisé)
Avez vous des precisions sur les visa, les vaccins ou autre obligation administrative requise pour y séjourner? ( cout, durée de validation, durée de l'obtention ect..)
Qu'est ce qui vous à marqué dans ce pays , en bien ou en mal, ( site à visité, activité realisée, hosptalité des locaux ou tout autre point qui vous semblerait important de partager) ?
Merci d'avance pour toutes vos future reponse 🙂
Ps: Si une question n'est assez precise pour y repondre correctement n'hésitez à me demander des precisions
Je prepare pour un tour du monde (de 10-12 mois) avec ma copine, on en est à choisir l'itinéraire. Pour pofiner nos choix j'ai quelques questions sur les pays pré-choisit et donc il y a l'argentine Nous pensons être en argentine en mars (2015 c'est dans assez longtemps mais la preparation permet de rever donc notre tdm durera donc plus de 3 ans😉)
Est ce une periode porpice pour y voyager ? (Sinon quels sont les periodes favorable?)
Quelle durée préconisez vous pour pouvoir s'impregner un minimum de la vie en argentine ? (combien de temps y êtes vous resté ? etait-ce trop long ou trop court?)
Combien de temps y êtes vous restez et quel budget pour cette période? (en precisant le mode de vie utilisé)
Avez vous des precisions sur les visa, les vaccins ou autre obligation administrative requise pour y séjourner? ( cout, durée de validation, durée de l'obtention ect..)
Qu'est ce qui vous à marqué dans ce pays , en bien ou en mal, ( site à visité, activité realisée, hosptalité des locaux ou tout autre point qui vous semblerait important de partager) ?
Merci d'avance pour toutes vos future reponse 🙂
Ps: Si une question n'est assez precise pour y repondre correctement n'hésitez à me demander des precisions
Visite des chutes d'Iguazú
Bonjour à tous
Je prépare un voyage en Amérique du sud, ( sac à dos ) je vais visité plusieurs pays, limite de temps indéterminée...J, aimerais me rendre à Iguaçu, par quel pays est-ce préférable, ( je ne pense pas aller en Argentine) doit-on réservé, combien cela coûte-il, et quelle période de l'année est plus propice à cette visite ? Est-ce possible via le Chili ? Je vais aussi allée au lac Titicaca et au Macchu Pichu et peut-être les Galapagos, j'apprécierais des suggestions sur des endroits où se loger, manger et autres trucs pertinents à petits frais...
Lanzarote, une île volcanique exposant les œuvres architectoniques de César Manrique.
De grands espaces propices à la randonnée, du beau temps assuré et du dépaysement sans aller à l’autre bout de notre planète, tels étaient nos desiratas pour cette semaine d’avril 2012.
La lecture d’un article évoquant « un développement touristique fondé sur le respect de la nature, la limitation du nombre de visiteurs et la mise en valeur des ressources locales » ou encore «la démonstration grandeur nature qu'il est possible de concilier tourisme, écologie et projet artistique » retient notre attention. (www.lemonde.fr/voyage/article/2011/12/01/l-ile-canarienne-de-lanzarote-reve-d-un-artiste-visionnaire_1607960_3546.html#xtor=EPR-32280433--20111202 )
Les récits de Marie, Pierre, Jean-Fi ont fini par nous convaincre… et nous inspirer. Merci à eux !
Lanzarote, l’île des Canaries classée dans son intégralité Réserve de biosphère par l'Unesco, sera donc notre destination printanière.

En moins de 48h, l’organisation fut bouclée :Vols Ryanair de Francfort Hahn à Arrecife, Hébergement à la Casa Cora de la Finca de La Asomada, www.lanzarote-finca-holidays.com/index.htmlLocation d’un 4x4, www.pluscar-lanzarote.com/en/index.htmlAchat d’un guide de randonnée et de la carte de l’île (Walk ! Lanzarote) http://www.amazon.fr/...-Brawn/dp/1904946534Sur place, nous achèterons le multi pass pour les visites : www.centrosturisticos.com/centros/CENTROS/published_fr/DEFAULT/horaires_et_tarifs.htmlLanzarote, l’île la plus septentrionale des Canaries, à 140 km des côtes marocaines et à plus de 1 000 km de l’Espagne, d’une superficie de 845 km2 (8 fois celle de Paris) est couverte de plus de 300 cratères. Son paysage revêt un aspect rude et lunaire. La végétation est rare, quelques vallées accueillent des villages entourés de palmiers. Lanzarote est surtout une île minérale. Ici, point de champs agricoles, place à la lave qui recouvre plus du tiers de la superficie de l’île. Parfois, comme au Parc National de Timanfaya, ce sont des coulées de lave pétrifiées, ailleurs ce sont des plages volcaniques noires, plus loin ce sont des roches rouges - brunes, …
Si les 300 cratères sont l’une des caractéristiques de Lanzarote, César Manrique en est indéniablement l’artiste visionnaire qui sut convaincre dès 1966 les autorités locales du développement de l’île "Nous ne devons copier personne. C'est nous que l'on viendra copier, une fois que nous aurons révélé la personnalité de notre île !".
Durant toute la semaine, le temps sera assez, voire très venteux. Le ciel sera plus ou moins couvert, la température ne semblera jamais très élevée, mais le soleil nous brûlera tout de même et dès le premier soir, il faudra recourir à la crème après soleil pour calmer les ardeurs du soleil.
Samedi 14 avril 2012
17h45, (18h45 heure française), l’avion se pose sur le tarmac d’Arrecife, après 4h20 de vol. Nous voici arrivés à Lanzarote. Le voyage est somme toute assez long car à ces heures s’ajoutent les 5h30 du trajet en voiture de Paris à l’aéroport de Francfort Hahn (485 km), ancien aéroport militaire à 180 km à l’est de Francfort et dédié quasi uniquement aux vols Ryanair.
En moins de 3/4 heure, nous récupérons nos bagages et prenons possession de notre 4x4, un Pathfinder rouge rutilant qui nous permettra de sillonner routes et chemins de l’île.
Notre gîte, la Casa Cora, est situé dans les hauteurs de La Asomada, à un petit quart d’heure de l’aéroport. Perdus en route, Heidi viendra à notre rencontre et nous accueille très chaleureusement. La semaine s’annonce calme, les gites voisins ne sont pas loués.


La Finca La Asomada est entourée d’un très joli jardin, dessiné et entretenu par Heidi. On s’y promène comme dans un labyrinthe, les coins succèdent aux recoins, les cactus se mêlent à d’autres plantes grasses, de nombreux fauteuils invitent au repos.






Dimanche 15 avril
Le ciel est assez dégagé. Nous nous rendons au marché de Téguise qui s’avère être un marché dédié aux seuls touristes : babioles et souvenirs en tout genre, hot dogs, saucisses allemandes, … aucun stand de fruits et légumes. Nous pensions naïvement qu’en dehors de la haute saison, ce serait plus varié, le tour est vite abrégé.
Téguise, ancienne capitale de l’île jusqu’en 1852, regroupe des maisons traditionnelles ou des habitations beaucoup plus récentes. Toutes ont en commun, les murs blancs, les petites ouvertures et des portes et fenêtres peintes en vert ou en bleu.


Route au nord-est pour Guatiza, gros village entouré de cultures de figuiers. Sur les feuilles de ceux-ci, est élevé un insecte parasite appelé Cochenille dont, après un processus soigneux de manufacture, est extrait un intense colorant carmin, très apprécié dans l’industrie alimentaire et cosmétique. Cette culture est néanmoins en déclin à cause de la concurrence du marché des colorants synthétiques industriels.

Nous serons surtout très surpris par le calme régnant dans ce village. On rencontre peu de monde, on ne voit aucun enfant jouant dehors, on n’entend aucun bruit, de nombreux volets sont fermés : maisons de touristes ou habitudes locales ?
Tout proche de Guatiza, le jardin de Cactus, où nous passerons près de 2 heures.

La visite peut y être beaucoup plus brève, les touristes-caristes la font au pas de charge. Pour nous, ce fut un plaisir de déambuler sur les sinueux sentiers de pierre et les volées de marche. On prend son temps, on s’étonne des formes étranges, des couleurs, on est comme « zen-ifiés » par la permanence des lignes courbes, les formes convexes et concaves.

Ce jardin de cactus, inauguré en 1990 est la dernière œuvre spatiale de César Manrique. A l’origine, il s’agit d’une carrière laissée à l’abandon puis transformée en dépotoir. Manrique acquiert le terrain, fait restaurer le moulin traditionnel et y plante un jardin, tel une œuvre d’art. Dans cet amphithéatre, les murs sont formés par des terrasses qui descendent du terrain, en gradins. La collection de cactus y est impressionnante : plus de 7 200 exemplaires de 1 100 espèces différentes, originaires des Canaries, du Maroc mais aussi de régions plus lointaines (Mexique, Pérou, Chili, USA, Kenya, Tanzanie, Madagascar).





Nous poursuivons vers le Nord et faisons halte à la Playa Garita au sud d’Arrieta pour y pique niquer. L’endroit est calme, seuls 2 ou 3 surfeurs essaient de passer les premières vagues. On peine à imaginer qu’il puisse y avoir foule en été.

Nous rejoignons, à l’intérieur des terres, le village d’Haria situé au milieu d’une vallée plantée de palmiers. On raconte qu’au 17ème et 18ème siècles, chaque naissance donnait lieu à la plantation d’un ou de deux palmiers (fille ou garçon).

Même impression qu’à Guatiza : grand calme dans ce gros bourg. Ce n’est d’ailleurs pas pour nous déplaire.
Nous nous promenons sur les hauteurs d’Haria. Cette randonnée en boucle de 2 heures environ, sans grand dénivellé, nous fait traverser d’anciennes cultures étagées. La plupart semblent à l’abandon, certaines paraissent entretenues mais la terre y est noire, on n’y voit aucune pousse. On croise pourtant quelques jardiniers / agriculteurs. Rapidement, la piste s’amenuise, devient sentier puis rétrécit encore. En l’absence de végétation, il est facile de s’orienter et c’est par un « chemin » dans la roche que nous rejoignons la falaise d’El Risco qui s’étend longitudinalement sur 22 km depuis l’extrémité nord de l’île, jusqu’aux alentours de Teguise. La vue est plongeante tant sur l’île Graciosa au nord.

que sur les plages plus au sud.

Nous longeons un large mur visant probablement à protéger la vallée des rafales de vent

et rejoignons sur le versant opposé une piste qui redescent tranquillement vers Haria, sur les pentes de la Montana Ganada.

Le sentier sinue à travers la broussaille et quelques plantes dont on ne sait pas très bien si elles sont sauvages ou non.

A notre retour, le village d’Haria est toujours aussi calme…

Après une bonne glace, sur la jolie Plaza Leon y Castillo, nous reprenons la LZ 10, qui offre de très beaux points de vue sur la vallée de Tabayesco et au loin l’Atlantique.

Petit arrêt à la Casa Museo del Campesino (musée du paysan).

Là, au centre géographique de l’île (nous sommes près de San Bartolomé sur la LZ 30 au sud de Mozaga), où trois zones de terrains différenciés se rejoignent (les champs de lave, la terre fertile de la Geria et les sablières de la vallée), César Manrique a édifié le Monument de la Fécondité et y a adjoint la Maison Musée du Paysan.

Le Monument de la Fécondité, tout de blanc, se détache sur l’horizon. Cette sculpture géante (15 m de haut) est réalisée à partir d’anciens containers d’eau, de voiliers et de divers objets peints et assemblés entre eux. Elle fût réalisée en 1968.
La lecture d’un article évoquant « un développement touristique fondé sur le respect de la nature, la limitation du nombre de visiteurs et la mise en valeur des ressources locales » ou encore «la démonstration grandeur nature qu'il est possible de concilier tourisme, écologie et projet artistique » retient notre attention. (www.lemonde.fr/voyage/article/2011/12/01/l-ile-canarienne-de-lanzarote-reve-d-un-artiste-visionnaire_1607960_3546.html#xtor=EPR-32280433--20111202 )
Les récits de Marie, Pierre, Jean-Fi ont fini par nous convaincre… et nous inspirer. Merci à eux !
Lanzarote, l’île des Canaries classée dans son intégralité Réserve de biosphère par l'Unesco, sera donc notre destination printanière.

En moins de 48h, l’organisation fut bouclée :Vols Ryanair de Francfort Hahn à Arrecife, Hébergement à la Casa Cora de la Finca de La Asomada, www.lanzarote-finca-holidays.com/index.htmlLocation d’un 4x4, www.pluscar-lanzarote.com/en/index.htmlAchat d’un guide de randonnée et de la carte de l’île (Walk ! Lanzarote) http://www.amazon.fr/...-Brawn/dp/1904946534Sur place, nous achèterons le multi pass pour les visites : www.centrosturisticos.com/centros/CENTROS/published_fr/DEFAULT/horaires_et_tarifs.htmlLanzarote, l’île la plus septentrionale des Canaries, à 140 km des côtes marocaines et à plus de 1 000 km de l’Espagne, d’une superficie de 845 km2 (8 fois celle de Paris) est couverte de plus de 300 cratères. Son paysage revêt un aspect rude et lunaire. La végétation est rare, quelques vallées accueillent des villages entourés de palmiers. Lanzarote est surtout une île minérale. Ici, point de champs agricoles, place à la lave qui recouvre plus du tiers de la superficie de l’île. Parfois, comme au Parc National de Timanfaya, ce sont des coulées de lave pétrifiées, ailleurs ce sont des plages volcaniques noires, plus loin ce sont des roches rouges - brunes, …
Si les 300 cratères sont l’une des caractéristiques de Lanzarote, César Manrique en est indéniablement l’artiste visionnaire qui sut convaincre dès 1966 les autorités locales du développement de l’île "Nous ne devons copier personne. C'est nous que l'on viendra copier, une fois que nous aurons révélé la personnalité de notre île !".
Durant toute la semaine, le temps sera assez, voire très venteux. Le ciel sera plus ou moins couvert, la température ne semblera jamais très élevée, mais le soleil nous brûlera tout de même et dès le premier soir, il faudra recourir à la crème après soleil pour calmer les ardeurs du soleil.
Samedi 14 avril 2012
17h45, (18h45 heure française), l’avion se pose sur le tarmac d’Arrecife, après 4h20 de vol. Nous voici arrivés à Lanzarote. Le voyage est somme toute assez long car à ces heures s’ajoutent les 5h30 du trajet en voiture de Paris à l’aéroport de Francfort Hahn (485 km), ancien aéroport militaire à 180 km à l’est de Francfort et dédié quasi uniquement aux vols Ryanair.
En moins de 3/4 heure, nous récupérons nos bagages et prenons possession de notre 4x4, un Pathfinder rouge rutilant qui nous permettra de sillonner routes et chemins de l’île.
Notre gîte, la Casa Cora, est situé dans les hauteurs de La Asomada, à un petit quart d’heure de l’aéroport. Perdus en route, Heidi viendra à notre rencontre et nous accueille très chaleureusement. La semaine s’annonce calme, les gites voisins ne sont pas loués.


La Finca La Asomada est entourée d’un très joli jardin, dessiné et entretenu par Heidi. On s’y promène comme dans un labyrinthe, les coins succèdent aux recoins, les cactus se mêlent à d’autres plantes grasses, de nombreux fauteuils invitent au repos.






Dimanche 15 avril
Le ciel est assez dégagé. Nous nous rendons au marché de Téguise qui s’avère être un marché dédié aux seuls touristes : babioles et souvenirs en tout genre, hot dogs, saucisses allemandes, … aucun stand de fruits et légumes. Nous pensions naïvement qu’en dehors de la haute saison, ce serait plus varié, le tour est vite abrégé.
Téguise, ancienne capitale de l’île jusqu’en 1852, regroupe des maisons traditionnelles ou des habitations beaucoup plus récentes. Toutes ont en commun, les murs blancs, les petites ouvertures et des portes et fenêtres peintes en vert ou en bleu.


Route au nord-est pour Guatiza, gros village entouré de cultures de figuiers. Sur les feuilles de ceux-ci, est élevé un insecte parasite appelé Cochenille dont, après un processus soigneux de manufacture, est extrait un intense colorant carmin, très apprécié dans l’industrie alimentaire et cosmétique. Cette culture est néanmoins en déclin à cause de la concurrence du marché des colorants synthétiques industriels.

Nous serons surtout très surpris par le calme régnant dans ce village. On rencontre peu de monde, on ne voit aucun enfant jouant dehors, on n’entend aucun bruit, de nombreux volets sont fermés : maisons de touristes ou habitudes locales ?
Tout proche de Guatiza, le jardin de Cactus, où nous passerons près de 2 heures.

La visite peut y être beaucoup plus brève, les touristes-caristes la font au pas de charge. Pour nous, ce fut un plaisir de déambuler sur les sinueux sentiers de pierre et les volées de marche. On prend son temps, on s’étonne des formes étranges, des couleurs, on est comme « zen-ifiés » par la permanence des lignes courbes, les formes convexes et concaves.

Ce jardin de cactus, inauguré en 1990 est la dernière œuvre spatiale de César Manrique. A l’origine, il s’agit d’une carrière laissée à l’abandon puis transformée en dépotoir. Manrique acquiert le terrain, fait restaurer le moulin traditionnel et y plante un jardin, tel une œuvre d’art. Dans cet amphithéatre, les murs sont formés par des terrasses qui descendent du terrain, en gradins. La collection de cactus y est impressionnante : plus de 7 200 exemplaires de 1 100 espèces différentes, originaires des Canaries, du Maroc mais aussi de régions plus lointaines (Mexique, Pérou, Chili, USA, Kenya, Tanzanie, Madagascar).





Nous poursuivons vers le Nord et faisons halte à la Playa Garita au sud d’Arrieta pour y pique niquer. L’endroit est calme, seuls 2 ou 3 surfeurs essaient de passer les premières vagues. On peine à imaginer qu’il puisse y avoir foule en été.

Nous rejoignons, à l’intérieur des terres, le village d’Haria situé au milieu d’une vallée plantée de palmiers. On raconte qu’au 17ème et 18ème siècles, chaque naissance donnait lieu à la plantation d’un ou de deux palmiers (fille ou garçon).

Même impression qu’à Guatiza : grand calme dans ce gros bourg. Ce n’est d’ailleurs pas pour nous déplaire.
Nous nous promenons sur les hauteurs d’Haria. Cette randonnée en boucle de 2 heures environ, sans grand dénivellé, nous fait traverser d’anciennes cultures étagées. La plupart semblent à l’abandon, certaines paraissent entretenues mais la terre y est noire, on n’y voit aucune pousse. On croise pourtant quelques jardiniers / agriculteurs. Rapidement, la piste s’amenuise, devient sentier puis rétrécit encore. En l’absence de végétation, il est facile de s’orienter et c’est par un « chemin » dans la roche que nous rejoignons la falaise d’El Risco qui s’étend longitudinalement sur 22 km depuis l’extrémité nord de l’île, jusqu’aux alentours de Teguise. La vue est plongeante tant sur l’île Graciosa au nord.

que sur les plages plus au sud.

Nous longeons un large mur visant probablement à protéger la vallée des rafales de vent

et rejoignons sur le versant opposé une piste qui redescent tranquillement vers Haria, sur les pentes de la Montana Ganada.

Le sentier sinue à travers la broussaille et quelques plantes dont on ne sait pas très bien si elles sont sauvages ou non.

A notre retour, le village d’Haria est toujours aussi calme…

Après une bonne glace, sur la jolie Plaza Leon y Castillo, nous reprenons la LZ 10, qui offre de très beaux points de vue sur la vallée de Tabayesco et au loin l’Atlantique.

Petit arrêt à la Casa Museo del Campesino (musée du paysan).

Là, au centre géographique de l’île (nous sommes près de San Bartolomé sur la LZ 30 au sud de Mozaga), où trois zones de terrains différenciés se rejoignent (les champs de lave, la terre fertile de la Geria et les sablières de la vallée), César Manrique a édifié le Monument de la Fécondité et y a adjoint la Maison Musée du Paysan.

Le Monument de la Fécondité, tout de blanc, se détache sur l’horizon. Cette sculpture géante (15 m de haut) est réalisée à partir d’anciens containers d’eau, de voiliers et de divers objets peints et assemblés entre eux. Elle fût réalisée en 1968.
Budget pour quelques semaines au Brésil?
Bonjour à tous !
Je m'apprète à partir quelques semaines mais je ne suis pas encore décidée sur la destination, c'est pourquoi je me tourne vers vous amateurs de voyages !
Le choix de ma destination est très lié à mon budget, en effet c'est sérré ! J'ai environ 1000€, et j'aimerais rester au moins 1 mois.. Soit un budget d'environ 20€ par jour si je reste 45 jours..
Sachant que je souhaite plus aller vers les plages, que je suis pas difficile sur l'hébergement et la nourriture, et open pour le couch surfing.. De plus je pars avec une amie donc nous pourrons partager la chambre quand nous devrons etre en hotel..
Est ce que c'est un budget qu'y vous parait réalisable ??
Et dernière petite question, au brésil est ce que l'on peux parler un peu anglais ou il faut que je me mettes tout de suite au portugais ??
Merci pour toutes vos futures réponses !
Je m'apprète à partir quelques semaines mais je ne suis pas encore décidée sur la destination, c'est pourquoi je me tourne vers vous amateurs de voyages !
Le choix de ma destination est très lié à mon budget, en effet c'est sérré ! J'ai environ 1000€, et j'aimerais rester au moins 1 mois.. Soit un budget d'environ 20€ par jour si je reste 45 jours..
Sachant que je souhaite plus aller vers les plages, que je suis pas difficile sur l'hébergement et la nourriture, et open pour le couch surfing.. De plus je pars avec une amie donc nous pourrons partager la chambre quand nous devrons etre en hotel..
Est ce que c'est un budget qu'y vous parait réalisable ??
Et dernière petite question, au brésil est ce que l'on peux parler un peu anglais ou il faut que je me mettes tout de suite au portugais ??
Merci pour toutes vos futures réponses !
Quel pays au soleil puis-je découvrir seule avec mon fils de 7 ans?
Bonjour,
J'envisage cette année de partir découvrir un pays ou une ile, seule avec mon fils de 7 ans. J'aimerai avoir des idées de voyages safes et interressants et le récit de quelques unes de vos expériences.
Notre intention est de partir de 6 à 8 semaines, prendre le temps de découvrir un pays par nous-memes, en faisant des mini-tours lors de ce séjour que nous organiserons sur place.
Afin de coller à la réalité de nos emplois du temps (fermeture de mon agence en aout et vacances scolaires obliges) la période idéale serait entre aout et septembre. Un pays chaud et en bord d'océan ou mer, n'importe quel continent.
Un effort quant à la période pourrait-etre en faisant ce voyage entre octobre et novembre.
J'ai 2 endroits qui me viennent en tete et correspondent à mon idée : australie ou nouvelle calédonie. Le petit hic est que ce sont 2 destinations très éloignées. Un pays plus proche de chez nous m'attirerait plus, d'autant plus que je connais déja bien l'australie et que le voyage risquerait d'etre bien long pour mon enfant.
Merci par avance pour vos réponses,
Crdt, anne
Crdt, anne
Transport aérien Denpasar - Flores
Bonjour à tous et bonnes fêtes.
Quelqu'un a-t-il pris un vol DENPASAR ENDE pour l'aller et LABUANG BAJO DENPASAR pour le retour?
Dans l'affirmative pouvez- vous me dire ce qu'il en est?
Merci d'avance
Patrick
Cycling Through Provence's Big Climbs
Cycling Through Provence's Big Climbs
In the autumn of 2011, Provence was hit by apocalyptic weather—torrential rain and a particularly violent east wind, reaching 130 kilometers per hour, whipping up waves as high as seven meters. It wasn’t the best time to venture outside. Yet, I told myself that after the storm, calm would return. I kept an eye on the weather forecast and noticed that starting November 10th, a favorable window should open for a little 600-kilometer cycling trip across Provence. The weather reports promised a high-pressure system that would keep the bad weather at bay over these highlands. That was all I needed to decide to set off. The planned route would take me through Provence’s biggest climbs: Mont Ventoux, Montagne de Lure, the Verdon Gorge, the Massif des Maures, and Sainte-Baume.
And so, despite my doubts, the call of adventure was stronger. The train pulled away, and once again, a journey began at Part-Dieu station. This time, I headed toward Haute-Provence for a cycling adventure. It would be my first solo bike trip. I was a little nervous—cycling with panniers makes you feel vulnerable to theft. I’d already been robbed while traveling in a group in Peru, and that experience left me deeply shaken. Alone, I hesitated. But no need to panic—I’d read accounts from long-distance cyclists who hadn’t been robbed, even if it does happen sometimes. I was particularly thinking of a young schoolteacher who had taken a sabbatical to cycle around the world. Her students had remarked, "Teacher, you’re not sporty—how will you manage to cycle around the world?" This young woman was full of resourcefulness. In South America, before flying to China, she locked her bike to a post to take care of a natural need. When she returned, the post had been torn out, and her bike—along with all her gear—was gone. It was a shock for many, but not for her. She boarded her flight to the Middle Kingdom, bought the essentials (including a new bike) once there, and continued her journey! Remembering this story, I almost felt ashamed of my cowardice. These were the thoughts running through my mind as the Rhône Valley rolled by toward Orange, the starting point of my Provençal adventure through the big climbs.
Day One: Orange to Sault via Mont Ventoux – 90 km
9:30 AM, I stepped off the train. With all my gear, I had to navigate the underground passage—no easy feat, given that my bike and luggage weighed 35 kilos. At this time of year, I expected some areas to be deserted, so I’d packed enough to bivouac comfortably. Once outside the station, the southern light flooded over me. I understood why people dream of retiring in these sun-drenched regions. As always, after disembarking from public transport, I had to get my bearings and decide which way to go. The sun, still low on the horizon, pointed east. The roar of fighter jet engines helped me locate the Air Base 115. That was all I needed to "reset the gyros."
As soon as I started pedaling, all my apprehensions vanished. The joy of discovery and physical effort took over, and euphoria washed over me. It’s amazing how emotions can shift from one moment to the next based on seemingly minor circumstances.
The weather was splendid—the forecast had predicted continuous showers, but it was completely wrong. I quickly left the city behind. Mont Ventoux loomed mysteriously, its dimensions hard to gauge. It was even more enigmatic with its summit hidden beneath swirling, mottled clouds clinging to the ridges. It reminded me of a great South American volcano. I struggled to imagine that in a few hours, I’d be up there under that blanket of mist.
The countryside was shaking off its autumnal nighttime dampness. The vineyards, interspersed with tall cypress hedges, confirmed I was in the magnificent Côtes du Rhône wine region. The distinctive Dentelles de Montmirail were very much in evidence. The air force base wasn’t far. I passed the runway’s end markers. A Mirage 2000 flew overhead in a tight turn, followed by another roaring into takeoff. It came straight at me before climbing sharply with a thunderous roar. Thirty years spent in that captivating world came rushing back. I recalled countless extraordinary human and technical experiences from my time in the service. But the purpose of this post isn’t to promote the air force—though I might post some articles one day about travels among men at war.
I continued on my way, leaving my past loves behind. As I pedaled, delightful names rolled by: Violès, Vacqueyras, Gigondas, Beaumes-de-Venise—the crème de la crème of the Côtes du Rhône Villages appellation. I let myself be enchanted by the vineyards and the little paths crisscrossing them. I started to doubt my route, though the imposing mass of Mont Ventoux in the distance acted like a giant beacon. At a crossroads, a car appeared. I approached to ask the driver for directions, but she didn’t even look at me and sped off, clearly frightened. I’d almost forgotten what a fearful world we live in, no doubt traumatized by all the horrors we see in the news and on TV.
The kilometers started adding up, but was my day’s goal too ambitious? It had been two months since I’d last ridden my bike. True, my last trip had been good training—the Route des Grandes Alpes—but that was two months ago. I can’t just take my bike out for a day trip; I need that sense of adventure to find the courage to exercise.
Two cyclists overtook me. Intrigued by my load, they struck up a conversation. They were skeptical when I told them I planned to cross Mont Ventoux that day. One of them pointed out a small chapel near the summit where I could bivouac sheltered. That motivated me even more to reach the top on this first stage. The chapel also had a mythical name for me—Sainte-Anne, the name of my parents’ villa. It was already noon, and I’d covered 50 kilometers. Malaucène appeared—the sacred village of Ventoux’s mad cyclists. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any other cyclists today. I remembered this place in June, teeming with aspirants for the king of summits. Before tackling the climb ahead, I needed to refuel. I enjoyed a pleasant gastronomic break at Max’s. At 1 PM, I started the most famous climb in cycling—21 kilometers, which would actually be 23. I knew it would be tough, especially with two handicaps: 50 kilometers already in my legs and 20 kilos of luggage. But I was counting on my tiny chainring, which let me climb trees to tackle the steep ramps.
I set off at a brisk pace along a deserted road. My speed held up for the first few kilometers. I quickly rose above the valley, the horizon widening. I was surprised to see no one on this world-renowned route among cycling enthusiasts. During the climb and descent, I’d only see five cyclists—but I’ll come back to that. I passed a sign explaining that the effort would be roughly equivalent to climbing the Col de la Bonnette. Having done the latter in September, I figured I’d be fine. I crossed paths with my first cyclist—a woman speeding downhill. After 12 kilometers, I hit slopes averaging 12%. I don’t know if the number 12 is cursed, but I got such a "bamboo" hit that I’d never experienced before. I thought I wouldn’t make it to the summit today. I stopped. My thighs burned so much I could barely walk—lactic acid overload. I looked for a relatively flat spot to pitch my tent. It was 3:30 PM, with two hours of daylight left. But I found nothing.
I got back on my bike, intending to stop as soon as I found a good bivouac spot. But nothing came up. However, my strength slowly returned, perhaps because the slope eased, though it remained around 10%. I entered the summit mists. A cyclist overtook me. I was in the zone where I had to pass the summit. Dusk caught me in the final difficulties. The atmosphere was downright austere. In the twilight, a kilometer from the summit, a cyclist was fixing his bike. I asked if he needed help. He made it clear he didn’t understand. So I asked, "Do you need some help?" His answer was clear: "No, thank you." He showed me his new inner tube. Inside, I thought, "Phew!" If I’d had to stop, sweating in the falling night with the cold intensifying, I’d have struggled to get going again. But he managed, and I continued into the twilight fog. I could barely make out the summit’s large antennas in the clouds, like immense ghosts trying to evade sight. The bike delivered sensations worthy of mountain racing. My goal was to quickly find the famous chapel in the descent to take shelter. As I glided down the southern slope, two cyclists without lights crossed my path in the night—probably heading to the station above, its lights visible in the fog.
I scanned the roadside in the dark for the chapel but saw nothing. After a kilometer or two, I lost all hope. I stopped to put on more clothes as the cold became intense. I had no idea where I could stop on these steep slopes to set up camp. Between the swirls of mist, I could intermittently see the Rhône Valley below, dotted with illuminated towns and villages. The sight was striking. What was I doing on this mountain at night? Then the miracle happened—the clouds parted, and from the ridge above me to the east, a beautiful full moon emerged, casting enough light to consider a nighttime descent to Sault, 26 kilometers away.
In this eerie atmosphere between the moon’s pale rays and patches of fog, I began my descent through a hazy, almost unreal world. The Ventoux’s characteristic white scree reflected the moonlight faintly, dimmed by the mist. In places, entire mountainsides were plunged into complete darkness, and I lost all sense of the road’s path. Then, around a tight bend caused by a land shift, the light returned. It seemed extreme compared to the darkness I’d left behind. I could once again clearly see the road’s contours, though not its potholes or gravel patches. Still, I let the slope carry me, and the speed felt significant, though the low light prevented me from reading my speedometer. In these moments, concentration was at its peak—all senses alert, reflexes ready to react to the slightest incident that could lead to a fall.
I was relieved to see Sault’s lights growing closer. In less than an hour, I reached it, considering the final little climb that required one last push. This village, bustling in summer, was deserted at this time of year—almost dead. The first hotel I came across was closed. A quick shadow passed in a small sloping street. Before it disappeared into the darkness at a house corner, I chased after it and asked about accommodation options. Very kindly, I was directed to what was probably the only hotel open in November. I quickly found it, and the reception was open. I entered wearing my black balaclava, bought in the Ayacucho region—the birthplace of Peru’s Shining Path. At this late hour, I saw questioning glances directed at me. I prefaced, "This isn’t a hold-up." Clearly, the owners had a sense of humor—they started smiling. I took off my balaclava and asked for a room. No problem, and from that moment, the pressure eased. I really didn’t feel like going back out to find a spot to pitch my tent in the biting cold.
The stage had been nearly 100 kilometers, and it was the first. It had been two months since I’d touched my bike, and I probably lacked even minimal training, even though my last bike trip had been crossing the French Alps. I really had to dig deep to overcome my weakness on Ventoux’s steep section. I don’t remember ever having to search so deeply for the energy to keep going. I knew the stage I’d set for tomorrow was significant, with the climb up Montagne de Lure’s northern slope—Ventoux’s little sister, whose ascent is reputed to be endless, over 25 kilometers. I hoped this first day wouldn’t leave me too sore to avoid suffering excessively tomorrow.
For now, relaxation—a hot shower did me a world of good, followed by a good meal. I ate a delicious andouillette from Troyes, very fine, with a particularly successful herb seasoning. I loved it, and yet I’m from Lyon and pride myself on knowing a thing or two about andouillette—not just a sausage but a whole category! A bit chauvinistic, I had to admit, though reluctantly, that I found it better than the ones I usually eat in the Lyon region!
Day Two: Sault to Forcalquier via Montagne de Lure – 116 km
This morning, the weather was magnificent—the air clear, still, very fresh, and invigorating, as only the late season can offer on these Provençal highlands. In summer, they’re known for their scorching heat and drought, but often overlooked is how harsh they can be with cold and storms. Authors like Giono or Bosco described them and their inhabitants wonderfully in books like "Les Âmes Fortes."
The miracle of the night had worked. I wasn’t sore anywhere and felt in great shape. I set off well-equipped, but the effort and sun soon made me sweat. It was time to shed some layers—hat and gloves. A gentle warmth replaced the cold, making for excellent cycling conditions. On the road to Trinit, there was no traffic—only the occasional hunters’ cars parked in the distance. These vehicles were recognizable by their large cages, used to transport hunting dogs. Sometimes, the silence was broken by a distant gunshot. The deciduous forests were losing their foliage, taking on that dull brown hue of late autumn, though here and there, a tree or shrub still resisted, displaying vivid yellow or red. The meadows, their grass already scorched by the cold, were damp from the night’s heavy humidity. The low sun highlighted thousands of spider webs that had trapped insects during the warm season.
Behind me, Mont Ventoux dominated these vast spaces. As often, its imposing, stony summit was crowned with a blanket of clouds. What an impressive mountain—it’s always so hard to gauge its dimensions. I struggled to realize that last night I’d been at the summit and descended its immense southern ridge in the dark. I hoped to return one day in favorable conditions—daylight and no clouds—to enjoy the vast panorama from this unique summit.
Leaving the very Provençal village of Trinit, I tackled my first climb of the day—the Col de l’Homme Mort. The road rose moderately for five kilometers in gentle warmth. The view over the region widened, and I felt the sheer joy of pedaling. At a good pace, I overcame this first little challenge. Once at the pass, I couldn’t resist the ritual of photographing my bike in front of the sign, giving the name and altitude—1,213 meters.
The northern slope was austere and still in shadow. The cold bit again. The road was wet and covered with leaves in places. It wasn’t impossible that some treacherous patches of black ice lurked around a bend. I descended toward the Jabron Valley with caution. Suddenly, around a bend in a forest clearing, the freshly snow-covered Alps, gleaming in the sun, leapt into view, blocking the horizon. I thought I recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Écrins’ south face above a multitude of jagged peaks.
This snow and these mountains awakened a flood of memories of great joys, but I also thought of the guide and his client who had just lost their lives on the Grandes Jorasses’ north face, at the top of a route called the Linceul. The name comes from the face’s appearance—a great ice slope bordering the Grandes Jorasses’ north wall. It was first climbed by René Desmaison in 1968. He passed away a few years ago and, in his final wishes, asked that his ashes be scattered in the Dévoluy Massif at the foot of Pic de Bure, not far from here in these immense pre-Alpine folds.
At my feet, the Jabron Valley stretched almost endlessly east toward Sisteron. In the distance, the dark mass of Montagne de Lure’s north face loomed. This mountain shares similarities with Mont Ventoux. It has the same summit scree of bright limestone, the same forests climbing up to the final rocky stretch, and that blanket of clouds adding a secretive, austere touch to the scene.
I turned left past the town of Séderon and headed toward the little Col de la Pigière, which in a few kilometers allowed me to truly plunge into the beautiful Jabron Valley. I passed through several villages with charming local names—Saint-Vincent, Noyer-sur-Jabron. The river offered lovely views of its narrow gorges with clear, cold water. Autumn seemed less advanced here than on the plateau I’d just left. Many trees still wore brilliant colors, some revealing extraordinary hues—mixes of crimson, pink, and bright red.
Arriving in Noyer-sur-Jabron, I took a tiny road on the river’s right bank, leading in a few kilometers to the foot of Montagne de Lure. In the village of Valbelle, I picnicked on leftovers I’d brought from home—an old cheese and a somewhat stale loaf of bread. It was 1:30 PM. I began the long climb of about 25 kilometers. According to a friend who’s a cycling expert in the region, this section is tough. No wonder it’s called Ventoux’s little sister—the Mont Blanc of cyclists. The elevation gain on this side is still 1,200 meters, while Ventoux via Malaucène is nearly 1,600 meters.
I hoped to reach the summit before nightfall and avoid reliving a nighttime descent. The route wound through a vast forest, following the terrain’s folds. There was activity—mushroom hunters were busy searching for the coveted chanterelle. The climb, though never very steep (only one kilometer at 9%), was interminable. Though traffic was practically nonexistent, I was overtaken by a group of Harley bikers—I counted about forty. Perched high on their machines, hands in the air on wildly shaped handlebars, some with their feet nearly in the sky due to the high footpegs, they didn’t even glance my way. What’s this idiot doing, unable to ride a motorcycle and forced to climb these mountains on a bike with big bags! I wasn’t offended—real Harley purists often see other motorcyclists as renegades, so bikes are even lower on the totem pole! But I didn’t want to start a debate about motorcycles. In my youth, when I was a wild motorcyclist (22 accidents on two wheels), clans were divided into Japanese, German, Italian, and British bike owners. The latter, on their vibrating, oil-leaking machines, considered themselves the purest. But let’s not fight—there’s a statute of limitations, and it’s been nearly forty years.
As yesterday, a few kilometers below the summit, I entered the fog, and the light dropped suddenly. What a hostile mountain in these conditions! It heightened the sense of living an incredible experience. The conditions we encounter play a major role in how the adventure imprints on our memory. I realized once again that in France, you can feel like you’re very far away. Finally, after this very long climb, the Pas de Graille sign suddenly appeared out of the grayness. Strange! Below the sign, a kilometer marker indicated this same pass was over three kilometers away. Clearly, the climb continued. In these final kilometers through the scree, I gained another 130 meters of elevation. Finally, the road’s high point was reached—1,720 meters. It was cold and damp. I quickly covered up, added my balaclava under my helmet, and put on warm gloves. As I was about to start the descent, a car stopped at the summit, and one of the passengers was surprised to find a bike there in these chilly, twilight conditions.
A 20-kilometer descent led me to the village of Saint-Étienne-les-Orgues. I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. No such luck! Everything was clearly closed—no chance of finding shelter. Tonight was getting complicated. I already had exactly 100 kilometers in my legs and didn’t feel like pedaling anymore, especially at night. But I had even less desire to sleep outside. What to do to avoid it? The town of Forcalquier was 16 kilometers away—I hoped the road would descend. I set off in that direction. The first third was along a beautiful, lightly trafficked departmental road with a slight downhill—I pedaled hard. But it got tougher. I joined a busier road, and night had fallen. A several-kilometer climb finished the journey. I knew my magnetic lights weren’t very powerful—hence the danger. They were even less so on the climb because the slower I went, the less they illuminated. Cars coming the opposite way often saw me late and blinded me with their high beams. After passing, I was plunged into total darkness for a few seconds while my pupils readjusted to the night. I imagined those coming up behind me saw me with little warning, despite my slightly fluorescent jacket. When the roadside was clear, I always positioned myself to quickly jump off the road. But unfortunately, in this long final climb, a guardrail prevented any escape to the right in case of sudden braking behind me. That was even more anxiety-inducing since I was stuck at a snail’s pace. Time seemed long. I pedaled as hard as I could, on the verge of asphyxiation, trying to escape this dangerous situation as quickly as possible. My only reference point was the vehicles in front of me, letting me know the climb wasn’t over. Then suddenly, the ordeal ended—the road’s high point was reached. The town and its lights emerged from the void, and clarity returned. Phew! I glided down toward this little town bathed in light. On November 11th, I hoped to find an open hotel since I’d clearly exceeded 100 kilometers, and the idea of having to leave town to find a bivouac spot somewhat frightened me.
I arrived in the town center. Activity was low. The first hotel was closed, but I spotted a lit sign for another establishment further on. I headed there, got off my bike, and entered. The welcome was immediately friendly—a big cat came to rub against me. For me, that was a very good sign, and the first impression was confirmed. I still had to go out to eat. I covered the minimum distance. A restaurant advertised "Mom’s Cooking." I expected Provençal specialties, but they were Moroccan. I chose a delicious tagine with lime and olives, followed by almond and honey ice cream. Exhausted after this 116-kilometer stage, I returned to my room. As often after intense efforts, it was hard to fall asleep.
Day Three: Forcalquier to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie – 58 km
On this third day, due to the progress made yesterday, the stage would be short. I’d call it a transition between two mountain ranges. Indeed, the next big climb is the Verdon Gorge. I planned to position myself at its foot this evening in preparation for a tough stage tomorrow. I made a few purchases—bread, bananas, and medicine for stomach burns (the midday sausage wasn’t always kind to me). The weather was still perfect. The route began with a long descent toward the Durance. It’s always nice to start a cycling day with a downhill—it boosts morale and allows for a gentle warm-up.
I quickly reached the town of Oraison. Just at its entrance, I crossed the Durance, which still bore traces of last week’s heavy rains along its sandbanks. Indeed, numerous stumps and trunks were scattered along its vast gravel bed, along with less ecological debris like old tires.
A little south of Oraison, I took the D907, a small road heading due east between scrubland and meadows. There it was—the Provence we imagine. This stable autumn weather, with still air, neither hot nor cold, just a fresh feeling when emerging from a shaded valley or a slight warmth under the sun, was ideal for a cyclist. After about ten kilometers at the bottom of a small valley I quickly passed through, the village of Le Brunet appeared on the right. It clung to the slopes leading to the Valensole Plateau. A few steep kilometers along a tiny winding road, and suddenly a vast panorama unfolded as the climb ended.
What a magnificent plateau! Though known for its wind, luckily today was completely calm. Far to the east, the Verdon’s great cliffs blocked the horizon. This allowed me to contemplate part of tomorrow’s stage. This place is full of mysteries—many UFO and extraterrestrial encounter stories are associated with it. Moreover, for about thirty years, France hid its ground-to-ground nuclear ballistic missiles here, grouped in the 1st GMS (Ballistic Missile Group), under the air force. Naturally, these rockets fueled fantasies, and pacifist groups settled in the region to protest this type of armament. This gives many reasons to shroud this austere, deserted land in mystery.
I took a dirt path leading to the heart of this zone and stopped at the forest’s edge for lunch. The silence was total, the view stretched very far. But nothing strange or bizarre manifested. No Martian came to share my frankly moldy cheese, very peppery sausage, or bruised banana—sniff! I resumed my route, and as often when crossing places with strong character, I tended to slow down to enjoy them longer. The immense lavender fields stretched endlessly, not very fragrant at this season. I arrived at a group of truffle oaks protected by a fence, with large red signs warning "Firearm." Clearly, the war for the black diamond was raging in this region. I remembered a novel where an old farmer made buyers believe nothing grew on his land. Every year, he secretly stole the mushrooms from the unsuspecting owners. Then one day, they discovered the truth, catching this "polite" neighbor trying to hide a basket full of beautiful, large truffles!
In these vast spaces, I felt good—a sense of plenitude. It’s strange that I only conceive of cycling through wandering. I struggle to plan a day trip. And if I do, it’s highly likely I won’t get up. I need that sense of adventure to fully appreciate my physical effort. Maybe one day I should get psychoanalyzed, but at my age, it’s probably too late! Today, I had all the time in the world—the stage was half as long as yesterday’s, with very little elevation gain. Not a sound, an impressive calm, a beautiful landscape—I pedaled in a wonderful place. That’s probably happiness!
I reached the village of Puimoisson on the plateau’s eastern edge—only 12 kilometers left to Moustiers. I took my time, sat at a café terrace in the sun, and leisurely enjoyed a coffee while listening to the village come to life. I was delighted by these melodious southern voices, bursting into great laughter. There are places where, despite the anxieties caused by our debt-ridden, dysfunctional societies, some have decided to take life on the bright side and show a saving insouciance.
The rest of the journey was a simple formality—I let the slope carry me toward the pretty little town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, clinging to the cliff and famous for its faïence. Arriving early for once, I went to the tourist office to choose a comfortable hotel. Indeed, the Hôtel des Restanques was very comfortable and admirably well-located. But at this time of year, I’d have to return to the village center for dinner. The very kind receptionist reserved a table for me at La Treille Muscate, a restaurant with a magnificently arranged room on the church square. It was only 3:30 PM—I continued to take my time, showering and relaxing in front of the TV. Then I set off to explore—or rather, re-explore—this village I’d visited several times before. But I’d never climbed to its chapel perched in the middle of the great cliff towering over the houses. A stony, aerial path led there. The first mentions of the Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel, known in ancient times as Notre-Dame d’Entre-Roches, date back to the 9th century. It’s one of the rare "respite" chapels found in Provence. These are chapels where stillborn children were brought to be revived for a few moments, just long enough to baptize them. They could then be buried religiously, ensuring the salvation of their souls. I was also very moved by reading some ex-votos, like the one from "A mother for her three children returned from the war."
The place was impressive, especially as night fell. I was alone and watched the shadows fill the great cliffs above me. With an old climber’s reflex, I looked for possible climbing routes among these slabs and cracks. But climbing is probably forbidden here, too close to the houses. Then I descended to stroll through the village, admiring the magnificent, finely crafted faïence patterns found in many shops. Finally, dinnertime arrived, and I joined my restaurant, which had been highly recommended. I was delighted by the foie gras ravioli and the pieds et paquets—the chef’s specialty. I’ll come back with family.
Day Four: Moustiers to Fréjus via the Verdon – 122 km
A hearty breakfast prepared me for the day’s tough efforts. Next to me, four Chinese people chatted animatedly. Of course, I didn’t understand a word—it was a language with strange intonations and sounds. I left the dining room and prepared my bike on the terrace. Seeing the volume of my luggage, my Chinese friends rushed over and asked to take turns having their photo taken in front of this funny setup. All laughing, they took photos in front of what they probably considered a French coolie off on some trading business! When they show these photos to their relatives, they’ll likely be perplexed about what motivates some to travel by bike rather than car. For them, the car is a symbol of success—according to an article I read last year, 14,000 cars are registered in China every day!
This morning, the air was fresh. As yesterday, I started with a long descent, this time leading to the edge of Lac de Sainte-Croix. A strong, biting headwind slowed me down. It wouldn’t last, as it was generated by the gorge’s outlet, which I’d reach in a few kilometers. On this cold morning, the lake’s shores exuded great tranquility. The sun was still hidden behind the Verdon’s mountainous mass. Trees with yellow leaves stood out against the water’s pale blue. The bridge marking the gorge’s beginning at the lake’s edge was an ideal spot to admire this natural splendor. At this early hour, the play of light and shadow on the water and the immense cliffs delivered a grandiose spectacle in beautiful harmony. This first contact with the gorges, which I knew well, amazed me.
Once past the bridge, the wind calmed. A little further on, I began the long climb that would take me to the top of this immense natural gash, which water had taken millions of years to carve. I was in good shape and highly motivated by the splendors to come. First, I reached the village of Aiguines, which offered a magnificent viewpoint over the lake. Then I continued toward the Corniche Sublime, where countless breathtaking panoramas unfolded as I progressed. But the climb was sustained and long, requiring effort—though my small chainring worked miracles. I first passed the Col d’Illoire, already 500 meters above the lake. Seeing all these great cliffs, countless climbing memories came flooding back. The classic routes of the Escalès cliff, over 300 meters high, flashed by. Routes with legendary names—La Demande, Les Écureuils, Luna-Bong, and many others. The one that left me with the best memory was ULA—a crack, vertical or even overhanging, of sheer beauty rising above a 40-meter slab in one go for 280 meters of sustained, beautiful climbing on extraordinary rock. It made me want to return to climb there, to immerse myself in the atmosphere of those past times. But climbing habits have changed—now routes are accessed from above by rappel, and people don’t always bother to do these great climbs in their entirety, focusing instead on shorter but technically much more difficult enterprises.
At almost every bend, I stopped and scanned these great cliffs, searching for memories of past experiences and emotions in these secret rock folds. The road climbed well above the pass, exceeding 1,200 meters. It was cool, especially since I was sweating. Finally reaching the high point of the Corniche Sublime, I couldn’t gain speed on the descent—my gaze was always drawn to this astonishing canyon. Around a bend, two cyclists with funny small-wheeled bikes. Wow! It was a couple of Australians doing a year-long tour of France. We chatted passionately about our two-wheeled experiences for a moment. But time was passing, and if I wanted to reach Fréjus before nightfall, I’d have to pedal seriously.
I stopped at the Pont de l’Artuby, where bungee jumping was in full swing. But I quickly set off again toward Comps. The wind was against me, and it was climbing. I started to doubt whether I’d make it to the coast that evening. At 2 PM, I was in Comps-sur-Artuby. I didn’t stop, knowing that before reaching the coast, I’d have no alternative to bivouacking, and I had 70 kilometers left to cover. Sure, it should be downhill, but a few climbs were on the program. After a descent out of the village, I crossed the Artuby River again on the Canjuers military camp. A several-kilometer climb followed, fortunately not too steep. I took the D19 toward Barjols. From there, despite the late hour, I opted for a tiny road passing through Claviers, a small perched village. Time passed quickly, but the kilometers added up. I regained hope. Fifteen kilometers after this last village, I reached Saint-Paul-en-Forêt via a magnificent forested route. I had plenty of time to observe mushroom hunters. I asked one who clearly had some in a plastic bag. He gave me this hilarious answer with a magnificent southern accent: "I only picked the bad ones." No reply was possible. I moved on with a smile. A little further on, another hunter carried a basket. As soon as he saw me, he quickly hid it—just in case I saw what it contained. Arriving at the village involved a steep climb, and I was close to 100 kilometers. I still had a little over 20 kilometers to go before reaching Fréjus. The race against nightfall had begun. Over there to my right, I saw the sun setting behind Roquebrune-sur-Argens’ distinctive rock. The sea appeared. There it was—I was in Fréjus’ industrial zone. On this Sunday evening, traffic was heavy. Indeed, many had taken advantage of the return of good weather after very heavy storms to go for a walk. After quite a few detours, I arrived at the seaside just as night fell. My odometer showed 122 km for the day. I quickly found a simple hotel, ate just as quickly, and went to bed.
Day Five: Fréjus to Solliès-Pont – 92 km
Once again, the night had done its restorative work, and I prepared to cross the Massif des Maures feeling quite fresh. The weather forecast was still favorable for today, but a deterioration was expected tomorrow. I tended to trust it because the east wind was blowing, and in the region, that’s a sign of rain. For now, in the short term, this wind would be very useful—it would push me generously throughout the day.
I started calmly along the harbor quays, looking at the boats. Then I joined the road to Saint-Aygulf and followed the coast for forty kilometers to Port-Grimaud. All these seaside resorts—Saint-Aygulf, Les Issambres, Sainte-Maxime—reminded me of my youth when we spent all our vacations fishing, whether from shore, underwater, or by boat. Looking at the sea roll by, I knew what the seabeds looked like under that surface hiding them. The marine areas we knew best were now under the parking lots and commercial zones of Saint-Raphaël’s new port. In our youth, these infrastructures didn’t exist, and their construction came at the expense of coastal marine areas. Our wonderful fishing spots were permanently buried. I remember seeing the first big trucks that came to dump their loads of earth and rubble, destroying all those wonderful places—sandbanks, seaweed beds, groups of rocky holes teeming with fish that enchanted our youth. Over forty years later, I can still visualize them in my imagination under those parking lots and stores, with the names we gave them—my brothers and I: le casse-croûte, le casse-pipe, les montagnes, la digue, la grille, la mare à mulets, la petite-plage, le trou, etc.
Let’s not be overwhelmed by nostalgia. I left the coast and took the little road through the Maures to Collobrières. The route led from ridge to ridge following the terrain’s movements. At this time of year, the region was admirable. Due to the heavy storms of recent weeks, water was streaming everywhere. Waterfalls and streams murmured all along the way. I didn’t recognize the Maures, which I knew for their dryness causing apocalyptic fires. Indeed, around a bend, I came across a small rest area where a memorial had been erected for three firefighters who lost their lives here while fighting one of those gigantic fires fanned by the mistral.
This forest holds treasures—first, the cork oak, then the arbutus, chestnut trees, and of course, mushrooms that love this granitic soil:
The cork oak can be found all along the road. It’s the forest’s essential element. You can recognize it by its light bark (before exploitation), which forms large bulges along the trunk. But after exploitation, the trunks are much smoother, less voluminous, and dark in color. The arbutus is a large berry with red skin covered in small protuberances, growing on the arbutus tree. This fruit, common in Mediterranean areas, ripens in November. That means today, there were plenty around me. Its flesh is orange, with the consistency of firm purée, and it crushes softly in the mouth. The taste of this berry is sweet and excellent. I didn’t hold back—I gorged myself on them, which served as my midday meal. Sometimes I had to climb embankments to get them.
The chestnut tree, a true industry of the region, brings wealth to the surrounding villages. They make candied chestnuts, ice cream, and other products derived from chestnut flour. Be careful not to stop just anywhere to pick this fruit, as the tree owners might not agree. They even make this clear with signs and surround their chestnut trees with fences. Mushrooms—saffron milk caps and porcini—are highly prized in the area. I saw a few hunters, but it clearly wasn’t miraculous. Supposedly, there had been too much rain?
There’s no time to get bored along this little road, from which you can sometimes see the sea. I passed the Col de Taillude at over 400 meters. I began the descent to Collobrières, the chestnut capital, whose festival attracts many people. Before entering, about a hundred meters from the first houses, a cyclist—probably an agricultural worker—came toward me. As he passed, he cheerfully called out, "Go on, little guy! It’s almost there!" We both smiled. At the end of November, the village was cold and almost deserted. Dead leaves swept the wet streets of the town. You could feel winter on the way. I continued my route to Pierrefeu-du-Var, on the western edge of the Massif des Maures. So I gave my last pedal strokes in this pretty little massif so characteristic of Provence.
I looked for a hotel in Cuers but without success. I descended toward Toulon and finally found one on the outskirts of Solliès-Pont. It catered to people coming to work in the region, so nothing very bucolic. But if the weather were to deteriorate tomorrow and turn to rain, I could quickly reach Hyères or Toulon station, which was a significant advantage. Indeed, November rains aren’t usually very pleasant on a bike.
Day Six: Solliès-Pont to Cassis via Sainte-Baume – 85 km
This morning, contrary to the weather forecast, the weather was beautiful, and the latest bulletin seemed to contradict yesterday’s. So no escape to Toulon—I resumed my route toward Sainte-Baume. I left the hotel via a tiny road that, through ups and downs, led me via shortcuts to the road to Belgentier. My body had gotten used to intense daily efforts, and I felt in Olympic form. At a good pace, I launched into a long climb with a moderate slope. The road was busy, but fortunately, the side lane for cyclists often made the exercise more pleasant. The villages rolled by—Méounes, La Roquebrussanne. Near the latter, I observed a Tiger combat helicopter in training. It hovered motionless for long periods—perhaps the pilots were training to master their increasingly sophisticated weapon systems, requiring even more learning?
I left the busy road and headed via an almost deserted route toward the village of Mazaugues. The climbs became steeper. A long descent, and there I was in this pretty village. A grocery store, which besides selling a few ingredients also served as a café. I sat near the electric heater—it was cold, and I was sweaty. I watched customers come and go and listened to the shopkeeper tell me about village life. The name Mazaugues comes from "water mass," which is why drought doesn’t usually affect this area. Apparently, you can even find mushrooms here in summer! I had a good time, and as I was leaving, a local cyclist started a conversation and told me about her dreams of long bike trips, currently limited by her situation as a mother of terrible children. She settled for day trips with her club, which was already good in this very hilly region. I told her the story of a man who, at 73, cycled solo around Morocco. So no panic—she still had thirty or forty years to realize her wildest dreams!
I was warned that it would be a tough climb to reach Sainte-Baume’s northern slope. Indeed, over eight kilometers, the average slope was sustained, but the landscape was wonderful. Here too, water was streaming everywhere. I passed one of those famous icehouses that used to supply Marseille with ice throughout the year. This northern slope of Sainte-Baume is very cold, and this characteristic was exploited in previous centuries to produce ice. Large cylindrical structures, well-protected to the north and semi-buried, received large quantities of water in late autumn, which froze during winter and was kept cool for months until the following winter. Ice blocks were cut and delivered by cart to the city. That’s how, in ancient times, ice was available in summer to keep fish fresh in Marseille. Did pastis exist at that time? If not, the ice cubes must have been bored!
Once the climb was over, the long ridge of Sainte-Baume appeared, and I could see its characteristic antennas. Nestled at the foot of the cliffs, the magnificent millennial forest revealed itself with its autumn colors. I stopped at the monastery. I’d been there several times before and had even slept there during a long walking trip. The welcome had been first-rate by the Dominicans, especially the sisters in their long immaculate robes. They radiated a serenity that was very contagious. Don’t hesitate to stop there for the night. I struggled to get back on my way—some places have a special spirit.
I was soon at the end of my journey. I continued along this magnificent mountain to the Col de l’Espigoulier. To the north, another immense wave of white limestone rose—Montagne Sainte-Victoire, a high place in Provence that painter Cézanne made world-famous. Once at the pass, the entire city of Marseille spread out at my feet, the Mediterranean coast revealed itself from the Calanques to La Ciotat, passing by the famous Cap Canaille, Europe’s highest sea cliff. Above me, bathed in sunlight, Bartagne’s northwest face, very popular among climbers, showed all its reliefs. With an old climber’s reflex, I spotted the many climbs I’d done there. I let myself be carried into a steep, winding descent toward the village of Gémenos in a beautiful setting full of cliffs.
A few more kilometers of climbing toward the Col de l’Ange, then toward Roquefort-la-Bédoule. In this last climb, I raced with two cyclists, admittedly not very young. Then, in a six-kilometer descent, I reached Cassis station, the endpoint of my six-day journey through this wild Provençal land between sea and mountain. I experienced great pleasure during these 570 kilometers through these renowned yet wild French massifs. As always, when a beautiful project comes to an end, you feel a bit orphaned by a beautiful dream come true. You have to quickly envision the next one to avoid a vague sense of emptiness taking over. My next adventure is already taking shape in my mind, but that’s another story.
In the autumn of 2011, Provence was hit by apocalyptic weather—torrential rain and a particularly violent east wind, reaching 130 kilometers per hour, whipping up waves as high as seven meters. It wasn’t the best time to venture outside. Yet, I told myself that after the storm, calm would return. I kept an eye on the weather forecast and noticed that starting November 10th, a favorable window should open for a little 600-kilometer cycling trip across Provence. The weather reports promised a high-pressure system that would keep the bad weather at bay over these highlands. That was all I needed to decide to set off. The planned route would take me through Provence’s biggest climbs: Mont Ventoux, Montagne de Lure, the Verdon Gorge, the Massif des Maures, and Sainte-Baume.
And so, despite my doubts, the call of adventure was stronger. The train pulled away, and once again, a journey began at Part-Dieu station. This time, I headed toward Haute-Provence for a cycling adventure. It would be my first solo bike trip. I was a little nervous—cycling with panniers makes you feel vulnerable to theft. I’d already been robbed while traveling in a group in Peru, and that experience left me deeply shaken. Alone, I hesitated. But no need to panic—I’d read accounts from long-distance cyclists who hadn’t been robbed, even if it does happen sometimes. I was particularly thinking of a young schoolteacher who had taken a sabbatical to cycle around the world. Her students had remarked, "Teacher, you’re not sporty—how will you manage to cycle around the world?" This young woman was full of resourcefulness. In South America, before flying to China, she locked her bike to a post to take care of a natural need. When she returned, the post had been torn out, and her bike—along with all her gear—was gone. It was a shock for many, but not for her. She boarded her flight to the Middle Kingdom, bought the essentials (including a new bike) once there, and continued her journey! Remembering this story, I almost felt ashamed of my cowardice. These were the thoughts running through my mind as the Rhône Valley rolled by toward Orange, the starting point of my Provençal adventure through the big climbs.
Day One: Orange to Sault via Mont Ventoux – 90 km
9:30 AM, I stepped off the train. With all my gear, I had to navigate the underground passage—no easy feat, given that my bike and luggage weighed 35 kilos. At this time of year, I expected some areas to be deserted, so I’d packed enough to bivouac comfortably. Once outside the station, the southern light flooded over me. I understood why people dream of retiring in these sun-drenched regions. As always, after disembarking from public transport, I had to get my bearings and decide which way to go. The sun, still low on the horizon, pointed east. The roar of fighter jet engines helped me locate the Air Base 115. That was all I needed to "reset the gyros."
As soon as I started pedaling, all my apprehensions vanished. The joy of discovery and physical effort took over, and euphoria washed over me. It’s amazing how emotions can shift from one moment to the next based on seemingly minor circumstances.
The weather was splendid—the forecast had predicted continuous showers, but it was completely wrong. I quickly left the city behind. Mont Ventoux loomed mysteriously, its dimensions hard to gauge. It was even more enigmatic with its summit hidden beneath swirling, mottled clouds clinging to the ridges. It reminded me of a great South American volcano. I struggled to imagine that in a few hours, I’d be up there under that blanket of mist.
The countryside was shaking off its autumnal nighttime dampness. The vineyards, interspersed with tall cypress hedges, confirmed I was in the magnificent Côtes du Rhône wine region. The distinctive Dentelles de Montmirail were very much in evidence. The air force base wasn’t far. I passed the runway’s end markers. A Mirage 2000 flew overhead in a tight turn, followed by another roaring into takeoff. It came straight at me before climbing sharply with a thunderous roar. Thirty years spent in that captivating world came rushing back. I recalled countless extraordinary human and technical experiences from my time in the service. But the purpose of this post isn’t to promote the air force—though I might post some articles one day about travels among men at war.
I continued on my way, leaving my past loves behind. As I pedaled, delightful names rolled by: Violès, Vacqueyras, Gigondas, Beaumes-de-Venise—the crème de la crème of the Côtes du Rhône Villages appellation. I let myself be enchanted by the vineyards and the little paths crisscrossing them. I started to doubt my route, though the imposing mass of Mont Ventoux in the distance acted like a giant beacon. At a crossroads, a car appeared. I approached to ask the driver for directions, but she didn’t even look at me and sped off, clearly frightened. I’d almost forgotten what a fearful world we live in, no doubt traumatized by all the horrors we see in the news and on TV.
The kilometers started adding up, but was my day’s goal too ambitious? It had been two months since I’d last ridden my bike. True, my last trip had been good training—the Route des Grandes Alpes—but that was two months ago. I can’t just take my bike out for a day trip; I need that sense of adventure to find the courage to exercise.
Two cyclists overtook me. Intrigued by my load, they struck up a conversation. They were skeptical when I told them I planned to cross Mont Ventoux that day. One of them pointed out a small chapel near the summit where I could bivouac sheltered. That motivated me even more to reach the top on this first stage. The chapel also had a mythical name for me—Sainte-Anne, the name of my parents’ villa. It was already noon, and I’d covered 50 kilometers. Malaucène appeared—the sacred village of Ventoux’s mad cyclists. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any other cyclists today. I remembered this place in June, teeming with aspirants for the king of summits. Before tackling the climb ahead, I needed to refuel. I enjoyed a pleasant gastronomic break at Max’s. At 1 PM, I started the most famous climb in cycling—21 kilometers, which would actually be 23. I knew it would be tough, especially with two handicaps: 50 kilometers already in my legs and 20 kilos of luggage. But I was counting on my tiny chainring, which let me climb trees to tackle the steep ramps.
I set off at a brisk pace along a deserted road. My speed held up for the first few kilometers. I quickly rose above the valley, the horizon widening. I was surprised to see no one on this world-renowned route among cycling enthusiasts. During the climb and descent, I’d only see five cyclists—but I’ll come back to that. I passed a sign explaining that the effort would be roughly equivalent to climbing the Col de la Bonnette. Having done the latter in September, I figured I’d be fine. I crossed paths with my first cyclist—a woman speeding downhill. After 12 kilometers, I hit slopes averaging 12%. I don’t know if the number 12 is cursed, but I got such a "bamboo" hit that I’d never experienced before. I thought I wouldn’t make it to the summit today. I stopped. My thighs burned so much I could barely walk—lactic acid overload. I looked for a relatively flat spot to pitch my tent. It was 3:30 PM, with two hours of daylight left. But I found nothing.
I got back on my bike, intending to stop as soon as I found a good bivouac spot. But nothing came up. However, my strength slowly returned, perhaps because the slope eased, though it remained around 10%. I entered the summit mists. A cyclist overtook me. I was in the zone where I had to pass the summit. Dusk caught me in the final difficulties. The atmosphere was downright austere. In the twilight, a kilometer from the summit, a cyclist was fixing his bike. I asked if he needed help. He made it clear he didn’t understand. So I asked, "Do you need some help?" His answer was clear: "No, thank you." He showed me his new inner tube. Inside, I thought, "Phew!" If I’d had to stop, sweating in the falling night with the cold intensifying, I’d have struggled to get going again. But he managed, and I continued into the twilight fog. I could barely make out the summit’s large antennas in the clouds, like immense ghosts trying to evade sight. The bike delivered sensations worthy of mountain racing. My goal was to quickly find the famous chapel in the descent to take shelter. As I glided down the southern slope, two cyclists without lights crossed my path in the night—probably heading to the station above, its lights visible in the fog.
I scanned the roadside in the dark for the chapel but saw nothing. After a kilometer or two, I lost all hope. I stopped to put on more clothes as the cold became intense. I had no idea where I could stop on these steep slopes to set up camp. Between the swirls of mist, I could intermittently see the Rhône Valley below, dotted with illuminated towns and villages. The sight was striking. What was I doing on this mountain at night? Then the miracle happened—the clouds parted, and from the ridge above me to the east, a beautiful full moon emerged, casting enough light to consider a nighttime descent to Sault, 26 kilometers away.
In this eerie atmosphere between the moon’s pale rays and patches of fog, I began my descent through a hazy, almost unreal world. The Ventoux’s characteristic white scree reflected the moonlight faintly, dimmed by the mist. In places, entire mountainsides were plunged into complete darkness, and I lost all sense of the road’s path. Then, around a tight bend caused by a land shift, the light returned. It seemed extreme compared to the darkness I’d left behind. I could once again clearly see the road’s contours, though not its potholes or gravel patches. Still, I let the slope carry me, and the speed felt significant, though the low light prevented me from reading my speedometer. In these moments, concentration was at its peak—all senses alert, reflexes ready to react to the slightest incident that could lead to a fall.
I was relieved to see Sault’s lights growing closer. In less than an hour, I reached it, considering the final little climb that required one last push. This village, bustling in summer, was deserted at this time of year—almost dead. The first hotel I came across was closed. A quick shadow passed in a small sloping street. Before it disappeared into the darkness at a house corner, I chased after it and asked about accommodation options. Very kindly, I was directed to what was probably the only hotel open in November. I quickly found it, and the reception was open. I entered wearing my black balaclava, bought in the Ayacucho region—the birthplace of Peru’s Shining Path. At this late hour, I saw questioning glances directed at me. I prefaced, "This isn’t a hold-up." Clearly, the owners had a sense of humor—they started smiling. I took off my balaclava and asked for a room. No problem, and from that moment, the pressure eased. I really didn’t feel like going back out to find a spot to pitch my tent in the biting cold.
The stage had been nearly 100 kilometers, and it was the first. It had been two months since I’d touched my bike, and I probably lacked even minimal training, even though my last bike trip had been crossing the French Alps. I really had to dig deep to overcome my weakness on Ventoux’s steep section. I don’t remember ever having to search so deeply for the energy to keep going. I knew the stage I’d set for tomorrow was significant, with the climb up Montagne de Lure’s northern slope—Ventoux’s little sister, whose ascent is reputed to be endless, over 25 kilometers. I hoped this first day wouldn’t leave me too sore to avoid suffering excessively tomorrow.
For now, relaxation—a hot shower did me a world of good, followed by a good meal. I ate a delicious andouillette from Troyes, very fine, with a particularly successful herb seasoning. I loved it, and yet I’m from Lyon and pride myself on knowing a thing or two about andouillette—not just a sausage but a whole category! A bit chauvinistic, I had to admit, though reluctantly, that I found it better than the ones I usually eat in the Lyon region!
Day Two: Sault to Forcalquier via Montagne de Lure – 116 km
This morning, the weather was magnificent—the air clear, still, very fresh, and invigorating, as only the late season can offer on these Provençal highlands. In summer, they’re known for their scorching heat and drought, but often overlooked is how harsh they can be with cold and storms. Authors like Giono or Bosco described them and their inhabitants wonderfully in books like "Les Âmes Fortes."
The miracle of the night had worked. I wasn’t sore anywhere and felt in great shape. I set off well-equipped, but the effort and sun soon made me sweat. It was time to shed some layers—hat and gloves. A gentle warmth replaced the cold, making for excellent cycling conditions. On the road to Trinit, there was no traffic—only the occasional hunters’ cars parked in the distance. These vehicles were recognizable by their large cages, used to transport hunting dogs. Sometimes, the silence was broken by a distant gunshot. The deciduous forests were losing their foliage, taking on that dull brown hue of late autumn, though here and there, a tree or shrub still resisted, displaying vivid yellow or red. The meadows, their grass already scorched by the cold, were damp from the night’s heavy humidity. The low sun highlighted thousands of spider webs that had trapped insects during the warm season.
Behind me, Mont Ventoux dominated these vast spaces. As often, its imposing, stony summit was crowned with a blanket of clouds. What an impressive mountain—it’s always so hard to gauge its dimensions. I struggled to realize that last night I’d been at the summit and descended its immense southern ridge in the dark. I hoped to return one day in favorable conditions—daylight and no clouds—to enjoy the vast panorama from this unique summit.
Leaving the very Provençal village of Trinit, I tackled my first climb of the day—the Col de l’Homme Mort. The road rose moderately for five kilometers in gentle warmth. The view over the region widened, and I felt the sheer joy of pedaling. At a good pace, I overcame this first little challenge. Once at the pass, I couldn’t resist the ritual of photographing my bike in front of the sign, giving the name and altitude—1,213 meters.
The northern slope was austere and still in shadow. The cold bit again. The road was wet and covered with leaves in places. It wasn’t impossible that some treacherous patches of black ice lurked around a bend. I descended toward the Jabron Valley with caution. Suddenly, around a bend in a forest clearing, the freshly snow-covered Alps, gleaming in the sun, leapt into view, blocking the horizon. I thought I recognized the distinctive silhouette of the Écrins’ south face above a multitude of jagged peaks.
This snow and these mountains awakened a flood of memories of great joys, but I also thought of the guide and his client who had just lost their lives on the Grandes Jorasses’ north face, at the top of a route called the Linceul. The name comes from the face’s appearance—a great ice slope bordering the Grandes Jorasses’ north wall. It was first climbed by René Desmaison in 1968. He passed away a few years ago and, in his final wishes, asked that his ashes be scattered in the Dévoluy Massif at the foot of Pic de Bure, not far from here in these immense pre-Alpine folds.
At my feet, the Jabron Valley stretched almost endlessly east toward Sisteron. In the distance, the dark mass of Montagne de Lure’s north face loomed. This mountain shares similarities with Mont Ventoux. It has the same summit scree of bright limestone, the same forests climbing up to the final rocky stretch, and that blanket of clouds adding a secretive, austere touch to the scene.
I turned left past the town of Séderon and headed toward the little Col de la Pigière, which in a few kilometers allowed me to truly plunge into the beautiful Jabron Valley. I passed through several villages with charming local names—Saint-Vincent, Noyer-sur-Jabron. The river offered lovely views of its narrow gorges with clear, cold water. Autumn seemed less advanced here than on the plateau I’d just left. Many trees still wore brilliant colors, some revealing extraordinary hues—mixes of crimson, pink, and bright red.
Arriving in Noyer-sur-Jabron, I took a tiny road on the river’s right bank, leading in a few kilometers to the foot of Montagne de Lure. In the village of Valbelle, I picnicked on leftovers I’d brought from home—an old cheese and a somewhat stale loaf of bread. It was 1:30 PM. I began the long climb of about 25 kilometers. According to a friend who’s a cycling expert in the region, this section is tough. No wonder it’s called Ventoux’s little sister—the Mont Blanc of cyclists. The elevation gain on this side is still 1,200 meters, while Ventoux via Malaucène is nearly 1,600 meters.
I hoped to reach the summit before nightfall and avoid reliving a nighttime descent. The route wound through a vast forest, following the terrain’s folds. There was activity—mushroom hunters were busy searching for the coveted chanterelle. The climb, though never very steep (only one kilometer at 9%), was interminable. Though traffic was practically nonexistent, I was overtaken by a group of Harley bikers—I counted about forty. Perched high on their machines, hands in the air on wildly shaped handlebars, some with their feet nearly in the sky due to the high footpegs, they didn’t even glance my way. What’s this idiot doing, unable to ride a motorcycle and forced to climb these mountains on a bike with big bags! I wasn’t offended—real Harley purists often see other motorcyclists as renegades, so bikes are even lower on the totem pole! But I didn’t want to start a debate about motorcycles. In my youth, when I was a wild motorcyclist (22 accidents on two wheels), clans were divided into Japanese, German, Italian, and British bike owners. The latter, on their vibrating, oil-leaking machines, considered themselves the purest. But let’s not fight—there’s a statute of limitations, and it’s been nearly forty years.
As yesterday, a few kilometers below the summit, I entered the fog, and the light dropped suddenly. What a hostile mountain in these conditions! It heightened the sense of living an incredible experience. The conditions we encounter play a major role in how the adventure imprints on our memory. I realized once again that in France, you can feel like you’re very far away. Finally, after this very long climb, the Pas de Graille sign suddenly appeared out of the grayness. Strange! Below the sign, a kilometer marker indicated this same pass was over three kilometers away. Clearly, the climb continued. In these final kilometers through the scree, I gained another 130 meters of elevation. Finally, the road’s high point was reached—1,720 meters. It was cold and damp. I quickly covered up, added my balaclava under my helmet, and put on warm gloves. As I was about to start the descent, a car stopped at the summit, and one of the passengers was surprised to find a bike there in these chilly, twilight conditions.
A 20-kilometer descent led me to the village of Saint-Étienne-les-Orgues. I hoped to find a place to stay for the night. No such luck! Everything was clearly closed—no chance of finding shelter. Tonight was getting complicated. I already had exactly 100 kilometers in my legs and didn’t feel like pedaling anymore, especially at night. But I had even less desire to sleep outside. What to do to avoid it? The town of Forcalquier was 16 kilometers away—I hoped the road would descend. I set off in that direction. The first third was along a beautiful, lightly trafficked departmental road with a slight downhill—I pedaled hard. But it got tougher. I joined a busier road, and night had fallen. A several-kilometer climb finished the journey. I knew my magnetic lights weren’t very powerful—hence the danger. They were even less so on the climb because the slower I went, the less they illuminated. Cars coming the opposite way often saw me late and blinded me with their high beams. After passing, I was plunged into total darkness for a few seconds while my pupils readjusted to the night. I imagined those coming up behind me saw me with little warning, despite my slightly fluorescent jacket. When the roadside was clear, I always positioned myself to quickly jump off the road. But unfortunately, in this long final climb, a guardrail prevented any escape to the right in case of sudden braking behind me. That was even more anxiety-inducing since I was stuck at a snail’s pace. Time seemed long. I pedaled as hard as I could, on the verge of asphyxiation, trying to escape this dangerous situation as quickly as possible. My only reference point was the vehicles in front of me, letting me know the climb wasn’t over. Then suddenly, the ordeal ended—the road’s high point was reached. The town and its lights emerged from the void, and clarity returned. Phew! I glided down toward this little town bathed in light. On November 11th, I hoped to find an open hotel since I’d clearly exceeded 100 kilometers, and the idea of having to leave town to find a bivouac spot somewhat frightened me.
I arrived in the town center. Activity was low. The first hotel was closed, but I spotted a lit sign for another establishment further on. I headed there, got off my bike, and entered. The welcome was immediately friendly—a big cat came to rub against me. For me, that was a very good sign, and the first impression was confirmed. I still had to go out to eat. I covered the minimum distance. A restaurant advertised "Mom’s Cooking." I expected Provençal specialties, but they were Moroccan. I chose a delicious tagine with lime and olives, followed by almond and honey ice cream. Exhausted after this 116-kilometer stage, I returned to my room. As often after intense efforts, it was hard to fall asleep.
Day Three: Forcalquier to Moustiers-Sainte-Marie – 58 km
On this third day, due to the progress made yesterday, the stage would be short. I’d call it a transition between two mountain ranges. Indeed, the next big climb is the Verdon Gorge. I planned to position myself at its foot this evening in preparation for a tough stage tomorrow. I made a few purchases—bread, bananas, and medicine for stomach burns (the midday sausage wasn’t always kind to me). The weather was still perfect. The route began with a long descent toward the Durance. It’s always nice to start a cycling day with a downhill—it boosts morale and allows for a gentle warm-up.
I quickly reached the town of Oraison. Just at its entrance, I crossed the Durance, which still bore traces of last week’s heavy rains along its sandbanks. Indeed, numerous stumps and trunks were scattered along its vast gravel bed, along with less ecological debris like old tires.
A little south of Oraison, I took the D907, a small road heading due east between scrubland and meadows. There it was—the Provence we imagine. This stable autumn weather, with still air, neither hot nor cold, just a fresh feeling when emerging from a shaded valley or a slight warmth under the sun, was ideal for a cyclist. After about ten kilometers at the bottom of a small valley I quickly passed through, the village of Le Brunet appeared on the right. It clung to the slopes leading to the Valensole Plateau. A few steep kilometers along a tiny winding road, and suddenly a vast panorama unfolded as the climb ended.
What a magnificent plateau! Though known for its wind, luckily today was completely calm. Far to the east, the Verdon’s great cliffs blocked the horizon. This allowed me to contemplate part of tomorrow’s stage. This place is full of mysteries—many UFO and extraterrestrial encounter stories are associated with it. Moreover, for about thirty years, France hid its ground-to-ground nuclear ballistic missiles here, grouped in the 1st GMS (Ballistic Missile Group), under the air force. Naturally, these rockets fueled fantasies, and pacifist groups settled in the region to protest this type of armament. This gives many reasons to shroud this austere, deserted land in mystery.
I took a dirt path leading to the heart of this zone and stopped at the forest’s edge for lunch. The silence was total, the view stretched very far. But nothing strange or bizarre manifested. No Martian came to share my frankly moldy cheese, very peppery sausage, or bruised banana—sniff! I resumed my route, and as often when crossing places with strong character, I tended to slow down to enjoy them longer. The immense lavender fields stretched endlessly, not very fragrant at this season. I arrived at a group of truffle oaks protected by a fence, with large red signs warning "Firearm." Clearly, the war for the black diamond was raging in this region. I remembered a novel where an old farmer made buyers believe nothing grew on his land. Every year, he secretly stole the mushrooms from the unsuspecting owners. Then one day, they discovered the truth, catching this "polite" neighbor trying to hide a basket full of beautiful, large truffles!
In these vast spaces, I felt good—a sense of plenitude. It’s strange that I only conceive of cycling through wandering. I struggle to plan a day trip. And if I do, it’s highly likely I won’t get up. I need that sense of adventure to fully appreciate my physical effort. Maybe one day I should get psychoanalyzed, but at my age, it’s probably too late! Today, I had all the time in the world—the stage was half as long as yesterday’s, with very little elevation gain. Not a sound, an impressive calm, a beautiful landscape—I pedaled in a wonderful place. That’s probably happiness!
I reached the village of Puimoisson on the plateau’s eastern edge—only 12 kilometers left to Moustiers. I took my time, sat at a café terrace in the sun, and leisurely enjoyed a coffee while listening to the village come to life. I was delighted by these melodious southern voices, bursting into great laughter. There are places where, despite the anxieties caused by our debt-ridden, dysfunctional societies, some have decided to take life on the bright side and show a saving insouciance.
The rest of the journey was a simple formality—I let the slope carry me toward the pretty little town of Moustiers-Sainte-Marie, clinging to the cliff and famous for its faïence. Arriving early for once, I went to the tourist office to choose a comfortable hotel. Indeed, the Hôtel des Restanques was very comfortable and admirably well-located. But at this time of year, I’d have to return to the village center for dinner. The very kind receptionist reserved a table for me at La Treille Muscate, a restaurant with a magnificently arranged room on the church square. It was only 3:30 PM—I continued to take my time, showering and relaxing in front of the TV. Then I set off to explore—or rather, re-explore—this village I’d visited several times before. But I’d never climbed to its chapel perched in the middle of the great cliff towering over the houses. A stony, aerial path led there. The first mentions of the Notre-Dame de Beauvoir chapel, known in ancient times as Notre-Dame d’Entre-Roches, date back to the 9th century. It’s one of the rare "respite" chapels found in Provence. These are chapels where stillborn children were brought to be revived for a few moments, just long enough to baptize them. They could then be buried religiously, ensuring the salvation of their souls. I was also very moved by reading some ex-votos, like the one from "A mother for her three children returned from the war."
The place was impressive, especially as night fell. I was alone and watched the shadows fill the great cliffs above me. With an old climber’s reflex, I looked for possible climbing routes among these slabs and cracks. But climbing is probably forbidden here, too close to the houses. Then I descended to stroll through the village, admiring the magnificent, finely crafted faïence patterns found in many shops. Finally, dinnertime arrived, and I joined my restaurant, which had been highly recommended. I was delighted by the foie gras ravioli and the pieds et paquets—the chef’s specialty. I’ll come back with family.
Day Four: Moustiers to Fréjus via the Verdon – 122 km
A hearty breakfast prepared me for the day’s tough efforts. Next to me, four Chinese people chatted animatedly. Of course, I didn’t understand a word—it was a language with strange intonations and sounds. I left the dining room and prepared my bike on the terrace. Seeing the volume of my luggage, my Chinese friends rushed over and asked to take turns having their photo taken in front of this funny setup. All laughing, they took photos in front of what they probably considered a French coolie off on some trading business! When they show these photos to their relatives, they’ll likely be perplexed about what motivates some to travel by bike rather than car. For them, the car is a symbol of success—according to an article I read last year, 14,000 cars are registered in China every day!
This morning, the air was fresh. As yesterday, I started with a long descent, this time leading to the edge of Lac de Sainte-Croix. A strong, biting headwind slowed me down. It wouldn’t last, as it was generated by the gorge’s outlet, which I’d reach in a few kilometers. On this cold morning, the lake’s shores exuded great tranquility. The sun was still hidden behind the Verdon’s mountainous mass. Trees with yellow leaves stood out against the water’s pale blue. The bridge marking the gorge’s beginning at the lake’s edge was an ideal spot to admire this natural splendor. At this early hour, the play of light and shadow on the water and the immense cliffs delivered a grandiose spectacle in beautiful harmony. This first contact with the gorges, which I knew well, amazed me.
Once past the bridge, the wind calmed. A little further on, I began the long climb that would take me to the top of this immense natural gash, which water had taken millions of years to carve. I was in good shape and highly motivated by the splendors to come. First, I reached the village of Aiguines, which offered a magnificent viewpoint over the lake. Then I continued toward the Corniche Sublime, where countless breathtaking panoramas unfolded as I progressed. But the climb was sustained and long, requiring effort—though my small chainring worked miracles. I first passed the Col d’Illoire, already 500 meters above the lake. Seeing all these great cliffs, countless climbing memories came flooding back. The classic routes of the Escalès cliff, over 300 meters high, flashed by. Routes with legendary names—La Demande, Les Écureuils, Luna-Bong, and many others. The one that left me with the best memory was ULA—a crack, vertical or even overhanging, of sheer beauty rising above a 40-meter slab in one go for 280 meters of sustained, beautiful climbing on extraordinary rock. It made me want to return to climb there, to immerse myself in the atmosphere of those past times. But climbing habits have changed—now routes are accessed from above by rappel, and people don’t always bother to do these great climbs in their entirety, focusing instead on shorter but technically much more difficult enterprises.
At almost every bend, I stopped and scanned these great cliffs, searching for memories of past experiences and emotions in these secret rock folds. The road climbed well above the pass, exceeding 1,200 meters. It was cool, especially since I was sweating. Finally reaching the high point of the Corniche Sublime, I couldn’t gain speed on the descent—my gaze was always drawn to this astonishing canyon. Around a bend, two cyclists with funny small-wheeled bikes. Wow! It was a couple of Australians doing a year-long tour of France. We chatted passionately about our two-wheeled experiences for a moment. But time was passing, and if I wanted to reach Fréjus before nightfall, I’d have to pedal seriously.
I stopped at the Pont de l’Artuby, where bungee jumping was in full swing. But I quickly set off again toward Comps. The wind was against me, and it was climbing. I started to doubt whether I’d make it to the coast that evening. At 2 PM, I was in Comps-sur-Artuby. I didn’t stop, knowing that before reaching the coast, I’d have no alternative to bivouacking, and I had 70 kilometers left to cover. Sure, it should be downhill, but a few climbs were on the program. After a descent out of the village, I crossed the Artuby River again on the Canjuers military camp. A several-kilometer climb followed, fortunately not too steep. I took the D19 toward Barjols. From there, despite the late hour, I opted for a tiny road passing through Claviers, a small perched village. Time passed quickly, but the kilometers added up. I regained hope. Fifteen kilometers after this last village, I reached Saint-Paul-en-Forêt via a magnificent forested route. I had plenty of time to observe mushroom hunters. I asked one who clearly had some in a plastic bag. He gave me this hilarious answer with a magnificent southern accent: "I only picked the bad ones." No reply was possible. I moved on with a smile. A little further on, another hunter carried a basket. As soon as he saw me, he quickly hid it—just in case I saw what it contained. Arriving at the village involved a steep climb, and I was close to 100 kilometers. I still had a little over 20 kilometers to go before reaching Fréjus. The race against nightfall had begun. Over there to my right, I saw the sun setting behind Roquebrune-sur-Argens’ distinctive rock. The sea appeared. There it was—I was in Fréjus’ industrial zone. On this Sunday evening, traffic was heavy. Indeed, many had taken advantage of the return of good weather after very heavy storms to go for a walk. After quite a few detours, I arrived at the seaside just as night fell. My odometer showed 122 km for the day. I quickly found a simple hotel, ate just as quickly, and went to bed.
Day Five: Fréjus to Solliès-Pont – 92 km
Once again, the night had done its restorative work, and I prepared to cross the Massif des Maures feeling quite fresh. The weather forecast was still favorable for today, but a deterioration was expected tomorrow. I tended to trust it because the east wind was blowing, and in the region, that’s a sign of rain. For now, in the short term, this wind would be very useful—it would push me generously throughout the day.
I started calmly along the harbor quays, looking at the boats. Then I joined the road to Saint-Aygulf and followed the coast for forty kilometers to Port-Grimaud. All these seaside resorts—Saint-Aygulf, Les Issambres, Sainte-Maxime—reminded me of my youth when we spent all our vacations fishing, whether from shore, underwater, or by boat. Looking at the sea roll by, I knew what the seabeds looked like under that surface hiding them. The marine areas we knew best were now under the parking lots and commercial zones of Saint-Raphaël’s new port. In our youth, these infrastructures didn’t exist, and their construction came at the expense of coastal marine areas. Our wonderful fishing spots were permanently buried. I remember seeing the first big trucks that came to dump their loads of earth and rubble, destroying all those wonderful places—sandbanks, seaweed beds, groups of rocky holes teeming with fish that enchanted our youth. Over forty years later, I can still visualize them in my imagination under those parking lots and stores, with the names we gave them—my brothers and I: le casse-croûte, le casse-pipe, les montagnes, la digue, la grille, la mare à mulets, la petite-plage, le trou, etc.
Let’s not be overwhelmed by nostalgia. I left the coast and took the little road through the Maures to Collobrières. The route led from ridge to ridge following the terrain’s movements. At this time of year, the region was admirable. Due to the heavy storms of recent weeks, water was streaming everywhere. Waterfalls and streams murmured all along the way. I didn’t recognize the Maures, which I knew for their dryness causing apocalyptic fires. Indeed, around a bend, I came across a small rest area where a memorial had been erected for three firefighters who lost their lives here while fighting one of those gigantic fires fanned by the mistral.
This forest holds treasures—first, the cork oak, then the arbutus, chestnut trees, and of course, mushrooms that love this granitic soil:
The cork oak can be found all along the road. It’s the forest’s essential element. You can recognize it by its light bark (before exploitation), which forms large bulges along the trunk. But after exploitation, the trunks are much smoother, less voluminous, and dark in color. The arbutus is a large berry with red skin covered in small protuberances, growing on the arbutus tree. This fruit, common in Mediterranean areas, ripens in November. That means today, there were plenty around me. Its flesh is orange, with the consistency of firm purée, and it crushes softly in the mouth. The taste of this berry is sweet and excellent. I didn’t hold back—I gorged myself on them, which served as my midday meal. Sometimes I had to climb embankments to get them.
The chestnut tree, a true industry of the region, brings wealth to the surrounding villages. They make candied chestnuts, ice cream, and other products derived from chestnut flour. Be careful not to stop just anywhere to pick this fruit, as the tree owners might not agree. They even make this clear with signs and surround their chestnut trees with fences. Mushrooms—saffron milk caps and porcini—are highly prized in the area. I saw a few hunters, but it clearly wasn’t miraculous. Supposedly, there had been too much rain?
There’s no time to get bored along this little road, from which you can sometimes see the sea. I passed the Col de Taillude at over 400 meters. I began the descent to Collobrières, the chestnut capital, whose festival attracts many people. Before entering, about a hundred meters from the first houses, a cyclist—probably an agricultural worker—came toward me. As he passed, he cheerfully called out, "Go on, little guy! It’s almost there!" We both smiled. At the end of November, the village was cold and almost deserted. Dead leaves swept the wet streets of the town. You could feel winter on the way. I continued my route to Pierrefeu-du-Var, on the western edge of the Massif des Maures. So I gave my last pedal strokes in this pretty little massif so characteristic of Provence.
I looked for a hotel in Cuers but without success. I descended toward Toulon and finally found one on the outskirts of Solliès-Pont. It catered to people coming to work in the region, so nothing very bucolic. But if the weather were to deteriorate tomorrow and turn to rain, I could quickly reach Hyères or Toulon station, which was a significant advantage. Indeed, November rains aren’t usually very pleasant on a bike.
Day Six: Solliès-Pont to Cassis via Sainte-Baume – 85 km
This morning, contrary to the weather forecast, the weather was beautiful, and the latest bulletin seemed to contradict yesterday’s. So no escape to Toulon—I resumed my route toward Sainte-Baume. I left the hotel via a tiny road that, through ups and downs, led me via shortcuts to the road to Belgentier. My body had gotten used to intense daily efforts, and I felt in Olympic form. At a good pace, I launched into a long climb with a moderate slope. The road was busy, but fortunately, the side lane for cyclists often made the exercise more pleasant. The villages rolled by—Méounes, La Roquebrussanne. Near the latter, I observed a Tiger combat helicopter in training. It hovered motionless for long periods—perhaps the pilots were training to master their increasingly sophisticated weapon systems, requiring even more learning?
I left the busy road and headed via an almost deserted route toward the village of Mazaugues. The climbs became steeper. A long descent, and there I was in this pretty village. A grocery store, which besides selling a few ingredients also served as a café. I sat near the electric heater—it was cold, and I was sweaty. I watched customers come and go and listened to the shopkeeper tell me about village life. The name Mazaugues comes from "water mass," which is why drought doesn’t usually affect this area. Apparently, you can even find mushrooms here in summer! I had a good time, and as I was leaving, a local cyclist started a conversation and told me about her dreams of long bike trips, currently limited by her situation as a mother of terrible children. She settled for day trips with her club, which was already good in this very hilly region. I told her the story of a man who, at 73, cycled solo around Morocco. So no panic—she still had thirty or forty years to realize her wildest dreams!
I was warned that it would be a tough climb to reach Sainte-Baume’s northern slope. Indeed, over eight kilometers, the average slope was sustained, but the landscape was wonderful. Here too, water was streaming everywhere. I passed one of those famous icehouses that used to supply Marseille with ice throughout the year. This northern slope of Sainte-Baume is very cold, and this characteristic was exploited in previous centuries to produce ice. Large cylindrical structures, well-protected to the north and semi-buried, received large quantities of water in late autumn, which froze during winter and was kept cool for months until the following winter. Ice blocks were cut and delivered by cart to the city. That’s how, in ancient times, ice was available in summer to keep fish fresh in Marseille. Did pastis exist at that time? If not, the ice cubes must have been bored!
Once the climb was over, the long ridge of Sainte-Baume appeared, and I could see its characteristic antennas. Nestled at the foot of the cliffs, the magnificent millennial forest revealed itself with its autumn colors. I stopped at the monastery. I’d been there several times before and had even slept there during a long walking trip. The welcome had been first-rate by the Dominicans, especially the sisters in their long immaculate robes. They radiated a serenity that was very contagious. Don’t hesitate to stop there for the night. I struggled to get back on my way—some places have a special spirit.
I was soon at the end of my journey. I continued along this magnificent mountain to the Col de l’Espigoulier. To the north, another immense wave of white limestone rose—Montagne Sainte-Victoire, a high place in Provence that painter Cézanne made world-famous. Once at the pass, the entire city of Marseille spread out at my feet, the Mediterranean coast revealed itself from the Calanques to La Ciotat, passing by the famous Cap Canaille, Europe’s highest sea cliff. Above me, bathed in sunlight, Bartagne’s northwest face, very popular among climbers, showed all its reliefs. With an old climber’s reflex, I spotted the many climbs I’d done there. I let myself be carried into a steep, winding descent toward the village of Gémenos in a beautiful setting full of cliffs.
A few more kilometers of climbing toward the Col de l’Ange, then toward Roquefort-la-Bédoule. In this last climb, I raced with two cyclists, admittedly not very young. Then, in a six-kilometer descent, I reached Cassis station, the endpoint of my six-day journey through this wild Provençal land between sea and mountain. I experienced great pleasure during these 570 kilometers through these renowned yet wild French massifs. As always, when a beautiful project comes to an end, you feel a bit orphaned by a beautiful dream come true. You have to quickly envision the next one to avoid a vague sense of emptiness taking over. My next adventure is already taking shape in my mind, but that’s another story.
Tour du monde au féminin et seule...
Bonjour!!
J'ai un rêve: celui d'un tour du monde! Ce rêve deviendra réalité en septembre 2012, si tout va bien!
J'ai déjà voyagé pour des projets humanitaire en Haiti avec les Soeurs du Bon pasteur... Mais je n'étais pas seule, puisque que j'étais logé nourrit.
À présent, je me sens plus mûre pour un voyage de plus grand envergure. Il est évident que tout ça me fait peur, (partir seule, etc.)
Mon super périple ce fera seule, avec mon pack-sac ! (Pas trouvé d'amis assez crinqué pour me suivre!!)
J'hésite encore la traversée en vélo du Canada (Quebec-Vancouver) Et de prendre l'avion avec un billet Tour du monde...
Que faire de mon vélo et de mon stock devenu inutile une fois arrivée? Est-ce une bonne idée de commencer en vélo?
JE suis assez sportive, alors l'entrainement ne me fait pas peur.. c'est plus les coût reliés à tout ça! Combien ça peut coûter un voyage de vélo-quebec-vancouver?
Aussi.. le tour du monde pour moi ce n'est pas nécessaire que je touche à tous les continents.. J'ai quand même juste un an pour tout faire et je voudrais bien en profiter un peu sans trop de stress. J'Ai quelques amis à visiter Los Angeles, Haïti...
Sinon quelques endroits qui me font rêver: Thailande, Cambodge, Viet-Nam, Nouvelle-Zélande, Australie, Kilimandjaro, Barcelone, Espagne, Italie, Machu Picchu, Grand Canyon.. etc...Petit retour en Haiti pour revoir des amis si le temps me le permet! J'ai l'intention de dormir dans des auberges de jeunesses, ou à très peu de frais, couchsurfing... Pas très peureuse, mais c'est sûr que je devrais garder l'oeil ouvert et rester prudente... Combien devrais-je me ramasser de sous pour faire ce genre de périple en pensant que je ne dormirai pas dans des hôtels et que j'ai l'intention de travailler un peu sans avoir de visa de travail (fruit picking, vandanges, etc)
Apprendre l'anglais est une de mes priorités. Vélo-apnée-Surf-Trek de plusieurs jours- vendanges, du woofing...
Faire de l'aide humanitaire aussi en fait parti.. J'Aimerais trouver dans chacun des pays, ou presque, un orphelinat ou un endroit ou je pourrai être utile.. Encore là, je n'ai pas trouvé de site internet qui me permet de voir les pays où sont installés les Soeurs Missionnaires de la Charité (congrégation de Mère Teresa).
Si vous avez des expériences connexes ou des suggestions..je suis très ouverte..en fait, plus que ça, j'aimerais FORTEMENT être conseillée et plus éclairer pour faire un meilleur choix!
Je me sens un peu perdue.. et je ne sais pas trop par où commencer... Merci d'avance pour vos conseils!
Isabelle
J'ai déjà voyagé pour des projets humanitaire en Haiti avec les Soeurs du Bon pasteur... Mais je n'étais pas seule, puisque que j'étais logé nourrit.
À présent, je me sens plus mûre pour un voyage de plus grand envergure. Il est évident que tout ça me fait peur, (partir seule, etc.)
Mon super périple ce fera seule, avec mon pack-sac ! (Pas trouvé d'amis assez crinqué pour me suivre!!)
J'hésite encore la traversée en vélo du Canada (Quebec-Vancouver) Et de prendre l'avion avec un billet Tour du monde...
Que faire de mon vélo et de mon stock devenu inutile une fois arrivée? Est-ce une bonne idée de commencer en vélo?
JE suis assez sportive, alors l'entrainement ne me fait pas peur.. c'est plus les coût reliés à tout ça! Combien ça peut coûter un voyage de vélo-quebec-vancouver?
Aussi.. le tour du monde pour moi ce n'est pas nécessaire que je touche à tous les continents.. J'ai quand même juste un an pour tout faire et je voudrais bien en profiter un peu sans trop de stress. J'Ai quelques amis à visiter Los Angeles, Haïti...
Sinon quelques endroits qui me font rêver: Thailande, Cambodge, Viet-Nam, Nouvelle-Zélande, Australie, Kilimandjaro, Barcelone, Espagne, Italie, Machu Picchu, Grand Canyon.. etc...Petit retour en Haiti pour revoir des amis si le temps me le permet! J'ai l'intention de dormir dans des auberges de jeunesses, ou à très peu de frais, couchsurfing... Pas très peureuse, mais c'est sûr que je devrais garder l'oeil ouvert et rester prudente... Combien devrais-je me ramasser de sous pour faire ce genre de périple en pensant que je ne dormirai pas dans des hôtels et que j'ai l'intention de travailler un peu sans avoir de visa de travail (fruit picking, vandanges, etc)
Apprendre l'anglais est une de mes priorités. Vélo-apnée-Surf-Trek de plusieurs jours- vendanges, du woofing...
Faire de l'aide humanitaire aussi en fait parti.. J'Aimerais trouver dans chacun des pays, ou presque, un orphelinat ou un endroit ou je pourrai être utile.. Encore là, je n'ai pas trouvé de site internet qui me permet de voir les pays où sont installés les Soeurs Missionnaires de la Charité (congrégation de Mère Teresa).
Si vous avez des expériences connexes ou des suggestions..je suis très ouverte..en fait, plus que ça, j'aimerais FORTEMENT être conseillée et plus éclairer pour faire un meilleur choix!
Je me sens un peu perdue.. et je ne sais pas trop par où commencer... Merci d'avance pour vos conseils!
Isabelle
Avis sur itinéraire en tour du monde?
Bonjour à tous,
Je m'oriente de plus en plus vers un TDM entre la fin de mes études et l'entrée dans la vie active, c'est pourquoi je viens vers vous pour avoir votre avis sur mon itinéraire.
Je partirais de France: - VOL vers Montréal (excursion au Canada en Kayak de mer) - Puis, VOL vers Cap Horn - Remontée de l'Amérique du Sud (Chili, Bolivie, Pérou, Colombie, Brésil, Guyane) - puis VOL vers Kenya (où j'y ferais juste un safari dans le Masaï mara à cheval) - Puis VOL vers St Saint-Pétersbourg où je prend le transsibérien, je descend au lac Baïkal, puis Mongolie, Chine, Inde - puis bateau vers le Sri Lanka - VOL vers l’Indonésie (où je virevolte un peu) Puis retour en France...
Pour moi, l'idéal serait d'y aller à vélo pour aller un peu plus vite qu'à pied, étant donné que je m'accorde seulement 12 mois...
ce qui ferait 14 pays en 12 mois et 6 vols en avion pour le périple...
J'aimerais donc avoir votre avis sur ma première ébauche de TDM...
Mes pays "far" où j'aimerais passer: Canada (pour y faire du kayak sur ces magnifiques lacs), Chili, Bolivie, Pérou; et Kenya (pour y faire un safari à cheval...)
PS: je sais que le kayak de mer au Canada et le safari à cheval au Kenya vont grandement impacter le budget, mais ce sont "entre" mes priorités.
Merci d'avance pour avis qui me feront avancer... ;)
Je m'oriente de plus en plus vers un TDM entre la fin de mes études et l'entrée dans la vie active, c'est pourquoi je viens vers vous pour avoir votre avis sur mon itinéraire.
Je partirais de France: - VOL vers Montréal (excursion au Canada en Kayak de mer) - Puis, VOL vers Cap Horn - Remontée de l'Amérique du Sud (Chili, Bolivie, Pérou, Colombie, Brésil, Guyane) - puis VOL vers Kenya (où j'y ferais juste un safari dans le Masaï mara à cheval) - Puis VOL vers St Saint-Pétersbourg où je prend le transsibérien, je descend au lac Baïkal, puis Mongolie, Chine, Inde - puis bateau vers le Sri Lanka - VOL vers l’Indonésie (où je virevolte un peu) Puis retour en France...
Pour moi, l'idéal serait d'y aller à vélo pour aller un peu plus vite qu'à pied, étant donné que je m'accorde seulement 12 mois...
ce qui ferait 14 pays en 12 mois et 6 vols en avion pour le périple...
J'aimerais donc avoir votre avis sur ma première ébauche de TDM...
Mes pays "far" où j'aimerais passer: Canada (pour y faire du kayak sur ces magnifiques lacs), Chili, Bolivie, Pérou; et Kenya (pour y faire un safari à cheval...)
PS: je sais que le kayak de mer au Canada et le safari à cheval au Kenya vont grandement impacter le budget, mais ce sont "entre" mes priorités.
Merci d'avance pour avis qui me feront avancer... ;)





