Results for "Désaignes+|+127"

Bonjour a tous!

En septembre 2004, je pars avec un ami faire le tour du monde pendant un an. On va traverser environ une douzaine de pays. En ce moment, on est en pleine préparation: budget, trajets, prise de contact... on s'y est prépare plus d'un an a l'avance pour partir dans les meilleurs conditions possibles.

Ce que j'aimerais savoir, parmis les personnes qui ont deja fait de si longs voyages, quelles ont été les galères (petites ou grandes) imprévues. C'est à dire des "choses" qui soient arrivées au si bien sur le plan santé que humain ou confort... qui n'ont pas été prévus au départ et qui ont géner quelque peu le voyage.

Merci d'avance.

Bonjour, Je compte emmener mon camescope sur le tour des Annapurnas et je me demande s'il est possible de le recharger en cours sur le trek ? Merci.

Les tours opérator on l'habitude d'emmener les touristes dans des centres artisanaux pour y faire leurs achats de souvenir. Mais qu'a t-on le droit d'acheter réellement pour ne pas être en désaccord avec la loi turque et risquer jusqu'à 10 ans d'emprisonnement ? _ objets en onyx, ? _objets en albatre?, _objets en marbre, ? _objets en basalte ? _bijoux? _pierres venant sur les bijoux?

Bonjour,

Dans le but de créer une association de convoi de matériel à destination d'écoles er d'orphelinats asiatiques, nous recherchons des contacts locaux pour réceptionner ces fournitures !!!

L'association étant sur le point d'être mise en route, nous avons besoin de voyageurs indépendants, souhaitant rendre leur voyage utile. Ceux-ci combleront la place restante dans leurs bagages de matériel nécessaire à nos contacts sur place que nous leur fournieront au préalable !!!

Nous avons besoin de vous et de toutes les infos que vous pouvez nous apporter !!!

Merci a tous Céline et Maud -

bonjour!

j'ai hésité un moment avant de faire partager mes impressions à propos de ce nouveau tour operator.

J'avais fait appel à eux pour un circuit dans le Yucatan . Les sites proposés correspondaient à mes attentes mais la réalité n'a été que frustration et baclage par des "apprentis"

La première surprise a été à l'aéroport où le guichet réferent qui délivrait les billets -zelé- nous a fait patienter jusqu'à l'heure prévue. Fait normal jusque là, mais peut etre un peu moins quand on constate que les voyageurs des tours operators concurrents avaient déjà enregistré leurs bagages... conséquence? beaucoup de couples ont donc fait le trajet séparés!

A notre arrivée pas de soucis majeurs, l'accueil dans les hotels à été optimale. L'hospitalité mexicaine est irréprochable. Notre première visite, celle de Chichen Itza s'est faite sous la pluie, au moins j'ai des photos uniques, ca c'est sur!

J'ai sourit quand j'ai pu voir l'organisation de la visite de la ville de Mérida: on quitte l'hotel à 9:00, faisons qqs quartiers en bus pour revenir au meme hotel 30 minutes plus tard pour visiter à pied le centre ville puis le marché. Départ à 12:00 vers l'étape suivante. La désorganisation à commencé à m'agacer en arrivant l'après midi meme sur le site archéologique d' Uxmal. L' emploi du temps à été très mal géré et il ne restait que 1 heure avant la fermeture du site au moment de notre arrivée. Fait inadmissible à mon sens car le site est très vaste et très riche en architecture. La frustration à été intense car j'avais choisi de parcourir 9500km pour pouvoir jouir de ces lieux.

Le lendemain, la visite éclair (30 minutes) de la ville de Campeche se passe de tout commentaires... dommage car c'était une ancienne ville coloniale très colorée et très belle. Heureusement que je suis une adepte au jogging!

je ne parle meme pas de nos pannes de bus (j'insiste sur le pluriel! je vous promets de ne pas etre née un vendredi 13!)

La fin du circuit couronne le tout! On nous annonce un hotel...comble de malchance il manque "juste" l'electricité donc halte plus tot que prévue dans un éco village ( très agréable). La visite du site de Chicana à été sans interet (annonce de la visite comme une biosphère= cela a consisté à nous désigner le nom de 4 arbres...) faite en 30 minutes pour se retrouver dans l'hotel en face à 16:00. Lendemain matin, lever 15 minutes plus tot... j'ai pensé "chouette! on va passer plus de temps sur un des sites prévu!" Je suis déjà blonde et visiblement mon cas doit etre désesperé car je suis naive par dessus le marché... en fait, j'ai appris que la famille représentante du groupe Marsans qui voyageait avec nous devait etre déposée à leur hotel pour leur entamer leur semaine balnéaire et pour ce détour ils ont mobilisé tout le groupe de cette facon! Cette situation prouve tant le manque de respect d'autrui qu'ils n'ont meme pas osé en parler franchement au groupe

Mais la panne de bus suivante (encore!) à écourté la visite du cenote prévu (15 minutes d'arret). Je ne parle meme pas du site de Tulum qu'ils ont littéralement saccagé car l'hotel suivant changeait et était 120km plus loin que prévu... Vu les circonstances, la famille en question s'est fait déposer à un endroit où un taxi les attendait. Je pointe ce fait dans la mesure ou d'autres personnes du groupe se rendaient au meme hotel, et que dans le cas où tout s'était déroulé normalement, on déplacait 40 personnes pour le confort de 3 sans meme proposer à celles concernées le meme "traitement"; En effet, c'était le dernier soir nous rejoignions le dernier hotel pour etre transferés le lendemain. De plus, ce changement de dernière minute était un peu agacant car la majorité du groupe avait choisi l'hotel initial pour ne pas avoir à remballer sa valise une fois de plus. Celà nous a couté une journée de plus à attendre que la chambre soit libre et fait perdre une journée sur place

Toutefois, notez que lce meme hotel vient d'etre retiré du catalogue Marsans... vu le nombre d'insatisfaits. Auraient ils eu la présence d'esprit de prévenir la clientèle qu'ils envoyaient à la meme période ou de leur proposer une autre alternative? Je vous laisse deviner!

l'approche gastronomique à été des plus pauvre car tous les sites ou nous sommes passés nous ont servi sensiblement les memes spécialités (aucune communication entre les organisateurs et les lieux visités)

J'ai mis a profit ma seconde semaine, j'ai loué une voiture, pris les bus en commun et refait une majorité de ces sites... Je vous jure que je pense partir que par ce biais à l'avenir "on n'est jamais mieux servi que par soit meme".

Voila, je vous ai raconté qqch dont j'ai un peu honte, je comprends que pour leurs premiers voyages les gens ressentent un besoin de sécurité et optent pour ce type de voyage, mais sincèrement rien ne vaut le contact avec les autochtones et préparer son voyage en apprenant un peu leur langue n'est que enrichissant

Peut etre ce groupe evoluera-t-il positivement dans les saisons à venir... mais pour le moment ne vous laissez pas gacher comme moi votre reve d'enfance

j'attends vos impressions

Hello everyone on this forum! I know in advance that what I'm about to say here won't please everyone, but honesty is a virtue, isn't it? Here's the thing: for many years now, I've noticed a habit in French-speaking posts of using abbreviations left and right, as if to show that we're "in the know." Let me explain with a few examples: - - In discussions about Peru, I see "Aguas" for "Aguas Calientes." And if it's Mexico, well, it'll be "Aguas" for "Aguascalientes"! - - For Guatemala, "travelers" will say "Guaté." Come on, saying "Guatemalas" would maybe be the undeniable sign that you know nothing about the country??? - - Back from Indonesia, many will talk about how familiar they've become with the country's language: "bahasa." Of course, everyone will know what you're talking about, but it still gets on my nerves because the language (one of the many languages) of Indonesia is "bahasa Indonesia." "Bahasa" actually means "language," and you'll find this word of Indian origin ‘Bhāṣā’ (it's Sanskrit originally) outside Indonesia too: in Thailand, for example, any language will be "phasa" as in "phasa thai" (official Thai), "phasa isan" (what's spoken in northeastern Thailand), "phasa angkrit" = English, etc. Am I an incorrigible nitpicker? Maybe. But I'd also find it ridiculous if a foreigner came and told me they visited "Monte" during their trip to France, when it was actually Monte Carlo. I read a lot in English and don't think I've encountered such a habit among English speakers.

Hi there! I’m in the middle of planning my first solo trip (as a woman). Do you have any ideal destinations with activities like hiking, diving, sightseeing, and easy ways to meet locals—all on a small budget?

I’d love to hear from anyone who’s had this experience before! :)

Okay, it wasn’t a total disaster either. Actually, I hesitated before starting this travel journal: is it even worth writing about a holiday that won’t leave an unforgettable memory? In the end, I went for it (there aren’t many recent travel journals about this destination). So, read on... or don’t .

Every time we’ve been to the Canary Islands, it’s been by default (basically: where can we go in winter or early spring when we only have a week—so not too far, not too much jet lag, but with decent weather?).

This time, we had two weeks, but the winter plan kept changing: first Thailand (dropped for personal reasons), then Martinique (dropped because of work leave dates that weren’t up to me), and finally, the Canary Islands.

We’ve already been to Tenerife (which we really liked) and Lanzarote (which we liked a little less). This year, two options: Gran Canaria or one of the smaller islands west of Tenerife (La Palma, or even La Gomera or El Hierro). We chose Gran Canaria... not sure it was the right call! Whose fault is it? Storm Thérèse’s! Yes, Storm Thérèse followed us on arrival, and its effects lasted quite a while. We had to adapt, cancel visits, change activities...

But even without Thérèse...

Saturday 21/03 Departure from Orly at 6:10 AM with Transavia. The plane took off on time and landed a little early, tossed around by strong winds before touching down. It had just rained, but it was (almost) no longer raining.



We quickly picked up our luggage and then the car at the Cicar counter. We got a Seat Arona instead of the Corsa we’d booked. Well, while the driving position didn’t feel great at first (I got used to it), the engine’s smoothness and power were much appreciated on the island’s winding and sometimes steep roads.

It was only 10 AM, and we couldn’t theoretically check into our accommodation until 3 PM (the owner promised to message me if it was ready earlier). So, we headed to the (big) *Jardín Botánico Viera y Clavijo*, where we planned to spend a few hours. We found a huge parking lot... empty. The passenger in the car in front of us (yes, we weren’t the only ones at the closed gate—there was a car in front and one behind) went to ask for info: it was closed due to the storm 😕. So, we calmly headed toward Puerto de las Nieves, on the northwest coast of the island.

The plan: go to a restaurant, visit the village, and do some shopping while waiting for early afternoon. As soon as we got out of the car, it started raining... we took shelter under the awning of a shop, waiting for it to pass. But the rain turned into a downpour, and within minutes, awning or not, Gore-Tex or not, we were soaked!

Since we were already wet, we might as well go to the restaurant—they weren’t far! But here’s the thing: contrary to what Google Maps said, they all opened at 1 PM, not noon! Back to the car, wading through 5 cm of water because all the village streets were flooded . The rain let up, we did some shopping, went to eat, and I got a message from the owner saying the accommodation was ready 🙂.

So, off we went to La Suerte, a few kilometers north of Agaete. The downside of the place, especially with luggage, is that you have to climb several flights of stairs via an outdoor staircase (after parking more or less far away on a steep street) to get there 😛). Of course, on the way from the car to the apartment, it started pouring again—the bags got soaked! Enough rain for today! We settled in quietly, and by late afternoon, we could (finally!) go admire the view from the terrace.

Hi there,

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

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

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

Episode 1: Spain, from Avignon to Algeciras

Episode 2: Morocco, from Tangier to Tarfaya

Episode 3: Western Sahara, from Tarfaya to Guerguerat

Episode 4: Mauritania, from Guerguerat to Nouakchott

Episode 5: Senegal, from Rosso to Saloulou

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

Happy reading, and safe travels!

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



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



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

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

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

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

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



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

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

Some trips are born twice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would wish never to go to bed where I had woken up, to wander my tent from the shores of Egypt to those of the Persian Gulf; to have no goal for the evening other than the evening itself; to traverse on foot, with my eyes and my heart, all these unknown lands, all these races of people so different from my own; to contemplate humanity, God’s finest creation, in all its forms. Lamartine in Fatalla Sayeghir’s Account (1861)

As soon as it’s about flying, I lose all willpower. Being reasonable and thoughtful, I still lose all my composure at the mere possibility of a flight—especially if it’s piloted by F.—and even more so if that flight can take me to unexplored lands. I’ve long wanted to unravel the mystery of animal tourism, and why not in Tanzania, following up on my trip from four years ago, when I was already questioning the glaring inequalities in Zanzibar: the coastal strip sacrificed to capitalism, and the inland areas, just a hundred meters from the waves, where you find—though a bit more peaceful than elsewhere on the continent—the chaos of Africa.

I’m an adventurer at heart. When it comes to the terrain, though, it’s a whole different story. I see people setting off for months at a time; I know my endurance doesn’t last beyond three days. It’s not that I’m afraid of this unfamiliar environment when it comes to embracing different realities. I’m mostly afraid of myself—of this heightened sensitivity that makes me see things I’d rather not see and understand others that sometimes overwhelm me.

After an absolutely fantastic daytime flight, I land in Zanzibar and have to resign myself—this is the whole point of the trip—to what feels like a real spacewalk. I’m alone. My lucky star, backed up by my phone, will serve as my lifeline. I step out of the airport and breathe in the scent of Africa full-on: a mix of exotic perfumes, baked earth, and poorly refined fuel, inevitably mingled with the smell of wood smoke. So many images come flooding back. So many stories. Another world.

I head to Arusha the very next day. The gateway to the country’s northern national parks, this city of half a million offers one of those rare breath-holding dives that Africa keeps secret. As the only white person walking the streets, I know I’m visible and vulnerable, yet I move forward confidently, barely bothered. But where are all my fellow Westerners? While this city draws countless tourists, I only cross paths with one white couple in nearly three hours of walking. Because you have to hold on tight to wander here. You have to stay alert. The traffic is dense and erratic—don’t even trust the fact that in Tanzania, people drive on the left. That can change from one minute to the next, especially with motorbikes. With barely centimeters between vehicles, I weave my way through the urban jungle, trying not to stumble into the huge ditch on my left or get sideswiped by cars brushing past me on the right. Speakers blare music, ads, or political speeches at will—the explosion of yellow and green tells us we’re on the eve of the presidential election—but they barely compete with the calls to prayer, nearly nonstop on this holy Friday. The vital space is as saturated as the sound. Imagine an unbroken line of shops and stalls of every kind—supermarkets haven’t made it here yet—where you can find just about anything: phones, copper pipes, Chinese-made hardware, shoes, clothes, basins, and professional tools… The luckiest own a big store; others spend their lives trying to survive on the profits from selling toothbrushes one at a time on the streets. But maybe it’s more lucrative than spending the day slumped on the sidewalk, preferably missing a limb, trusting your survival to the mercy of passersby.

I think I’ll escape the street by slipping into the narrow alleys of the central market. Here, I know I won’t run into anyone like me! The vendors’ stalls start at waist height; the sellers, perched higher up, haggle or not while discussing prices. Here, colorful fruits and vegetables; there, huge piles of dried fish. Spices, seeds, roots. Smells. Noises. Africa. Life. Further on, the fresh fish aisle makes a right angle with the butchers’. Everywhere, flies—everywhere, the same gesture from vendors swatting blindly at these relentless pests. Aware that I’ll be eating this same meat within the hour, displayed with total disregard for basic hygiene, I reassure myself that Arusha sits at 1400m altitude. Yes, we can probably do without a fridge.

*

It’s time to leave the city and go wildlife spotting in the surrounding parks. To that end, I’ve negotiated a package deal with a local agency that prides itself on grouping solo travelers into a vehicle meant for seven. We leave behind the imposing masses of Mount Meru and Kilimanjaro, peaking at 4565m and 5895m respectively, and head west to conquer Tarangire and Ngorongoro parks. I’ve been promised a spectacle; I remain cautious. I’ve read rave reviews; I know how to temper my expectations. Above all, I know what I came for—and paradoxically, my hopes are less about animals than strictly anthropological. So I’m sure I won’t go home disappointed.

I’m in the thick of it. Since 2021, tourism has been booming: I’m one of the two million tourists who come here every year seeking thrills. I also contribute, in a small way, to the 20% of the country’s GDP generated by tourism revenue. Around 3 billion € annually… Tanzania has 16 national parks, twice as many reserves; it charges meticulously for every entry, every night, every activity, to the tune of several dozen euros. I calculated that Tarangire Park alone rakes in around 15 million € a year. Mind-boggling. Yet to get there, a dusty, rickety old track is used daily by hundreds of vehicles that literally saturate the surrounding area with white dust and exhaust fumes. At the park entrance, we wait a good hour while the driver pays the entry fees. Then it’s a free-for-all: dozens of 4x4s try to enter at the same time through the single access point, to the left of the building, while the three barriers are stuck due to a computer glitch. It’s pure chaos: no way to buy your ticket in advance—the QR code revolution hasn’t arrived; no smart layout before the barriers; nothing smooth, nothing practical, everything improvised.

So, the animals? Given the time and money involved, I’d be tempted to say it’s not worth the hassle and there’s really no need to break five legs off one of the too-many zebras we pass. Hours and hours of travel to get to Tanzania, specifically Arusha; hours and hours on the road—up to 12 hours a day—to spend barely three in the parks; at least 200 € per day for the most basic option, so 400 € in my case, and up to several thousand for those wealthy couples opting for the luxury package with a private vehicle. Sure, I saw zebras and elephants in their natural habitat, wildebeest, buffalo, and a few hippos, but I didn’t feel the thrill touted in the articles or even by my two-day trip organizer. Would I have been more satisfied if I’d seen the lion, the leopard, and the rhino? Maybe. But the story won’t be rewritten in light of those assumptions.

Yet I’m not disappointed. As I said earlier: I know what I came for. I wanted to see the world as it is with my own eyes. And the safari world fascinates me more for its anthropological aspect than for what it offers. Yes, the fact that people from all over the world come here, juggling hotels and big 4x4s—while notably avoiding the streets of cities and villages—truly fascinates me. Two worlds coexist on either side of a barely porous border. As soon as the tourist sets foot in the airport, they’re whisked away, sight unseen, into a tourist vehicle. Dropped off at the hotel, they rest there, shielded from view, until the 4x4 departs. Then they speed through those same cities and villages they scorn out of fear or disdain, leaving on the roadside the Maasai herding their flocks and all those poignant or mundane scenes that make up daily African life. In the evening, in their lodge, far from the city’s pulse, they fall asleep thinking about the images they’ve collected, those long hours on the road, the wait for the animals. And the days go by… Maybe the term *luxury*, whether for food or accommodation, refers to what we experience as utterly ordinary in the West? Forgetting that you’re there, in Africa, just steps away from poverty and a certain arbitrariness. And at the end of the journey: back to the airport, back to normal life.

Maybe we need to take a broader view. All that money seems invisible, yet it must serve the population at some point, right? The main roads are passable, the power grid seems well-maintained—I can tell by the excellent condition of the high-voltage transmission towers. Is it really too expensive to significantly improve all the infrastructure? I hoped this windfall would truly serve the people’s interests. The driver taking me back to the airport on the last evening dashes my sweet illusions: « All this is bad. Africa is bad. But you have no choice. The hospitals don’t work, the schools don’t work, the roads don’t work (just as he says this, roadworks force us onto a terrible detour for several kilometers—a rutted track, in fact), and if you say anything, if you speak up too much, they come for you and then you disappear. » That’s just one opinion. Nothing empirical. But I don’t need to be a West Point graduate to realize how rampant corruption is in these regions: while the muezzin bellows the greatness of Allah, I consider the dilapidated equipment and the energy expended by the masses just to survive here. But maybe all that money keeps the country afloat by paying civil servants’ salaries? Meanwhile, one thing is certain: regardless of where the profits go, tourism supports millions of people, and I’m in no position to judge this system too harshly. Maybe I’m too much of an aesthete to appreciate the almost exclusive use of corrugated iron at its true value…

*

I’ll give this system credit for one thing: the chance to set foot in spaces impossible to visit otherwise. At one point, in the heart of the Ngorongoro Crater—a vast 20km-wide plain topped by a 600m-high caldera—I was simply happy to be there. Barely bothered by the constant ballet of 4x4s—the space is vast—I contemplate the simple life of the local animals. Buffalo, wildebeest, zebras as numerous as the flamingos patiently standing on one leg, waiting for the day to pass. Over there, you can make out a few hyenas with vultures circling above. Finally, in a large body of water, hippos surface at regular intervals. I’m aware of my luck. I’m especially aware that, unlike all the people I’ve met there, a lot of money and a little resourcefulness greatly favor the luck factor.

I’m heading home. I soak up the last images of this improbable Africa as night falls quickly over the countryside. I’m fascinated by the number of Maasai herding their livestock along the main road. Some pass the time, globalization obliges, on an old phone; others, sometimes as young as my eldest—barely 10 years old—watch us pass, indifferent. We overtake or are overtaken; the two-lane road is the stage for a majestic ballet of semi-trailers, *dalas-dalas*, and other 4x4s, as numerous as the names of their companies: Leopard Tours, Climbing Kilimanjaro, Smiling Zebra, Nomad Life Enhanced, Elephant Roaming, Mountain Warrior, Master of the Ambush… They drop me off at the hotel, where I have an hour to shower and change into clean clothes before my return flight. Already, I’m slipping back into my own world without really seeing it, leaving behind the hotel’s glass window that African life to which nothing truly binds me. Then that chaotic, suffocating nighttime drive to the airport. Check-in; the stupid questions (« Where are you going? »); the slow police officer who, in the end, stamps my passport anywhere; the idiocy of the security agent (my empty 33cl bottle is forbidden); the rather shabby lounge at Kilimanjaro Airport. Then the return to the vessel—to the Air France plane that left Zanzibar an hour earlier—after this 72-hour spacewalk without a real lifeline. I’ve never been so happy to see F. again.

There exists a rare land where life expresses itself, a land where everything is destroyed, patched up, where everything is dirty and faded, yet paradoxically, each passing day is synonymous with light and joy. Seen from the sea, magnified by its translucent waters, the island is splendid; seen from inland, ochre and green dress a landscape one would wish to be pristine. As you approach the coast with the tides, countless boat wrecks never finish dying; returning from a hike, you know you’re nearing the city by the increasingly obvious proliferation of all kinds of trash. Overflowing the towns, makeshift homes made of corrugated iron stand here and there, wherever the eye lands; from a height, looking toward the horizon, you find the calm blue of the ocean and the beauty of infinity.

But where does all this corrugated iron come from? Blue, gray, red, or black, you find it pretty much everywhere—except, of course, on the island’s heights, where the heat is such that all life seems impossible. Yet, a few kilometers from the capital, more than an hour’s walk away, the corrugated iron is very much there, omnipresent, guaranteeing a land registry as hypothetical for us Europeans as it is very real for those who live there, far from civilization and comfort. I keep climbing. I’m precisely looking to meet these people who live on very little, if not nothing.

- Jéjé Mogné (Hello, sir in Shimahorais)! Where do you get water here, in this place? How do you drink, irrigate your plants?

- I wait for the rain. We have tanks that fill up well with each rainfall. But right now, it’s not raining much.

At the top of the next hill, lost in the bushes, it’s easier for me to guess the distant city, Mamoudzou, than the rest of the path, a remnant of a magnificent GR called the Island Tour, abandoned for the most part, sometimes maintained between two lost hamlets. The city, the pulse, water. Below, the ocean, running water, drinking water—despite regular interruptions; here, up high, an hour and a half’s walk away, tanks, arbitrariness. On other slopes, however, during another hike, I saw the water supply network, made of sturdy pipes tangled in the earth, right there by the path. It seems there are places where water climbs. Others not. Each to their own karma. In 2025. In a French department.

A path of misfortune, lost and regained, thanks to a sign, an inscription, or the compass’s directions. No one walks here anymore, except those who live here or come to harvest their crops. I remember that breathtaking hike in 2013, when I connected Bandrélé to Mamoudzou, passing by the peaks of Bénara (660m) and Bépilipili (643m), barely pausing at Tsararano and Vahibé: 34 km of intense effort on a rollercoaster path, along a trail that was still discernible. Today, it’s as if everything had disappeared. By also destroying the paths and vegetation, Chido* broke the last momentum of these cautious hikers: insecurity has made its way across the archipelago, and Sunday strolls are no longer the norm. Me, I keep going. I will have walked here and there during these three weeks to get an idea of the places, the people, the landscapes, and the superhuman effort required to move forward in over 40°C. To tell the truth, during my last hike, I cut my plans short and let myself be carried by a group of young people heading back to the city. The path is now just an inextricable network of small trails, the specter of Providence** comes to mind. True wisdom is knowing when to give up. I leave.

* A cyclone named "desire" (in Shona), which ravaged the island of Mayotte on December 14, 2024. ** June 2023, a very poorly prepared hike on Providence Island (Caribbean) from which I miraculously escaped.

On Petite-Terre, Marie takes me to visit some locals, white people who have lived there for a long time and make a living from their art; jewelry for her, all kinds of objects for him. We love this little shop, this oasis amid the chaos that embodies Dostoevsky’s phrase: "Beauty will save the world." It’s clean and tidy, beautiful, well-kept. Invariably, the question of insecurity resurfaces in the middle of the conversation. The woman says:

- I know someone who slipped in their bathtub. Still, I keep taking baths…

So, is this insecurity a myth or reality? I hear stories that are often true but sometimes seemingly exaggerated through the lens of misunderstanding and one-upmanship. Like that of this midwife assaulted one evening (it gets dark early) on her way home from work. Sometimes she was attacked on the path, dragged by the hair for several meters, sometimes she made it home, but it was her roommate who let the two men in. One version talks about a snatched phone and gratuitous violence, another about violence outright. In short, one thing is certain: walking around at night flaunting your phone isn’t a good idea, no more in Mamoudzou than in the rough neighborhoods of Nantes. Also, I played it safe: nothing flashy, nothing bling-bling, and always something to give if needed. I was never approached. It’s not easy to get a sense of the realities, between the hazy reports from journalists sensationalizing everything and the real lives of real people. But I know I can’t rely on these few ideas I’ve formed: I’m nobody, and above all, I don’t live here. What I do know, however, is that since my last visit to the island in 2017, over 80,000 babies have been born, and tens of thousands of immigrants have reached the archipelago’s shores. What’s also obvious is that poverty, hunger, and—let’s say it—indignity foster delinquency and insecurity. So, without taking journalists’ alarmist speeches at face value, we’ll try to keep in mind that a young person rendered orphaned by circumstances (parents expelled), poor and often hungry, involved more or less against their will in village wars and fueled by synthetic drugs*, will readily turn to violence when they truly have nothing to lose. We can trace the origin of this despair to the fact that in Mayotte, those without legal existence have virtually no hope of accessing anything.

* "Chimique" is a series of synthetic cannabinoids

Meanwhile, in the evening, it’s good to go home before the time of stone-throwing. From time to time, along the roads, gangs throw stones at vehicles and school buses, but mostly at police cars—almost all the white Dusters on the island! In front of the Mamoudzou police station, all parked vehicles—mostly Dusters—bear the scars of these attacks. Maybe it’s only at night that gangs unleash and all the burglaries happen? I saw nothing, heard nothing. I lived three weeks in a sort of bunker with no real access to outside light, protected by a fake wooden door doubled with a real metal door, both locked at all times. You don’t tempt fate. You endure it differently.

Today, extraordinarily, it’s raining. Yet, it’s the rainy season! But with my karma helping (what selfishness to want to walk dry when so many souls live off the rain) or is it climate change? The rain only falls once I’ve put on my horrible green pajamas. In front of the board outlining the program, I’m told that out of the six scheduled C-sections today (sic), they’ll probably only do two, maybe three. Because it’s raining. And when it rains, people don’t move around. Not for lack of will. Rather, for lack of means. And that ties into those sad days when the police patrol around the hospital: patients don’t come. They’ll come back tomorrow. To compensate, I’m happy at the thought of tackling the abscess program, but the sterilization unit is acting up and blocking the instrument trays. When it’s not the rain, it’s the unions. And when both finally quiet down, there’s always someone to find fault with the order of operations. You have to imagine an operating room where the question of urgency reigns supreme. Here, no surgery is scheduled more than 24 hours in advance—only emergencies, nothing but emergencies. So, following that reasonable adage that what’s done is no longer to be done, it’s sheer madness when the rain meets the interests of Force Ouvrière and the bad will of some combines with the laziness of others. To tell the truth, I’ve never seen so much energy expended to… do nothing. Hallucinating. But who am I, a small-time striver, an islander in my spare time, a temporary worker at the end of the world? I came, I saw, I was disappointed? Not really. Here again, I can’t judge a system in so little time. I can barely utter a few bitter words in front of obvious facts. But nothing will take away my joy of being here for three weeks. Here, they heal with somewhat outdated but still functional means. You do what you can with what you have, 8,000 km from the Métropole. Yes, the operating room doors hesitate, and the operating tables stutter, but in this blessed period, we lack neither medicines nor supplies. So we examine, anesthetize, and repair, far more undocumented people than French—if I may play with somewhat borderline statistics here; we deliver babies, dress wounds, and relieve pain in this hospital at the end of the world where neither white women nor Mahorais women would ever consider giving birth or getting treated.

What’s the solution? The obstetrician talks to the woman during a C-section under spinal anesthesia:

- Bouéni! (Madame, in Shimahorais) You need to think about tubal ligation. This is your fourth C-section. Your uterus is like tissue paper. Your next pregnancy will be very risky.

No answer. Culture. It’s all about culture. The funniest thing is that France also gets bogged down with the idea of other cultures’… cultures. The woman in question arrived illegally a few years ago to give birth to her first child. Since then, rejecting the very idea of contraception—her husband, for his part, will invoke God or Allah to refuse a vasectomy—she comes back every 12-14 months. And the obstetrician explains to me how his idea of making information about permanent contraception mandatory was deemed racist by associations. It’s always the same story. I suggest to the associations that they take charge of all these extra births, not only the medical costs but also the entire education, not just financial, of all these children doomed to live a life of misery on this forsaken archipelago. The probability that one of these offspring will emerge as a gifted, sensitive, and fiercely happy individual must truly be weighed against the degradation and abandonment that will invariably afflict the thousands of others living around him. In reality, simply mentioning a very real danger to the mother should be enough to impose sterilization. But we are a country whose greatness of soul is measured by the number of heads cut off to uphold the famous rights of man... Already a proponent at home of ending family allowances after the third child—you can’t subscribe to a certain idea of society and, at the same time, accept that tens of thousands of children are sacrificed on the altar of thoughtlessness and financial interest*—I will weakly advocate here for a controlled right to have children. Well, what will they say about me when I express the idea of imposing sterilization on women in irregular situations after the birth of their third child? National solidarity funds the noblest ideals? In Mayotte? Let’s be serious. It’s so much easier to hide behind the inalienable right of women to control their bodies than to acknowledge one’s own powerlessness to assume the consequences of such a policy. Because after 18 years of struggles as a second-class citizen, the young stateless person will have no choice but to live in hiding: faced with the impossibility of claiming birthright citizenship**, they will be deportable. In Mayotte, there aren’t enough schools, not enough housing, not enough projects for youth, not enough jobs, not enough money, not enough future… In Mayotte, an average of 5 children are born per woman. In reality, we never ask about the right of children to control their own lives.

* Single parent with 4 children: RSA at 1937 € + family allowances… ** Law of May 12, 2025 aiming to strengthen the conditions for accessing French nationality in Mayotte.

I live in the city in a clean apartment where air conditioning eases my aches and sweat, and where water flows abundantly, thanks to huge tanks that fill up between water cuts. On the hills of Koungou, I was struck by this image: there, women (a matriarchal society?) do the dishes in a miserable stream. Upstream of the same stream, the same image as downstream: disgusting water with bits of foam floating on it. A little further, however, there are taps with running water that children play with. Strange. In any case, water is a question. They tell me it’s drinkable; I doubt it. A system that’s regularly cut doesn’t seem reliable to me. In any case, I can’t help but think of the Canary Islands and their chronic water shortage, especially in Lanzarote. Without entering the debate on desalination plants—I’m quite ignorant about environmental repercussions—I’ll just say that in the Canary Islands, you can buy 8 L jugs of purified water for less than 2 €. Here, in Mayotte, the price of water—as is the price of gasoline—is the same everywhere: 0.65 € for a bottle of Cristaline (1 €/L)*. While I was walking up there with a couple of farmers shuttling between two remote spots, I know I hit the mark by offering them one of my two bottles I’d brought for the occasion.

* At home, we find Cristaline at 1.14 € for a 9 L pack, i.e., 0.13 € per liter.

Outside, everything is broken, abandoned, old, worn, torn, faded, heavy, dirty, forsaken. But life goes on. And that’s fascinating. At home, at 5:45 PM, people close their shutters and watch cable TV, sometimes late into the night, emptying the streets of any salutary clamor, unwittingly extinguishing the necessary pulse of life. At home, we die of boredom. In Mamoudzou, between two dying trash cans, metal frames laid on the ground are covered by the elements of a broken garden set. A bare concrete staircase, without railings, provides access to the upper floor of a dwelling. On the steps, you can read: Private space - Please take your trash with you. Metal rods protrude from the said dwelling. On the ground, it’s a festival of screws and nails… A cat passes by. It doesn’t look great. A madwoman crosses the street dancing. A slightly hurried driver brakes. A six- or seven-year-old boy comes out in his underwear from his low house made of corrugated iron. He smiles. He’s having fun doing acrobatic figures over an old mattress on the sidewalk. Forward roll, backward roll. You wonder if he eats enough. Different culture. Different customs.

I will remember for a long time this blinding morning light, a raw, vital, striking light. I almost forgot where I came from, the grayness and boredom of that continental European country where nothing really happens anymore. Here, I could join Camus, contemplating these people placed halfway between misery and the sun, resigned for the most part and, for the other part, not too unhappy with their lot. But the Mahorais discourse is unanimous: "France really screwed us over!" Today, more than half of the island’s inhabitants are undocumented; a tremendous amount of energy is spent expelling 20,000 to 25,000 of them each year; colossal sums are swallowed up to care for all these people, and the island is drifting. I talk with some gendarmes. One of them tells me:

- They intercept one kwassa* out of three… Can you explain to me why they can’t catch everyone? It’s 2025! Can’t they put the necessary boats in place?

Clearly, and this is also my opinion, this whole mess serves interests beyond us. For who can believe for a second that this glaring incompetence isn’t orchestrated? Shared interests between secret France and the Union of the Comoros? A desire to bring insecurity to its peak, either by the Comoros to eventually take back control of Mayotte, or by our own government, in a deliberate effort to see all the white people leave the archipelago and let the Mahorais fend for themselves? At one point, I’m even told about an extraordinary deposit beneath Mayotte’s soil, a promise of infinite wealth**. Not to infringe on human rights, to do some cleaning from time to time, to calm things down to avoid implosion, while waiting to go after this providential bounty? Decidedly, Mayotte hasn’t said its last word!

*What’s paradoxical is that in the early 2010s, to revive traditional fishing activity, the UN financed in Anjouan the construction of a factory to produce these light boats, 7-10m long and 1m wide, which largely served the interests of smugglers. This skiff owes its name to a Congolese dance known for being as rhythmic as it is jerky, much like the navigation experience offered during a crossing to Mayotte. ** A 2025 study revealed the existence of a gigantic magmatic reservoir located 23km beneath the archipelago. If the Icelandic experiment succeeds (Project KMT, see here), Mayotte will then possess almost unlimited energy.

Hell on earth. Paradise at sea. The world’s largest lagoon offering spectacular marine depths, Mayotte’s coral reef suffers less from the abundance of tourists* than from tropical storms**. So, let’s admit that Mayotte is best appreciated when approached from the lagoon. The heights are for old hands like me. The sea spray is rather for the snobs who shun the sun god Ra, risking too much exposure and ending up on sick leave for sunstroke! But I’m not exclusive: I twice don my snob attire and head out to tackle the waves, the seabeds, and the elusive. Because yes, underwater, we leave our landlubber reflexes behind, and flying over corals and other magnificent drop-offs, it’s as if we’re soaring, keeping in memory only what our eyes can store. Multicolored, even phosphorescent fish, sharks, rays, the immensity of the blue, and then, there, dolphins, just a few meters from me, underwater. Incredible.

* 70,000 tourists annually, mostly affinity tourism (links with family or an expatriate). ** Present almost at the water’s surface, the reefs were largely destroyed by Chido.

Paradise at sea? When you think that Mayotte comes from the Arabic Jazirat al Mawet—literally, Island of Death—because of its double coral barrier where many skiffs have run aground and continue to do so… Paradise. Eldorado. The Comoros now face an unprecedented influx of immigrants from the African Great Lakes. And Mayotte, for its part, continues to attract relentlessly, thanks to the evolution of the law*. In reality, whether hidden interests exist or not, France remains bound hand and foot by international, European, and French rules: it can’t do much. Barely has it boarded a kwassa when the one who flees by swimming cries attempted murder; barely has one been sent back to the Comoros when an association will look into their detention conditions and find a loophole; barely has one told a bouéni how her next pregnancy could be fatal when so-called human voices cry scandal.

* Regarding the Métropole, the rights of squatters and other bad payers against the notion of private property, legally violated in favor of the right to housing… ** You can read about France being condemned for its illegal practices of expelling Comorian minors. Inhumane treatment, arbitrary detention, collective expulsion.

Everyone forms their own idea of justice, and no one can claim a monopoly on good thinking. So, as long as I treat without prejudice, as long as my hands are sincerely guided by the love I bear for our humanity, I’ll allow myself to think what I think, understanding that I’m rather open to dialogue and that my opinions evolve with time and events. Today, Mayotte represents for me the failure of a model, a European one in this case, where opulence quickly meets its limits. For it’s not wrong to think that our society can’t share more than it produces, nor is it wrong to think that every human being has a right to their share of the pie; in Mayotte, you’ll find the proven result of our civilization: it doesn’t work. Exclusively financed by the right, the ideas of the left jam in Mayotte more than anywhere else: national solidarity coupled with a sense of guilt creates chaos. Political courage, or true social justice, would be to offer a future to those who have no choice—the one who’s already here, the child to be born—not to offer a present to those who can choose or to whom one can give keys to understanding—the woman of childbearing age, the candidate for exile. Ultimately, the Comoros’ coup d’état over France comes at the cost of many innocent victims, starting with the children*.

* Tens of thousands of deaths by drowning between Anjouan and Mayotte, tens of thousands of children left to fend for themselves and doomed to a non-existent future.

On the evening of the 31st, I go for my usual run and notice near a roundabout a fool in rags pedaling the wrong way. A police car passes by: the guy gets stopped. A rather quick identity check. The guy is taken away. Would he still be among us if he had ridden the right way? In the evening, the line is long in front of the club near the dock. Me, I’m just passing by, greeting my friends of the season, much more inclined to savor rest than to exhaust myself on an overheated dance floor. There, a man, thirty or forty years old, clearly in a world of his own, is searching the trash for something to eat. He’s barefoot. I console myself by thinking that at least he won’t die of cold. Out of ten children born in Mayotte, I can reasonably think that only one will be able to afford an existence that minimally meets any of our criteria.

It’s time to go home. After sweating and thinking so much about this gem of the Mozambique Channel, I spend peaceful hours by the pool at a hotel next to the airport. We checked out at 8 AM, and the flight is at 7 PM. The perfect opportunity to slack off and chat a bit more. I’m happy to get to know one of the co-pilots of tonight’s flight, staying at this hotel, while one of my flight attendant friends from this airline had already recommended me to the crew. But it’s not the captain’s day, who’s in a rather gloomy mood. I’ll travel in the back, up to the vertical of Cairo. Midnight has just struck; it’s January 2nd, my name day. Concerned about solving an unsolvable problem with a passenger, the crew asks me to give up my exit row seat and takes me to the front for the last four hours of the flight. In the end, the captain gave in? I laugh to myself: if there’s one thing I mustn’t forget, it’s that God never abandons me!

I'm starting a new travel journal in Italy. It's about a month-long trip (from September 3, 2025, to October 4, 2025), or rather a part of it. This section matches the title: an opera festival in Verona (one evening) and the Dolomites in the Veneto region. I'm posting the part of the trip I think will interest French-speaking readers the most (since this is where I saw the most French travelers). Here’s a quick summary: - Trip in September 2025 - Solo travel with camping (caravan) - Small geographic area: besides Verona, the surroundings of the Marmolada massif and Cortina d'Ampezzo. - Main but not exclusive activity: hiking.

Since I have limited internet access where I am now, I’ll be writing slowly. Here we go!

Day 1: Thursday, September 4, 2025

I arrived in Veneto under the sun and with warm weather. I drove to Verona and tried to find a spot at the campsite (Verona Village) located south of the city. Unfortunately, it was full. Booking on the website was mandatory, but when I tried to reserve a few days ago, the site never moved from the "reservation" step to the "payment" step (I don’t know why—it’s always like that in these cases). I found another solution over the phone; the drive from southern Verona to the northeast was a bit long, but I finally settled at the "Oro Verde" campsite. It’s an "agricampeggio" (farm camping or rural campsite) on the outskirts of the city, and its name (green gold) suggests they produce olives there. Since it wasn’t late, I biked to the Adige River, following the recommended route into the city.

This is the place to chat about December’s theme! I’ll start with a little TOUR of the world’s TOURS.

















Of course, you can submit multiple photos of the same tower in the contest—it’s the quality of the photo that’ll be judged during voting, not just the subject!

Hey everyone,

Yesterday, I checked the Thailand forum to see if there were any questions to answer, but not much was happening—it was pretty quiet. Then I scrolled through the Southeast Asia section and realized that, even though Burma (Myanmar) was included, there weren’t many posts about it... I’ve only been there once, back in 1987, so it’s hard to create a photo thread about multiple trips like I sometimes do for Thailand. Still, that one trip was packed with unusual adventures, so I thought I’d share a few stories from it.

Since I didn’t take any notes at the time, this is all from memory—it’s not an exhaustive travel journal and isn’t meant to help plan a future trip to Myanmar.

Don’t expect photos; there won’t be any. I have some, but they’re slides that would need scanning and editing one by one to fix the wear and tear of time—way too much work.

The Context.

Back then (reminder: 1987), I was volunteering in Paris at the counter of a travel agency on Rue des Écoles. The agency was part of a well-known organization based in Mulhouse that mostly offered scheduled flights to Asia, charter flights to the Mediterranean, and flights to Mali with their own plane. They also had a few rare "roots"-style trips to certain destinations—trips where you didn’t bring your tennis racket but were ready to soak in everything, even if it meant tough conditions.

I’d already been to Thailand, Indonesia, and the Philippines in Asia. The director knew this, so he asked me to accompany a group to Burma. At the time, tours to Burma were already being sold by competitors, but they all had to go through the state-run agency, Touristburma (buses and hotels for tourists, and they only showed you what they wanted you to see—kind of like traveling in North Korea today). The service was only payable in dollars at the official exchange rate (which was six times worse than the black market rate, mind you...), and since it went through the state agency, all the money ended up with the junta.

My job was to do everything *without* going through Touristburma, which was completely illegal there. Nothing would be booked in advance. Back then, the Burmese visa was only valid for 8 days/7 nights, and since clients were paying for the experience, the itinerary was planned ahead. I’d have to find transport and a guide on the black market as soon as I arrived.

The clients weren’t misled—they knew from the start that the trip would be off the books, that officially we’d be a small group of friends (not an agency), unlike the truth (Touristburma wasn’t mandatory for individual travelers), and that it would be challenging. They also knew their trip would cost 3-4 times less while giving them a much better experience of Burma. As for pretending to be a group of friends, there were only six of us, so it worked out.

To cover all expenses (accommodation, transport, excursions), the agency gave me a sufficient budget. They also gave me the *same* budget a second time, which was strictly for bribing officials who might cause trouble, for backshish (tips), and, if needed, to "help" me get out of prison.

Before I left, I was thoroughly briefed by another guy who’d led the previous trip (he’d dealt with all the initial challenges). He explained everything I needed to know, what to watch out for, and advised me on what to bring as "gifts" (samples of well-known perfumes, specific cigarette and whisky brands, etc.). For the perfume samples, I rallied my family, friends, and even stores. For the rest, I’d pick things up at the duty-free shops in Don Muang (Bangkok’s only airport at the time)—I had the budget for it.

I couldn’t wait to leave...

Hello,

We’re planning our second trip to South Africa in July 2026. In 2023, we did a loop from Joburg, Golden Gate, Drakensberg, Hluhluwe, St Lucia, Eswatini, Kruger, Blyde River Canyon, and back to Joburg. This time, we’d like to go to Cape Town and do a road trip to Port Elizabeth, then fly back to Joburg to return to Kruger. At this stage of my planning, here’s what it could look like:

D1 to D4: Cape Town and Cape of Good Hope (Table Mountain, Lion’s Head, Waterfront, Bo-Kaap, Boulders, Cape Point, Chapman’s Peak Drive). I’ve spotted a few places to stay between Camps Bay and Hout Bay (3 nights). D5 and D6: Either Karoo NP or Hermanus and De Hoop. Any opinions to tip the scales? I’ll admit I’m already leaning toward Karoo (the "wild" vibe of the landscapes and wildlife encounters appeal to me much more than the seaside, which feels less exotic). If we go for Karoo, where should we stay? Inside the park or in Beaufort West? I’ve seen good reviews for Ko-ka Tsara Bush Camp, but maybe it’s better to stay in the Sanparks cottages to make the most of the park? (2 nights) Option B is to do Stellenbosch (though vineyards aren’t great in winter) and/or the Whale Route—Betty’s Bay, Hermanus, De Hoop (2 nights near Gansbaai). D7 and D8: Klein Karoo, Oudtshoorn. Staying at De Cango Guest Farm (2 nights). D9 and D10: Knysna, Robberg Nature Reserve, Tsitsikamma (2 nights in Plettenberg Bay and 1 night in PE). D11: Flight from Port Elizabeth to Joburg at 7 AM and drive to Marloth Park.

For Kruger, I’ve booked 2 nights in Marloth Park, 1 night in Skukuza, 2 nights in Satara, and 1 night in Talamati, which we loved. I’ll book the last night in Graskop later since we want to revisit the Blyde Canyon area.

I’d love all the feedback you can give on my itinerary, especially for days 5 and 6. If you have recommendations for accommodations for 4 people, I’d appreciate those too. Thanks! 🙂

Good evening everyone,

So, it’s settled—the first idea (this book about the lush garden of a New York state parsonage, "this garden obsessed with the love this man had for his late wife." Reverend Cheney musically noting all the birdsongs, the water droplets in the watering can, the wind rushing through cloaks at the end of the 19th century) will be the theme.

Garden: A plot of land, usually enclosed, attached or not to a dwelling, planted with useful or ornamental vegetation.

So, private gardens, vegetable patches, herb gardens, botanical gardens, winter gardens with their lush greenhouses, the "hortus conclusus" of cloisters evoking the Garden of Eden, public gardens, and their extension into parks are all welcome. I’m sure I’ve forgotten some...

Photos can be posted until Monday, November 24 at midnight, following the usual rules: one per message, numbered from 1 to 3, with the location of the shot and, if you’d like, a few details.

Voting, where you explicitly assign 3 to 1 points to your top 3 photos, will take place from Tuesday, November 25 at 12:01 AM until Sunday, November 30 at midnight. The results will be announced on December 1.

Your turn! 😉

Catherine

PS: This thread is reserved for contest photos. For all other photos and conversations under the trees by the fountains, it’s here.

Hi everyone!

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

A quick intro to the crew:





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

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

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

See you soon...

The recipe for the cocktail: endless beaches, a dazzling palette of colors, some breathtaking hikes, and excellent cuisine...

For the tasting, follow along in the pages of this travel journal! 😉

Don’t forget your hiking shoes, a swimsuit, sunscreen, but also a sweater, your driver’s license, and your credit card...

Just over 11 hours of flight, and we’ll be setting foot on Mauritian soil!

Hi everyone, I’m 66 and just discovered solo travel in Uzbekistan—I loved it! So I’ve decided to explore Africa, starting with Senegal. I’m just beginning my research, but if anyone can give me advice on which month to go, what to see, and whether this destination is safe—or maybe suggest another African country—I’d really appreciate your tips!

Prologue

This journal recounts a trip to Rajasthan that’s already over a year old and that I’ve only now found the chance to write about. The summer of 2024 marked my return to India—my tenth trip—after six long years away since my last solo wanderings in Tamil Nadu in 2018 (the journal of which is published on this site). That absence was partly (but not only) due to the long COVID and post-COVID period, which saw a complete halt and then a major slowdown in global tourism. To top it off, Voyage Forum announced its closure in an end-of-the-world atmosphere. A sad time for our favorite social activity…

A few weeks after returning from Rajasthan, I tried to motivate myself to start writing a journal to publish on a forum claiming to be VF’s successor, which I’d eventually signed up for out of desperation. But I kept hesitating and putting the project off because, for one, I no longer have the time I used to. For another, the vibe wasn’t really taking off on that forum—it was overrun with ads and not very active, contrary to what its host’s name suggested. Despite its good intentions and commendable role as a stopgap, it also turned out to be very impractical to use, especially when you don’t have much time like me. I’ll admit I’d occasionally check back on VF to see if anything was happening. But all the discussions remained frozen in time, stuck in that fateful year, 2020. Then, rumors swirled online about shady reasons behind its closure, leaving little room for hope.

And then, one fine morning, I got a message at work from Marien informing me that VF had reopened. What a huge surprise! Even though the forum’s “end” had played out in a somewhat apocalyptic atmosphere, the memories of passionate and heated discussions, the frank debates, and the useful exchanges that made this site a traveler’s goldmine and a unique hub of conviviality all came rushing back to me like a breath of fresh air. I finally saw a sign and tried to motivate myself to find the time to publish the journal of this tenth trip to India and fifth to Rajasthan. But in the end, I got bogged down in professional and family obligations and never managed to find the time to get started. That’s now fixed, though, because I had two reasons for wanting to do it: I find that looking back on a trip to tell others about it is a highly beneficial introspective exercise. Also, I thought this journal could be useful to other travelers on a few points.

Because, “do we really need yet another journal about Rajasthan?” you might rightly ask! Especially in a time when so many journals about the “Land of Kings” have been published since VF’s return, not to mention the countless stories you can already find online about this region, one of India’s most touristy. And I’d add, why go back to Rajasthan for a fifth time, where I’ve already dragged my feet more than enough—through its forts, deserts, temples, cities, villages, bumpy roads, train stations, tasty street food stalls, cheap guesthouses, and more? Where some might see just another overhyped tourist destination full of the same old *Arabian Nights* clichés, worn to a thread, that I mentioned earlier, when there’s so much else to see in India? Well, first because it’s a magnificent country I never tire of, where I started an academic study and made so many connections. It’s also packed with places where you won’t find a single tourist (right, Marie-Jo?), even in the heart of well-trodden paths and classic itineraries. And most importantly, as I said earlier, things have changed in recent years. First, after six years without traveling far, the urge to go back to India was getting stronger. But this time, no more solo trips (often) or duo adventures (sometimes)—now it’s a team of four that has to come along! And even if you can argue with that, what better place than Rajasthan to introduce India to people who’ve never seen it? To kids you want to amaze? Plus, traveling with your new little family to your favorite country isn’t the same as going solo in often spartan conditions that only affect you. It’s a different challenge, but ultimately probably much harder. So, is it really reasonable to take two kids to India, including a two-year-old baby? That’s one of the main goals of this journal (but not the only one)—to try to answer that question.

As you can tell, it’s not so much the destination but the slightly unusual setup of this trip that, in my opinion, will make this journal interesting. Despite my experience and expertise (yes, I dare say it) in India, there were plenty of questions before we finalized the plan and said, “Alright, let’s go!” The questions were flying for us parents. Is it wise to travel to India with a two-year-old? What would we do (it happened) if the kids got very sick? Would they be able to handle a road trip on Rajasthan’s bumpy, dusty roads using public transport? Could they handle the shock of such a different world—the dirt, poverty, pollution, noise (…and the smell, as they say), the spicy food, monkeys, mosquitoes, snakes, tigers, leopards, and so on? In short, all the clichés that I usually joke about suddenly became potential realities. Another concern: as a mixed Franco-African family (not me, but my partner and her oldest), wouldn’t we risk not always being well received, given what you sometimes hear about that in India? How would Indians react to seeing a mixed-race family, the ultimate taboo in a country of purity and social segregation, which would undoubtedly raise many questions for them? Of course, not everything went as expected… Because, as you know, with India—and what makes it charming for some—there are always complications: sometimes where you don’t expect them… and sometimes where you do. I’ll go into detail about that in the journal to come (not right away) and in the final review (even later). These experiences could be useful to travelers who find themselves in similar situations and have the same questions we did before embarking on such a journey. And maybe it’ll spark the curiosity of those who aren’t concerned and will read yet another Rajasthan journal, but with its own unique twists.

Despite my unchanged constraints, which mean I have little time to write this, I don’t want to rush the story, so I’ll take my time. There will probably be lulls. I hope that won’t stop people from coming to react, debate, share their impressions, or ask for information.

February 9th is a pivotal day during my trip to Thailand. Up until this date, my focus had been on cities, temples, and other urban landmarks. Starting February 10th, I’ll finally leave the city behind for the outskirts—one town, one life, farther from tourism, more real, more authentic... Then comes the bucolic surroundings of Chiang Mai, nature, the countryside, the mountains.

This morning, I head to visit the ethnographic museum. I’d been told about another one, but it’s permanently closed. I wonder if it’s the same one that might have changed its name and location.

I thoroughly enjoy visiting this museum. At first, I’m a bit annoyed because the place is packed with noisy school groups blocking the display cases without even showing the slightest interest. But soon, their chaperones manage to lead them into another room, giving me some peace. They maintain this distance throughout the tour, allowing me to explore the museum in complete tranquility. I really appreciate their tact.

I’m amazed by the absolutely stunning fabric displays and the countless everyday objects, especially the very old pottery. There’s so much beautiful basketry and intricately carved wood. The statues are also incredible... After seeing all of them, I no longer feel like buying any from the shops.

On my way back, not far from my hotel, I discover a rather unique place that only serves one drink, which they’ve made their specialty: egg coffee! A pretty surprising novelty. I have to try it.



At the bottom of the cup, they pour a layer of milk, topped with a layer of liquid coffee, followed by a layer of egg yolk, and finally a top layer that turns out to be a mix of coffee and cocoa powder. It’s a cold drink that, in the end, doesn’t have much flavor, and the price is pretty steep for such a small cup. You’re paying for the exclusivity!

Later in the day, I venture once again into small alleys, something I love doing when exploring a new city—no specific goal, just wandering east of the city, outside the walls.



I encounter very few tourists there and discover unsuspected little shops overflowing with lovely items, much cheaper than what you find in the heart of the tourist district. Then I wander through the floors of Warorot Market. I discover another kind of temple there: the temple of good deals. I love finding clothes that are really original for locals, not the flood of shirts and pants that tourists love but no Thai would ever buy, which invade the shops in the "Historic Square." I stop in my tracks in front of a stall with beautiful shirts featuring stunning geometric patterns in elegant color combinations and very short sleeves. Hmm, these would be perfect for showing off my biceps, one of which is adorned with the magnificent Ganesh tattoo I got last year in Bali. "When you’ve got nice things, you’ve got to show them off!" he said. 😜🙏💪 I pick out two for 380 baht and negotiate them down to 300. But the seller won’t go any lower. I understand I’ve reached the limit of her commercial possibilities. Just as I’m leaving the shop, happy with my purchase, my ever-helpful inner voice, Petite Voix, suggests: - You didn’t try them on because you were too lazy to take off the one you’re wearing and also because of the sweat, but you could just put one on over the one you’re wearing. It’s light enough that it won’t bother you.

I go back to the two sellers, who burst out laughing when I ask to try them on. - Oh no, it’s way too small for you! It’s a women’s shirt! - But they don’t look particularly feminine in style! And I chose XXL... I put the shirt on, and of course, it won’t close. Then I notice the buttons are on the wrong side. That’s why the sleeves seemed so short!!! They put the shirts back on the rack and refund me without any fuss, commenting amid total hilarity: - Well, thank goodness you tried it on just as you were leaving the shop!

Since I don’t want to walk too much before tomorrow’s first Big Outing with the driver, I end my stroll with a visit to two very pretty temples recommended by Joël.



I’d rather not post more temple photos. But these ones smell like village and countryside...







I’ve never seen anything like Wat Ket Karam, so extravagant...





And I end my day with two other lesser-known temples: Wat Noung Kham, simple and finally free of gold and glitter,



and Wat Dap Phai, where an intimate ceremony is taking place at the end of the day.

Hi there,

I’m planning my first trip to Asia next summer with my partner and our daughter, who’ll be 3 and a half at the time, for 4 weeks (maybe 5).

I’ve heard that the timing is better for visiting Indonesia, but I’m hesitant because Thailand seems more accessible, and I’m worried that traveling to Indonesia during high season might be less enjoyable and a lot more expensive due to the number of tourists. We love cultural sites as much as natural ones, and we’re big foodies. We’re not necessarily looking for luxury and tend to take our time, travel by public transport, and look for accommodations with a good value for money—though we do occasionally splurge on a high-end restaurant.

I’m also wondering when and where to buy flight tickets and how comfortable the journey will be (especially for our daughter) if we fly with Thai Airways or Garuda.

Thanks in advance for sharing your thoughts and tips!

Damien

Hello everyone,

I’ve wanted to take this Norway cruise for a very long time. The first time I booked it was in July 2020 with Azamara. Unfortunately, it was canceled, as everyone remembers. When I tried to book it again, the prices (already a bit high with Azamara) had simply doubled. So, since then, I’ve been keeping an eye out every year for any opportunities...

The last time we sailed with Princess was eleven years ago, and things didn’t go very well. I came back pretty unhappy with their service and quite disappointed. Despite the $600 they gave me as credit for a future cruise, I’d never set foot on one of their ships again.

But this time, the opportunity arose—a fantastic itinerary with lots of stops, a reasonable price for 16 nights (I’ll share the details in the conclusion), and a ship that’s not too big, so to speak, with only 3,000 passengers. I’m not expecting much from the cruise line this time and am boarding the ship with low expectations beyond the itinerary.

Princess has introduced an app to download before the cruise. It’s essential because online check-in is no longer available, and the agency doesn’t send a travel journal. Everything is done through the app. After completing the check-in on the app, we only know that we’ll need to pick up our key, the Medallion, at embarkation by following the blue line in the terminal and presenting our passport.



Up until our departure, the weather forecast for the coming week in Norway is disastrous—rain, rain, and more rain. It was pretty much the same two years ago before our Iceland cruise, and in the end, the weather turned out fine.

If you’re ready to embark on the Emerald Princess to discover this beautiful cruise and the stunning landscapes of Norway, let’s go!

Southampton - Sea day - Bergen - Olden - Åndalsnes - Sea day - Tromsø - Honningsvåg (North Cape) - Alta - Sea day - Molde - Trondheim - Two sea days - Edinburgh - Sea day - Southampton

Introduction

In this travel journal, you’ll find a list of all the activities we did during our road trip through the Gaspésie.

Videos are embedded throughout the summary. Just click on the image to start the video.

To jump to a specific post, here are the relevant links:

Gaspé - Forillon National Park - Interpretation Center Gaspé - Forillon National Park - Mont-Saint-Alban Trail Gaspé - Forillon National Park - La Chute Trail Gaspé - Forillon National Park - Les Graves Trail Percé - Rivière-aux-Émeraudes Waterfall Percé - Bonaventure Island National Park Percé - Hike at the Foot of Percé Rock Percé Geopark - Suspended Glass Platform Percé Geopark - Magic Forest Loop Percé Geopark - Belvedere Trails Percé Geopark - Springs and Les Pieds Croches Trails Percé Geopark - Crevasse Trail Percé Geopark - Grande Coupe Trail Percé Geopark - Grotto Path Bonaventure - Le Malin de la Rivière Bonaventure Maria - Grand Sault Waterfall Carleton-sur-Mer - Les Saults Waterfall - Éperlan Trail Matapédia - Two Rivers Belvedere Saint-Alexis-de-Matapédia - Dream Horizon Belvedere Saint-André-de-Restigouche - Heart of the Plateaus Belvedere Saint-André-de-Restigouche - Picot Waterfalls Saint-Alexis-de-Matapédia - Robitaille Stream Waterfalls Trail Saint-Alexandre-des-Lacs - Philomène Waterfall Saint-Ulric - Ti-Mé Waterfall