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An 80-Day Tour of Southern Africa
An 80-Day Tour of Southern Africa
Back in South Africa
January 12, 2013, 5:30 AM, Flight BA043 London-Cape Town
Directly below, Windhoek glittered like a tangle of fairy lights still lit and tossed into a box.
The horizon, edged in purple, was setting up a backup fireworks display, and suddenly, like a cherry on the platter and with unbearable intensity, in less than two minutes the entire sun revealed a gray dam and then a vast, untouched massif.
A few more minutes and the glare to the east of the plane was total. In Africa, the sun is swift.
We still had a France to cross before landing, but it felt as if we were already there. To the west, the raking light revealed what looked like acne and long, swollen scars in a desert region that might be the Swartkloofberg. Further still, straight as far as the eye could see, the two parallel tracks of a dirt road.
At 11,500 meters altitude and 940 km/h, we had a sense of stillness until the Orange River appeared, an incongruous serpent, gray edged with green.
The first South African settlements were dotted with trees providing shade, then rivers highlighted by continuous lines of vegetation.
Water and shade that make life possible.
We’ll return here by the backroads.
Half an hour from Cape Town, the plane tilted toward the sea, crossing plantations (likely citrus) and then an explosion of cultivated greenery in circles on either side of an unruly river. Finally, the coastline was no longer just sand and water—a frothy hem, a suture?
A peninsula came into view, forming two magnificent bays, and... a flight attendant firmly instructed me to return to my seat: we’d arrived!
The Colors of Cape Town
The city was dressed up as I like them—deserted, fluid, free of its vendors.
In the parking lot of the endless beach next to the commercial port north of the city, about two hundred people were unloading their goods in front of their pickups or combis, none of which were from this century: mixed-race, ageless Black people, and white folks who looked like they’d stepped out of another era.
After a few minutes, intrigued, I played a game: first looking at the merchandise, then imagining who was selling it, and finally looking at who was actually manning the stall. Tall Black vendors were selling what they often sell in Europe—leather, sunglasses, watches; mixed-race folks offered discount bundles, and the tanned older white people seemed to have emptied their attics.
We left with an antique tin kettle for morning tea over an open fire, a pack of five exercise books (that’s 600 pages to fill), Bill Bryson’s earliest stories in English, some snoek rillettes (a local fish), and—never seen before—tuna biltong and snoek biltong.
In so-called advanced countries, Sunday is for sports: white cyclists dressed like pros sweating diligently, Black street vendors running in loops at red lights to sell trash bags that day; white golfers losing their balls, which a scantily clad Black man retrieves from the water; under the sails of kite surf boards, it’s all blondes, and in the foam, joyful splashes from a bunch of Black kids.
Searching for an unusual spot for lunch, we drove through the fishing port looking for a dive and, at the end of a dead-end road with no warning, we arrived at the Shimmy Beach Club—quite the program.
The place, open for just three weeks, aims to be ultra-trendy. You could be in San Francisco, Lisbon’s docks, or St. Barth. This time, the "visible" staff was diverse, but the clientele was exclusively white, except for one mixed-race couple.
For this Sunday lunch, the women had pulled out all the stops, and local starlets—who’d make ours look tame—were turning the terrace into a frenzy.
At Cape Town’s port, the girls have *port*. The trend seems to be crochet dresses over swimsuits.
For two hours, a team of employees watered and raked the sand, starting over when they finished. A child in a floaty pink dress and a gold headband, but a future adventurer, stepped onto the freshly raked artificial beach sand for the first time.
A lanky mixed-race man dragged a hose across the ground, followed by a white woman—enchanted?—who then started watering the sand herself, carelessly splashing the glass terrace her colleague had just swept. I suspect a tacit work arrangement to keep everyone employed.
A galleon packed with tourists (are there any in the hold? Does it take tourists to Robben Island?) left the port. A helicopter took off in its wake. Trawlers returned, cutting through a ballet of catamarans, their waterlines well above the water: a bad catch.
If there’s one country where you can’t pretend to ignore skin color, it’s this one. The question is in everyone’s mind, and here more than anywhere else, it’s a decisive economic and political factor.
Columbine of Brittany
200 km north of Cape Town and 9,000 km south of the Breton coast, but on the same cold ocean, we camped on the shore of the Columbine Cape Nature Reserve, sheltered by a rocky chaos that, at first light tomorrow, would transport us to Perros-Guirec.
Our first encounter with wild animals wouldn’t end well for them: it was crayfish season, and they were the size of lobsters at Lorient’s fish market. Bought for R60 (5.5 €) a pair from kids in Pater Noster, they’d end up between two rocks, over a fire. But first, we had to pair the Chenin blanc with some snoek biltong.
With no wood, I lit a fire at dawn with dried seaweed and kelp, as if petrified; it gave off a smell of court-bouillon and... tires. Two hundred fathoms away, on an outpost, an army of cormorants stood at attention, unmoved among the frolicking seals.
At the reserve’s exit, the guard spoke French; Patrick Mwanba had arrived from Congo three years earlier to study, but the cost of living here forced him to drop out. He’d like to return home because life is cheaper there, but the war made him hesitate.
Ding ding dong! Vroom! Arf arf, Woof! Buzz! (A night from hell!)
I’d long planned to visit Calvinia, the center of a region known for extensive sheep farming. An excellent provincial museum, run by an enthusiastic curator, kept us too late to start the drive north.
So we camped in a tiny, charming campsite set up in the garden of a house. A few trees, a patch of resilient grass, and a view of a pretty lit-up steeple—what else?
Well, it turned out to be a sound-and-light show, with the pretty steeple chiming the hours and half-hours. Then suddenly, we were in the VIP stands of the Karoo-Kalahari Truck Race: roaring trucks paraded under our canvas windows, and we realized we were on the main road through town. To top it off, we enjoyed an uninterrupted canine cacophony, from the *arf arf* of little dogs to the *woof* of a mastiff. Oh, and some mosquitoes—the first ones—insisted on keeping us company in the tent, and we hadn’t yet bought the arsenal to neutralize them.
I walked through Calvinia at night; the house gardens weren’t fenced, nor did they have the «Armed Response» signs so common in the country.
The Kalahari Trails
(No, no, I haven’t converted to hiking.)
North of Calvinia, in the south of the Northern Cape, small towns follow one another up to Upington, about a hundred kilometers apart—welcome havens. Between them, with no trees in sight, we stopped in the shade of a motionless cloud: the temperature exceeded 40°C in mid-January.
We were almost out of the High Karoo and into a region of pans drying up, until the first red dunes appeared, precursors of the Kalahari. In the sparse veld vegetation, gatherings of quiver trees in the kopjes, and a caravan of camels without a handler or packs, marching in perfect formation across a pan (no, I hadn’t overdone the Windhoek at the last stop, and no, I wasn’t dehydrated enough to hallucinate).
The historic part of these towns, European in style, was built on the same plans as those in the American Midwest or the Australian Outback: a grid of streets wide enough to turn a wagon pulled by eight pairs of oxen. The architecture was Dutch-inspired, tropicalized with awnings.
Then came more recent housing, functional in style, where the wealthier mixed-race people—who make up the majority of this state—lived, and further on, the township, an assemblage of corrugated iron and plastic, like everywhere else.
Orange, Right Bank
North of Augrabies Falls National Park, on the other side of the Orange River, stretches a rugged and wild territory the size of fifty Groix islands, crisscrossed by a few tracks—the Riemvasmaak.
The inhabitants were driven out half a century ago for a military base, and as soon as President Mandela was elected, he made it a symbol by allowing the exiled populations to return. Several ethnic groups live here on almost nothing, in government-built shacks.
A community camp is set up in a small cirque at the end of a canyon that, while not in the history books, offers a good descent. By mid-afternoon, the air was at 44°C, but luckily there was a spring... except it was a hot spring, with water at 38°C. And they haven’t invented a reversible spring yet. Once the birds and baboons had settled in, in absolute silence and far from any light pollution, we enjoyed the stars like nowhere else (well, that’s what they claim in the region).
The Orange didn’t choose the easy path: arriving from Lesotho, it was almost at the ocean. The terrain to the south and north of this massif seemed easier to cross. Was it to avoid the curse of the Okavango, whose waters disappear into the sands without ever seeing the sea, that it chose this rocky route, thinking that at least the granite wouldn’t steal its water?
I Love You, I Eat You
In the dry bed of the Auob, it lay panting, head raised, alert, between its paws but head-to-tail, a tawny springbok, motionless.
A few minutes earlier, their story had been written in a lightning-fast chase, captured in photos by the driver of the car that alerted us.
It would be a long time before it started eating at the groin without breaking its surveillance.
Earlier, there was a lion lounging in the shade and hundreds of antelopes: springboks and gemsboks (oryx) in herds, hartebeests and steenboks alone. Strange pairs, apart several times, formed by a springbok and a gemsbok.
A few solitary jackals moved slightly sideways, looking furtive. Ostriches, alone, looking a bit dazed.
It was a lucky morning in the Kgalagadi (KTP).
In and Out
Kgalagadi, Nossob Camp.
We were at the very end of the almost-empty camp, ten meters from the fence, whose structure wouldn’t resist an elephant (though there aren’t any here), but it was electrified.
At dusk, on the other side, ten meters away, three lions passed in a row, as if on parade, seemingly focused on their goal and indifferent to the camp, though they glanced at it.
A jackal had gotten into the camp and was trying to get out without success while scavenging. I offered it two pieces of snoek biltong (Don’t feed the animals!) from three meters away—it smelled strong and had bones (bones in biltong!). When it passed by again, it sniffed but didn’t dare approach. Curled up in the chair, motionless, by the faint moonlight, I finally saw it come closer, grab the nearest piece, and move ten meters away to enjoy it (how many jackals know the finer points of sea biltong?). A little reassured, it came back for the second piece.
Another Morning
By morning, the jackal was gone, but our luck hadn’t left us. Two cheetahs again, who found me in the way and slowly moved toward a calmer shadow. Enough birds of prey to form a squadron, but they’re solitary hunters. Two ostriches busy with their dozen unruly chicks. And while we’re at it, a group of four Kalahari lions, sprawled under a thorny bush. Lots of oryx crossing the dunes and herds of red hartebeest. Kori bustards and secretary birds.
It was the first time the Kgalagadi had spoiled us so much.
Back in South Africa
January 12, 2013, 5:30 AM, Flight BA043 London-Cape Town
Directly below, Windhoek glittered like a tangle of fairy lights still lit and tossed into a box.
The horizon, edged in purple, was setting up a backup fireworks display, and suddenly, like a cherry on the platter and with unbearable intensity, in less than two minutes the entire sun revealed a gray dam and then a vast, untouched massif.
A few more minutes and the glare to the east of the plane was total. In Africa, the sun is swift.
We still had a France to cross before landing, but it felt as if we were already there. To the west, the raking light revealed what looked like acne and long, swollen scars in a desert region that might be the Swartkloofberg. Further still, straight as far as the eye could see, the two parallel tracks of a dirt road.
At 11,500 meters altitude and 940 km/h, we had a sense of stillness until the Orange River appeared, an incongruous serpent, gray edged with green.
The first South African settlements were dotted with trees providing shade, then rivers highlighted by continuous lines of vegetation.
Water and shade that make life possible.
We’ll return here by the backroads.
Half an hour from Cape Town, the plane tilted toward the sea, crossing plantations (likely citrus) and then an explosion of cultivated greenery in circles on either side of an unruly river. Finally, the coastline was no longer just sand and water—a frothy hem, a suture?
A peninsula came into view, forming two magnificent bays, and... a flight attendant firmly instructed me to return to my seat: we’d arrived!
The Colors of Cape Town
The city was dressed up as I like them—deserted, fluid, free of its vendors.
In the parking lot of the endless beach next to the commercial port north of the city, about two hundred people were unloading their goods in front of their pickups or combis, none of which were from this century: mixed-race, ageless Black people, and white folks who looked like they’d stepped out of another era.
After a few minutes, intrigued, I played a game: first looking at the merchandise, then imagining who was selling it, and finally looking at who was actually manning the stall. Tall Black vendors were selling what they often sell in Europe—leather, sunglasses, watches; mixed-race folks offered discount bundles, and the tanned older white people seemed to have emptied their attics.
We left with an antique tin kettle for morning tea over an open fire, a pack of five exercise books (that’s 600 pages to fill), Bill Bryson’s earliest stories in English, some snoek rillettes (a local fish), and—never seen before—tuna biltong and snoek biltong.
In so-called advanced countries, Sunday is for sports: white cyclists dressed like pros sweating diligently, Black street vendors running in loops at red lights to sell trash bags that day; white golfers losing their balls, which a scantily clad Black man retrieves from the water; under the sails of kite surf boards, it’s all blondes, and in the foam, joyful splashes from a bunch of Black kids.
Searching for an unusual spot for lunch, we drove through the fishing port looking for a dive and, at the end of a dead-end road with no warning, we arrived at the Shimmy Beach Club—quite the program.
The place, open for just three weeks, aims to be ultra-trendy. You could be in San Francisco, Lisbon’s docks, or St. Barth. This time, the "visible" staff was diverse, but the clientele was exclusively white, except for one mixed-race couple.
For this Sunday lunch, the women had pulled out all the stops, and local starlets—who’d make ours look tame—were turning the terrace into a frenzy.
At Cape Town’s port, the girls have *port*. The trend seems to be crochet dresses over swimsuits.
For two hours, a team of employees watered and raked the sand, starting over when they finished. A child in a floaty pink dress and a gold headband, but a future adventurer, stepped onto the freshly raked artificial beach sand for the first time.
A lanky mixed-race man dragged a hose across the ground, followed by a white woman—enchanted?—who then started watering the sand herself, carelessly splashing the glass terrace her colleague had just swept. I suspect a tacit work arrangement to keep everyone employed.
A galleon packed with tourists (are there any in the hold? Does it take tourists to Robben Island?) left the port. A helicopter took off in its wake. Trawlers returned, cutting through a ballet of catamarans, their waterlines well above the water: a bad catch.
If there’s one country where you can’t pretend to ignore skin color, it’s this one. The question is in everyone’s mind, and here more than anywhere else, it’s a decisive economic and political factor.
Columbine of Brittany
200 km north of Cape Town and 9,000 km south of the Breton coast, but on the same cold ocean, we camped on the shore of the Columbine Cape Nature Reserve, sheltered by a rocky chaos that, at first light tomorrow, would transport us to Perros-Guirec.
Our first encounter with wild animals wouldn’t end well for them: it was crayfish season, and they were the size of lobsters at Lorient’s fish market. Bought for R60 (5.5 €) a pair from kids in Pater Noster, they’d end up between two rocks, over a fire. But first, we had to pair the Chenin blanc with some snoek biltong.
With no wood, I lit a fire at dawn with dried seaweed and kelp, as if petrified; it gave off a smell of court-bouillon and... tires. Two hundred fathoms away, on an outpost, an army of cormorants stood at attention, unmoved among the frolicking seals.
At the reserve’s exit, the guard spoke French; Patrick Mwanba had arrived from Congo three years earlier to study, but the cost of living here forced him to drop out. He’d like to return home because life is cheaper there, but the war made him hesitate.
Ding ding dong! Vroom! Arf arf, Woof! Buzz! (A night from hell!)
I’d long planned to visit Calvinia, the center of a region known for extensive sheep farming. An excellent provincial museum, run by an enthusiastic curator, kept us too late to start the drive north.
So we camped in a tiny, charming campsite set up in the garden of a house. A few trees, a patch of resilient grass, and a view of a pretty lit-up steeple—what else?
Well, it turned out to be a sound-and-light show, with the pretty steeple chiming the hours and half-hours. Then suddenly, we were in the VIP stands of the Karoo-Kalahari Truck Race: roaring trucks paraded under our canvas windows, and we realized we were on the main road through town. To top it off, we enjoyed an uninterrupted canine cacophony, from the *arf arf* of little dogs to the *woof* of a mastiff. Oh, and some mosquitoes—the first ones—insisted on keeping us company in the tent, and we hadn’t yet bought the arsenal to neutralize them.
I walked through Calvinia at night; the house gardens weren’t fenced, nor did they have the «Armed Response» signs so common in the country.
The Kalahari Trails
(No, no, I haven’t converted to hiking.)
North of Calvinia, in the south of the Northern Cape, small towns follow one another up to Upington, about a hundred kilometers apart—welcome havens. Between them, with no trees in sight, we stopped in the shade of a motionless cloud: the temperature exceeded 40°C in mid-January.
We were almost out of the High Karoo and into a region of pans drying up, until the first red dunes appeared, precursors of the Kalahari. In the sparse veld vegetation, gatherings of quiver trees in the kopjes, and a caravan of camels without a handler or packs, marching in perfect formation across a pan (no, I hadn’t overdone the Windhoek at the last stop, and no, I wasn’t dehydrated enough to hallucinate).
The historic part of these towns, European in style, was built on the same plans as those in the American Midwest or the Australian Outback: a grid of streets wide enough to turn a wagon pulled by eight pairs of oxen. The architecture was Dutch-inspired, tropicalized with awnings.
Then came more recent housing, functional in style, where the wealthier mixed-race people—who make up the majority of this state—lived, and further on, the township, an assemblage of corrugated iron and plastic, like everywhere else.
Orange, Right Bank
North of Augrabies Falls National Park, on the other side of the Orange River, stretches a rugged and wild territory the size of fifty Groix islands, crisscrossed by a few tracks—the Riemvasmaak.
The inhabitants were driven out half a century ago for a military base, and as soon as President Mandela was elected, he made it a symbol by allowing the exiled populations to return. Several ethnic groups live here on almost nothing, in government-built shacks.
A community camp is set up in a small cirque at the end of a canyon that, while not in the history books, offers a good descent. By mid-afternoon, the air was at 44°C, but luckily there was a spring... except it was a hot spring, with water at 38°C. And they haven’t invented a reversible spring yet. Once the birds and baboons had settled in, in absolute silence and far from any light pollution, we enjoyed the stars like nowhere else (well, that’s what they claim in the region).
The Orange didn’t choose the easy path: arriving from Lesotho, it was almost at the ocean. The terrain to the south and north of this massif seemed easier to cross. Was it to avoid the curse of the Okavango, whose waters disappear into the sands without ever seeing the sea, that it chose this rocky route, thinking that at least the granite wouldn’t steal its water?
I Love You, I Eat You
In the dry bed of the Auob, it lay panting, head raised, alert, between its paws but head-to-tail, a tawny springbok, motionless.
A few minutes earlier, their story had been written in a lightning-fast chase, captured in photos by the driver of the car that alerted us.
It would be a long time before it started eating at the groin without breaking its surveillance.
Earlier, there was a lion lounging in the shade and hundreds of antelopes: springboks and gemsboks (oryx) in herds, hartebeests and steenboks alone. Strange pairs, apart several times, formed by a springbok and a gemsbok.
A few solitary jackals moved slightly sideways, looking furtive. Ostriches, alone, looking a bit dazed.
It was a lucky morning in the Kgalagadi (KTP).
In and Out
Kgalagadi, Nossob Camp.
We were at the very end of the almost-empty camp, ten meters from the fence, whose structure wouldn’t resist an elephant (though there aren’t any here), but it was electrified.
At dusk, on the other side, ten meters away, three lions passed in a row, as if on parade, seemingly focused on their goal and indifferent to the camp, though they glanced at it.
A jackal had gotten into the camp and was trying to get out without success while scavenging. I offered it two pieces of snoek biltong (Don’t feed the animals!) from three meters away—it smelled strong and had bones (bones in biltong!). When it passed by again, it sniffed but didn’t dare approach. Curled up in the chair, motionless, by the faint moonlight, I finally saw it come closer, grab the nearest piece, and move ten meters away to enjoy it (how many jackals know the finer points of sea biltong?). A little reassured, it came back for the second piece.
Another Morning
By morning, the jackal was gone, but our luck hadn’t left us. Two cheetahs again, who found me in the way and slowly moved toward a calmer shadow. Enough birds of prey to form a squadron, but they’re solitary hunters. Two ostriches busy with their dozen unruly chicks. And while we’re at it, a group of four Kalahari lions, sprawled under a thorny bush. Lots of oryx crossing the dunes and herds of red hartebeest. Kori bustards and secretary birds.
It was the first time the Kgalagadi had spoiled us so much.
Itinéraire Namibie-Botswana English translation pending
Bonjour,
Nous sommes en train de construire notre itinéraire pour cet été. Pas de guide sur la destination à part le petit futé, aussi nous avons du mal à faire un tri des sites à ne pas manquer.
Est-ce que le détour par opuwo et Epupa vaut le coup?
Etosha, Mahungo, Mamili, mudumu et chobe cela ne fait-il pas trop? Ces réserves ne se ressemblent-elles pas toutes? Lesquelles choisir?
Voir le Delta au nord ouest sakawe, sepupa, peut-il remplacer le coin de Maun?
Merci de m'apporter votre éclairage.
Polémique chez les grands aventuriers, ne serait-ce pas nous les petits, les plus méritants? English translation pending
Je viens de tomber sur un article d’une aventurière bien connue et respectée, Laurence de la Ferrière. Elle avait traversée les Alpes en hivernal fin 2005 / début 2006
http://www.grenoble-montagne.com/modules/smartsection5/item.php?itemid=73
Ces derniers temps, ils sont plus en plus nombreux chez les « grands aventuriers reconnus » à créer la polémique.
Voyage en solitaires, mais jamais seul ? Expédition engagée, mais avec le camion d’assistance ? Gros sponsors pour des aventures en pleine nature sans dépense ? Aventurier mis à l’avant pour mieux vendre, alors qu’il y a tout une expé derrière qui reste dans l’ombre ? Photographes et caméramans à leurs pieds pour ne pas rater une miette ?
Nous sommes là à les suivre, à les envier, à lire leurs livres, à voir leurs films… Parce qu'ils nous font rêver, mais est ce de cela dont nous rêvons ?
Et pourtant je ne doute pas qu'ils soient avant tout comme nous, passionnés et engagés dans leurs aventures. Alors pourquoi tant de polémique ? Serait ce cela la différence qu'il faut avoir pour passer de l'aventurier qui poste son carnet de voyage sur VF à celui qui le médiatise et en fait sa vie ?
Ces derniers temps, ils sont plus en plus nombreux chez les « grands aventuriers reconnus » à créer la polémique.
Voyage en solitaires, mais jamais seul ? Expédition engagée, mais avec le camion d’assistance ? Gros sponsors pour des aventures en pleine nature sans dépense ? Aventurier mis à l’avant pour mieux vendre, alors qu’il y a tout une expé derrière qui reste dans l’ombre ? Photographes et caméramans à leurs pieds pour ne pas rater une miette ?
Nous sommes là à les suivre, à les envier, à lire leurs livres, à voir leurs films… Parce qu'ils nous font rêver, mais est ce de cela dont nous rêvons ?
Et pourtant je ne doute pas qu'ils soient avant tout comme nous, passionnés et engagés dans leurs aventures. Alors pourquoi tant de polémique ? Serait ce cela la différence qu'il faut avoir pour passer de l'aventurier qui poste son carnet de voyage sur VF à celui qui le médiatise et en fait sa vie ?
Séjour en Guadeloupe en juillet 2007 English translation pending
🙂 salut a tous, je dois partir en guadeloupe en juillet 2007 et j'ai besoin d'info!
je ne souhaite pas partir en voyage organisé et c'est pour cela que je pense que vous pouvez m'aidez. Mon voyage durera trois semaines environ, je pense avoir trouvé un logement a malendure, je ne recherche pas la ville mais j'ai cru voir que c'était pas si loin que ca de point à pitre?? est ce le cas??
une fois sur place je voudrais louer une voiture parce que j'ai vu que c'était indispensable?
autre question: Basse-terre est ce plus interessant que haute-terre, si on souhaite un voyage tout en nature?
encore des questions!!! qu'est ce qui est indispensable d'emmener en guadeloupe (vetements, equipements..)
bon j'ai d'autres questions mais je ne veux effrayer personne alors j'attend d'abord les premieres réponses.
merci merci et merci bizous a tous et bonnes fêtes😛
cynthia.
merci merci et merci bizous a tous et bonnes fêtes😛
cynthia.
Travailler dans une réserve d'animaux en Afrique? English translation pending
salut je suis étudiante en licence d'anglais car j'aimerais plus tard partir en afrique et l'anglais est indispensable, de plus j'y vais surtout pour m'occuper des aniamux, enfin..j'aimerais bien car pour 'instant je ne sais pas comment faire j'ai bien essayer de chercher mais je n'ai trouver qu'un site qui faisait payer plus de 2000 euros pour avoir une formation de soigneur animalier, ce que je voudrais être, mais c'est trop cher por moi!!! donc j'airais besoin d'aide pour chercher ailleurs d'autres opportunités...
merci d'avance!!!!
Photos d'Ariège en France English translation pending
Bonjour.
Ca fait quelques années que je pars en Ariège pendant les vacances, et je suis vraiment tomber amoureuse de ce département. Et donc, pour ceux qui y sont déjà allés je vous propose de mettre ici vos plus belles photos d'Ariège. Je vous met déjà 3 jolies paysages...
1° :La tour Lafont en octobre. Vu sur les vallées du couserans 2° : Cominac en Hiver ( février ) 3° : La tour Lafont en été
Ca fait quelques années que je pars en Ariège pendant les vacances, et je suis vraiment tomber amoureuse de ce département. Et donc, pour ceux qui y sont déjà allés je vous propose de mettre ici vos plus belles photos d'Ariège. Je vous met déjà 3 jolies paysages...
1° :La tour Lafont en octobre. Vu sur les vallées du couserans 2° : Cominac en Hiver ( février ) 3° : La tour Lafont en été
Quels sont pour vous vos plus beaux sites de plongée? English translation pending
bonjour,
etant amatrice de plongee je souhaiterai savoir quelles sont vos plus belles experiences sous marine?
et quels sont les tarifs des plongees sur ces sites?
et que peut on y voir, c est le plus important!!!
avec mes remerciements par avance.
La culture thailandaise English translation pending
Hello à tous,
tout d'abord, je suis toujours très heureux de parcourir ce forum qui apporte beaucoup d'informations pratiques et de points de vue différents.
Je reviens de thailande (Phuket) avec ma femme et nous ne sommes pas du tout d'accord sur quelques sujets.
1) pour femme, les thailandaises ont la réputation d'aimer l'argent, d'être des filles qui couchent faciles et sans principe. Pour ma part, je suis mitigé sur ce point.
2) pour ma femme, à la base, les thailandaises ne sont pas pudiques (comme les vietnamiennes par ex. -je suis viet, je précise), ce qui expliquerait sa vision. elle m'avance qu'elles ont une culture "de sans tabous ni principe". Je ne suis pas d'accord avec elle.
3) toutes les "lady's bars" (pour faire consommer et coucher si le client le souhaite), les "accompagnatrices" font ce métier parce qu'elles aiment l'argent facile et ne font pas cela par "nécessité". Je suis en partie d'accord avec elle. mais je pense que certaines le font pour s' économiser un capital pour ouvrir ensuite leur shop ou autre et ne font cela que le temps d'une saison.
4) quasi toutes les thailandaises font ce métier (même si a côté elle sont un métier correct). que c'est tout un réseau, que c'est dans les moeurs et qe les thais l'acceptent très bienet trouvent cela normal...
qu'en pensez-vous ?
merci pour vos opinions
PS : pour ma part, je ne pense pas que lorsque qu'un pays naît, c'est avec une culture du sexe sans tabous ou pour de l'argent. je pense que si la thailande en est là aujourd'hui, c'est parce qu'à un moment donné, pour lancer l'économie, le gouvernement ou hommes d'affaires ont développé ce business et qu'au fil des ans, c'est rentré dans la mentalité. 😠
tout d'abord, je suis toujours très heureux de parcourir ce forum qui apporte beaucoup d'informations pratiques et de points de vue différents.
Je reviens de thailande (Phuket) avec ma femme et nous ne sommes pas du tout d'accord sur quelques sujets.
1) pour femme, les thailandaises ont la réputation d'aimer l'argent, d'être des filles qui couchent faciles et sans principe. Pour ma part, je suis mitigé sur ce point.
2) pour ma femme, à la base, les thailandaises ne sont pas pudiques (comme les vietnamiennes par ex. -je suis viet, je précise), ce qui expliquerait sa vision. elle m'avance qu'elles ont une culture "de sans tabous ni principe". Je ne suis pas d'accord avec elle.
3) toutes les "lady's bars" (pour faire consommer et coucher si le client le souhaite), les "accompagnatrices" font ce métier parce qu'elles aiment l'argent facile et ne font pas cela par "nécessité". Je suis en partie d'accord avec elle. mais je pense que certaines le font pour s' économiser un capital pour ouvrir ensuite leur shop ou autre et ne font cela que le temps d'une saison.
4) quasi toutes les thailandaises font ce métier (même si a côté elle sont un métier correct). que c'est tout un réseau, que c'est dans les moeurs et qe les thais l'acceptent très bienet trouvent cela normal...
qu'en pensez-vous ?
merci pour vos opinions
PS : pour ma part, je ne pense pas que lorsque qu'un pays naît, c'est avec une culture du sexe sans tabous ou pour de l'argent. je pense que si la thailande en est là aujourd'hui, c'est parce qu'à un moment donné, pour lancer l'économie, le gouvernement ou hommes d'affaires ont développé ce business et qu'au fil des ans, c'est rentré dans la mentalité. 😠
Hôtel le Manganao, l'Anse des Rochers ou Karibea Salako Beach Resort? English translation pending
Bonjour à tous !
J'hésite entre 3 hôtels en Guadeloupe pour Août : le manganao l'Anse des Rochers le Karibea Salako beach resort
Pouvez-vous me donner vos impressions sur ces hôtels?
Notamment, comment est la plage à l'Anse des Rochers ? et au Manganao ? Au Karibea, elle a l'air trés belle, avec des palmiers...
Sinon, peut-on manger aux restos et comment est-ce ? (mon mari est un peu difficile)...
Merci de vos conseils.
Par la même occasion, par quel TO êtes-vous passés ? N'y a-t-il que NF ?
J'hésite entre 3 hôtels en Guadeloupe pour Août : le manganao l'Anse des Rochers le Karibea Salako beach resort
Pouvez-vous me donner vos impressions sur ces hôtels?
Notamment, comment est la plage à l'Anse des Rochers ? et au Manganao ? Au Karibea, elle a l'air trés belle, avec des palmiers...
Sinon, peut-on manger aux restos et comment est-ce ? (mon mari est un peu difficile)...
Merci de vos conseils.
Par la même occasion, par quel TO êtes-vous passés ? N'y a-t-il que NF ?