Results for "Chios+|+123+>+211"

Hi everyone,

With my girlfriend Christelle, we’ve chosen South Africa for our first trip to Southern Africa, focusing on safaris—after a long debate with a Cape Town/Kruger combo. But that would’ve meant cutting out St Lucia, which would’ve been harder to fit into another trip. And St Lucia—thanks to Michel and all those travel journals—we really wanted to go there.

So our 11-night itinerary ended up like this, mostly shaped by school holidays: - 3 nights in St Lucia - 1 night in Hluhluwe - 1 night at Mkhaya Game Reserve (Eswatini) - 1 night at Hlane Royal National Park (Eswatini) - 3 nights in Kruger (Berg en Dal / Satara / Tamboti) - 1 night at Shindzela Tented Camp in the Timbavati private reserve - 1 final night in Kruger at Lower Sabie

All of this in the off-season and rainy season, just a month after catastrophic floods that killed over 150 people and seriously damaged Kruger’s infrastructure.

I’ll jump straight to St Lucia and skip the loooong journey to get there (with a layover in Frankfurt, landing in Johannesburg, a domestic flight to Durban, and the rest by rental SUV—First Car Rental, perfect, no complaints).

To motivate readers—especially some familiar faces here—I’ll drop in a first photo.

Day 1 – December 6

Our decision is our decision. And it’s firm and final. Next winter, our plane will spread its great wings toward the island of Ceylon! "Wait a minute... Ceylon... Ceylon... that name rings a bell, but I can’t quite place it on the globe Grandma gave me for Christmas! Ceylon... Oh right, I’ve got it: Ceylon is the name of my tea!" Exactly. But the name on your pretty tea box is also the one used until 1972 for this island nation, a speck on the Indian Ocean at the southern tip of the Indian subcontinent: Sri Lanka!

For this new adventure, I’m exceptionally leaving my Flo behind, cowardly replaced by a double dose of testosterone. To write the book of this journey with me, I’m bringing along my brother, who’s used to this kind of thing, and... a guest star: My model of resilience. My dad! All aboard! Or rather, all aboard our tuk-tuk! Yes, you read that right: A real tuk-tuk, a little colorful rolling box that putters along at two miles an hour. The idea? Well, Sri Lanka and its winding roads overlooking the vastness of lush nature are tailor-made for this kind of vehicle. And since it’s one of only two countries in the world that allow foreigners to rent and drive these mini speedsters, we’ll be crisscrossing the island in our two-square-meter rolling box. Plus, adopting this mode of transport is a surefire way to connect directly with the locals, who’ll surely be curious to see a foreigner driving their iconic vehicle. Not to mention the... let’s say... spicy anecdotes it might generate. I mean, heading into a subtropical zone with my jet-black dad and his unpredictable digestive flora while deliberately choosing the tuk-tuk as our *only* means of transport? That’s the winning combo for an unforgettable adventure! "More seriously, Dad, Sullivan, I’m already loving the idea of living this adventure together, the three of us—brothers and father..."

So, does the intro to this new adventure get your salivary glands going? Yes? Too bad. Because unfortunately, the program handed out by the lady at the entrance has been slightly... let’s say *crumpled*. Some might even say "scrunched up and nearly tossed in the trash." First, six days ago, as the countdown echoed in us like a call to adventure, Cyclone Ditwah grabbed Sri Lanka, played with it like a rag doll, and left it battered on the ground. The toll is devastating: over a thousand dead, thousands of homes wiped out by relentless rains, roads and railways swallowed by massive mudslides. A country wounded once again, after the civil war, the 2004 tsunami, and the post-Covid economic crisis.

But as if this weather disaster wasn’t enough to shake our unbreakable adventurer spirit, fate decided to mess with us further by cutting our trio down to two. The victim? My brother, violently turned away because of a simple date on his passport that didn’t match the border officials’ expectations. Return to sender!

So now it’s just the two of us allowed to board the Qatar Airways Airbus A380 for this trip. If he were here, Denis Brognart would say, "And in the end, only one remains!" Except I know you’ll be with us, following our adventures! Right?

Hi there,

Coming from Laos (*), I’m planning to enter Thailand by bike via the Fourth Thai–Lao Friendship Bridge.

Before this bridge was built, I’d already cycled the road from Louang Namtha to Houei Sai and crossed the river by boat to reach Thailand.

At the time, the condition of that road was impeccable, and most importantly, traffic was light.

So I’m wondering if anyone who’s taken it recently can tell me whether traffic has increased since the bridge opened.

Thanks in advance!

(*) I’m currently cycling in China (Yunnan)

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!

Now that the curtain has fallen on the past year, it’s time to see what’s happening around here. It seems pretty quiet, but I’ll read more in detail later.

First, I need to tell you all an anecdote.

My eldest little girl, in her third year of law school, was really scared she wouldn’t pass the year. I told her: “Trust yourself, you’ve worked so hard, and worst case, if you fail, you’ll just redo the year.” “But I don’t think I’ll make it—they changed the rules, and if I mess up even one unit, I have to start all over.” I knew her grades weren’t exactly stellar, and with what I was about to say, I wasn’t taking much of a risk. “Here’s the deal, sweetheart: if you pass, I promise I’ll take you to India, just the two of us.” I have to admit, India is a country I’ve talked about so much to all my grandchildren that in their minds, it’s become a magical, mythical place (hmm).

July had barely begun when my phone rang, her name flashing on the screen. “Mamido, I did it!” My promise came rushing back—oh no, oh no, oh no! “Congratulations, sweetheart!” A little shyly, she said: “Is the India trip still on?”

And me, replying: “Of course it is!”

And that’s that—a promise is a promise, or you risk losing that precious trust that keeps hearts warm and at peace.

We’re leaving in February. Only 8 days—yikes, the carbon footprint! But we can’t miss her tutorials, or she’ll be kicked out. Personally, that works just fine for me.

Going to India has become a challenge for me. It’s far, it’s exhausting, I sweat, I hate mosquitoes, the spices bother my mouth when I used to love them. There’s noise all the time—at night, the dogs bark nonstop, and we almost get run over. I’ll get lost in the streets because my sense of direction has vanished. I don’t like rice anymore. All that chaos and those cultural differences that once enchanted me now just overwhelm me. But I promised.

The upside—and it’s a big one—Raman, the same driver I’ve had forever, will be at the airport with a sign with our names. We’ll stop at the same little shop for chai (or tea, plain and simple) with that aroma that intoxicates me, halfway through the trip.

It’ll be a tiny trip—staying with friends, I’ll show her a few places I love: Chidambaram, Mamallapuram, and the clinic where I worked. Then we’ll head back. My little girl will go home to her parents.

As for me, I’ll leave right away for our Scottish island with Homme for our chilly winter.

How can you love a country so much you want to live there, then suddenly reject it, no longer able to appreciate what once made it special? That’s the mystery of love, I guess.

Hi there, since there isn’t much recent info on how to get to MP, I’d love to know if there have been any improvements to the "route" to Hydroelectrica. Is it feasible to drive there in February? And is it still possible to walk all the way to Aguas Calientes? I think I read somewhere that it’s no longer allowed?? Do you think I can buy Machu Picchu entrance tickets last-minute at that time of year, given the weather?

Hi there,

This afternoon I had a flight at 5:10 PM to Amsterdam from Nice (final destination: Berlin). I arrived at the airport a little before 3:00 PM and saw that the flight was now leaving at 6:30 PM. I went to the counter to point out that I wouldn’t have time to make my connection, and they told me I’d be spending the night in Amsterdam.

When the agent checked her computer, she saw that I’d been put on a flight with another airline and asked if I hadn’t received an email.

In the end, I had to change terminals and leave at 7:05 PM with Swiss Airlines, then Air Baltic.

Just to clarify, I checked in less than 24 hours ago for both KLM flights (Nice-Amsterdam and Amsterdam-Berlin) where I had seats assigned. I checked my emails carefully, and I was never notified!

Luckily, the Swiss Airlines flight left later—otherwise, at 3:00 PM, I wouldn’t have had time to check in (I have a checked bag), and I don’t know how I would’ve proven I never got an email. Also, thankfully, I went to the counter much earlier than planned for the 6:30 PM departure.

In the end, I was lucky because with KLM, I would’ve lost a whole day. And it’s a good thing I always travel for at least two full weeks because I’ve often lost a day due to delays—I wouldn’t do that for a week or a weekend getaway...

This is the first time this has happened to me, but there’s a first time for everything!

Well, I still feel a bit lonely about this destination—no requests for info, no travel journals, or trip reports since I last posted over a year ago. A little disheartening.

That said, I did cross paths with slightly more tourists this time. Not a ton, but enough to notice compared to my last stay. Beyond that, not much has changed—the people are just as lovely, and every interaction, whether at the market, in the medinas, in town, or in the countryside, was positive. It was so pleasant; my "alert meter" stayed at zero the whole time (which is pretty different from some other places I visit now and then). The roads outside the cities remain dangerous, and the accident rate seems high. Best to drive during the day and take it easy (on some rough stretches, you don’t really have a choice anyway). The scattered plastic and metal waste hasn’t magically disappeared, and it’s still pretty discouraging to see the most beautiful beaches surrounded by empty bottles, straws, diapers, and rusted carcasses of an old Xantia or a skeletal Espace. When it’s not on the beach itself (since those are cleaned), it’s just a few meters away. Usually, there’s not much in the water or close to shore—the seabeds are gorgeous, with coral and a wide variety of scaly friends... But stepping back onto the hardened lava, you dodge a chip bag or a shriveled battery. Such a paradox. Honestly, it’s like this almost everywhere except on hotel beaches or those far from human settlements. But otherwise, in places like Chomoni, Bouni, Itsandra, Moya, and Domoni (on Anjouan), Nioumachoua (on Mohéli, and even on the nearby islets), it’s hard to ignore. And it unfortunately tarnishes the beauty of these otherwise stunning spots.

That said, you can still find secluded micro-bays, protected and remote, where this isn’t an issue. And where there are hotels—like in Petite Itsandra in Moroni, in front of Laka Lodge in Nioumachoua, Trou du Prophète, or even Chomoni (though the surrounding areas are so littered...)—the beaches are cleaned, so...

So why go? Why still love it despite all this? Well, first, the Comorians themselves—that’s already essential and probably the main reason. Then there’s the breathtaking topography: the imposing Karthala, the dizzying peaks and cliffs of Anjouan, vast ravines, a tortured geology covered in lush nature, and Mohéli, much more serene and gentle, blanketed in spice plants and trees with names that make you dream, like an open-air spice market. The flora across the islands—the fields, trees, scents: clove trees, cinnamon trees, lychee, mango, cardamom, nutmeg, vanilla, coconut palms, banana trees, coffee plants, cocoa... A profusion of green dotted with red, white, and yellow berries and flowers... The seabeds are stunning in many places, and there are some beautiful beaches/oceanfront spots, especially near Trou du Prophète (but not only there). The history and culture—between traditional festivals, but especially the medinas with their staircases, covered passages, palaces, and mosques that create Escher-like constructions. I love wandering through them for hours, stumbling upon an unlikely shop, a more or less philosophical saying like "pain is a warning," "a promise is a debt," or the less original "little by little, the bird makes its nest." A grocery store, women negotiating freshly caught fish (usually tuna, immediately cut and ready to sell), kids playing, old men playing checkers, a call to prayer... In Moroni, Mutsamudu, and Domoni, I spent most of my "urban" time.

If anyone’s interested—though given the hype about Comoros on the forum, I doubt it—but if you need info on accommodation across the three islands, some restaurants, or sites to visit, don’t hesitate to ask.

This message is another message in a bottle (one more, if I dare...) for the Comoros destination.

Hi, We’re heading to Cape Verde in January. We’re scheduled to arrive in Praia on a Saturday around 11 AM. I read somewhere that the exchange rate for Euros to Escudos is the same everywhere—110 escudos for 1 euro. Can anyone confirm this? If that’s the case, I assume there’s a currency exchange desk at the airport, and the rate isn’t too bad? So, it’s better to exchange at the airport, right? What do you think? I don’t want to use ATMs. Otherwise, are banks in town open on Saturdays? I read they close by 3 PM?

Hi everyone,

I’m heading back to Montreal in early November after several years away. I’m so excited! I won’t be staying long, but I’ll have time to wander and explore.

I’d love to get your recommendations for great things to eat—restaurants, bakeries, all kinds of food. I’m open to all your suggestions and addresses. I’ll definitely hit up the market. And eat bagels, of course.

I’ll probably stay in the Quartier des Spectacles, but I’ll definitely be getting around the city.

Thanks in advance!

Hi there, we’re looking at a flight from Montreal to Zurich, then Zurich to Brussels (final destination). There are two couples and two kids in our group, and the layover is listed as 50 minutes. I wanted to check if this is doable before booking...

For those with an artistic soul, I invite you to a journey through painting to discover my inspirations as a traveling artist. Traveling through painting Travel sketches

The cradle of humanity, Africa is also the continent where I was born. My childhood was lulled by the call of the muezzin and the waves of the Atlantic Ocean. The colors and light of Morocco remain etched in my heart forever.

As soon as I had the chance, I crossed the desert to meet Black Africa, whose imprint is very present in the Maghreb, a legacy of caravans and trans-Saharan migrations. My steps first took me to West Africa, exuberant, rich in encounters and sharing. Later, East Africa allowed me to glimpse another facet of this multifaceted continent. The beauty of the Ethiopians, whose country lies at the heart of human history, the complexity of Malagasy culture—a mix of the different peoples who have landed on the island—the Rwandan people, wounded but capable of resilience...





It was through India that I discovered Asia. Nourished by teenage readings about the hippie trail, I had always dreamed of one day exploring this mysterious country. My first solo travel experience was in Rajasthan, trekking on the roof of the world. I only returned when my son was a teenager, not wanting to expose him too young to the chaos of this disorienting country.

In the meantime, we traveled together through Vietnam, then Thailand and Laos, and finally Myanmar. Later, I returned alone to Cambodia and more recently to Indonesia. Safe and budget-friendly destinations, the routes of Southeast Asia also have the downside of becoming increasingly crowded.

But one can't help being enchanted by the architectural heritage, the temples, the landscapes, and the ever-present spirituality. When you take the time, Asia gradually reveals itself.

The Afrosiyob races through a premature twilight, lashed by a blizzard of thick snow. In the endless gray, a monumental industrial complex occasionally emerges, ghostly. Here and there, in the middle of nowhere, a human silhouette appears (a soldier?), standing motionless by the tracks. On the screen mounted in the middle of the ceiling, a dashing Bollywood cat in vibrant colors writhes in all directions, throwing smoldering glances at a dancer on the verge of fainting. A server moves down the central aisle, offering crepes for sale—ones I suspect are stuffed with ground beef. I’m in Central Asia, in Uzbekistan, somewhere between Bukhara and Samarkand.

I chose the title "notes"—scattered thoughts, rough drafts. I’m not sure what I’ll write, but one thing’s certain: this won’t be a linear travel journal.

And a photo... there must be a photo, so here:



Local tourists between a Bactrian camel and an electric car, in front of ancient walls—it’ll do.

Hello hello, After several trips to the American West, we’ve booked our next tickets to Texas!!! We’ll be leaving in mid-October and arriving in Dallas. After reading several forums/blogs about Texas, I sketched out what our road trip might look like. But here’s the thing—big snag on Day 13!!! Could you please help me with this plan? Let me know if my draft seems doable or if, on the contrary, the timing is too tight, if I’ve missed any important spots, etc. We’re traveling as a family with our little ones (3 and 9 years old). We’re not big fans of big cities—we prefer hitting the road, doing hikes, driving on backroads, and we’d love to spend Halloween in a small, friendly town to really experience it. Here’s my itinerary: Dallas (overnight since we arrive at 8:30 PM) Dallas/Fort Worth (overnight in FW or nearby) FW/Amarillo (overnight in Amarillo) Amarillo (another night in Amarillo) Amarillo/Palo Duro Canyon SP/Roswell (overnight nearby or in Roswell) Roswell (another night?) Roswell/White Sands (overnight nearby) White Sands/Carlsbad (overnight nearby) Carlsbad/Guadalupe Mountains (overnight nearby) Guadalupe Mountains/Marfa/Alpine (overnight in Alpine) Alpine/Terlingua (3 nights) Big Bend NP Big Bend NP Big Bend NP/??? And that’s where things get tricky… What should we do next? I was thinking of Lost Maple State Park—probably gorgeous with fall colors. Then head back up to San Antonio, explore the Hill Country, stop in Waco, and make our way back to Dallas? My husband, though, would love to take a detour to Lafayette, stopping in Houston to visit the Space Center. Thanks so much for your help! :) Have a great weekend, Marie

Hi there! This summer, we're planning a 2- to 3-week road trip in one of these countries!! But despite all the reviews we’ve read on the forum, we still can’t decide... It’s so hard to choose between the Carpathians, Budapest, and Krakow!!! Could you give us some advice based on what you know? Thanks, Karine and Christophe

Hello everyone, I’m currently planning our next trip to Morocco. We really enjoy visiting one or two collective granaries on each of our trips. We’ve seen some already, like the one in Aït Kine, or the one in Tasguent, and of course those in Amtoudi, as well as the cliffside granary of Ifri. There are still many left to explore. I’d love to hear which ones you’d recommend—preferably ones that aren’t too hard to access. I’m counting on you! Thanks

Hi there, I’m planning a trip to the White Villages and noticed that many are in the Province of Cádiz—like Setenil de las Bodegas, Olvera, Ubrique, Grazalema, Zahara de la Sierra, Medina-Sidonia, and Vejer de la Frontera. Are all of these worth visiting, or are there others you’d recommend? I’ve already been to Arcos de la Frontera and Ronda in the area and wouldn’t mind returning, of course. I’m also considering the Caminito del Rey, so maybe a few interesting villages in the province of Málaga too. Do you think an itinerary starting from Málaga (arriving at the airport) with 2 or 3 stops (like Ronda, Arcos, and a third in one of these villages) would work? Thanks for your tips!

Hello, We’ve finally decided on which Cycladic island to visit... My partner and I are planning our first trip to Greece for June 2025. We’re leaving France for 15 days. Here’s our itinerary, and I’d love your feedback on whether it’s doable, plus any other suggestions... Arrival in Athens for 2 nights = - Visiting the Acropolis, Parthenon, Theatre of Dionysus, Archaeological Museum, Syntagma Square for the changing of the guard, and strolling through the Plaka neighborhood... 4 nights in Nafplio - To explore the town of Nafplio, the Theatre of Epidaurus, Mycenae, and Olympia Then off to Milos for 7/8 nights (it was so hard to pick just one island). I’m considering flying from Athens with Olympic Air. Is it worth doing a guided tour of the Acropolis or the other sites? I’m open to all your tips. Thanks so much.

Hi there, We're heading back for another trip to Asia. We've already been to Singapore in... 2008. Let's just say things have changed since then. We'll be arriving in February, either from Bangkok or Siem Reap in Cambodia. We have great memories of it. What are the must-sees these days? I can't wait to see what I think was a hotel under construction back in 2008 (it looks like a boat perched up high—I can't send a photo with 2000 pixels). Thanks in advance! TIALOU

Hello and happy to be back on this forum! We’re planning our trip to southern Vietnam in February. We visited central Vietnam two years ago. For now, based on reading various posts, we’ve drafted the following itinerary, keeping in mind that we travel by public transport and rent bikes or motorbikes when needed. We also like to take our time! So far, we’ve only booked our flight tickets: 1 Paris – HO CHI MINH 2 & 3 Visit HO CHI MINH 4 Day trip to Cu Chi 5 Transfer Ho Chi Minh / Cat Tien 6 & 7 Cat Tien 8 Transfer Cat Tien / Cai Be 9 & 10 Cai Be 11 Transfer Cai Be / Vinh Long or Binh Island 12 Vinh Long or Binh Island 13 Day trip to Sa Dec 14 Bus transfer Vinh Long / Can Tho 15 & 16 Can Tho 17 Transfer Can Tho / Chau Doc 18 & 19 Chau Doc 20 Transfer Chau Doc / Ha Tien 21 & 22 Ha Tien 23 Boat transfer to PHU QUOC 24, 25 & 26 PHU QUOC 27 Flight to Paris

Actually, we’re on a rhythm of 1 transfer day and 2 visit days, which doesn’t fully satisfy us. That’s why we’re wondering: Is it possible to stay in one accommodation for visits to Cai Be, Binh Island, and Vinh Long (including our day trip to Sa Dec)? Do you see any other ways to adjust the itinerary? Any oversights? We also still need to look into the transfer details. Thanks for your tips! fg

Hello, There’s a big debate among travelers who are attached to India and have been visiting often, regularly, for 15 years or more. I’ve experienced it—and still do—in every sense of the word, first as a tourist, then from the inside by living there for 12 years. I feel it has changed a lot and continues to change at a dizzying pace, year after year, almost month after month. It all depends on how you see it, how you visit it, where you stay, etc... North or south, and so on... The debate is open—no animosity or arguments if opinions differ. Just your own take, your personal experiences, your travel conditions, what you’ve noticed and still notice today... Let’s try to be objective, if possible, though it’s a tough exercise.

5 AM, I’m shivering. The icy February 2022 fog wraps around the deserted Terminal 2, closed for renovations, on the outskirts of which my hotel stands. I wait alone at the stop in the pitch-black night for the first shuttle of the day, which is supposed to take me to T1. I have no idea where I’m going. All I know is the name: Jerusalem. I’m entirely goy, just as entirely atheist, but I’ve been visiting that imaginary city for decades. It haunts, fantastical, the medieval images that once occupied me for so long. It regularly creeps into my ears through the misfortune of news reports from radios around the world. It crystallizes so many of humanity’s delusions, of which I’m a part. I know nothing about it, haven’t read a single guidebook. But I want to see it, walk its streets, live it for a few days. Make it real, tangible.

The flight is on time. This is the era of mandatory FFP2 masks on all flights landing in Italy (Europe?). The crew valiantly fights against passengers’ ingenious attempts to remove them: sipping their drinks milliliter by milliliter, nibbling their snacks cubic millimeter by cubic millimeter, feigning breathing difficulties, yanking off the elastic bands... A rabbi passes through the rows collecting donations. Men put on their tefillin, drape their prayer shawls, and rock to the rhythm of their prayers. Already, the sense of elsewhere.

Ben Gurion Airport is a stunning airport—monumental, bright, functional, adorned with archaeological remnants and enormous photographs showcasing the country’s great leader in its works. I collect my visa from a kiosk, quickly endure the routine interrogation from a military officer slumped in his seat, withdraw some shekels from an ATM, get my nostrils swabbed at one of the many molecular testing stations in exchange for a yellow all-inclusive resort-style wristband that grants me passage through the outer doors. I spend ages (I think I’m just not good at this) in the crowd trying to find a sherut heading to Jerusalem, then lose myself in the landscape. Mediterranean-style—red earth, stunted vegetation, overrun with sprawling construction. I do glute exercises in this traffic, where a Neapolitan driver would embody road indolence. Endless traffic jams signal the city’s approach. The sherut drops me a few steps from my hotel, the Saint George’s Cathedral Pilgrim Guest House, right on the edge of the dotted lines on maps marking the divide between Jewish and Arab Jerusalem. It’s a pleasant complex with an inner garden and beautiful rooms featuring exposed stone vaults—and thank goodness, because I’m not allowed to leave until I get my test results. The reception staff, incredibly helpful, guide me through the myriad of meal delivery options. A roof over my head, a full stomach—all that’s left is to wait. Read Caillois, check the increasingly precise, increasingly ominous rumors of war brewing, yet again, in Europe, and navigate the city’s virtual map to get a sense of where to head once freed.

The next day, it’s done, and my first destination is, quite naturally, the Old City. The first gate I come across is Jaffa Gate, so Jaffa Gate it is—leading from the chaos of vehicles of all kinds into the labyrinth of alleys packed with goods of all kinds.

October 7, 2023, is a sunny day in Milan. Since morning, in this light, I’m WhatsApping with Afrooz in Tehran, and I decide to call her. A lively, joyful conversation—French with that Farsi accent becomes a wonderful language. Suddenly, everything feels possible. Isfahan, Shiraz, Damavand, Yazd, Yazd, Yazd—a delicious word savored endlessly—become within reach. Iran, so longed for, is finally here. Pure joy, absolute enthusiasm. Six months to plan and relish a trip before living it.

Then I open *Le Monde*.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

Frozen. Empty. No. We decide to wait, not to give up right away, pretending to believe—just a little, just to keep from collapsing—that with this wretched human race, the worst isn’t necessarily certain. It is.

So... meh, Madeira? The Azores? Uzbekistan (a pale substitute)? New Zealand? Greece. Again, always. Nestling into the only European promise we’ve been given. Indulging in illusions, for the pleasure of it.

So, train from Milan to Ancona (9 AM–12 PM), a typically Marchigiano lunch (Italy is paradise for food lovers), a stroll through the city, then at 4 PM boarding the *Olympic Champion*. Arrival in Patras the next afternoon, car rental, and off to Lepanto—Nafpaktos today—to reminisce about glorious victories and pay tribute to Cervantes, who lost a hand there before writing.

That’s the plan, anyway. The train is unusually on time. The ferry, replaced in the meantime by the *Hellenic Spirit* (why not? Even if it’s less suited to the season), is 3 hours late, then 4, no 5, then finally 6—oh wait, 7. And on top of that, it’s pouring rain in Ancona, and the port waiting room closes at 6 PM. Great...

At 11 PM, the ferry’s lights emerge in the pitch-black night. We jostle through the downpour, board, and sleep well in a cozy cabin with the white noise of the engines. Then:

23 hours of rest. Of forgetting.

Bonjour,

Breton, je vais me baser une dizaine de jours à Connaux dans le Gard à la mi septembre avec quelques amis.

Nous serons 6.

Nous sommes assez éclectiques et indépendants : 4 en voiture et 2 à moto, 4 assez agiles et 2 contemplatifs qui le sont fort peu.

Nous ne détestons pas faire des choses ensemble dans la journée, bien loin de là quand c’est possible, mais notre grand plaisir est en toutes hypothèses de partager nos soirées.

Je pense à priori que nous devrions pouvoir rayonner chaque jour dans un rayon maximum d’une centaine de km, en sachant bien sûr que l’objectif n’est pas de cumuler ces km.

Evidemment, j’ai consulté la documentation touristique accessible par internet et je dois recevoir bientôt un peu de complément par courrier : je me sens donc « armé » pour les « fondamentaux ».

Mais je suis à la recherche de projets plus originaux, plus insolites, éventuellement plus relationnels car je suis convaincu que le sel des voyages ce sont les rencontres.

Toute suggestion serait très bienvenue.

A charge de revanche… ;-)

Bonjour,

Je ne pratique pas encore le ski alpin, mais le ski de fond , raquettes , fat bike . Covid oblige, on pense faire un voyage hivernal avec de beaux paysages dans notre propre pays . On a pensé à l’Alberta ou Colombie-Britannique. Whistler , oubliez ça , 650$ en moyenne la nuit pour une chambre seulement !!! J’ai regardé Canmore et Fernie , plus abordables . Laquelle entre les deux est mieux comme destination hivernale et avec bons restaurants ?

Merci 😊

Le Maroc va t'il ouvrir ses frontières apres etat urgence C'est a dire le 10 août

Bonjour,

J'ai l'habitude de prendre mes billets d'avion en fin d'été pour l'année suivante. C'est à ce moment là que les billets sont les moins chers.

Cependant, d'une part l'inconnu Covid nous guette (le virus sera-t-il encore dissuasif dans un an ?), d'autre part le futur incertain des liaisons aériennes aussi (les avions voleront-ils autant qu'auparavant ?). Ajoutons à cela l'attente des remboursements des vols de l'été 2020, attente qui risque d'être longue.

Je me demande donc s'il est pertinent de réserver ses vols au plus tôt avec un bon prix mais un risque d'annulation ? ou réserver ses vols plus tard en risquant sans doute de payer plus cher ?