Results for "Bras+Panon+|+122+>+74"

nous partons pour punta cana le 27 février; l'an dernier, à varadero, mon chum a "adopté" la boisson typique de cuba (ernest hemingway), soit le mojitos

est-ce que vous savez si c'est également une boisson qu'on retrouve dans les hôtels de punta cana?

gracias😉

Très intéressant cet article! Personnellement Je ne prends ni pour l’une ni pour l’autre, je prends celle qui me donnera le meilleur prix. Des agences se scandalisent parce qu’ils doivent couper dans leurs profits, si l’un est capable d’opérer et très bien en plus, c’est que les autres sont capables de faire de même. Mais, ici au Québec plusieurs dirigeants d’entreprises veulent être millionnaire la première semaine d’opération en chargeant à tour de bras et non seulement dans le domaine du voyage. Une pâtisserie près de chez moi vient juste d’ouvrir, le pain baguette $1.95 chez Métro à coté et cuisiner sur place $1.19!!! Prenons l’exemple d’Air Canada, il y a quelques temps Air Canada annonçait des pertes de plusieurs millions ce qui laissait penser qu’ils opéraient à déficit. La vérité est toute autre, la perte était basée sur une projection de profits.. pas du tout la même chose! J’y vois plus la frustration de certaines agences qui veulent vendre le GROS prix mais la compétition les ramène à l’ordre. C’est justement cette compétition qui fait que nous pouvons trouver des prix raisonnables. Sinon, nous serions pris avec eux comme nous le sommes avec les compagnies pétrolières.

Faire voter une loi, sachons que les lois ne sont pas toujours à l’avantage du consommateur mais plutôt à l’avantage de l’entreprise. Tournons-nous encore une fois vers les cies pétrolières, elles ont fait voter une loi, celle de ne pouvoir baisser le prix mais de le monter comme bon leur semble et c’est pourquoi le gouvernement à embarquer à 200%, il y fait plus de taxes. L’essence devrait se vendre aux alentours de .65 sous le litre et encore, aujourd’hui il est à 79.9 à Montréal. Donc, le voyage à $1, 500 pourrait avec une loi être à $2, 000 pour plaire à l’industrie et à nos chers gouvernements!

Serge

Extrait de mon premier ... et dernier essai d'écriture de voyage.

C'était lors de mes premiers pas dans l'Atlas marocain ... il y a fort longtemps.

Entre ces lignes à la syntaxe hésitante et leur parution ici, je suis retourné une vingtaine de fois dans l'Atlas. C'est dire la sympathie que j'éprouve pour ce milieu ...

Ne me demandez pas pourquoi je ne me lasse pas de ce milieu au point d'y retourner régulièrement et parfois sur de longs mois. Il y a autre chose en plus de la diversité et la beautée de ces paysages (tout n'est pas cailloux et poussière comme le secteur parcouru ces jours là) et de l'extrème sympathie et gentillesse de la population berbère de l'Atlas, une vibration interne, dès que je foule ces sentiers, que je ne saurais décrire .

Si d'aucuns veulent sortir des sentiers atlastiques trop fréquentés par les "treks-Opérators" et guides locaux, faites moi signe. Je me ferai un plaisir de vous donner des infos sur une vallée très attachante.

- --

( ... ) ANERGUI- Ayt Khoya

Maison de la famille Fouzal.

La nuit est douce, sans lune. Si j’en crois les ronflements qui s’élèvent jusqu’à la terrasse, mes hôtes sont déjà dans les bras de Morphée. Du petit lait, du pain, du thé, des amandes offerts avant leur coucher, une lanterne pour éclairer la suite des traces écrites de ce périple atlastique, le décor est planté.

Anergui, un endroit où l'on va... et non un endroit où l'on passe ! Depuis Ouaouizerth, la vallée est uniquement accessible à pied ou à dos de mulet. Un isolement qui préserve ce petit havre de quiétude et de fraîcheur, tapi au pied d’une falaise en forme parfaite de fer à cheval, dominée par les 3243 mètres du djebel Mourik. On y vit à l’écart des grandes voies de passage, dans la terre, de la terre, adaptant ses besoins à ses maigres richesses, et laissant couler lentement les jours gais ou tristes que verse la volonté divine.

Quelques très rares passes dans des éboulis en pans inclinés, boisés sommairement de chênes verts, permettent de franchir ce rempart continu, formé par un colossal mouvement orogénique. L’itinéraire d’accès le plus court passe par Tillouguitte, Tamga et Tizi n’Ouanergui. C’est celui que nous avons emprunté avant hier avec Mohammed. Une belle dizaine d’heures de marche étaient prévues au départ de Tillouguitte. En nous faisant déposer par un camion avant le pont de Tamga nous avons évité la piste poussiéreuse, gagné trois heures et entamé une marche d’approche du col bien agréable le long de la rivière Ahensal, à l’ombre des pins d’Alep.

Cinq petits hameaux, quelques maisons individuelles éparses et igherman, les “greniers fortifiés familiaux “, toujours construit sur les pentes pour une protection indispensable contre les crues, mais aussi par besoin vital de réserver à la culture la plus petite parcelle disponible, forment l'habitat des Ayt Anergui.

Tout au fond du creuset une manne permanente en provenance d'Imilchil et du plateau des lacs arrose par séguias interposées les cultures de la vallée. L’Assif Melloul, la “rivière blanche”, serpente dans le relief, trouve la faille à l’ouest et évite l’obstacle Mourik. Nous sommes à 1500 mètres. L’altitude n’autorise pas les palmiers, mais une agriculture de subsistance et, les bonnes années, le minimum alimentaire: blé, orge, maïs et aussi des noyers, des amandiers, pêchers, pommiers et quelques légumes.

Le final en beauté de mon errance atlastique était vaguement prévu dans les gorges du Dades ou du Thodra. Depuis Thinerir ou Boulmane n’Dades, la fascinante place Djmâa el Fna et les souks de Marrakech, à peine entrevus lors de mon arrivée, ne sont plus qu’à une journée de bus ! Mais il me faut d’abord atteindre le versant sud du massif. Depuis Anergui il y a de nombreux itinéraires pour rejoindre Boulmane. Toutefois, pour un étranger à ce milieu, le plus sûr et plus court chemin pour atteindre les versants sud – 3 jours au rythme d’un roumi porteur de sac à dos – est la grande piste muletière foulée régulièrement par les commerçants qui se rendent du souk es Sebt deM’semrirau souk el Khemis d’Anergui, et inversement. J’y trouverais toujours du monde et de l’aide en cas de besoin.

C’était l’option retenue à mon arrivée dans cette vallée. Mais au « thé-apéritif » de midi, j’ai vite deviné que le roumi, moi en l’occurrence, devenait sujet de délibération entre Mohammed, son père et son oncle.

Pendant le tagine la discussion a marqué une pause. C’est qu’ici on parle peu en mangeant. Le plat étant commun à tous les convives, celui qui parle trop … mange moins.

Au « thé-digestif », entre deux claquements de langue marquant son approbation sur la qualité du breuvage, Mohammed m’a proposé de m’accompagner sur une partie du trajet. Le mulet de son cousin porterait les bagages. J’ai bien sûr accepté. On ne fait pas la fine bouche devant une proposition qui dispense du portage de dix sept kilos de sac à dos. Et puis, après réflexion, vu qu’en plus du mulet je pouvais bénéficier aussi des services d’un fonctionnaire près à se dégourdir les jambes dans les montagnes de son enfance, pourquoi ne pas se lancer sur des sentiers moins "battus" ?

La description de Kousser et des conditions de vie des éleveurs sur ces terres ingrates rapportées hier par Mohammed, m’avait déjà mis l’eau à la bouche … et la carte sous les yeux. J’ai ainsi pu observer que la traversée de ce plateau pouvait, en deux jours, mener à Zawiat Ahensal. De là il est encore possible, par un petit crochet de deux jours suplémentaires, de rejoindre M’semrir. Rien d’insurmontable somme toute car je me sens en jambes. Cependant mon manque de connaissance du milieu, et cette grande (! ! !) sagesse qui m’habite m’interdisaient de me lancer seul sur cet itinéraire incertain. Mais après la proposition de Mohammed, la donne était différente. S’il voulait bien m’accompagner jusqu’à Zawiat Ahensal au lieu de la vallée d’Imdrhas, l’occasion était à saisir !

Au « thé-apéritif » du soir, je leur ai fait ma nouvelle proposition d'itinéraire. Pendant que nos doigts prenaient peu à peu la délicate teinte rouge safranée de la sauce tagine la discussion a cessé, comme il se doit, mais quatre verres de « thé-digestif » doivent aider à la réflexion car au dernier la décision était prise .

« Mohammed t’accompagnera jusqu’à Zawia, et au-delà si tu veux ».

Le père avait parlé, l’oncle approuvait et Mohammed traduisait. La sécurité d’un étranger sur les terres de la tribu est aussi affaire de son hôte.

Ce qui était dit devait être fait.

Il est plus de minuit, nous partons tout à l'heure à six heures...

Est-ce bien raisonnable ?

TAGHIA

Mon intention de passer ce hameauet de poser bivouac dans Bou Ighaln après avoir franchi le Jbel Timghazine, était-elle trop matinale ? En tous cas elle n’a pas su résister à l’appel de la petite plate-forme herbeuse qui domine la rivière à l’entrée des gorges. Me voilà à l’abri d’une éventuelle crue. Ce serait con de me retrouver à l’entrée de Zawia à trois heures du matin flottant sur mon karimat.

C’était le dernier conseil de Mohammed avant de nous séparer ce matin. Ne pas se fier à une météo, aussi clémente soit-elle au moment d’installer un bivouac. Un orage arrive vite, et la crue qui s’en suit peut-être dévastatrice, surtout à la sortie de telles gorges.

Mohammed a rebroussé chemin ce matin après que nous ayons passé la nuit à Zawia Ahensal chez un ami de son père. Il compte refaire en une journée la montée à Kousser et sa traversée. Un trajet qui nous a demandé deux belles journées de marche à l’aller. Il faut dire que lui montera sur le mulet sur la quasi totalité de l’itinéraire, ce qu’il n’a sans doute pas osé faire quand nous étions ensemble et que je tenais absolument à marcher.

C’est donc la reprise de mon aventure solitaire dans ces montagnes. Avec des provisions pour trois jours, un ravitaillement possible à Oussikis, des semelles en bon état et un moral à toute épreuve, c’est plus qu’il n’en faut pour atteindre Boulmane n’Dades.

J’ai bien aimé la ballade de ce matin depuis la Zawia . Trois heures de promenade bucolique le long de la petite rivière qui se jette plus bas dans l’assif Ahensal à travers vergers et parcelles cultivées d’orge ou peut-être de blé, je ne sais pas comment les différencier, ont suffit pour rejoindre les maisons de terre rouge de Taghia. Et puis il y a eu les falaises vertigineuses qui font face au village, et dans lesquelles je me vois déjà accroché avec mes potes grimpeurs, la transparence de l’eau, la proximité des vergers le vert profond des petites terrasses étagées sur les pentes soulignées de coquelicots et puis cette petite place herbeuse, là entre le village et les gorges, et loin la-bas le col que je devais franchir. Cela vaut bien l’octroi d’une demi-journée de contemplation.

Sieste, promenade dans les gorges et toilette complète dans la rivière, ont donc remplacé avantageusement la programmation du départ. La rivière charrie beaucoup de bois et le plaisir de la veillée autour du feu de bivouac, non encore éprouvé dans ces montagnes, est si grand que je laisse filer sereinement les heures habituellement dédiées au sommeil réparateur.

Qu’il est doux de pouvoir gérer son temps et son rythme ! On en a si peu l’occasion dans notre vie "speedée" de citadin européen qu’il ne faut pas négliger l’opportunité. Je ne m’accorderai cependant de fantaisies qu’avec l’emploi du temps. L’itinéraire conseillé par mon hôte de la veille sera suivi à la lettre. Du moins en ai-je l’intention au moment où j’écris. Sans guide ni topo, les points de passage principaux que m’a indiqué notre hôte d’hier soir ne seront peut-être pas si évidents à trouver. Surtout si comme cela semble être le cas, au-delà du col je retrouve un terrain similaire à Kousser, sans points de repères et des traces multiples de déplacements de troupeaux qui partent dans tous les sens. Quel contraste entre les vallées comme Anergui et Zawia Ahensal où les dépôts alluvionnaires et la volonté des hommes à travailler la terre en font de fertiles oasis de montagne, et la désolation minérale de Kousser !

Ce plateau d’altitude présente des signes inquiétants de déboisement. Vaincue par le climat et les pasteurs acharnés à sa perte pour la survie de leurs troupeaux, la végétation est poussée dans ses derniers retranchements.

Au milieu des pierres, des buissons épineux et des squelettes difformes de leurs congénères, il ne résiste plus que quelques genévriers thuryfères centenaires. Pas d’eau autre que celle un peu croupie de deux sources misérables. Si elles m’ont inquiété au point d’y diluer quelques cachets d’hydroclonazone, elles doivent pourtant faire le bonheur des hommes et du bétail habitant cette austère contrée,

Pour un Franc-comtois, même d’adoption, qui n’a connu que les forêts vosgiennes et les verts pâturages alpins, le premier contact physique avec cette désolation minérale est impressionnant. Néanmoins ce milieu a pour moi quelque chose d’attirant. Je sais déjà que j’y reviendrai.

D’ici là il me reste à rejoindre Oussikis et Boulmane. Il est donc temps de trouver le sommeil.

Jbel Timghazine

Le soleil avait déjà franchi la crête quand j’ai ouvert la tente. La surprise n’est apparue que lorsque mes yeux se sont habituées à la belle luminosité matinale. Posés sur une pierre à coté du foyer, deux œufs frais et une petite galette d’orge attendaient patiemment mon réveil. Je doute que beaucoup de ²sans-abri² aient souvent fait la même trouvaille, en sortant de leurs cartons après une nuit sous les ponts de la Seine.

Après un petit déjeuner copieux, la cuisson des œufs pour la route et une toilette vivifiante dans l’eau glacée, j’ai entamé le sentier raide et sinueux dans les pentes du Jbel Timghazine sans avoir pu remercier mon mystérieux et généreux donateur.

Trois heures plus tard, dépouillé d’une grande partie de ma bonne forme matinale, je pose mon sac au pied d’un genévrier squelettique et centenaire. La vue quasi aérienne sur le village de Taghia explique les deux litres de sueur que je viens de laisser dans la pente. Plus au loin, en suivant les méandres de la rivière et les cultures en terrasses, apparaissent les silhouettes des magnifiques ksours des chorfas de Zawiat Ahensal déjà prisonnières de la brume de chaleur. De l’autre coté … premier aperçu sur les grandes pentes délavées des contreforts sud de cet Atlas oriental. La traversée de Kousser n’aurait-elle été qu’une misérable mise en jambes avant l’exil de pierres, terre et poussière qui se présente en contrebas ?

J’ai vidé une gourde mais l’autre est presque pleine. C’est suffisant pour une petite soupe ce soir et un café demain matin, mais tiendra-t-elle jusqu’au bivouac si je ne trouve rien d’autre à boire cet après-midi ? Par mesure de précaution, je commence à mettre en pratique la technique du moissonneur en période de ramadan : le petit cailloux dans la bouche qui aide à saliver. Tant qu’il reste de la salive !

J’ai admiré une dernière fois l’imposant massif du Jbel Aroudane qui domine Zawiat Ahensal, en me promettant d’en faire le tour lors d’une prochaine virée. Après avoir bien ajusté le sac à dos sur les épaules et serré la ceinture ventrale, je me suis lancé dans la pente en courant. Bien imprudent quand j’y pense maintenant !

En perpétuelle recherche de l’équilibre perdu sur les pierres qui roulaient sous les semelles, j’ai dévalé, les quatre cents mètres de dénivelé. Quand j’ai repris pied sur la terre ferme j’ai eu l’impression d’être encore poussé par mon élan. Pendant longtemps encore la foulée est restée longue et alerte. Curieusement, la petite angoisse que j’avais eue en voyant ce qui m’attendait depuis le col avait totalement disparue. J’éprouvais au contraire une très agréable sensation de liberté qui semblait stimuler mes capacités physiques mises à mal dans la sévère ascension matinale. Pourtant Oussikis était encore bien loin, quelque part là-bas vers le sud-est, au bout de cette trace qui semblait ne mener nulle part ailleurs que dans les cailloux et la poussière,

Rappel que la demi-douzaine de figues sèches et la barre énergétique avalées au col manquent de sucres lents, le rythme a faibli vers le milieu de l’après-midi. Dans le même temps mes épaules me faisaient savoir qu’elles auraient plaisir à être soulagées quelques minutes. Il était temps d’alléger mon sac à dos d’une boite de sardines et une ou deux tartines de « Vache qui rit », le seul fromage -mais est-ce bien du fromage ?- trouvé au souk d’Anergui.

J’étais plongé dans ces pensées sans grande teneur philosophique, quand j’ai eu la frousse de la décennie !

Ils couraient dans ma direction et m’ont cloué sur place. Le palpitant à cent quarante, les poils au garde à vous et la sueur gelée sur le front, j’ai ramassé deux parpaings pour le premier qui dépasserait le périmètre de sécurité … si j’en avais le temps !

Les deux chiens galeux se sont arrêtés à quatre ou cinq mètres de moi en grognant et aboyant tous crocs dehors. En une fraction de seconde j’ai revu toute cette scène du film ²La guerre du feu², quand les trois héros pourchassés par des lions passent la nuit sur un arbre avec les fauves à leurs pieds.

Certes je n’avais pas à faire à des lions, mais je n’avais pas non plus de genévrier sous la main. Le dernier tronc contre lequel je m’étais appuyé était là-haut sur le col !

Il m’a semblé un peu puéril d’essayer de les amadouer en leur racontant cette histoire drôle, et j’ai opté pour la fermeté. Je m’apprêtais à casser les dents du premier quand …

Zorro est arrivé éhéééé ! ! ! ! ! !

Non, je délire. C’est l’émotion du souvenir ! Ou le soleil et l’altitude. Je ne sais pas.

D’abord sur ma gauche, deux claquements coup sur coup, secs et très brefs ont retenti. Puis il y a eu les sifflements et la poussière soulevée par les impacts entre moi et les chiens. La hausse était ajustée. Deux autres cailloux sont tombés. L’un entre les deux horreurs, l’autre a atteint sa cible. Kaïkaïkaï, faisait celle qui courait en boitant, tandis que l’autre reculait, mais toujours en aboyant.

Mes mollets devaient leur salut à la descendance berbère de Thierry La Fronde !

Deux jeunes garçons m’ont rejoint. Ils m’ont dévisagé avec la curiosité que je pourrai montrer le jour de ma rencontre avec un petit homme vert.

- Salamaleikoum.

- Salamaleikoum ... (Silence) Mani abrid n’Oussikis ?

Tilla taghbalout ? »

Comme j’ai longuement travaillé la prononciation de cette formule -la première que j’ai apprise dans ces montagnes pour éviter que l’on retrouve un jour un petit tas d’os de roumi à coté de son sac à dos- ils ont compris tout de suite.

Oui, c’était bien le chemin d’Oussikis mais au geste de la main, j’ai compris que je n’étais pas encore rendu ! Oui, il y avait bien une source dans les parages et ils se proposaient de m’y emmener. Le plus âgé m’a fait signe de le suivre tandis que son petit compère s’en allait retrouver le troupeau, accompagné par les chiens qui ne semblaient pas très rancuniers.

Etonnant ! A cinq minutes de l’endroit de notre rencontre, derrière un monticule sur lequel quelques petites chèvres noires et trois dromadaires broutaient des cailloux, deux tentes et une belle combe verdoyante signalaient la présence de l’eau. Me voilà prévenu, inutile de sucer des petits cailloux avant de m’être assuré qu’il n’y a pas de crottes de biques dans un rayon de cinq kilomètres. Qui dit biquette, dit forcément taghbalout.

Mon jeune sauveur m’a prié de m’asseoir sous la première tente. Il a allumé les branches sèches d’un buisson, et posé dans les flammes une bouilloire noire de suie. Pendant que l’eau chauffait, il est allé jusqu’à l’autre tente. Quelques instants plus tard, il en revenait avec une fille portant baluchon sur le dos. Un baluchon braillard dérangé dans sa sieste par la visite d’un fâcheux.

Une fois de plus, j’ai pu mesurer le sacré de l’hospitalité de ces montagnards. Un roumi passe, comme passe un commerçant, un nomade ou un fquih. Leurs ventres sont peut-être vides et ils ont besoin de forces et de repos pour continuer leur chemin ; alors on se doit de partager sa pitance, fusse-t-elle maigre, et son toit.

Mon ventre était vide, en effet, mais pas mon sac à dos !

Je me serais contenté d’une petite halte à la source, le temps d’avaler mes deux œufs durs et une boite de sardines à la tomate, mais dehors, la fille s’activait déjà. Quand j’ai réalisé, il était trop tard. L’eau tiède coulait dans le puits de farine. Une pierre plate avait remplacé la bouilloire sur les braises et attendait la pâte que malaxaient déjà des mains expertes.

Le garçon a fini la préparation du thé et a servi un verre de thé. Un seul.

Soudain je me suis rappelé. Que faire ? Que dire ? Envahi d’une gêne terrible je regardais le verre posé devant moi. Je n’y avais encore pas touché que déjà la fille tendait la galette brûlante au garçon.

Eux qui n’avaient pas mangé depuis l’aube et suceraient leur soif jusqu’au soleil disparu, m’offraient du thé et me cuisaient du pain alors que c’était le ramadan !

Il a coupé la galette en quatre. Il a posé les morceaux à coté du verre sur le papier bleu qui ici emballe les pains de sucre et m’a invité à manger. Bismillah, baraka Allah illik. Dans ces circonstances je ne sais rien dire d’autre. J’ai bu et j’ai mangé pendant qu’ils me regardaient en souriant.

Qu’Allah, puisque vous y croyez, vous le rende au centuple.

Au moment de les quitter, il m’a encore prié de prendre le pain qui restait. J’ai sorti un des deux œufs, une boite de sardines, une poignée d’amandes et deux portions de ²Vache qui rit². J’ai laissé le tout sur une pierre à coté du foyer et je suis parti.

Je n’avais pas encore rejoint la trace où nous nous étions rencontrés, quand le garçon m’a rattrapé. De son propos je n’ai compris que ²Taghbalout², mais c’était suffisantje partais sans refaire le plein de ma gourde ! Nous sommes revenus vers le campement. A ma surprise, au lieu d’aller à la source nous nous sommes dirigés vers l’autre tente où il m’a une fois encore, invité à m’asseoir.

La fille et le bébé emmailloté étaient là. Elle, un beau sein à l’air, mais qui ne m’était pas destiné, lui visiblement affamé s’y accrochait avidement. Devant ma réticence à m’asseoir de nouveau, mon sauveur à la fronde me montre quelque chose à l’extrémité de la dépression. Une silhouette féminine en amazone sur un baudet s’éloignait dans les reliefs du terrain. J’ai compris qu’il avait envoyé une autre femme chercher de l’eau à la source et … qu’il était inutile d’insister ! Je n’avais plus qu’à partager leur natte en attendant qu’elle revienne, et à laisser filer mes pensées en direction de cette jolie et souriante jeune mère qui, sans aucune gêne devant moi, allaitait son enfant.

Qui prétend que les femmes berbères sont farouches face aux étrangers ?

L’heure tournait et j’attendais avec impatience le retour de ma chercheuse d’eau pour reprendre la route. J’ai prétexté une cigarette que je ne voulais pas fumer en leur présence et je suis sorti de la tente pour regarder dans la direction où je l’avais vu s’éloigner. Il n’y avait personne sur le chemin. Avisant que la source était peut-être plus éloignée que je ne croyais, je me suis avancé un peu sur la trace.

J’ai repensé à ce marchand de Marrakech qui me disait il y a quelques jours : « Roumi, quand tu arrives au Maroc jette ta magana. ». Un fonctionnaire d’Anergui m’a bien reconfirmé plus tard que, dans ce milieu, il est bon de « savoir se patienter », mais que voulez vous, il est des vieux démons dont on a du mal à se débarrasser !

Le jeune m’a rejoint et entraîné à l’écart du chemin. Je ne comprenais plus rien car il insistait pour monter sur un petit promontoire à l’écart du chemin. Depuis le sommet de la bosse, j’avais une belle vue rétrospective sur le chemin parcouru depuis le col et surtout, après que le garçon m’ait montré au loin, très loin, la petite chaîne que je devais encore franchir, j’ai mieux apprécié le chemin qu’il me restait à couvrir ! C’est pour cela qu’il m’a entraîné là-haut. Gestes et petits dessins dans la terre à l’appui, j’ai fini par comprendre que les bergers de ce secteur atteignent Oussikis en une journée et que, chargé comme j’étais, ce serait une grosse bavante. Alors il m’invitait à passer la nuit chez lui.

Derrière le petit massif, après le Tizi n’Idikel, il y a selon le garçon des sources et d’autres campements. Mais d’ici là …

Voilà pourquoi je vais passer ma première nuit sous une tente de nomades et que j’ai eu largement le temps de faire ce résumé de la journée.

AQQA N’WAROUGHOULT

Hier, comme pour m’aider à soigner mon impatience, la femme, l’âne et les bidons ne sont revenus qu’en fin d’après midi. Trois heures pour le plein d’eau et l’aller-retour.

Et quel plein ! Un jerrican de 25 litres dans un panier du chouari, cinq anciens bidons d’huile Lesieur dans l’autre panier pour équilibrer, quatre autres bidons, plus petits pendus de chaque coté et, trois dans un drap savamment enroulé sur les épaules de la p’tite dame ! Soit quelques soixante dix litres d’eau. Visiblement elle ne doit pas avoir envie d’y retourner tous les jours...

Quatre heures de l’après-midi. Le corps est enfin au repos.

Ce matin, avant de prendre congé de mes hôtes, j’ai mis ma montre hors de portée dans une boite au fond du sac. Promis madame, je ne la ressortirai que la veille du départ. J’ai bien retenu la leçon, mais comprenez moi aussi… j’ai un avion à prendre !

Au-delà des difficultés gastriques de la nuit passée, je réalise finalement la chance que j’ai eu hier en croisant deux molosses galeux intéressés par mes dodus mollets. Il m’eût fallu sucer beaucoup de petits cailloux pour parvenir à préserver l’eau nécessaire au bivouac du soir. Certes ils sont légion dans les parages, mais pour la soif, j’avoue préférer quelque chose de moins solide !

Au départ de ce matin, mes jambes étaient plus lourdes à traîner que le sac à dos. Il m’a fallu les ménager en adoptant le rythme lent d’un arthrosé de la hanche (avec tout le respect que je porte pour les malheureux qui souffrent de ce mal). Malgré le manque de point d’ombre pour une petite sieste réparatrice, j’ai atteint sans trop de dommage les campements de l’aqqa n’ waroughoult.

Heureusement, je n’ai pas eu de difficultés de ²navigation². La trace à suivre était simple : Trois heures plein sud jusqu’au pied de la petite barrière repérée la veille avec Mustapha et qui paraissait ne jamais se rapprocher, une heure et demi de montée sur un chemin inconfortable et heureusement pas trop abrupt, autant de descente pour franchir l’obstacle et laisser définitivement derrière moi, du moins je l’espère, cet immense champ de cailloux.

J’ai installé ma tente à distance respectable du campement, rencontré les femmes à la source, et refusé poliment aux maris alertés du passage d’un étranger, l’invitation à manger et dormir sous leur khaïmas. Il faut dire que je ne tiens pas plus que cela à repartager une nuit de ramadan dans les mêmes conditions que la précédente !

Malgré les chants et les rythmes des taadlount, j’ai trouvé un peu longue la moitié de la nuit passée à manger de la bouillie d’orge au beurre rance, à tremper du pain dans l’huile d’olive et à boire des litres de thé sucré à en achever un diabétique. Interminable aussi l’autre moitié de la nuit dédiée à renvoyer, par différents orifices opposés, ce que mon organisme refusait obstinément de garder ; c’est à dire la totalité de ce que j’avais avalé.

A qui la faute ? La fatigue ? Non. Hier, j’étais très loin d’un tel épuisement. Un coup de soleil ? Je n’en ai jamais attrapé de ma vie et j’ai connu des expositions plus dures que ce printemps berbère. L’huile d’olive ? J’ai déjà eu souvent l’occasion les jours précédents d’y tremper le pain et les doigts et j’aime bien. L’eau ? Ah …peut-être. Que reste-t-il ? Le beurre rance !

Le beurre … l’eau ? L’eau ou ce putain de beurre rance ? Je ne pose pas longtemps la question et désigne coupable ce dernier. En total accord avec moi même, je vote unanimement sa suppression de mon régime des jours à venir. Il doit certainement être délicieux pour un palais averti et assimilable par un organisme entraîné à ce type d’agression, mais cela ne m’ emballe plus que ça. Surtout, je pourrai m’en passer plus facilement que d’une eau, même croupie, dans laquelle il est toujours possible de tremper quelques cachets d’hydroclonazone en cas de doute.

Voilà pourquoi, sans pouvoir l’expliquer, j’ai tout à l’heure refusé, avec le sourire, l’hospitalité berbère. Ils ont dû me prendre pour un sauvage ingrat.

OUSSIKIS

Le dos bien calé contre un tronc de peuplier au bord de la rivière, le verre de thé à porté de main, la gamelle sur le feu et les doigts de pied en bouquet de violettes, je me demande finalement si ce que j’aime dans la randonnée ce n’est pas surtout l’après randonnée…

Je repense à ma divine surprise au réveil après la longue nuit réparatrice dans les pâturages de l’aqqa n’ waroughoult.

Deux petits sourires timides ont accueilli la tête hirsute qui venait de quitter les bras de Morphée. Assises sagement non loin de ma tente, deux gamines attendaient patiemment mon réveil pour m’offrir l’éternelle et excellente galette d’orge cuite à la pierre. Les parents visiblement ne m’ont pas tenu rigueur du refus de leur hospitalité hier après-midi.

La forme retrouvée, du pain encore tiède pour mon petit déjeuner, et la perspective d’être à M’semrir ce soir, la journée commençait mieux que la veille. Les deux barres de céréales énergétiques que je leur ai tendues et ma dernière orange ont prestement disparu dans le fichu en laine que l’une d’elles portait sur son dos. A voir leurs mines réjouies, les mômes n’ont pas semblé mécontentes de l’échange. Les petits cabris malingres dont elles ont la garde non plus tant ils mordaient à belles dents les derniers morceaux du premier des trois pains que je porte depuis la Zawia.

Les fillettes sont restées là jusqu’à mon départ. Redevenues espiègles, ne ratant pas un de mes gestes, elles les commentaient en sourdine comme si elles craignaient que je comprenne leurs propos. Elles m’ont ensuite suivi pendant un moment, poussant les cabris devant elles en leur jetant des cailloux et force petits cris, certainement du langage caprin que je serais bien incapable d’imiter

Comme la plupart des traces utilisées par les bergers dans ces montagnes, celle qui à usé les semelles de mes chaussures aujourd’hui n’est pas indiquée sur la carte ; aussi, après un rapide coup d’œil pour estimer le temps et le chemin qu’il restait à parcourir, n’ai-je pas jugé utile ce matin de la garder à portée de main. Devant mon quart en fer blanc, l’itinéraire était évident : suivre la déclinaison de l’aqqa n’ waroughoult jusqu’à son ouverture sur le plateau d’Oussikis.

Le pas était allègre ; et délectable la sensation d’être beaucoup plus gaillard que la veille. Une bonne nuit sans beurre rance, du pain frais, quelques tapis herbeux, une belle source suivie d’un petit, mais bien sympathique ru, et les sourires féminins croisés dans cet agréable vallon ont suffi à rendre débordante l’énergie nécessaire à ce début de journée : je serais à Oussikis au pire dans le milieu de l’après-midi.

De l’optimisme il en faut, bien sûr, mais point trop. Avec lui s’installe l’insouciance. La suite m’a démontré que je péchais par excès.

Il était plus de midi et, au rythme suivi, le paysage aurait déjà du changer. Or je naviguais encore dans de grands méandres, entre des bosses caillouteuses piquées ça et là de tirlist, et zébrées de centaines de traces. Mais de troupeau oualouet de bergers non plus, qui pouvaient m’en dire un peu plus sur ma situation géographique. En pensant à ce petit filet d’eau qui disparaissait de temps en temps dans les accidents du terrain pour ressurgir plusieurs centaines de mètres plus loin, j’ai gravi un de ces promontoires pour avoir une vue plus dominante et réconfortante, du moins je l’espérais, de la suite des événements. J’aurais du m’inquiéter quand il n’a plus refait surface. La disparition des marques de fer à mulet, dans les dizaines de traces de nos amis caprins aurait du m’alarmer également. J’aurais pu aussi me soucier des petites variations observées sur la nature du terrain, mais que j’avais mises sur le compte d’une lecture matinale et (trop ?) rapide de la carte.

Si j’avais …

Mais avec des "si" il paraît qu’on peut mettre Lutèce en amphore. Je me suis dit que j’essaierais une autre fois. Ce n’était pas mon souci du moment. J’ai remplacé les lamentations par une boite de sardines à la tomate et au piment, les deux dernières portions de « vache qui rit », une barre énergétique et deux belles gorgées d’eau presque fraîche.

Les pensées sont plus claires quand on a le ventre plein et la vue s’améliore, c’est chose bien connue ! Oussikis était là. Je devrais dire là-bas. Il n’y avait pas d’erreur, M’semrir était derrière. Le seul problème étant que ma boussole me faisait gentiment remarquer que je regardais vers l’Ouest.

Je l’ai cru sur parole, elle n’a jamais menti. Cela voulait dire que j’avais largement dérivé vers l’Est ! Il ne restait plus alors à répondre à une question. Allais-je faire demi-tour jusqu’à retomber sur l’endroit où j’avais quitté le vallon principal, ou rectifier le cap depuis ma salle à manger et filer droit par monts et par vaux ? L’expression prenant là tout son sens.

Toujours prêt pour de nouvelles aventures, j’ai été tenté par les vaux et les monts. Mais combien de ces derniers aurais-je eu à franchir jusqu’à retrouver la piste muletière invisible au fond des premiers? J’ai donc opté pour une "retraite positive" et à l’heure où j’écris je me félicite de la sagesse du choix.

Une heure plus tard, je retrouvais des traces de mulet et mon filet d’eau cabotin. Au loin, deux formes vagues fréquentaient la même trace que j’avais suivie le matin. Dans sa progression, l’une d’elles s’est dédoublé, un peu comme la très fameuse histoire des petits pains il y a une vingtaine de siècles. Rapidement les trois formes prenaient l’apparence d’un tri pattes et deux quadrupèdes. C’était finalement deux baudets menés au bâton, et sans ménagement, par un monsieur sans âge ... et sans dents ; du moins sur le devant. Je n’ai pas eu l’occasion d’approfondir l’inspection. L’état du burnous témoignait de la difficulté des conditions de vie du propriétaire. La peau de son visage était plus tannée et craquelée que celle qui dépassait du chouari d’un des petits ânes et il était aussi sec qu’un Justin Bridou. Pardon, la comparaison pouvant paraître mal placée pour un musulman, sec comme son bâton de berger, me semble une comparaison plus appropriée. Il était chaussé de deux morceaux de pneu, Good Year peut-être, mais je le jurerais pas. Entre les lanières de cuir qui maintenaient cette originale, mais certainement très efficace protection, débordaient de robustes appendices, noirs, tordus et crevassés. Ils devaient, à une autre époque, ressembler à des orteils.

A en juger par la vitesse à laquelle je me suis fait rejoindre, la forme physique de l’ensemble ne semble toutefois pas souffrir des apparences !

« B’jou M’ssiou ». Il ne s’est pas mis au garde à vous, mais la main portée rapidement à hauteur de son turban révélait la récente "pacification" effectuée dans ces montagnes par les militaires français. De la phrase qui a suivi son salut, je n’ai compris que barda et arioul. Mais ce fut suffisant pour que j’accepte l’invitationà soulager mes frêles épaules. Sans demander aux baudets, déjà passablement chargés, lequel acceptait de porter le sac à dos, mon énergique papy a chargé le plus petit, certainement le plus robuste. En matière de baudet j’ai pensé que je pouvais lui faire confiance et ne me suis pas opposé au choix. Comme quoi, encore une fois, il ne faut jamais se fier aux apparences !

Finalement, même si je traînais encore sur les sentiers à l’heure où je devais faire la sieste au bord de la rivière, je ne m’en suis pas trop mal sorti sur ce coup là. Trois heures, malheureusement sans beaucoup d’échanges possibles, ont suffit pour rejoindre Oussikis.

( .... )

Vacances de pâques, avril 2000. Tout d'abord une semaine de croisière. Nous étions un groupe de 20 personnes. En attendant le passage de l'écluse d'Esna, nous avons été distraits par des vendeurs en barques qui s'arrêtent le long des bateaux de touristes et envoient leur marchandise (nappes et djellabas) par-dessus bord. Original... Première visite pour le temple de Philae à Assouan. Ah ! Belle Isis, que ton destin fut tragique mais grandiose ! Notre guide nous a raconté son histoire grâce à un petit jeu de rôle. Passage par le haut barrage - impressionnant ! et par la carrière où gît toujours l'obélisque inachevé d'Hatshepsout . Bizarre de se dire qu'il y a 3500 ans qu'il existe et de penser aux ouvriers qui se sont échinés longtemps pour rien, que dalle ! Après-midi, départ en felouque pour la visite du jardin botanique de l'île Kitchener, escortés par des enfants en barquette propulsée à force d'huile de bras, qui nous chantent" Il était un petit navire" et se réjouissent de recevoir quelques bics en cadeau... Lendemain petit matin, départ en avion pour le site d'Abou Simbel. Tout simplement FABULEUX !!! Dans le grand temple, j'étais carrément 3250 ans en arrière, sur les traces de Ramsès et sa chère Néfertari (elle a eu de la chance d'être aimée au point de se voir dédier un si beau temple...) Dire qu'ils ont été creusés à même la roche et 3200 ans plus tard, démontés en 1036 blocs et remontés 64 mètres plus haut... Petit détour par la classique école de papyrus où l'on ne peut que se laisser tenter par une de ses créations que l'on pourrait croire d'époque pharaonique. Profitons du soleil sur le bateau pendant que l'on nous conduit à Kom Ombo où l'on visite le temple à la tombée de la nuit. Je crois que c'est le seul temple double : 2 divinités - Sobek et Haroeris - salle d'attente pour la visite du peuple au prêtre-médecin de l'époque et ses momies de crocodiles. Sur le bateau, soirée djellaba et dans les cabines, les stewards - tout le personnel est masculin - fabriquent des animaux à l'aide de serviettes de bain (crocodiles, singes etc)... super bien fait ! Départ en calèche pour le temple d'Edfou dédié à Horus, un des temples les mieux conservés car longtemps enfoui dans le sable. Ensuite navigation vers Esna où l'on visite le temple de Khnoum qui a gardé quelques jolies couleurs. Enfin LOUXOR et ses merveilles : Karnak (visite de jour et son et lumière le soir comme à Philae) où l'on se sent tout petit au milieu de la salle hypostyle avec ses 134 colonnes de 23 mètres, l'obélisque d'Hatshepsout ma reine préférée, le scarabée d'Aménophis III autour duquel les célibataires doivent tourner 7 fois pour trouver l'âme soeur, le lac sacré, la chapelle blanche dédiée surtout à Amon Min. Escapade à la bijouterie Radwan pour acheter un ankh, un cartouche et autres babioles. Temple de Louxor où subsiste une partie du dromos (allée de sphinx qui jadis le reliait à Karnak) Musée de Louxor qui recèle de vrais trésors, notamment une tête d'Akhenaton devant laquelle je suis restée pantoise. Etre ainsi face à face avec ce drôle de pharaon... troublant...Cinq heures du mat pour éviter les grosses chaleurs, direction la vallée des rois (tombes de Ramsès III, IX et Aménophis II - indescriptibles je vous renvoie aux illustrations) ; très jolies aussi les tombes dans la vallée des artisans, près des ruines du village de Deir el Medineh, peut-être les plus colorées, ainsi que la vallée des reines. Malheureusement, personne n'allait voir Néfertari et nous nous sommes seulement arrêtés devant le temple d'Hatshepsout sans le visiter. D'après notre guide, il est très abîmé à l'intérieur. Temple de millions d'années de Ramsès III à Medinet Abou et salutations aux colosses de Memnon ont clôturé cette croisière puis nous avons quitté le groupe.Repos bien mérité à l'hôtel Mövenpick sur l'île du crocodile à Louxor. Au bord du Nil, petits bungalows disséminés dans un jardin luxuriant, super piscine, navette gratuite pour le centre ville, couchers de soleil imprenables... Le paradis pendant 3 jours... Changement de décor : mégalopole du Caire - mais une guide rien que pour nous : citadelle de Salah al Din, mosquée du sultan Hassan, visite trop rapide au musée (masque d'or du roi Tout bien sûr incontournable et très émouvant- le contenu de sa tombe occupe tout le premier étage - Akhenaton et Néfertiti, Aménophis III et Tiyi, Khephren...) Pyramides de Gizeh avec leur gardien sphinx (impressionnant !). Je ne suis pas entrée dans la pyramide, j'ai préféré voir la barque solaire de Kheops découverte en 1955 (grandiose !). Memphis et son colosse couché de Ramsès II (il est vraiment partout !) Et pour terminer, la pyramide de Djoser et le temple de Saqqarah. Malheureusement, les plus belles choses ont une fin - et c'est le coeur lourd que je suis rentrée en Belgique car j'ignore si j'aurai encore la chance de retourner là-bas... Tout ce que j'ai vu dépassait de loin mes espérances les plus folles. Les Egyptiens malgré leur relative misère sont très souriants, accueillants, jamais pots de colle, et paraissent plus heureux que nous. Grâce à ce récit, j'ai pu un peu revivre 2 semaines idylliques. J'espère que la longueur de mon message ne vous a paru rébarbative et que ceux qui ont déjà visité l'Egypte ont pu retrouver des souvenirs ; quant à ceux qui n'y sont pas encore allés, ils puissent avoir eu un avant-goût de cette superbe aventure qu'ils vivront peut-être un jour.

Bonjour,

j'm'appelle Jérémie, je suis étudiant à Montpellier. Je pars au Togo cet été, au mois d'août. Après deux semaines de travaux bénévoles à Kpalimé, je souhaite découvrir les mystères du Togo. Je recherche donc quelques précieuses informations concernant des itinéraires de rando, des sites et paysages à découvrir. J'ai appris que les reserves naturelles n'étaient pas très fonctionnelles, est ce bien le cas?

Est ce que les récentes éléctions présidentielles n'empecheraient pas de s'aventurer dans certaines régions?

Voila si tu en connais quelquechose et que tu peux m'aider, réponds moi!

Merci d'avance😉

Bonjour,

Je voudrais savoir quel est le moyen le plus sûr, le plus agréable et le plus sécuritaire pour découvrir la Rép Dom?. Je ne veux pas les excursions organisées par les T.O ou clubs, souvent trop chères pour compenser ce qui leur a été perdu dans l'offre😠. le moyen le plus adéquat c'est de choisir un guide là bas, ou louer une voiture, ou prendre un Wah Wah et circuler seul, ou y a t il d'autres tuyaux?

Un grand Merci d'avance 😉,

Ciao,

kamal.

Bonjour!!!

Mes préparatifs tirent à leurs fins et je me pose une question essentielle...

Pour conduire leur Harley Davidson(scooter) est-ce que j'ai besoin d'apporter mon permis de conduire du Québec???🙂

BONJOUR !

J'aimerais discuter avec vous ici du grand nord ( Nunavik ) nouvelle région touristique du Québec. Pays des aurores boréales et du peuple inuit, cette région forte en paysage grandiose offre l'immensité avec ces quelques 507, 000 km carré de terrain habiter par 24, 000 personnes seulement.

Discutons sur la faune, la flore, les plus beaux endroits a visiter, le cratère du nouveau Québec, vos expériences sur le terrain, les coutumes encestrales, la migration du plus grand migrateur au monde le caribou, la peche et ces interminables ressources, ou se documenté sur le Nunavik, vos photos, etc...

Au plaisir de vous lire !

A bientot !!

Bonjour eclairer ma lanterne s.v.p je voudrais avoir des info sur le Venezuela ou aller quel hotel et surtout ca vaut tu vraiment la peine apres avoir ete en republique a Punta Cana ?

Merci Jessy

🚐 Ford Transit 2.4 TDCi 2000, 90 HP, RWD, 295,000 km

Chain-driven engine, robust, low fuel consumption: 9L/100km, 10L/100km on rough terrain/high altitude

French registration plate—much easier for crossing borders and reselling the vehicle in another country.

Engine maintenance 🔥⚙️ Engine oil change + filters at 287,000 km (filters in stock for next oil change) Accessory belt tensioner pulley at 245,000 km Vacuum pump at 220,000 km Accessory belt at 220,000 km 2 accessory belt pulleys at 274,000 km Fulmen 12V 77Ah 760A battery (09/23) Isotech 2.1kW starter (09/23) Injector seals in stock Alternator at 283,000 km

Transmission Gearbox oil change at 256,000 km Clutch kit at 284,000 km Clutch master cylinder at 196,000 km Driveshaft bearing at 196,000 km Driveshaft inspection + replacement of one universal joint at 230,000 km

Front axle: Wheel bearings at 278,250 km Suspension ball joint at 274,000 km Ceramic brake pads at 235,000 km (pads in stock) Control arm bushings at 210,000 km Suspension arm bushings at 276,000 km Brake discs at 196,000 km Shock absorbers, springs, mounts at 278,250 km Replacement of steering pre-cap arm at 274,000 km Right suspension link at 276,000 km Replacement of steering fluid leak seal at 276,000 km Stabilizer bar bushings at 279,000 km

Rear axle: Replacement of shock absorbers at 278,250 km Leaf spring bushings at 235,000 km Bearing seals + wheel bearing seals at 235,000 km Brake linings at 215,000 km (checked at 278,250 km—OK)

Photo records of all maintenance in South America

4 HiFly Super 2000 tires (274,000 km) + 1 spare wheel (50% tread) + 1 tire (50% tread)

Full conversion completed May 2022 🏠

Former isothermal vehicle, excellent insulation—fully fiberglass interior, no thermal bridging Bed: 190x140 cm, 20 cm thick comfortable mattress (2 duvets—winter and summer), pillows 💧 Clean water: 30L + 40L with 12V submersible pump 🔋 Full-black PERC 230W solar panel 150Ah carbon-lead AGM deep-cycle battery Victron 75/15 MPPT charge controller Victron 12/12/18A DC/DC charger Victron battery protector BM800 battery monitor + shunt 500W Dometic 220V inverter (for blender, 220V fan, etc.) ❄️ 40L 12V compressor fridge ☀️ Autoterm Air 2D diesel heater + comfort control + 4,600m altitude kit (home-like comfort) 🔥 3-burner gas stove + 9kg gas bottle (3 months of autonomy for daily cooking) Sink Roof vent with 12V extractor/fan LED lighting 220V outlet + USB ports Numerous storage spaces Large-volume trunk: skis, paragliding gear, climbing equipment, toolbox, accessories... Spare wheel rack + 4x 25L diesel jerry cans Dog bed (can be converted into a child bed—max 1.20m—or additional storage/toilet space)

Vehicle regularly maintained, washed, and pampered—some wear marks that don’t affect functionality or structure.

🏔️ All-terrain capable, good ground clearance, 5 months above 3,000m without issues—record altitude: 5,070m

⚡ Fully self-sufficient in electricity (5 days stationary in heat with fridge, fan, etc.)

Numerous accessories included: Table, chairs, solar shower, Fiamma leveling blocks, toolbox, kitchen accessories, snow chains, front window insulation/blackout, mosquito net, fire extinguisher...

Available end of January 2027 in Bogotá

Price: 13,000 €

I left my heart’s country eight days ago and returned to my adopted one—or was it the other way around? Scotland-Morvan, Morvan-Scotland, I’m not quite sure anymore.

After a quarter without dragging my slippers around here, even though I’d loudly declared I had no interest left in this site, here I am again!

My imagination never stays fallow for long. Just enough time for my inner land to rest. It gets overgrown with fresh nettles, the kind you can pick without getting stung. Then, it’s time to till the fragrant earth and let the story grow.

I hesitated over where to set this story. Maybe the Highlands, maybe the Hebrides, maybe the Orkney Islands, maybe the Shetland Islands. All of Scotland is myth—easy to embroider. But in the end, no. I’d almost be too afraid to bare my soul.

The story will take place at home. Simple, practical.

1)

This morning, I was up well before dawn, feeling a bit grumpy, but nothing a bowl of coffee won’t fix. I love my bowl, and no one dares take it. It’s porcelain, edged with intertwined blue flowers. On the bottom, it says "Revol." The factory has existed long before the Revolution. It was my great-grandmother’s bowl. She drank roasted barley from it during the war, then her Leroux chicory.

Last year, a little guy dropped it. My bowl broke into three pieces. A black anger vibrated deep inside me. The little boy was so upset, on the verge of tears. How could I scold him!

I picked up the three pieces and took Little Boy in my arms. His hair smelled of the light, sweet sweat of toddlers. A gentle hug that healed—his budding sorrow and my anger—everything vanished, and time carried on.

Today, my bowl is even prettier. Man fixed it using the traditional kintsugi technique, except he didn’t use gold powder or lacquer but superglue, and he delicately painted the cracks with woad blue. And my bowl is even more beautiful now.

I’m lingering, I can tell—it’s just that a story wraps itself in life, and life can’t be told in the snap of a finger. Life is long. Like in architecture, you start with a rough sketch, called a "sous-cul" (the initial pencil drawing), then you make a tracing, which is the work itself, the one you later carefully roll up in a wooden tube. Life is like that: you erase, you start over, you use the nub of the pencil until it’s tiny, but you keep going—dreaming, loving.

"Living is a full-time occupation, a unique adventure. Always a surprise and a wonder, which sometimes turns into astonishment. And, from time to time, happiness."*

Alright, enough digressing—this introduction is definitely too long. Tomorrow, I’ll get to the heart of the matter. (I hate that expression; it feels like I’m cutting into someone’s skin.)

*Jean d’Ormesson

2)

Hi, I’d like to visit Quebec this fall or starting in August (what do you recommend?). I’d love to meet some Quebecers and get some tips on transportation. I’m wondering if it’s doable with an electric mountain bike (not too much rain?). I’m planning to buy one second-hand and return it afterward. If there are any travel buddies out there too...thanks

Hi there, We’ve never visited Palawan before. This time, we’d like to spend a few days there. We’ll be there from the evening of October 30th until the early morning of November 5th (our return flight is at 7:20 AM). We’re arriving in Puerto Princesa and leaving from there as well. While ChatGPT gave us an itinerary suggestion, I’d still love to hear other opinions—don’t want to rely on it blindly.

Here’s ChatGPT’s proposal:

Saturday, October 31: Pearl farm + local waterfalls • 9:00 AM: Private car to Brook’s Point pearl farm (1.5–2 hour visit). • 1:00 PM: Local lunch + drive to Nagtabon Falls (1-hour jungle hike). • Overnight in Puerto Princesa. Sunday, November 1: Tabon Caves (Quezon) • 8:00 AM: Private car from PPS to Quezon (3 hours). • 11:00 AM–3:00 PM: Visit Tabon Caves (2–3 hour hike, unique archaeological site). • Return to PPS late afternoon or stay overnight in Quezon if you prefer. Monday, November 2: Puerto Princesa → Port Barton • 8:00 AM: Private car from PPS to Port Barton (3–4 hours). • Afternoon: Stroll around the village, small market, acclimatization. • Overnight in Port Barton. Tuesday, November 3: Private boat from Port Barton • 8:30 AM: Private boat for island hopping (snorkeling at Twin Reef / Fantastic Reef + peaceful Maxima Island). • Return by 4:00 PM. Wednesday, November 4: Hike in Port Barton + return to PPS • Morning: Hike to Pamuayan Falls or local jungle (1–2 hours). • 1:00 PM: Private car from Port Barton to PPS. • Overnight near the airport in PPS. Thursday, November 5: Flight from PPS to Dumaguete • Early morning flight from PPS to Dumaguete (direct or via Cebu, with plenty of buffer time).

What do you think? Where can we find trustworthy private drivers without getting ripped off? Any recommendations for typical hotels or guesthouses? Our flights are already booked—arriving in PPS at 6:30 PM and departing at 7:20 AM.

Thanks for your advice!

« Ali is not dead; he continues to inspire many talented musicians. There’s a new generation of artists who have their own style, but they’ve all listened to Ali Farka Touré. » (Ms. Kuypers-Touré, widow of Ali Farka Touré)

Ali Farka Touré (1939-2006)

Recognized worldwide as one of the most important musicians from Africa, his guitar playing earned him the nickname “the African John Lee Hooker.” But Ali Farka Touré preferred to flip the script and highlight the roots of Southern U.S. music in the Sahel region: « I have the roots and the trunk; they only have the leaves and branches. » In other words, what John Lee Hooker played was an echo of a distant African past. Ali Farka Touré was the guardian of traditions, and even though his sound resembled the blues, it remained deeply tied to the land of his ancestors—in Africa, in Mali. A farmer at heart, the famous Malian singer and guitarist continued to cultivate the land until his hospitalization for cancer, from which he passed away on March 7, 2006, in Bamako at the age of 66.

The son of a soldier who fell in combat while serving in the French army, he was born in 1939 in Kanau, near Timbuktu, then part of French Sudan (a subdivision of French West Africa, now Mali). He was raised by an uncle with harsh teaching methods and a grandmother who was “strong in voodoo,” communicating with spirits. At ten years old, he had a revelation for the single-string lute djurkel, “the instrument of the spirits,” and for the fiddle njarka. Seven years later, while training as a driver at a clinic, he fell in love with a colleague’s guitar. It wasn’t until 1968, when he was to represent Mali in Bulgaria, that he finally had the chance to acquire his first six-string guitar. International acclaim came later, following numerous concerts in the UK in the mid-1980s, at the invitation of World Circuit, the independent English label to which he remained loyal his entire life.

Several times, Ali Farka Touré announced his plan to stop making music. « It’s time for me to focus on my own. I don’t want Europe to tear me away from Africa. [...] Me, I love cultivating the land. In my life, if I’m not in the fields, I’m fishing or in the garden! »

Yet, Ali Farka Touré regularly returned to perform in Europe and the U.S. In 1995, he won his first Grammy Award for the album Talking Timbuktu, recorded in 1993 with bassist John Patitucci, percussionist Jim Keltner, the great Californian guitarist Ry Cooder, and the venerable guitarist Clarence Gatemouth Brown. His last three years were extraordinarily productive. Back to back, he recorded his best albums: In the Heart of the Moon (2004), Ali & Toumani (released in 2010), both duets with kora player Toumani Diabaté, and Savane (2005), dedicated to the traditional Peul and Songhai repertoires. At the same time, he tirelessly devoted himself to his agricultural work and his duties as mayor, a role he had held since 2004.

A multi-instrumentalist, he was a self-taught musician with an impressive musical culture. His discography includes around fifteen albums and several timeless hits used in films or as TV program themes. A universal symbol of West African sound heritage, his presence and his role in spreading a centuries-old legacy are undeniable. His son, also a musician, Vieux Farka Touré, now bears the heavy responsibility of carrying on his illustrious father’s message and legacy. His album Les Racines, released in 2002, is his contribution to preserving an instantly recognizable sound.

Meanwhile, his country, Mali, has paid tribute to him: for several years now, a square and a street in Bamako, the capital of Mali, have borne his name (both located in the Lafiabougou district).

In 2023, World Circuit released a new posthumous album, Voyageur, the first to feature previously unreleased tracks since 2010. It includes pieces composed and recorded spontaneously over the last 15 years, whether during his many tours or in the studio. These tracks once again showcase Touré’s passion for the musical traditions of his homeland and for the creativity and cultural diversity of West Africa. Below, an excerpt from this album: the beautiful song Chérie (with a very young Oumou Sangaré)—magnificent!!!

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Ali Farka Touré feat. Oumou Sangaré: Chérie

I got into music with the will To light up many hearths like Che could do, To circulate ideas, to advance utopia Alternating barricades, sharp thought, and poetry. Mc Solaar, Guérilla

Subscribing without a fight to the slightest line of my itinerary sometimes feels like an illusion. Because there are countries where, despite the fever and enthusiasm, despite the triumphant revolution, certain elements block my path. And if I had planned, for F. and me, a beautiful ascent up Tabouret Hill (Loma del Taburete, 453m), it was without accounting for vegetation as dense as it was thorny, which barred our way after just a few quarters of an hour of walking. Exhausted, I had to face the facts: we wouldn’t go any further. I needed to come up with some kind of Plan B.

But what is this country, an unwitting laboratory of the worst that white civilization has done during its reign? What is this magnificent place—yet another—entrusted to the care of oblivion, just 150 km from the land of freedom? According to Donald Trump, a country supporting terrorism; according to the locals, the vast battlefield of 20th-century ideologies; according to the average tourist, a hot country, a beautiful country, a country where the last illusions of a lost paradise are dying.

On the other side of Havana Bay, we love that statue of Christ blessing the city. There’s something gentle, soothing, in that patriarchal gesture. You’d almost be tempted to forget that at the dawn of the 16th century, those who claimed to represent the Church had no scruples about eradicating the Ciboney and Taíno populations. Worse, you’ll find magnificent this cathedral dedicated to the Virgin Mary, right in the heart of the old city. Under the guise of a civilizing necessity, Havana became, like so many other places, the gilded seat of European pretensions, at the expense of local populations doomed to extermination, then enslaved populations—more or less indigenous—who, you can imagine, didn’t often set foot in this holy place.

Lost in my thoughts, I try to push through this tangled vegetation. Nature reclaims its rights; nature abhors a vacuum. Yes, the well-trodden path of revolution couldn’t stay free of weeds! The road is buried. We give up and turn back, until that fork I’d noted before leaving, which would let us reach the top of the hill by skirting its northern slope.

So the white man arrives, settles, and gets rid of everything that bothers him. He has two unstoppable forces at his disposal: gunpowder and the spiritual certainty of being on the side of an all-powerful god. While the first gives him an unmatched material advantage over his new enemy, the second lets him use the first without feeling too guilty. That’s the magic of this supreme Church: it condemns all forms of pleasure—calling them impurity—while promoting plunder and crime under the cover of evangelization.

Walking through the city, you find a bit of Algiers, except that here, the decay is almost irreversible. You feel the splendor of the past, a disconcerting image of all vanity, from an era when men knew how to build beauty—especially if they didn’t have to share it. We’ll debate the benefits of colonialism for a long time, while glossing over the fact that those benefits often stopped at the city limits, limits all too obvious to the indigenous people. Havana isn’t just one or a few buildings; it’s an impressive collection of works of art built one after another, in what I think was a spirit of healthy competition. Yes, you find Algiers in this exuberance. As if these distant cities were the receptacle of everything that was best in the lands of origin. Atlantes and lintels, golds, blues, ogives, and monumental windows—exceptional architecture in an exceptional place.

Some streets are clean, swept with care; others are not, scattered here and there with potholes filled with water. A rather persistent smell of urine invades us regularly. We move on. And we look up: Havana is visited with your nose in the air. Because the beauty is truly up there, on those magnificent balconies and terracotta arches. Also because it’s not impossible that a piece of that balcony might suddenly detach, hurling our ends into an overseas tragedy we’d rather avoid. On the ground, here and there, rubble. Inexorably, this city is returning to dust.

My Plan B turns out to be no more successful than the first attempt. After a cheerful progression of a few hundred meters, same outcome, same struggle—the vegetation opposes any revolution: impossible to go around the hill! Once again, we have to turn back. We’ll try Plan C. I reassure myself by convincing myself to stay in the logic of this country: Cuba has been searching for itself for five centuries.

Coffee, tobacco, and sugarcane—the green gold of the colonies—so that money could flow and Europe could enjoy itself. Cuba’s history isn’t original. In reality, all the hot lands at these latitudes suffer the same fate: to serve the white man. While waiting for the awakening of consciences, UN Resolution 1514 and more or less affirmed revolutionary desires. Except that—and this reflection is just my own—if the awakening of consciences and the revolutionary will don’t play into what Resolution 1514 hides, there’s a good chance the said state will become a pariah. Those who don’t follow the American doctrine risk a lot; those who decide to follow Moscow risk everything. Independence was only the barely discreet instrument of American views. Patrice Lumumba will gladly enlighten us on the subject.

Turning back is good. Setting up Plan C is better. I won’t deviate from my goal: we will reach the top of Tabouret, whatever the cost! Near a small country road, I hesitate to change the program. Time is ticking—is it really reasonable to attempt the ascent? Then a tricycle taxi appears, a kind of tuk-tuk powered by an electric moped. I take it as a sign from fate, and we board for the starting point of Plan C.

In Cuba, even before Resolution 1514, independence was assured by a pawn of the United States, Fulgencio Batista. There’s no need to go over the whole history here; we’ll just remember that if you know how to give without counting to your former masters, you can enjoy a facade of freedom. Fidel Castro, on the other hand, didn’t know how to give. It never even occurred to him. That’s why the United States harbors such terrible hatred for this rebellious state, opposed to capitalist values and political prostitution. From there to slowly killing its people for nearly seventy years, one can legitimately cry injustice. But there are other priorities. Oh yes! Greenland...

Do Cubans eat their fill? Does seeing overweight people mean opulence? Food grows, no doubt about it. The soil is fertile, the climate favorable. No, what shocks here is the absolute precarity, the feeling of a people living in survival mode, and the decay of both goods and hope. Where to go? What’s the point? The stubbornness of the United States in wanting to impose its views on the Cuban government is felt much more by an overwhelmed people than by those few elites—caricatures of communism—who instill their vision of happiness with a crowbar. The embargo imposed in 1960; the false-flag attacks—American planes flying the colors of the Cuban revolution during the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961—the exasperation of placing Cuba on the list of countries supporting terrorism. More recently, Donald Trump decided to heavily tax countries supplying Cuba with fuel. The last time I saw such long lines near gas stations was during my first trip to Romania... in 1991. It’s not for me to judge whether Raúl and his clique are playing fair by thumbing their noses at the West. I don’t hold the ins and outs of this war of egos that keeps the world’s great powers awake. I only caught a glimpse of the poverty of an island in 2026, while we in Europe are buried under an avalanche of the useless and superficial.

At the start of the San Juan baths, we find the trailhead. It climbs steeply. But the weather is relatively mild, thanks to a cold wave hitting higher up in the United States. Dallas is under snow; we’re walking in 16°C, a stroke of luck. We climb over rocks, under fairly decent vegetation, sometimes low but passable. And we succeed in the ascent in an hour. Up there, the top of the hill is somewhat maintained, at a minimum, but maintained, as if to honor Che through an awful monument erected in his glory—a stubborn specimen from those years when good taste was inversely proportional to the delusional ideas of those being honored. Birds of prey (raptors?) circle overhead; the monument is dying, crumbling, falling into ruin. *Hasta siempre*—forever—will be for the words. Nature, erosion, life itself will have the last word over all revolutions.

Back at the foot of the hill, just before a memorable swim, we talk with a family living there in miserable shacks whose stability wasn’t unlike that of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The grandmother holds an animal, a rodent, by its feet. The grandfather has just killed it; she’s plucking its fur. A few steps away, water boils in a pot. She plunges the beast into the container. Tonight, the family will eat ragondin stew. Further on, another shack where, in a disorder rivaling the filth, a mother breastfeeds while sitting on the edge of a bed. Then, on the way down, we’ll meet a middle-aged man carrying a large jerrycan of water on his shoulder. Are these people happy here, far from the cities and their stakes? Is it too much to ask that they at least have access to electricity, running water, and decent, safe housing?

Outside the old city, Havana reveals wide avenues serving imposing institutions here and there. But whether in the colorful alleys of the old town or on the majestic and austere Plaza de la Revolución, the same feeling moves me: sadness. Seeing that only chaos has come from ideas crushes me. We praise, we sing the revolution—above all, we impose it in people’s minds as a necessity, when it’s nothing of the sort. Revolution is just the fruit of a few tortured minds who, once in power, do nothing better than all those before them. Enjoy power. Impose their views. It’s just a matter of color. Fidel saw red and knew how to persuade—or silence forever—his many detractors. The West sees everything in white, through the prism of human rights, and also knows how to persuade and silence its slightest detractors forever.

Paradoxically, Cuba survives largely thanks to tourism, a key element—let’s not be afraid to say it—of capitalism. And when a few players pick up the crumbs from transactions, the lion’s share and the foreign currency go to the government. So we won’t go to Varadero, the high place of relaxation overrun by Canadians. Instead, we’ll limit ourselves to crossing the ocean 30 minutes from the capital, at Santa María del Mar, to get an idea of cheaper tourism and to splash around for a few minutes in turquoise water invaded by sargassum. At the heart of the tourist season, we’ll meet few people. Like Havana, and according to its inhabitants, the high season is rather dead. But we won’t have come for nothing: we particularly love this return where, feverish, the taxi driver pushes his Moskvitch 2140 to the max on the highway, singing karaoke versions of hits at the top of his lungs from an onboard DVD player. East/West, the culture clash with a hint of Latino.

It’s time to leave this country of resourcefulness where extremes are very present. We’re leaving a 5-star hotel in front of yet another crumbling building. We’ve known restaurants at 40,000 pesos while in the street people eat for 400. We’ve seen those countless cars from another era and another culture—Pontiac, Lada, Chevrolet, Moskvitch—being overtaken by gleaming Mercedes and other Porsche Cayennes, the prerogative—if it still needed to be demonstrated—of the newly rich in search of recognition. Boarding the plane, we also understand that we’re not just traveling with tourists: there’s undoubtedly a rich and prosperous diaspora, just as there are relatively wealthy Cubans—well, wealthy enough to travel comfortably in the front of the aircraft. Meanwhile, on all the country’s roads, other Cubans try hitchhiking, their wives and children perched on a suitcase by the roadside. The father holds out his arm and holds a few bills in his hand like a card game. Where are they going? Who will pick them up?

Behind me, the gold of the Capitol. I’m told this gold comes from Russia. Like Marx and Lenin’s smoky theories? Like Stalin’s subtle and delicate paternalism? Let’s bet that, like the other buildings crumbling around it, the Capitol will also collapse one day, to avenge the Indians who perished from the diseases and guns of the whites, to avenge the Africans who obliterated their lives so Europeans could enjoy themselves, finally, to avenge all this abandoned people, left to the arbitrariness of democratic or non-democratic elections.

A sign in the street: We understand history. This is the revolution! We understand history. That’s the revolution.

No comment.

Hi there, After arriving in Ho Chi Minh City at the beginning of March 26, where I think I’ll stay for maybe two days (or more?), we’d like to spend a few days in the Mekong Delta. Is it better to stay in one place (Vinh Long, Cai Be, My Tho, An Binh, etc.) and take boat trips every day, or split our time between two or three spots, which means changing accommodation and moving our luggage around? Of course, agencies offer 3- or 5-day tours from Ho Chi Minh City, but are they really worth it, both financially and in terms of the visits themselves? What’s your experience with this? How did you do it, and if you had to do it again? Any tips? Thanks in advance for your help. Dominique

Hi there, We're considering the following route: - Cape Town - West Coast National Park - Lambert's Bay - Springbok - Upington - KTP That’s about 1,250 km in total. We’ve already visited the West Coast National Park. Is covering such a distance to reach KTP (the main goal of our trip) really worth it—does it offer enough to justify the detour? Thanks for your input!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Other Hitchhikers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello!

My wife and I (Quebecers, 63 years old, retired, celebrating our 45 years together this year, including 20 years of marriage) have chosen to mark the occasion with a trip to Dubai, Réunion, and Mauritius (4 days in Dubai, then 24 days on the islands).

We have a lot of experience planning road trips (scouting routes, visits, hotels, and restaurants of interest), but we travel without reservations to keep the freedom to follow our instincts and tips we get on the spot. We’re moderately active physically and prefer the countryside and beaches over big cities. Our only fixed dates: arrival in Réunion on October 5th and departure from Mauritius on October 29th.

After lots of reading and with the help of an AI (super useful for drafting a first outline!), here’s a possible itinerary framework. Nothing is set in stone—I’d love your suggestions, comments, and thoughts on what’s worth adding or avoiding. Are the proposed bases optimal? Also, if you have recommendations for hotels (mid-range budget of 100–200 euros per night), restaurants, etc., I’m all ears! ;-)

Thanks! 😊

🌴 Réunion (October 5–13, 9 days) Base 1 – Saint-Gilles / L’Hermitage (October 5–8, 3 nights) Oct 5 (Sun): Settle in, relax at L’Hermitage beach. Oct 6 (Mon): Saint-Paul market (morning), beach + sunset at Boucan Canot. Oct 7 (Tue): Excursion to Maïdo (view of Mafate), return via Saint-Leu (Stella Matutina). Oct 8 (Wed): Beach + dolphin/whale-watching boat trip.

Base 2 – Cilaos (October 8–10, 2 nights) Oct 9 (Thu): Route des 400 virages, stroll through the village and Roche Merveilleuse. Oct 10 (Fri): Hike to Bras Rouge (3–4h) or the Chapelle canyon. Creole inn evening.

Base 3 – Plaine des Cafres / Bourg-Murat (October 10–13, 3 nights) Oct 11 (Sat): Road to the volcano → Plaine des Sables → Piton de la Fournaise. Oct 12 (Sun): Wild south coast at Cap Méchant, lava flows, Jardin Parfums, Grande Anse beach. Oct 13 (Mon): Relaxed morning, flight from Réunion to Mauritius.

🏝️ Mauritius (October 13–29, 16 days) Base 1 – Grand Baie / Pereybère (October 13–18, 5 nights) Oct 13 (Mon): Settle in, swim at Mont Choisy. Oct 14 (Tue): Boat excursion to Île Plate & Coin de Mire. Oct 15 (Wed): Pamplemousses Garden + L’Aventure du Sucre. Evening in Grand Baie. Oct 16 (Thu): Trou aux Biches beach, snorkeling. Oct 17 (Fri): Free day, relaxation/shopping.

Base 2 – Flic-en-Flac / Tamarin (October 18–23, 5 nights) Oct 18 (Sat): Drive to the west, settle in, beach. Oct 19 (Sun): Dolphin excursion in Tamarin, relax in the afternoon. Oct 20 (Mon): Chamarel: Terres 7 Couleurs + rum distillery. Oct 21 (Tue): Black River Gorges (hike + waterfalls). Oct 22 (Wed): Snorkeling + sunset.

Base 3 – Belle Mare / Trou d’Eau Douce (October 23–26, 3 nights) Oct 23 (Thu): Settle in, Belle Mare beach. Oct 24 (Fri): Catamaran excursion to Île aux Cerfs. Oct 25 (Sat): Flacq market (morning), beach in the afternoon.

Base 4 – Mahébourg / Blue Bay (October 26–29, 3 nights) Oct 26 (Sun): Settle in, snorkeling at Blue Bay Marine Park. Oct 27 (Mon): Pointe d’Esny + Île aux Aigrettes. Oct 28 (Tue): Free beach day + Mahébourg village. Oct 29 (Wed): Morning swim, return flight at 4 PM (airport is 15 min away).

Hi everyone, vacation is coming up... Don’t stress about life—with three weeks to go, we’re just starting to plan our days.

If you have any ideas, we’ll be based in Colonno.

Excluding arrival and departure days, we have 9 full days.

Nice hikes? Waterfalls? Towns or villages you absolutely must see? Any zoos or aquariums in this area? I haven’t found anything!

For now, our plans (in no particular order) are:

- A day in Milan - A day in Como - A day in Lugano (on the antiques market day, then returning via Lanzo d’Intelvi for the views) - A day in Locarno (funicular and other attractions)

Maybe a day in Bellinzona—I have to go there during our stay anyway, so why not spend the whole day there?!

My wife wants to take a boat tour on Lake Como.

The GreenWay hike looks nice, especially with a teen, especially since the starting point is behind our rental.

I also spotted the village of Griante because you can hike up to the Chiesa di San Martino church with a great view once you arrive—perfect for our usual picnic...

Anyway, as you can tell, we’re missing ideas for 1 or 2 days. If no one posts, no worries—we’ll figure it out. To be honest, I haven’t really looked beyond the "cities" to visit. But since we’re heading to a very touristy area this time, I thought it might be nice to get some tips!

I went to Lugano for 2 days a few years ago by myself. I swore I’d bring my little family back there. I only visited Lugano, Locarno, and Lanzo d’Intelvi back then.

Hi, can you tell me if there’s a bus or shuttle from Alajuela to the Nicaragua border via Los Chiles? I’d like to avoid going through San José. Thanks for your help!

Hello,

My husband and I are heading to French Polynesia on August 21st for a cruise on the ARANUI 5 to the Marquesas Islands. If anyone has taken this cruise recently or during the late August/early September period, I’d love to hear your impressions and any practical details. Thanks for your feedback! Elettra69

Hi there, Who’s going to be in Ladakh this summer solo and up for a north-south trek in Zanskar? I’m planning an off-trail route… the kind of path where, like last year, I ran into a bear. Pretty rare, let me tell ya!!! Option: a guide and one or two mules to travel light and support the locals, or go self-sufficient—we’ll see. I’ve got a contact, so I can sort this out! No agency, just a direct arrangement with a local from Kanji, a remote hamlet. Open to discussion.

Jérôme

Hi there,

My flight ticket to Mauritius is booked, and my accommodations are all set.

The plan: relaxation, hiking, and swimming...😛

I’m looking for hiking ideas anywhere on the island (I’ll have a car). Nothing over 15 km round trip and a maximum of 500 m elevation gain. (A little more if it’s an exceptional hike.)

I’m also searching for beaches where I can do some snorkeling without needing to take a boat or join an excursion.

I’ve seen that sea kayaking tours are available. Is it possible to just rent a kayak, and which spots on the island are best for easy kayaking?

If you have other suggestions (villages, viewpoints, etc.) for independent excursions, I’m all ears!😉

Thanks🙂

Hi there,

This year, we booked a rental in Colonno, Italy, by Lake Como.

Everything was going well until my wife wanted to see Milan... Out of 11 days, why not spend a day there, even though I’m not really a "city" person? Then I discovered ZTLs (Zona a Traffico Limitato)...

A 90 € fine if you’re unlucky enough to drive into one, and another 90 € if you drive out... While I was looking for info on where to park without risking a fine in Milan (any tips?), I found out that Como also has a ZTL. (Any parking advice there too?)

My question is: is there a map showing all the cities with ZTLs? Because if it means getting hit with hundreds of euros in fines 9 months later... 😕

The more I look for info, the more I come across unsettling stories... Like people who pass a ZTL sign, turn around immediately, and still get hit with two 90 € fines in 3 minutes... I don’t want to ruin the vacation over a small mistake...

Thanks in advance,

Ah! This trip to Texas, postponed so many times because of Covid. I wanted to discover this state, but not in the summer due to the temperatures. I’ll try to dig into my memories since I didn’t take any notes.

Day 1: Departure

Early morning flight from Lyon to Frankfurt (I often fly with Lufthansa). We only have a 50-minute layover, but I trust German organization—it’s not just talk, since it took us only 30 minutes to get to the boarding gate. Arriving in Houston, we’re excited because it’s been 3 years since we last visited the USA, and we’ve missed it.

Everything goes smoothly with the formalities and the car rental, so 1.5 hours after landing, I park near Sam Houston Park to start our discovery. The park is pretty, clean, and has the unique feature of housing some well-preserved Victorian houses. The sun is shining, and it’s always fun to see old wooden houses surrounded by gleaming skyscrapers. A quick drive to the Rothko Chapel, which is dedicated to all faiths. There are also modern artworks in an annex building and outside. Then we head to Pasadena to reach our hotel and go to bed since we’ve been awake for a while!

Hotel: A classic Days Inn. It’s standard, but the beds are comfortable, and it’s a quiet place. The + of the day: We're back in the USA The -: Nothing

Day 2: NASA and then Galveston

Of course, we wake up super early. A quick trip to the nearby Walmart for the usual small purchases. Surprise—I can’t buy a bottle of California white wine because in Texas, there are set hours for buying alcohol. Talk about a bummer for my apéro! Next, we head to Kemah, a small, hyper-touristy port where everything is kitschy but clean and nice. It’s a bit overdone, but since NASA doesn’t open until 10 AM and it’s still early, we might as well enjoy the good weather in a pleasant spot.

We arrive at the NASA Houston center without any issues. It’s smaller than the one in Florida and organized a bit differently. There are trains that take passengers to the different sites, but you need to get tickets (included in the price), and once you’ve finished visiting one site, you have to return to the center to get a ticket for another. Not very practical.

We choose to visit the training center and the rockets, skipping the control room, which, based on the photos, looks like the one at Cape Canaveral. The training center is a cool place because it’s still in use. Engineers are working on machines and computers. We don’t see any astronauts training, but we see the space chair, the shuttle’s robotic arm, and lots of gadgets—this hangar is like Gyro Gearloose’s or Doc’s domain!

Next, we head to the rocket hangar, featuring the Saturn V, the same one as at Cape Canaveral. Finally, we wrap up our tour by returning to the center, where a Boeing 747 with a shuttle attached to its back dominates the outside. We can visit the shuttle, and we don’t miss the chance.

A few exhibits inside complete the experience and satisfy our thirst for knowledge. I love the space exploration era, and gotta say, the Americans do it right. Then we drive to Galveston, about 100 km away. Why Galveston? It’s by the sea, so swimming in late October isn’t unpleasant, and there’s a neighborhood called East End Historic District filled with stunning Victorian houses, each more beautiful than the last. Plus, it’s Halloween season, so the decorations are over the top! They really go all out!

Madame takes a swim, but I find the water too cold for my taste. Apéro (they didn’t trick me twice—I had time to go back to another Walmart!) Dinner + bedtime

Hotel: A classic Quality Inn. No issues. The +: NASA, even if it’s smaller than Cape Canaveral The -: I would’ve preferred the water in the Gulf of Mexico to be a bit warmer

Hi there, Our son is in Canada for a year on a Working Holiday Visa, and we’re planning to join him around September 20th for a 15-day campervan road trip in Nova Scotia. I was thinking of going with Canadream, but if you have other rental companies to recommend, don’t hesitate! Here’s the itinerary I’ve been considering—I tried not to cram in too many stops so we’re not just driving the whole time.

Day 1: Pick up campervan in Halifax at 3 PM. Stop at Peggy’s Cove, then drive to Lunenburg and Blue Rocks (151 km) Day 2: Explore Lunenburg, then head to Kejimkujik National Park for hikes or other activities. Overnight in the park (91 km) Day 3: Drive to Annapolis Royal (visit), Port-Royal National Historic Site, then on to Digby (111 km) Day 4: Ferry to Saint John (visit Reversing Falls), then drive to St. Andrews (103 km) Day 5: Whale-watching excursion and explore St. Andrews Day 6: Drive to Alma and Fundy National Park (233 km—we’ll probably leave St. Andrews the night before to split the drive and arrive earlier in Alma) Day 7: Hopewell Rocks (check tides) (43 km) Day 8: Hopewell Rocks—Tatamagouche (dinner train)—Pictou (237 km). Any suggestions for this day? Day 9: Drive to Baddeck, Cabot Trail to Chéticamp (317 km). Ideas for breaking up the drive? I thought of Pomquet Beach Provincial Park for a walk on the boardwalks, but any other suggestions are welcome. Day 10–11: Cape Breton Highlands National Park for hikes and Cabot Trail to Baddeck (208 km) Day 12: Explore Baddeck, Graham Bell Museum, and Bras d’Or Lake Drive. Drive to Louisbourg (118 km) Day 13: Fortress of Louisbourg, then drive to Liscomb (302 km) Day 14: Drive back to Halifax via Lawrencetown Beach (or other suggestions?). Fisherman’s Cove (205 km) Day 15: Return campervan by 10 AM

- All suggestions are welcome, as long as they don’t add too much detour from the main stops. We’d rather skip some places to fully enjoy the ones we visit. We love hiking in beautiful landscapes, charming and lively towns or villages, etc. - I wanted to add a museum dedicated to Acadian culture, but I didn’t find anything along the route—or they’re closed this time of year. Maybe there are places to listen to folk music? - If you have any campgrounds or wild camping spots to recommend, I’d love to hear about them. - Do we need to book the ferry this time of year?

Thanks in advance for your ideas and suggestions!

Claire

Hi everyone,

I’m planning a trip to Turkey this summer and I’d like to get there by hitchhiking. I’ll be traveling solo, and I’ve already done a lot of hitchhiking (Brazil, Albania, from Paris to Romania with a companion, France, Vietnam, Cambodia, and short distances in India).

Has anyone here already made this trip by hitchhiking? How long did it take you? Which countries were the hardest to find a ride in? What techniques did you use to get rides in places where people don’t usually stop? Have you ever had to pitch your tent on a highway rest area? Have you ever run into any problems?

I’m not worried about hitchhiking in Europe, but I don’t know much about Turkey or its culture. Is hitchhiking something people do there? What about hitchhiking as a solo woman—do cars stop? What should I watch out for in this country?

I’m looking for stories from people who’ve actually had this experience—or at least part of it—not advice from those who’ve never traveled this way or in these countries. Thanks for respecting that!

Thanks for reading, and I can’t wait to hear your responses!

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...

Hi, I know this topic has already been discussed, but in a rush, I booked a flight ticket with my married name (on my passport it’s noted as "married name X"). I’m flying with Oman Air, but since I booked through Expedia, they refuse to change it to my maiden name. Can I still travel? I’m really panicking!