Undiscovered Comoros Islands, Indian Ocean
Scattered in the Indian Ocean between Madagascar and Mozambique are the four small islands of the Comoros,
whose name comes from the Arabic for "moon". The name is strangely appropriate considering the islands have been so surprisingly isolated from the tourism boom that has enveloped the rest of the Indian Ocean nations. Like neighboring Zanzibar, the archipelago lies at the crossroads of the Arab and African civilizations, and its Arabian heritage can be seen in the delicate arches of its whitewashed mosques. Like another neighbor, the Seychelles, it also boasts all the requisites of a fantasy island, tropical warmth, turquoise waters, palm trees. But nobody visits the Comoros – supposing they have even heard of the place.
The reason is the troubled Comoran history. Since independence from France in 1975, the Union of the Comoros has been anything but united. While one of the islets, Mahoré, voted to remain a French overseas territory, the three others have gone through a turmoil of no less than 20 coups d'états, several led by the infamous French mercenary Bob Denard, with the latest occuring as recently as 2008.
No wonder that when I landed on Ngazidja, the main island, I found a neglected (but peaceful) backwater. Imagine streets with more potholes than asphalt, goats munching on heaps of roadside trash, dilapidated collective taxis wheezing around, and run-down hotels, only one of which had 24-hour running water. Conversely, the total
absence of foreign tourism meant that people were friendly and happy to chat. But once I had visited the few nice sandy beaches and spent a few evenings belting out karaoke favorites at one of the three decent restaurants in Moroni, the capital city, I discovered that I had pretty much exhausted the after-work entertainment possibilities. Only one adventure remained - to hike the Karthala volcano.
Its dark mass looms 2,361 meters above the port of Moroni, sometimes wrapping its rainforest-covered flanks in a blanket of clouds. It happens to be one of the most active volcanoes in the world, having erupted 20 times in the past century. But at the time of my visit it had been quiet for two years, so a climb was safe. Because the paths up were notoriously poorly marked, I hired a guide. His name, appropriately, was Chauffeur ("driver" in French).
On the said day, he swung by at 5 a.m. to pick me up from my hotel, where I waited gazing at the starry sky beside the bemused security guard. Our battered taxi collected another traveler, a Frenchman named Ludovic, and we drove to a village an hour away. Chauffeur was wearing a pajama-like tracksuit, a droopy sweater and worn boots, Ludovic (like myself) regular clothes and a pair of trainers.
Both took regular cigarette breaks. Little wonder that peasants in flip-flops breezed effortlessly past us, when we set off through plantations of banana trees, fragrant clove trees and vanilla bushes. Vanilla had been the cash crop of the islands until artificial flavorings made its price crash. Our guide was less than knowledgeable when we asked him about wildlife. "Are there any snakes here? - Yes there are. What kind of parrot is that? Yes, it's a parrot."
After an hour-long slog up winding paths, we emerged from the forest and walked through rust-colored heathland.
We were now high enough to take in both edges of the island, where the blue of the ocean melted into the sky. We stopped to pluck wild strawberries, which seemed to melt on our tongues in a burst of sweetness. Around noon, we reached zebu pastures and pitched our tents, then continued upwards in the mid-day heat. Presently, we hiked on ashen gray land, stepping over sun-bleached dead trees. We climbed one last ridge and a lunar landscape opened in front of us. The most barren field of brownish ash, strewn with rocks, stretched ahead. We trudged across it to reach the edge of the collapsed crater, the caldera. Hundreds of meters below us, two tiny fumaroles puffed.
The only sound was the whisper of the light breeze. We picnicked, snoozed. Ludovic wrote "la vie est belle" (life is beautiful) in the sand, then we proudly crossed the moon-like surface again and made our way back down to our campsite.
The next day, the climb down the mountain was long and uneventful, until we reached the village, where the children excitedly pointed at us with cries of "mzungus!" (white people). I had a wonderful time and I think, with more development, that the islands could be a tourist attraction. Someday, perhaps, the children of the island won't find visitors to be so strange and unusual.
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sprouting from the horizon. We had been driving west for hours, watching the greenery of Texas' hill country gradually give way to parched flatland. Now, as its granite dome rose over the highway like a miniature Uluru, there was something uncanny about Enchanted Rock.
In folk tales, the summit of Enchanted Rock is a kind of purgatory, an in-between place for souls burdened by crimes or grudges against the living. The Handbook of Texas relates the legend of a chief who supposedly suffered this fate as punishment for sacrificing his own daughter. According to the story, it was his spirit's ceaseless pacing that wore the divots in Enchanted Rock's surface.
Nils and I agreed that this would not be the best cave for a family outing. Just getting ourselves and our packs through was taking a good deal of teamwork, not to mention a smidgen of muscle. Still, we were enjoying ourselves
precise, paradise lies in the middle of the Indian Ocean, 700km from the coast of Sri Lanka, in the shallow lagoons of the Maldives archipelago. As an island country, fragmented into 1,200 islets, huddled in 26 atolls, the Maldives is an outstanding diving destination.
It is a compact, polluted concrete jungle of just a few square kilometers, onto which 100,000 people – and possibly an equivalent number of scooters - are crammed, without an inch of palm-fringed beach. Mercifully, other expats quickly pointed me towards the one available escape: scuba diving.
over the side of the boat, then went under all together. We slowly sank away from the twinkling surface, towards the sandy bottom. Once we had exchanged the necessary safety hand signals, the instructors led the way.
white-sand beaches and mountainside citrus groves, this stretch of Malaga coastline is a marvelous slice of pure Mediterranean, boasting an average of over 300 sunny days a year. In the past sixty years, the region has gone from backwater to big-time; today, the geography of the coast is a litany of high-end resort towns, like Marbella and Torre del Mar, which cater to the wealthier crowd.
If you'd rather be out in the fresh air, lace up your hiking boots and head to Sierra de las Nieves national park. The park, which lies in the mountainous hinterland about 18 kilometers north of the seaside resort town of Marbella, offers hiking and biking in over 200 square kilometers of slopes and virgin pine forest. The park is also famous for its many vertical caves, a few of which plunge to depths of over 1000 meters. Due to its higher altitude, the park does sometimes experience snowfall during the winter months, so check the weather before heading out and come prepared for the cold.
Granada offers enough captivating sights and sounds to keep anyone occupied for days.
volunteers and Christian missionaries. But those who dare are rewarded with the friendliest encounters and the least tourist-ridden landscapes of Central America. First though, they must overlook the country's dangerous reputation – unfortunately a deserved one, since the street gangs of El Salvador are among the toughest and most ruthless of the continent.
Public buses are former American school buses, painted blazing colors and adorned with religious stickers ("God bless this trip"). Reggaeton blares over the roar of the engine. At every stop, shouting vendors climb aboard to sell water, fruits and sweets, pushing their way between whole families squeezed onto the seats. On that trip, the passenger next to me was so honored to meet a Frenchwoman - for the first time! - that he shook my hand and warmly welcomed me to his country.
young man standing next to me. "We are a Baptist group from Santa Ana." While El Salvador remains a stronghold of Catholicism, Protestant churches have made some spectacular inroads, like in other parts of Latin America. I snapped some photos of the baptism, then shot some individual portraits of several participants, who gracefully posed. "Gracias," even said one lady, actually thanking me for photographing her.


















