Dear English-speaking readers, this page is an automatic translation made from a post originally written in French. My apologies for any strange sentences and funny mistakes that may have been generated during the process. If you are reading French, click on the French flag below to access the original and correct text:
The road to Tekek is lined with small houses, ranging from rickety shacks to dapper chalets. Cafés-restos-groceries sell bags of noodles snapshots, fishing line and laundry packs, serve plates of fried rice and ...
Along the beach, old hulls stranded. Atmosphere a melancholy strand, at low tide.
I can't believe the kindness of all the people I meet, standing on their doorstep, strolling along the road or perched on their motorcycle, all these people I don't know and who greet me with a gesture, a word, a smile.
Along this now almost road, since there are also a few cars passing by, there is a tropical nonchalance, a little tinged with melancholy. Everything is crumbling, flaking, slowly collapsing, softened by the humidity of the air, corroded by the salty wind, disjointed by the hot sun: the beached boats, the faded shacks, the ramshackle awnings.
There are also some dirty places, with heaps of badly burned garbage where monkeys come to forage, framed by countless signs DO NOT LITTER…
The stroll remains nevertheless very pleasant. The sea on the right, the jungle on the left. And me pedaling in the middle, sweating gallons of water in the mad hope of finding, in the village stores, some urgently needed civilization items: an extension cord for the inconvenient socket in my cottage, some mosquito repellent seeing that my reserve is coming to an end and, who knows, maybe a connection really high-speed to the internet?