Three Islands, One Friend: A Solo Female Traveler's Week in the Comoros

Grande Comore → Mohéli → and the quiet magic of an archipelago most travellers never find.

I didn't plan the Comoros. A friend in Nairobi mentioned them — said them like you'd mention a secret — and two months later I was watching Mount Karthala's silhouette come up through the plane window, holding a scrap of paper with one name on it: Saïd.

This is how most of my trips start now. One name. One friend of a friend. And the quiet trust that someone will be at the airport.

Moroni, the capital that doesn't feel like one

Moroni is small. It's the kind of capital where the call to prayer reaches every corner of the city, and where the Old Friday Mosque leans into the Indian Ocean like it's been there forever — because it has. Saïd was waiting outside the terminal in a white linen shirt, waving before I'd even spotted him. He drove a slightly battered Toyota and knew every pothole on the road into town by name.

The first thing he said was: "Tu vas manger d'abord. Ensuite on parle." (You eat first. Then we talk.)

We went to a place I would never have found — no sign, no menu, a courtyard behind someone's cousin's house. Grilled fish. Rice scented with ylang-ylang. Green mango with chili salt. I was exhausted and slightly overwhelmed, and by the time the bananas in coconut milk arrived I was laughing at something Saïd's aunt had said about my very bad Comorian pronunciation.

That first meal is always the moment. The one where the tension of solo travel — where am I, who is this person, is this actually okay — dissolves into the thing you came for.

Climbing the volcano (carefully)

Mount Karthala is one of the largest active volcanoes in the world and, on a clear morning, one of the most generous views in the Indian Ocean. It's also a hike that absolutely should not be done alone.

Saïd didn't guide me up himself — he put me in touch with Nadjim, a ranger from the village of Nvouni who has summited Karthala more times than he can count. We left at 3 a.m., walking uphill through ylang-ylang plantations that perfumed the dark air so strongly it felt theatrical. By the time the sun came up we were above the clouds, looking down into a caldera that felt like the earth had been scooped out with a spoon.

I want to say something honest here: I've hiked solo before. I've also been in situations where I suddenly realised I shouldn't have. Karthala is not a mountain you improvise. The difference between the two versions of this morning — reckless vs. safe — was one WhatsApp message from Saïd to Nadjim the night before.

Mohéli: the quiet island

After three days on Grande Comore, Saïd put me on a small plane to Mohéli — the smallest and wildest of the three main islands. This is where the turtles are.

In Nioumachoua, I stayed at a family guesthouse run by Saïd's cousin. Seven rooms. A shared terrace facing the islets. Fatima, who runs the place, called me "ma fille" from the first evening and made it clear that I was not allowed to carry my own bag, wash my own dishes, or go swimming before checking the tide with her son.

I spent the days doing almost nothing. Snorkelling above coral in water so clear it felt impolite. Reading on the terrace. Watching fishermen push pirogues back onto the sand. One night, a small group of villagers walked me down to the beach at 11 p.m. to watch a green sea turtle — nyamba — climb slowly out of the ocean and dig a nest the size of a bathtub.

Nobody charged me for any of this. This is the part of the Comoros that platforms don't know how to sell, because it isn't for sale. It's just what happens when you arrive somewhere through a person instead of a website.

The small moments of being a woman travelling alone

I'll say this plainly because it matters: I was never uncomfortable in the Comoros. Not once.

I dressed respectfully — long skirts, light scarves, shoulders covered — because it's a Muslim country and because it cost me nothing and mattered to the people hosting me. I didn't walk alone after dark in Moroni, not because I felt threatened but because I didn't need to. There was always someone — Saïd, his cousin, Nadjim, Fatima's son — who happened to be "going that way anyway."

That's not an accident. That's the difference between landing in a country and arriving in one.

What it cost (and didn't)

People ask me this a lot. A week in the Comoros — inter-island flight, guesthouses, guided hike, meals, and a generous gift for Fatima's family — cost me roughly CHF 1,100. No resort. No tour package. No middleman taking a cut of Saïd's time.

What it didn't cost me was the slow, anxious effort of figuring everything out from scratch. Nadjim's number. Fatima's guesthouse. Which boat captain to trust. Where not to swim at low tide. The right way to greet an elder. The name of the dish I kept ordering by pointing.

That's the part I no longer want to do alone. And honestly — I don't think anyone should have to.

Is the Comoros safe for solo female travellers?

Short answer: yes, with the same common sense you'd apply anywhere unfamiliar. Dress modestly, learn a few words of French or Shikomori, respect prayer times, and — my honest opinion — don't arrive without a local contact. Not because it's dangerous, but because the Comoros simply isn't built for tourists, and trying to navigate it as one will give you a much smaller trip than the place deserves.

Best time to visit the Comoros

May to October, the dry season. Clearer skies, calmer seas for snorkelling and turtle-watching, and safer trails on Karthala. Avoid January to March — cyclone season, and not the romantic kind.

How to get there

Fly into Moroni (HAH) via Nairobi, Dar es Salaam, or Paris. Book the inter-island flights once you're on the ground; whatever you see online is mostly fiction.

If you'd like the version of this trip where Saïd is waiting outside the terminal for you too — that's what I do now.

Kris Neuchâtel / on the road