Thanks so much for your very relevant comment, Joël.
Currently, many of these reports are made by German, British, or American teams and end up being broadcast worldwide. Once something makes it to TV, its confidential side is gone.
Unfortunately, that’s true, and it’s even worse with social media. Jawai Bandh isn’t in paper guides yet, but it won’t be long.
A little personal thought: when I read the part about "impure foreigners with the evil eye," I quietly thought they were pretty bold—both for "impure" and "evil eye" (literally and figuratively, by the way). Let whoever wants to understand, understand—I won’t elaborate.
Actually, it’s a ritualistic question. In Hinduism, even though these religious rules are relaxing, the upper castes are obviously the purest, and at the bottom of the scale are the so-called untouchables and foreigners, especially if their skin is dark. Of course, all this has evolved over history, and we can be idealized as demigods, rejected as outcasts, or perceived indifferently. But some in rural populations, a bit closed off to modernity and globalization, still fear that our presence brings the evil eye. That said, it’s less common than before.
For young children, it would never have occurred to me to take them to this kind of country
Maybe you were right. I’ll talk about this in more detail at the end of the journal in the trip summary (if I ever finish it). In any case, if we did it, it’s because after doing a lot of research, we found no reason not to travel to India with a two-year-old.
I don’t quite feel the same way anymore because I’ve seen many families whose stay in Asia went well and who handled it calmly.
Exactly.
Besides, I’ve known people who were kept in a bubble by their parents when they were young, and their bodies suffered from not being exposed to enough germs.
I’ve noticed that too. And actually, since that incident, Théo has never had another gastrointestinal issue—neither in France, nor in Senegal or Turkey.
Still, when a child so young shows strong and persistent symptoms, you can only advise the family to act faster than you did and take immediate drastic measures. Lives have been lost in similar circumstances. Maybe you had reasons not to worry too much—we all depend on our genetic heritage, and perhaps your family’s is particularly resilient.
Yes, but I don’t think genetics play the biggest role here—it’s more about the living environment.
As for taking him to the hospital sooner, we shouldn’t forget that (as I wrote) we sent him to a doctor very quickly, who immediately made the right diagnosis. The only issue was that he didn’t treat the dehydration. Two days later, he was already being cared for at the American Hospital in Udaipur, where one of the best pediatricians in Udaipur showed no concern and told us it was severe but classic. Maybe we could have taken him straight to a reputable hospital, that’s true. But we didn’t wait too long to react either.
That said, it’s really brave and honest of you to have recounted all these events in full. It stands out so much compared to those who only present their stories from a flattering angle.
Thanks for pointing that out! The main goal of this journal is to provide a reliable account for people who might want to travel to India with a very young child—something we found little of when preparing for this trip. So we have to tell things as they really happened; otherwise, it’s not a valuable experience or advice. We just want our experience to help people form their own opinions.
And anyway, it’s my mindset to always write authentic journals because my goal isn’t to make people believe I had a perfect trip from start to finish. It’s to tell things as they happened to inform future travelers above all—and to spark discussions and debates, like here.
There you go, you managed to make me write a summary ahead of time!
Four chapels at each corner of the temple’s square enclosure are dedicated to other major Hindu deities: Shiva (Viṣṇu’s destructive alter ego), Gaṇesh (the elephant-headed son of Shiva who removes obstacles and brings prosperity), Sūrya (the ancient Vedic sun god), and Shakti (the divine feminine principle, the active force of the cosmos). At the top of the steps, a statue of the eagle god Garuda faces the main sanctuary of Viṣṇu, which is elevated on the second maṇḍapa. Inside, devotees sit in meditative pauses, gathered around a pūjā performed by the priest for the deity. I join them, sitting toward the back of the room, and try to take a photo—strictly forbidden in the most sacred temples. I’m scolded by some zealous young devotees but play the ignorant tourist card: they let it slide, and I delete the blurry shot anyway.
During this visit, Magali texts me that she’s simultaneously participated in the pūjā of another god: the daily ceremonial visit from our “Dr. Jain” and his team. Great news: the tests are good, and Théo can be discharged tomorrow! He could’ve almost left today, but the doctor prefers not to take any risks and wants to be sure he’s 100% recovered. Magali is greatly relieved, and her grudges against the hospital are somewhat swept away! So are mine—the news lifts a huge weight off our shoulders. I finally start to see the rest of the trip differently. Théo recovered quickly, and this difficult ordeal is almost definitively behind us. We’ll finally be able to enjoy the little time we have left in Udaipur and end our journey as we began it. Well, not quite yet—we still have 24 hours to live through this curious experience of a hospital stay in India...
Walking down Jagdish Temple Road toward Ghāṇṭā Ghar (the Clock Tower, less remarkable than Jodhpur’s), I peacefully enjoy the lively street scenes of this busy commercial artery.
I keep an eye on both sides of the street because I’m looking for a tailor: the button on my shorts has been coming loose for a few days. I quickly find a small shop where a mustachioed man in his fifties is busy behind his sewing machine. Since he’s friendly and happy that I speak Hindi, he asks me lots of questions, offers me chāy served in a plastic pouch with small cups, and we start to hit it off. He does his job with great professionalism and tells me to pay what I want. I give him 50 rupees and say I’ll probably come back the next day because Magali and Kelyandre also have things to mend. He wishes me luck with the little one, and I continue down Sindhi Bazar, where there are no tourists left even though I’m still in the old city. I cross a particularly colorful vegetable market, which reminds me that beyond its (magnificent) historic quarter overrun with tourists, Udaipur remains a thoroughly authentic Indian city.
I wander past pastry shops, street-food stalls, street scenes, and a strange dumping ground right in the middle of it all... At Delhi Gate roundabout, the old city gives way to wide, congested avenues leading to the new city districts. A different walking atmosphere sets in.
(The famous Dr. Jain! The image is from GBH American Hospital’s website, but it’s so true to my impressions that one of the heroes of this trip deserved a physical appearance.)
After descending Jagdish Temple Road and passing Ghantaghar, the Clock Tower, to continue on Sidhi Bazar Road, the frenetic sounds of a harmonium and fiery singing tickle my music-loving, India-obsessed ears. We follow the sound and, at the edge of the street, pass through a gate set back between two shops, leading to a small courtyard dominated by ornate minarets, a dome, and what seems to be a mausoleum. In the back, a group of *qawwālī* musicians is playing poems in praise of Sufi saints in front of a small group of Muslim devotees sitting on a large carpet. I find the *qawwālī* genre particularly moving, and at this moment, it blends perfectly with the late-afternoon atmosphere, where the light and mood grow softer, and the feeling of travel is reborn in a light tranquility. We stay for a few minutes to enjoy this enchanting moment as the faithful come and go. After some research, the place seems to be an old mosque in the heart of Sindhi Bazar called Chillah kī masjid, apparently closed since...
While the tailor works on mending Kelyandre’s African shirt, Magali’s *kurtī*, and a backpack strap, a *rikshāwālā* drinking *chāy* with us makes Théo’s dream come true—obsessed with motor vehicles—by letting him sit in the driver’s seat of his rickshaw (which is, of course, parked). Hands glued to the handlebars, he’s absorbed in his new life-sized toy, imagining himself speeding through the crowded street, making engine noises with his mouth.
Manmohan shows me the work he’s done, insisting that he doubled the stitches so they’ll last a long time. He asks for 200 rupees, which seems a bit steep, but I don’t haggle—I’m happy with the moment we shared, the tailor’s friendliness, and the quality of his work.
I buy a packet of *biryānī masālā* for a Martinican colleague with distant Indian roots and, most importantly, the famous Mathaniya chilies for my Indian friends living in Paris who’ve long dreamed of cooking *lāl māns* (“red meat”), the iconic meat dish of Rajasthan, named for its vibrant color and the unique round, sweet heat of this chili variety. A bag is so light that at 300 rupees per kilo, it’s not expensive, and I grab some for myself too! We also stock up on incense at a neighboring shop for a ridiculous price.
We buy the tickets at the counter: 300 rupees round-trip for us, 150 for Kelyandre, and free for Théo if I remember correctly. While waiting for our departure time, we treat ourselves to grilled corn, juice, and creamy coconut flesh from the vendor across the street for 25 rupees. Then we hop into the "egg" for a splendid ascent up Machla Magra, the "Fish Hill," as the sun begins its descent behind the Milk Pond and Lake Pichola.
Wednesday, April 1st
Hazaribagh I’ve got a meet-up with Adam Iman, a guide and painter. He picks me up from the hotel at 10 AM. Another traveler from Bangalore is supposed to join us, but while we wait for him to arrive, Adam takes me to see the paintings his mother and sister created at Hazaribagh station. The town became famous thanks to these murals, which can also be found in several surrounding villages. This art form has earned recognition and is now protected, a sign of its cultural importance. Once the visit is over, we go to pick up the other traveler and then head to our first village: Belwara, where Sohrai art is practiced. At the entrance, a sign proudly announces that we’re entering an artists’ village, where this art is created by women organized into micro-enterprises. Some even offer workshops for those who’d like to learn this tradition.
Sohrai art is tied to the harvest season, from October to mid-November. The motifs, in natural colors, celebrate fertility and abundance. The artists use pigments from the earth: red oxides, ochre, white kaolin, and black manganese. On the walls, you’ll see animals, fish, birds—all symbols of life and prosperity. As I look closer at the murals, I start to realize that each motif tells a story. Large animals like cows or bulls often take center stage. Their bodies are filled with intricate, almost hypnotic patterns. They symbolize wealth and prosperity for the household, as well as the deep respect for cattle, which are essential to daily life. On some facades, elephants stand out—massive and decorated with the same precision. They evoke quiet strength and protection. But it’s when I stop in front of one of the houses that I really take the time to look. The wall, a soft ochre, is entirely covered in murals. Two large animals stretch out on either side of the door, their elongated bodies fitting the length of the wall. Their silhouettes are filled with geometric patterns and incredibly fine curved lines, as if every space was patiently filled. Around them, stylized plants, flowers, and small decorative elements fill every gap. The door, dark and worn, becomes almost the silent center of the composition, framed by these living, protective forms. To the right, a more colorful motif catches the eye—a flower or a stylized lamp—like a touch of light on the earth. The whole thing gives an impression of perfect balance, between the rigor of the patterns and the freedom of the gesture.
Elsewhere, birds and freer forms bring movement. Peacocks, recognizable by their stylized silhouettes, embody beauty and vitality, while fish symbolize water, fertility, and the continuity of life.
On some paintings, the scenes become almost narrative: you can make out figures, everyday gestures, like a memory of the village inscribed in the walls. The decorative frames around the doors aren’t left to chance either—they symbolically protect the house, like a boundary between the inside and the outside world.
During the Sohrai festival, cattle are led into the jungle in the morning. Meanwhile, the women finish the *aripans*—these floor paintings—and continue the wall murals. Around noon, the animals return to the village, and the bulls’ horns are anointed with oil and vermilion in a gesture of gratitude, amid the vibrant colors adorning the houses. We visit several artists, including Parvat Devi, a well-known woman who has received many awards. Her arms are adorned with intriguing tattoos, which I’ll talk about in more detail later.
On another wall, the style changes completely. Here, no massive animals—just birds occupying the space, light and graceful, as if caught in mid-movement. Two silhouettes face each other, their long necks arched almost like mirrors, while their outstretched wings seem to vibrate with the patterns that compose them.
The design is more graphic, almost airy. The lines are smoother, more fluid, as if drawn in one confident stroke. The birds’ bodies aren’t solid—they’re filled with repetitive motifs like scales, stylized feathers, and spirals, giving a sense of continuous movement. Around them, everything comes to life: flowers burst open, arabesques swirl, and even the simplest shapes seem alive. What strikes me here is the sense of lightness. Where the large animals evoked stability and grounding, these birds bring something freer, almost joyful. They seem to embody movement, the circulation of life, like a breath flowing through the village.
The colors remain the same—deep reds, intense blacks, and chalky white—but the rhythm is different. Faster, more spontaneous. As if each wall had its own personality, while still speaking the same language.
That’s probably why I’m so moved. I’d heard about these paintings from my friend Raja, and last year, I saw an exhibition in a village near my home. That first encounter made me want to come here. But seeing them in person is a whole different experience. These paintings are unique. This ancient art is passed down from mother to daughter, or mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, in a quiet, deeply living continuity. At first glance, it might seem almost childlike in its simplicity and pared-down forms. And yet, everything is thought out, balanced, mastered. Nothing is left to chance.
That apparent simplicity, combined with such rich symbolism, touches me deeply. There’s something sincere and essential in these walls—and that’s what moves me.
Hazaribagh I’ve got a meet-up with Adam Iman, a guide and painter. He picks me up from the hotel at 10 AM. Another traveler from Bangalore is supposed to join us, but while we wait for him to arrive, Adam takes me to see the paintings his mother and sister created at Hazaribagh station. The town became famous thanks to these murals, which can also be found in several surrounding villages. This art form has earned recognition and is now protected, a sign of its cultural importance. Once the visit is over, we go to pick up the other traveler and then head to our first village: Belwara, where Sohrai art is practiced. At the entrance, a sign proudly announces that we’re entering an artists’ village, where this art is created by women organized into micro-enterprises. Some even offer workshops for those who’d like to learn this tradition.
Sohrai art is tied to the harvest season, from October to mid-November. The motifs, in natural colors, celebrate fertility and abundance. The artists use pigments from the earth: red oxides, ochre, white kaolin, and black manganese. On the walls, you’ll see animals, fish, birds—all symbols of life and prosperity. As I look closer at the murals, I start to realize that each motif tells a story. Large animals like cows or bulls often take center stage. Their bodies are filled with intricate, almost hypnotic patterns. They symbolize wealth and prosperity for the household, as well as the deep respect for cattle, which are essential to daily life. On some facades, elephants stand out—massive and decorated with the same precision. They evoke quiet strength and protection. But it’s when I stop in front of one of the houses that I really take the time to look. The wall, a soft ochre, is entirely covered in murals. Two large animals stretch out on either side of the door, their elongated bodies fitting the length of the wall. Their silhouettes are filled with geometric patterns and incredibly fine curved lines, as if every space was patiently filled. Around them, stylized plants, flowers, and small decorative elements fill every gap. The door, dark and worn, becomes almost the silent center of the composition, framed by these living, protective forms. To the right, a more colorful motif catches the eye—a flower or a stylized lamp—like a touch of light on the earth. The whole thing gives an impression of perfect balance, between the rigor of the patterns and the freedom of the gesture.
Elsewhere, birds and freer forms bring movement. Peacocks, recognizable by their stylized silhouettes, embody beauty and vitality, while fish symbolize water, fertility, and the continuity of life.
On some paintings, the scenes become almost narrative: you can make out figures, everyday gestures, like a memory of the village inscribed in the walls. The decorative frames around the doors aren’t left to chance either—they symbolically protect the house, like a boundary between the inside and the outside world.During the Sohrai festival, cattle are led into the jungle in the morning. Meanwhile, the women finish the *aripans*—these floor paintings—and continue the wall murals. Around noon, the animals return to the village, and the bulls’ horns are anointed with oil and vermilion in a gesture of gratitude, amid the vibrant colors adorning the houses. We visit several artists, including Parvat Devi, a well-known woman who has received many awards. Her arms are adorned with intriguing tattoos, which I’ll talk about in more detail later.
On another wall, the style changes completely. Here, no massive animals—just birds occupying the space, light and graceful, as if caught in mid-movement. Two silhouettes face each other, their long necks arched almost like mirrors, while their outstretched wings seem to vibrate with the patterns that compose them.
The design is more graphic, almost airy. The lines are smoother, more fluid, as if drawn in one confident stroke. The birds’ bodies aren’t solid—they’re filled with repetitive motifs like scales, stylized feathers, and spirals, giving a sense of continuous movement. Around them, everything comes to life: flowers burst open, arabesques swirl, and even the simplest shapes seem alive. What strikes me here is the sense of lightness. Where the large animals evoked stability and grounding, these birds bring something freer, almost joyful. They seem to embody movement, the circulation of life, like a breath flowing through the village.
The colors remain the same—deep reds, intense blacks, and chalky white—but the rhythm is different. Faster, more spontaneous. As if each wall had its own personality, while still speaking the same language.
That’s probably why I’m so moved. I’d heard about these paintings from my friend Raja, and last year, I saw an exhibition in a village near my home. That first encounter made me want to come here. But seeing them in person is a whole different experience. These paintings are unique. This ancient art is passed down from mother to daughter, or mother-in-law to daughter-in-law, in a quiet, deeply living continuity. At first glance, it might seem almost childlike in its simplicity and pared-down forms. And yet, everything is thought out, balanced, mastered. Nothing is left to chance.
That apparent simplicity, combined with such rich symbolism, touches me deeply. There’s something sincere and essential in these walls—and that’s what moves me.
A little sneak peek?
Come along, I'm taking you to this country where it's so nice to wander and slow down...
I’m inviting you on a stroll through my drawings—a completely subjective, far from exhaustive, and totally personal take, since it’s based on my own sketches. I put this travel journal together after returning in late 2024, mostly using felt-tip pens and pencils, with a few collages thrown in. I worked from our personal photos.
And in Kyoto, Nishiki Market:
Since Albania isn’t part of Europe when it comes to phone service (at least not yet! :-)), we had to buy a physical SIM card—otherwise, the bill would’ve been sky-high if we’d used our French plan! We got one from Vodafone AL at the airport. You can buy online before leaving with a virtual SIM (e-SIM) for compatible phones, so you don’t have to swap cards. But given the uncertainty about choosing a plan online, we preferred buying one directly at Tirana Airport. Cost: 31 € for 100 GB. That’s way too much—100 GB is overkill. For 40 GB, it’s 27 €, and the plan lasts 21 days. The price difference isn’t huge, and it was cheaper than online. This plan covers all the countries along the Balkan range.
Money tip: All guesthouses and accommodations accept euros. The local currency in Albania is the LEK. In Montenegro, it’s the euro. Bank fees for withdrawing money from an ATM in Albania are pretty steep: 8 € for a withdrawal of 600–700 LEK (about 200 €)! So it’s better to withdraw cash (euros) in France. Oh, and we booked all our accommodations before leaving, but payment is always in cash. Budget around 400–500 € for 9 days of trekking.
I really liked Shköder, especially its pedestrian street lined with restaurants and lit up at night. It’s a great place to stroll and eat. The food isn’t expensive—two big salads and two beers: 14 € :-) . Fruit prices are also very reasonable: 3 € for a kilo of cherries, compared to 9–10 € in France.
Religions coexist peacefully in these countries—Catholics and Muslims. From our balcony, my friend heard the call to prayer for the first time, coming from one of the city’s mosques.
We slept in the heights of Theth at a new guesthouse, "Mountain Vista Shkafi," with an amazing view.
But Bologna’s real charm lies in its porticoes, which were added to the UNESCO World Heritage list in 2021: 62 km of arcades running along buildings, letting you walk sheltered from the sun or rain. Back in 1288, the city required houses to include private arcades for public use. In the city center, you can stroll under 32 km of porticoes in all sorts of styles—some plain, some ornate—with a strong presence of red tones.