Prologue
This journal recounts a trip to Rajasthan that’s already over a year old and that I’ve only now found the chance to write about. The summer of 2024 marked my return to India—my tenth trip—after six long years away since my last solo wanderings in Tamil Nadu in 2018 (the journal of which is published on this site). That absence was partly (but not only) due to the long COVID and post-COVID period, which saw a complete halt and then a major slowdown in global tourism. To top it off, Voyage Forum announced its closure in an end-of-the-world atmosphere. A sad time for our favorite social activity…
A few weeks after returning from Rajasthan, I tried to motivate myself to start writing a journal to publish on a forum claiming to be VF’s successor, which I’d eventually signed up for out of desperation. But I kept hesitating and putting the project off because, for one, I no longer have the time I used to. For another, the vibe wasn’t really taking off on that forum—it was overrun with ads and not very active, contrary to what its host’s name suggested. Despite its good intentions and commendable role as a stopgap, it also turned out to be very impractical to use, especially when you don’t have much time like me. I’ll admit I’d occasionally check back on VF to see if anything was happening. But all the discussions remained frozen in time, stuck in that fateful year, 2020. Then, rumors swirled online about shady reasons behind its closure, leaving little room for hope.
And then, one fine morning, I got a message at work from Marien informing me that VF had reopened. What a huge surprise! Even though the forum’s “end” had played out in a somewhat apocalyptic atmosphere, the memories of passionate and heated discussions, the frank debates, and the useful exchanges that made this site a traveler’s goldmine and a unique hub of conviviality all came rushing back to me like a breath of fresh air. I finally saw a sign and tried to motivate myself to find the time to publish the journal of this tenth trip to India and fifth to Rajasthan. But in the end, I got bogged down in professional and family obligations and never managed to find the time to get started. That’s now fixed, though, because I had two reasons for wanting to do it: I find that looking back on a trip to tell others about it is a highly beneficial introspective exercise. Also, I thought this journal could be useful to other travelers on a few points.
Because, “do we really need yet another journal about Rajasthan?” you might rightly ask! Especially in a time when so many journals about the “Land of Kings” have been published since VF’s return, not to mention the countless stories you can already find online about this region, one of India’s most touristy. And I’d add, why go back to Rajasthan for a fifth time, where I’ve already dragged my feet more than enough—through its forts, deserts, temples, cities, villages, bumpy roads, train stations, tasty street food stalls, cheap guesthouses, and more? Where some might see just another overhyped tourist destination full of the same old *Arabian Nights* clichés, worn to a thread, that I mentioned earlier, when there’s so much else to see in India?
Well, first because it’s a magnificent country I never tire of, where I started an academic study and made so many connections. It’s also packed with places where you won’t find a single tourist (right, Marie-Jo?), even in the heart of well-trodden paths and classic itineraries. And most importantly, as I said earlier, things have changed in recent years. First, after six years without traveling far, the urge to go back to India was getting stronger. But this time, no more solo trips (often) or duo adventures (sometimes)—now it’s a team of four that has to come along! And even if you can argue with that, what better place than Rajasthan to introduce India to people who’ve never seen it? To kids you want to amaze?
Plus, traveling with your new little family to your favorite country isn’t the same as going solo in often spartan conditions that only affect you. It’s a different challenge, but ultimately probably much harder. So, is it really reasonable to take two kids to India, including a two-year-old baby? That’s one of the main goals of this journal (but not the only one)—to try to answer that question.
As you can tell, it’s not so much the destination but the slightly unusual setup of this trip that, in my opinion, will make this journal interesting. Despite my experience and expertise (yes, I dare say it) in India, there were plenty of questions before we finalized the plan and said, “Alright, let’s go!” The questions were flying for us parents. Is it wise to travel to India with a two-year-old? What would we do (it happened) if the kids got very sick? Would they be able to handle a road trip on Rajasthan’s bumpy, dusty roads using public transport? Could they handle the shock of such a different world—the dirt, poverty, pollution, noise (…and the smell, as they say), the spicy food, monkeys, mosquitoes, snakes, tigers, leopards, and so on? In short, all the clichés that I usually joke about suddenly became potential realities. Another concern: as a mixed Franco-African family (not me, but my partner and her oldest), wouldn’t we risk not always being well received, given what you sometimes hear about that in India? How would Indians react to seeing a mixed-race family, the ultimate taboo in a country of purity and social segregation, which would undoubtedly raise many questions for them? Of course, not everything went as expected… Because, as you know, with India—and what makes it charming for some—there are always complications: sometimes where you don’t expect them… and sometimes where you do. I’ll go into detail about that in the journal to come (not right away) and in the final review (even later). These experiences could be useful to travelers who find themselves in similar situations and have the same questions we did before embarking on such a journey. And maybe it’ll spark the curiosity of those who aren’t concerned and will read yet another Rajasthan journal, but with its own unique twists.
Despite my unchanged constraints, which mean I have little time to write this, I don’t want to rush the story, so I’ll take my time. There will probably be lulls. I hope that won’t stop people from coming to react, debate, share their impressions, or ask for information.
Original post
We passed by the entrance of the Jama Masjid, one of the country’s largest mosques, dating back to the 15th century. I had already visited (and enjoyed) Ahmedabad ten years earlier, yet passing by the Great Mosque, I didn’t really recognize the place. That said, I have fond memories of it because, infinitely less crowded than Delhi’s, the ambiance is much freer and more peaceful. We kept its potential visit for later (which never happened). In this moment of discovery for my crew, we preferred to soak in the street scenes stress-free while drinking coconut water straight from the shell (40 rupees). It was still too early for India, and most shops remained closed, to the point that I barely recognized the bustling neighborhood I had crossed years before.
We plunged into the colorful stalls, not knowing where to look first—there was so much beauty per square meter, and in this explosion for the eyes, we wanted to buy everything. As we wandered through different sections, Magali, who was looking for practical Indian outfits for the rest of the trip, browsed the shops and fell for two gorgeous kurtī, these traditional dresses, here with Kutch patterns. Kutch is a desert region bordering Pakistan and Rajasthan in northern Gujarat, renowned for the craftsmanship of its tribal populations. For sure, with one of the kurtī she put on right away and her African braids made for this trip, she’d be mistaken for a tribal! In fact, quite a few passersby, especially women, would literally freeze, stopping in their tracks with a bodily and ocular halt, punctuated by a low grumble in Gujarati at this mixed-race girl with long braided extensions—more often out of great surprise than rejection. It was only in Ahmedabad, upon arrival and return, that I noticed this kind of reaction. I’m not saying there weren’t reactions elsewhere, but certainly not the same ones.
To recover from our emotions and since it’s almost lunchtime, we look for a place to grab at least some chaat (quick food), but there are only two small shops in front of the monument’s entrance, and we have to settle for chips, ice cream, and small Amul-brand lassi cartons—the indispensable national dairy brand, which, like Tata or Birla, was founded by wealthy Gujarati industrialist families who played a major role in helping Nehru develop the country after independence. These 20-rupee lassi cartons are filling and safe: a blessing for Théo, who loves them and won’t risk getting sick.
At the site’s entrance, we take a quick look at the small temple of the goddess Ambe Māta, then head to the ticket counter to buy our tickets (250 rupees for adult foreign visitors, free for kids). The Adalaj bāolī is one of those ornate stepwells typically found in western India, especially in the arid regions of Rajasthan or northern Gujarat, as they were used to store rainwater. This one was commissioned by a Hindu ruler in the late 15th century before a Muslim ruler, grandson of Sultan Ahmed Shah (founder of Ahmedabad, which logically means “Ahmed’s city”), invaded this neighboring kingdom. He married the defeated king’s daughter, who later allegedly committed suicide in the stepwell’s waters, according to legend... It’s absolutely stunning, with a distinctly Gujarati style blending Hindu, Jain, and Muslim influences.
These intricately carved pillars, like lace, form square lattice structures leading down to a large octagonal well accessible by steps.
The murky waters and rays of light filtering through the top and cracks in the structure create a beautiful visual effect.
Here and there, while exploring the nooks and crannies, I spot dogs curled up, asleep and undisturbed, in hidden corners of the monument or small alcoves sheltered from the sun and humans.
You can even walk on the roof (carefully) for an overview and admire other beautiful decorations. It’s all the more pleasant because the area around the stepwell is quiet, with flower-lined paths and large grassy areas to stroll, where Théo can eagerly watch gilahari (those little Indian squirrels) and big lizards scurrying along the stone walls, as well as an impressive banyan tree.
Plus, there aren’t too many people, which is nice. There’s a small group of Asian tourists, which makes us realize we haven’t seen (or hardly any) foreign tourists since arriving in Ahmedabad. We take advantage of the very clean restrooms (rare enough to mention) at the back of the site and the benches to rest a bit.
In no time, we’re back along the Sabarmati, turning by the grand Siddi Saiyyed Mosque before arriving at Laal Darwaza. We take a rickshaw that drops us off at our hotel, where our faithful guard is still on duty: he rushes to accompany us into the old elevator. Between the mishaps on the way there and the three buses on the way back, we’ve definitely taken the scenic route, but it’s made for a rich day full of stories and images that’ll stay with us.
The atmosphere starts to change as we approach the fort, where tourist activity is concentrated, and we’re soon approached by touts. One of them, who heard us speaking, says: "I speak Fraaanch! I lived in Fraance, which city are you from?"... a line I’ve heard countless times from Rajasthani touts, often from gypsy and itinerant artist castes, who learn tourists’ languages to better hook them. Some of them have even actually lived in France for a few years, hosted by their French girlfriends while they’re married back home (true story). His jeans and plaid shirt don’t fool me: with his Rajasthani mustache and caste-specific jewelry, he’s a Bhopā—easy to imagine in a dhotī and turban, with his staff and goats grazing on the paths of the Thar. I try to make Magali understand that we should avoid engaging too much with his apparent friendliness and tempting references to France, because that’s the trap: he’s trying to create a connection so he won’t let us go so easily... And even though I have the experience to make it clear I don’t need his services, I know how time-consuming and draining it can be to shake them off! Sure enough, he sticks to us, offering a thousand services: tours of the fort and other city sites, restaurants, shops, etc... I tell him we haven’t planned any visits right away and don’t have time because we urgently need to exchange money, which is actually true since we’re running low. He fires back that he knows a clothing store at the fort’s entrance that exchanges money at a great rate because they take a very small commission. We don’t risk much by following him, and we’re free to refuse if it doesn’t suit us. Passing through the fort’s main gate, he introduces us to the owner of a small shop on the right. The rate is indeed very good: 1 € for 91 rupees, while the official rate is 92. Deal! We exchange a large sum that will last us almost the entire trip, and we take our time counting the bundles several times under the watchful eye of our desert gypsy, who observes the transaction from a distance. Everyone’s happy: we got a great exchange rate, and our sticky shadow, who won’t completely let us go, relaxes a bit because he earned a commission. He still offers to take us to see the gypsy women every Jaisalmer visitor has met, who sell jewelry and other tribal items further up the fort’s entrance. Again, we follow him because Magali isn’t against taking a look and bringing some back for herself and as gifts. I chat a bit with these Bhopā women, pastoral musicians of the Thar who, in the local caste system, traditionally serve the Rabārī camel herders (also called Rāīkā), for whom they play and sing the epic of the divine hero Pābūjī Rāṭhauḍ during performances that once lasted several days. I mention encounters with other bhopās I met during my previous stays in Rajasthan, whom they know well. Then Magali’s hair becomes the center of their attention: the mood turns friendly. Then we move on to negotiations, always under the sharp gaze of our companion, who tries to understand what we’re saying in French and intervenes somewhat authoritatively in mārwāṛī (the local dialect) to give them instructions. Clearly, they’re from the same family. Our new friends unsurprisingly quote outrageous prices for India, which we haggle over just as outrageously—a game that makes everyone laugh. Either way, we let them know we didn’t plan to buy anything today and that we’ll come back to visit the fort another time because we’re going to eat. Our buddy, of course, quickly suggests a restaurant near the fort, which we refuse because we’ve already spotted another one online that suits us, a bit away from the old city: the Green Park. He doesn’t give up and hails a rickshaw for us, giving the driver orders to take us to the Green Park as if he were the godfather of the fort’s touts, boasting that he negotiated the Indian price for us at 50 rupees—which, this time, isn’t far from the truth. He’s no longer too pushy about forcing other services on us: we’re tougher tourists than usual, and his commission has relaxed him a bit. Also, he doesn’t have time to waste and will move on to more innocent prey. He tells us to see him "next time."
For today, we don’t want to visit the paid section and are content to explore the alleys at our own pace. Unlike its status as a living city, it feels more dead this afternoon: the interior is almost deserted, except for a few rare inhabitants and even rarer tourists we occasionally cross paths with—so much so that we wonder if we’ve stumbled upon a holiday or something. The fort is practically ours! We wander a bit through the alleys of beautiful houses, not all in good condition.
We’re (finally) approached by a woman in a sari who invites us into her shop. Not to pressure us into buying, she promises, but because she wants to talk to us. We’re glad we did because her story is fascinating: she’s a very committed and locally well-known feminist. She fights for women’s rights in India—a task that takes a lot of courage here—and her shop sells only handicrafts made by women from the region’s villages. In excellent English, she tells us how, against the grain of society, she chose her husband and resisted her in-laws’ disdain. I smile inwardly when she suddenly interrupts her life story with feminist slogans, raising her voice and fist, before returning to a normal tone—as if she’s experiencing brief, uncontrollable personality splits! And since she practices what she preaches, we see her husband, quite subdued, enter the shop without a word with their little girl, whom he’s just picked up from school, while she shares her militant thoughts and explains her association’s principles. Totally unusual for India! She shows us some beautiful items in her shop—fabrics, jewelry, bags, and other trinkets—explaining their context without pushing us to buy, which we wouldn’t do anyway because they’re expensive... Later, checking Lonely Planet, I realize it’s the Bellissima boutique, well-known and praised for its initiative. Satisfied with this unique encounter, we say goodbye. In search of coolness, we continue to the nearby Desert Café, which makes a good impression with its décor blending Rājpūt and Art Deco styles favored by the Maharajas of the early 20th century—a bit cozy with a beautiful view of the city from its rampart terrace.
Then we end up at Cannon Point, a stretch of ramparts accessible by a rather dangerous stone staircase, especially for kids. This place gets its name from the cannons, perfect for striking poses and pretending to fire through the battlements for the kids, or admiring the towers, the fort’s rooftops, and another beautiful view of the city’s west side as the sunset begins.
On the way, near the exit, we visit Śrī Lakṣmī, goddess of wealth and First Lady of the great Viṣṇu, master of the cosmos’ construction—which is no small feat when you think about it. A few devotees perform their pūjā (ritual to the deity) at this crucial transition time between day and night, while kids play cricket, by far the nation’s most popular sport, in the adjacent street.
The last glimmers of daylight still illuminate the façade and finely carved windows of the five stories of Paṭwon kī havelī, which belonged to a family of wealthy and pious Jain merchants. Considered the most remarkable in Jaisalmer, it’s possible to visit its sumptuous interior, but not at this slightly late hour.
Since we won’t have time to come back, we admire its façade and meet a neighboring owner who comes to greet us: he owns a shop next to the famous mansion, but we explain that we’ve just made our purchases, which he good-naturedly admits were at a great price. That doesn’t stop him from having a very pleasant conversation with us about our respective lives. But night falls, and we hail a rickshaw to return to the Tokyo Palace. A short cool break before the owner tells us that his rooftop restaurant, which we’d read so much about, isn’t open in this low season. He recommends the well-known Desert Boy’s Dhani at the end of the street, where you can either eat on the floor on cushions indoors or by candlelight in the beautiful garden. We first choose the indoor option, but it’s unbearably hot without AC. So we switch to the garden. Despite the mosquitoes forcing us to break out our Odomos cream bought at a pharmacy in Ahmedabad airport (nothing’s more effective than this Indian brand), the meal is delicious. Magali tries kājū masālā (cashew curry, a Rajasthan specialty) again, which she enjoys, though it’s not as good as the one that blew her away at our beloved Ambrosia in Ahmedabad. We quickly head to the nearby bus station, where we ask the only small private agency still open for information on buses to Jodhpur, where we’re heading in two days. But for now, we need to go to Khuri, a desert village where we’ve booked a homestay with a short camel safari in the evening. The owner of the Tokyo Palace, who agreed to keep some of our luggage until we return, calls a rickshaw driver to drop us off at the bus stop. The appointment made, we return to our cozy cardboard havelī to recharge after this intense day. Tomorrow, the desert...
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.
