Yet Another Travel Journal in this (Too) Familiar Rajasthan, But with Family and Kids (page 3 of 11)

Day 3, July 26: Ahmedabad-Adalaj-Ahmedabad "A little detour for exhilarating wanderings"

Wake-up, breakfast in the room just like the day before, and we get ready without dawdling too much because an intense day awaits us. The day before, just to get out of Ahmedabad a bit, I suggested to Magali that we take a trip to Adālaj ni Vāv, one of the remarkable bāolī of Gujarat, which I had also visited ten years earlier. The bāolī (vāv in Gujarati and Marathi) are these large Indian stepwells adorned like temples that served both practical and religious functions. It’s not the most impressive bāolī in Gujarat (the Rānī kī vāv in Patan, a bit further north, is on my list of the most beautiful things I’ve seen in India), but it’s remarkable and only about twenty kilometers from the center of Ahmedabad, which allows us to take our first trip into the Indian countryside without going too far. Magali, who doesn’t dislike Ahmedabad, isn’t absolutely smitten with the city—or maybe she’s just not yet accustomed to the joys of the hustle, pollution, and dirt of Indian metropolises. It’s also our last moment before taking the overnight train to Jaisalmer that same evening. We decide to walk to Laal Darwaza this time, as all roads seem to lead there, because I saw online that it’s from the bus station there that you can reach the village of Adalaj. We walk along Relief Road with its many clothing shops, restaurants, and all kinds of stores, still closed at this rather early hour. We make a quick stop along the way at a great lassi and juice stand, Masti Juice (Juice of Happiness), to enjoy the specialties and stock up on water in this muggy monsoon heat of Gujarat that makes us sweat a little. That said, we haven’t suffered too much from the heat since our arrival: the occasional rains cool the air a bit, the mornings are pleasant, and during the sunny spells, it’s hot but not unbearable.

We arrive at Laal Darwaza relatively quickly despite Théo, who often needs to be carried. He’s taken our warnings about the dangers of traffic and Indian sidewalks to heart and is very cautious amid the noise, though he’s usually so outgoing. He takes the opportunity to ask us to carry him more often than usual, citing fatigue. We know he’s exaggerating a bit, but it’s true that even if he walks, he’s only 2 years old and isn’t used to hiking so much, nor to this humid, heavy heat. We find the Laal Darwaza bus station and ask around to find the bus line(s) going to Adalaj. Several people—employees or just friendly passersby—help us out with great kindness and chat easily with us. We wait maybe half an hour before someone signals that a bus to Adalaj is pulling in. Everyone rushes toward the opening door, and we try our best not to get pushed aside, as is the tradition in India. We manage to find seats, the bus leaves, and we buy tickets from the conductor for a ridiculous sum, the equivalent of a few dozen cents. It’s our first public bus ride, and everyone appreciates the folklore of this old bus packed with colorful saris, immaculate white shirts and kurtās, and more...

I track our route by regularly checking my phone’s location on Google Maps and see that, heading north through the city, we’re indeed going in the right direction along the Sabarmati to Gandhi’s famous ashram (which we’ll never find time to visit), then past the Narendra Modi Stadium. Traffic is dense, but we gradually leave the city behind. Adalaj is halfway between Ahmedabad and its more modern satellite city, Gandhinagar, which is incidentally (and curiously) the capital of Gujarat. At one point, I notice the bus veering west, but since we’re not far from Adalaj, I think it’s a detour to the village of Shantigram and that it’ll head back east. But the road stretches on, and we keep moving northwest, getting farther and farther from our destination. I ask the driver if we’re really going to Adalaj’s stepwell. He seems a little embarrassed, nods vaguely without giving a clear answer—anyone who knows India knows that’s a bad sign! Then he finally tells me not to worry, that the bus isn’t going to Adalaj but will pass within 5 kilometers, and he’ll let us know when to get off to take another bus or a rickshaw. I catch a passenger telling him, “rather *pandrah kilometers*,” meaning 15 kilometers... I quickly check Google Maps, which confirms the passenger’s words and contradicts the conductor’s: if we keep going this way, geometry dictates it’s impossible to pass within 5 kilometers of Adalaj... or even 15... more like 20-25... I don’t know why everyone at the bus station told us this bus was going to Adalaj when it clearly isn’t, and I start wondering where the conductor will tell us to get off... Some passengers finally realize what’s happened and explain the confusion: the bus isn’t going to Adalaj but to... ADRAJ... which sounds almost the same! Several feelings wash over me, but though a little annoyed, I accept our fate. I tell myself that even when speaking Hindi and with helpful people, these kinds of mix-ups still happen when traveling in India... We continue our journey through fields and villages for what feels like an eternity, as I can’t help feeling we’re getting even farther away. But I never panic in these situations—it’s happened to me several times on India’s roads, and there’s always a solution. That’s why it’s an ideal country for wandering: you’re never truly lost, and these moments of aimlessness that invite letting go are, for me, part of the joy of travel. I explain to my crew that we need to keep things in perspective: we’re not that far from Adalaj, we’re on vacation to discover India, we have time, and taking a rickshaw through the Gujarati countryside will be even more fun. We finally arrive in a village called Vamaj, where the conductor tells us to get off and find a rickshaw.

The small village is at the crossroads of several roads, and there’s hardly anyone around—no crowd, barely a soul, and not even a place to grab a chāy or eat a samosā. We start wondering if we’ll find any way to leave this village. I ask just in case if there’s a bus to Adalaj, but no... The few travelers who got off with us all rush toward the few rickshaws there and leave without waiting, leaving us alone in this middle of nowhere. Kelyandre doesn’t quite share my mindset: his anxious nature doesn’t handle surprises well, and he seems to see the situation as a failure. I try to reassure him by reminding him that I know the country well and that these unexpected moments are often the most interesting parts of travel (which is true, since I’m the one saying it). We sell this little unplanned detour to the kids as a super attraction (which is also true), and we dive right in! We finally spot two rickshaws. One offers an outrageous price (for India) before lowering it to 500 rupees. Since I flat-out refuse because I know it’s way too much, even for “30 kilometers,” as he claims, they call over a colleague further away who, they say, will be cheaper. It’s an old man to whom I carefully emphasize the long and short “a” sounds, telling him we’re going to “ADAALAJ!” and not “AADRAJ!” We agree on 350 rupees. It’s certainly still above the usual price, but he’s the only one left in this deserted village, and we don’t want to linger here since we have a busy schedule. Plus, as Attila (the traveler, not the Hun emperor) would say, we’re not here to quibble over a few cents—it’s a fair price for us: it’s only 4 € to take four people 25 kilometers. And if we see it as an attraction (with air conditioning thanks to the wind), then it’s practically a steal! In the end, Magali and the kids, who love rickshaws, thoroughly enjoy this ride through villages and countryside. It’s even their most authentic experience of India since our arrival: cows, goats, and dogs on the road, rickshaws packed to the brim, overloaded motorcycles, decorated trucks with blaring horns, rural life scenes, and even urban ones as we pass through the crowded town of Kalol INA, an “industrial notified area.” It’s indeed a satellite industrial-urban area of Gandhinagar, and at times, we’re stuck in traffic. This proximity allows people to wave hello at us. Everyone’s delighted, and we even feel like the trip is really starting now. After about forty minutes, we finally arrive in Adalaj, where our very friendly driver finds the stepwell area, which I recognize immediately. A really nice experience in the end! 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.

Then we head out, happy with this beautiful visit, in search of a real place to eat quickly, as we have our overnight train early in the evening. We find a tiny little eatery in the alleys near the site that looks promising. The friendly owners seat us at the side table of their narrow shop and serve us delicious samosās, kachaurīs (small fried stuffed pastries), and other spicy chaat for next to nothing. While we eat, some Banjārā girls (Indian gypsies) show up to buy food and try to beg from us. Théo can’t think of anything better than to want to play with them—just when we wanted to eat without being bothered! But the owner asks them to leave us alone. Once we finish our meal, we quickly look for a rickshaw and ask the driver to take us to the nearest bus stop. He’s a bit lost because he says there are stops everywhere... I remember that ten years ago, all we had to do was stand by the regional highway, the SH41, which borders the village, and wait for the first bus to Ahmedabad. He asks a colleague for help, who tells him to drop us off at a specific spot by the road where a direct line to Laal Darwaza passes. We arrive at the indicated spot: a chāy and snack stand that serves as a stop. The vendor and a few customers assure us we just need to watch for the red bus that’ll arrive in “ten minutes.” But time passes, and nothing happens. It becomes a game to watch every bus coming from afar... which quickly gets annoying because either they pass without stopping, or our fellow passengers dissuade us from boarding because they’re heading to Ahmedabad but not the old city... and anyway, our bus should arrive in “ten minutes.” After an hour of waiting for “ten minutes” while buses speed past us, we fend off rickshaw drivers offering to take us directly to Laal Darwaza for exorbitant sums, chat amiably with our new friends, down bottles of water, chāy for the parents, and weird sodas/chip bags for the kids (Nutri-Score Z, but no choice...), meet a sādhu who shows off his outfit to squeeze a little money out of us before leaving not too happy with 10 rupees. We finally convince our chāywālā friend that the bus won’t arrive in “ten minutes” and that we’ll take whichever one comes since they’re all going to Ahmedabad. An unassailable argument he eventually accepts. We’re not late yet, but we will be if we don’t take our fate into our own hands. We finally board a bus whose terminus is 4 kilometers further, at the Chandkheda bus station. And as soon as we get off the first bus, we hop onto a second one that leaves immediately for a northern neighborhood of Ahmedabad, where we arrive much faster than on the way there. We realize just how close Adalaj actually was to Ahmedabad! Before getting off at the new stop, the conductor explains that our ticket will still be valid on the next bus. I want to emphasize here that up to this point, people have been incredibly kind upon seeing this quirky French family exploring India. Then, after a short chat with a man under the bus shelter trying to sell us trinkets, he points us to a bus going to Laal Darwaza. In the nearly empty vehicle, we feel reassured and satisfied to be on the home stretch. 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.

Time to shower one by one while we efficiently pack our suitcases, then we leave our room for check-out, give a small tip to the hotel guard and his two young helpers who’ve always assisted us, and load our suitcases into a rickshaw once more for the day’s final destination: Kalupur Station. We’re early enough to grab a bite to eat. We settle on Darshan, a small restaurant packed with travelers but air-conditioned, right next to the station, which has the advantage of serving almost all the North Indian, South Indian, and other Indo-modern classics you could want: everyone finds something they like. Théo is restless, probably on edge from this long day. Finally, we enter the huge station and head to the platform where our train, the Bandra Terminus Jaisalmer Superfast, arrives on time, once again announced by the two synthetic trumpet notes followed by the cheerfully robotic voice of Indian Railways’ virtual lady. We head to our 2AC compartment (for the uninitiated, a good air-conditioned class with 4 berths and no real separation from the corridor except curtains), which, though simple, pleasantly surprises Magali and Kelyandre with its quality. It cost us 1600 rupees per person, except for Théo, who rides for free. We stow our big suitcases under the seats and settle onto our benches. Delivery guys come and go, dropping off big bags for their clients, as apps now let you order meals on the train, at certain stations and times, from various restaurants: we wonder if that’s what we should’ve done. The train gradually fills up and leaves right on time at 7:30 PM. In a little over 14 hours, if all goes well, at an average speed of 50 km/h—which is “superfast” by Indian rail standards—we’ll be in Jaisalmer! Trains (like almost all services in India) are free for children under 5, as long as they sleep with one of the parents and don’t take up an extra berth. We share our compartment with a solitary, somewhat curious man in his sixties who’s come from Hyderabad to visit Jaisalmer, the train’s terminus. We chat with him a bit, but he seems quite reserved by nature. Despite my attempts to lighten the mood with comments like, “Ah, Hyderabad, the city of biryani!” he eventually retreats to his phone, where he listens to news from his region in Telugu at full volume. When we booked three berths in this four-berth compartment back in France, we wondered what kind of person would share the space with us. Now we know, and we’re not too bothered to have ended up with this curious and noisy co-traveler. But to our delight, a man sitting with his friend on the side benches across from us finally tells him firmly, “Uncle! Use headphones!” Our neighbor, who doesn’t have any, puts his phone away with a somewhat depressed look that makes me wonder: my imagination starts spinning stories about this strange but not unkind character’s life... My little family checks out the train’s restrooms, which they find less dirty than I’d warned them. The train gets a big thumbs-up from the crew! Then the blue-upholstered benches become berths, and we fall asleep pretty quickly, especially me, who so easily drifts off to the rocking of Indian trains. Goodbye, Ahmedabad and Gujarat—we’ll be back in just under three weeks! Now we can start dreaming of Rajasthan, of Jaisalmer and its desert fort, of camel caravans... zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

Ratings Ahmedabad 😊😊 Laal Darwaza Bazaar 😊😊😊 Adalaj Stepwell 😊😊

Hotel Prime ⭐ Ambrosia Restaurant 😊😊😊 South Indian Restaurant 😊😊😊 Darshan Restaurant 😊 Overnight train Ahmedabad-Jaisalmer in 2AC class 😊😊😊

That’s why it’s an ideal country for wandering: you’re never really lost, and those moments of aimless exploration that encourage letting go are, for me, an essential part of the joy of travel. I explain to my crew that we shouldn’t sweat it—we’re not that far from Adalaj, we’re on vacation to discover India, we’ve got time, and taking a rickshaw through the Gujarati countryside will be even more fun

Next time in India, we’re taking you with us! A discreet and caring guide, finding solutions to every worrying situation, knowing the country inside out, speaking French and Hindi, a top-notch negotiator, and seemingly always in a good mood 😛[;]

Hi there, I see you’ve immersed your family in the daily life of the locals. I don’t think I’d have dared take the bus with a 2-year-old. They must’ve been wide-eyed after a day like that. What an adventure for your family. I travel really comfortably with my drivers and in 1AC or CC... sometimes rickshaws and very rarely overnight buses. Looking forward to the rest. Best,

Thanks for your message! This reflection really resonates with me and seems spot-on because it’s almost exactly what someone I traveled to India with four times in the 2010s shared with me. She felt it was a privileged situation to discover India with the comfort of someone who knows the country well, speaks Hindi, has studied its culture, has opportunities to easily get invited into people’s homes, gives advice on what you could visit but leaves the decision up to you based on your desires (after all, I already know), doesn’t see unexpected events as negative situations but as part of the discovery process, etc... Like traveling in a bubble of ease that allows you to let go, while still being immersed in local life and really traveling off the beaten path! It’s almost like having a private guide, and I also love it because, as Kola and I mentioned earlier, it allows the person who knows the place to rediscover things through the fresh perspective of someone else. But it’s truly all the solo trips I’ve taken that have given me this freedom and mindset that I can now share with others.

That said, I have to temper the picture you’re painting a bit! I know it’s not always easy for the other person to keep up with my travel pace or my desire to visit more remote places. That I can handle things that might be harder for others to endure. That I can sometimes be a bit demanding about certain things, which can create little tensions. But those moments are rare!

Thanks Didier for your comment, which echoes Kate’s a bit. Actually, I took my little family on a near-total immersion trip—my presence and handling of situations allowed them to experience these "roots" conditions in a "comfortable" way. You’ll see in the rest of the journal that this was pretty much the case every day, even more roots (especially arriving in Jawai Bandh 😅) than that day between Ahmedabad and Adalaj. And these are ultimately the moments they loved the most and that remain the fondest in their memories. I get that people might question the safety of traveling in such conditions with a 2-year-old, but I have to say, it’s in these moments that we received the warmest welcome. I never could’ve imagined Rajasthani villagers being so kind and welcoming to us. But I won’t spoil too much of what’s coming...

This reminds me of that person—father or grandfather—who knows how to tell stories to kids and keep them on the edge of their seats... Your story takes me back to a rough night on our way back from Pondicherry with my friend Johny, as we were heading to Kannur. The bus we’d originally booked for the whole trip dropped us off in the middle of the night in a deserted village, with dirty, dark streets, to catch another bus "connecting" with only 20 minutes to wait for the second one. But we didn’t handle the situation as well as you did. It was nighttime, we didn’t see a single person, and soon huge cockroaches started climbing up our bags and suitcases left on the ground—no sidewalk in sight. Then came the rats... But the worst part was when swarms of mosquitoes showed up and stayed for what felt like forever, feasting on us while we had no way to protect ourselves. Every time a bus passed, we waved frantically, but either they wouldn’t stop, or they’d say they weren’t going to Kannur, Calicut, or anywhere else along the Malabar Coast. We waited there for hours, feeling completely abandoned and lost, convinced we’d be spending the night among that vermin. It was awful, and yet, not long ago, Johny reminded me of that adventure over 10 years later, and we had a good laugh about it.

Ah, the bus and train stations of Pondicherry at night 😊

I’ve had my share of not-so-comfortable overnight transits while traveling solo, but still, nothing like what you went through this time. It’s always tough in the moment, but like you said, it makes for great stories and memories.

I’ll share more in the next part of the journal about the many transport adventures we had (some of our best memories!), but we’d never have put the kids through middle-of-the-night departures or connections. Our golden rule when planning the trip was to stick to early morning departures or full overnight journeys. With kids, there’s a limit to how "roots" you can go.

Day 4, July 27: Jaisalmer "Discovering the Golden and Fiery City"

We wake up gently in the daylight, a little after 6:30 AM. I call out to my crew and point toward the window of our compartment: the urban landscape of Ahmedabad, which we left almost twelve hours earlier, has given way to the arid yet green plains of the Thar Desert. We’re starry-eyed, feeling like we’ve entered a different country, a different journey. We’re truly in Rajasthan, entering directly through the gateway of the desert-like Mārwāṛ ("Land of Death"), while most travelers coming from Delhi logically start with the gentler Mewāṛ. Our carriage has emptied out quite a bit in the meantime. Many travelers get off at Ramdevra, a major pilgrimage site in Rajasthan where the temple of the highly revered divine hero Bābā Rāmdevjī is located. A few minutes later, the train briefly stops at Pokharan, a desert town famous for having been the site of nuclear tests in 1998 aimed at intimidating the Pakistani neighbor, and revered as a sacred place by some Hindu fundamentalists. I step onto the platform toward the only small shop open at 7 AM to grab some chāy and local biscuits before the train starts moving again almost immediately—because in India, trains restart very slowly, and people don’t rush to get back on when they see it leaving. We really enjoy this morning chāy, and the kids love the Indian biscuits you find in every train station, roadside stall, or small grocery store worth its salt: Parle-G ("G for genius," as the slogan next to the pure and angelic child on the packaging says—true, what a genius idea to make those little butter biscuits... oops, I mean "gluco-biscuits"!) or Hide & Seek with bourbon flavor (just "flavor," mind you) which wins their vote. For a good two hours, the Thar landscape rolls by—scrawny but green thorny bushes, occasional stretches of sand and dunes, villagers in vibrant clothing, and even a few chhatrī, those royal cenotaphs typical of Rajasthan... before we finally arrive in Jaisalmer. I was expecting a significant delay for such a long journey, which is routine in India, but the train arrives just a few minutes off schedule—a truly impressive performance. Everyone is absolutely enchanted by the Indian train, which has been a huge hit! We haul our heavy nomadic gear out of the air-conditioned carriage to experience the heat of Jaisalmer in July—and it’s only morning... From the platform, we spot the fort in the distance, a majestic citadel perched on its fragile mound of rubble above a twisted cluster of cubic houses, rising like an ochre mirage in the middle of the desert city.

We carry our suitcases up the steps of the footbridge and arrive in front of the station, where a contrast with Ahmedabad strikes us: there are so many tourists! Travelers are almost forming a line in front of the station, while rikshāwālā, taxi drivers, and other touts swarm the crowd, asking for hotel names and quoting outrageously high prices. Some even speak a bit of French here and there. As usual, I don’t give in and manage to halve the price. It’s still more than it should be, but from a station in a tourist spot, the competition is united in not going below a certain floor price (which I think I’ve reached) for Western tourists. We mention the Hotel Tokyo Palace, located on a street near Gadisar Road, the main thoroughfare that forms the southern periphery of the old city. Among the plethora of accommodations available in Jaisalmer—many of which look alike and adopt that slightly tacky but charming style imitating the architecture of the havelī and the fort in a modern version—we booked this one by contacting the owner via WhatsApp. The hotel has a good reputation, known for its quality service (especially among Japanese and Asian clientele—the name doesn’t lie), its excellent food, and its pool, all at a price that seems almost too good to be true... Will there be a catch? The rickshaw pulls into a quiet street where hotels are under construction, unloads our luggage, and we enter the vast lobby of the Tokyo Palace, where we’re warmly welcomed by the owner and his team. We’ve booked a large deluxe room for four at just 1,850 rupees! Curiously, there’s almost no one in the establishment, and the owner offers us one of his suites for 2,500 rupees. But after visiting both, we stick with our first choice because the room already exceeds the comfort we expected: spotlessly clean, full of white sheets, blankets, and cushions with Rajasthani patterns, spacious, and beautifully decorated. A 21st-century Rājpūt room! How do they manage to maintain such a beautiful place with so few guests? It’s true that monsoon season is a low period, but still... On the other hand, this might explain the strong presence of touts in this city—otherwise, how would travelers discover them among so many options? We find a credible explanation for why we have such a nice hotel at such a low price: exotic Jaisalmer, even for Indian visitors, is a victim of its own success, and the competition is so fierce that prices have to drop to fill rooms. Either way, we appreciate the cool air conditioning, and after a night on the train, we each take turns freshening up in the fairly large bathroom. As we go down the wide stairs, we glance at the pool, which looks decent but turns out to have murky water with pigeon feathers and a dead bat floating in it... The owner explains that it’s due to the monsoon and that the water will be changed soon...

We set off on foot to conquer the fortress, climbing the alleys. What strikes us first in Jaisalmer is the sheer number of hotels—not to mention all the ones under construction. Fortunately, they all respect the colors and architectural style of the old city, almost entirely ochre, especially that of the havelī made of Jaisalmer’s yellow sandstone. These beautiful 19th-century homes were once (and often still are) inhabited by notables from princely Rājpūt castes or wealthy and pious merchant castes mārwāṛī. So, the slightly tacky style doesn’t clash with the older buildings. People greet us warmly from their doorsteps, as warmly as the scorching sun, and I exchange a few words in Hindi with them. I had memories of relentless touting during my previous visits in 2007 and 2014, so I’m pleasantly surprised by this disinterested welcome. Is it because we’re traveling as a family? I have a feeling it is—the kids are a hit, especially Théo with his blondish-reddish curls, and Magali with her African braids. We’ve only been walking for a few minutes, but the climb through the alleys is already making us sweat! 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."

The rickshaw leaves the fort’s vicinity, crosses the neighborhood of our hotel and Gadisar Road to take us a kilometer further to the entrance of a private alley leading to the Green Park restaurant. The area is quiet, slightly outside the city. The establishment faces a military building of the border forces because Jaisalmer is only 80 kilometers from the sworn enemy, Pakistan. The Green Park is once again that type of clean, air-conditioned, authentic, and affordable restaurant aimed at India’s upper-middle class that I particularly love—and which is definitely the category that suits us best, adults and kids alike. On average, it always costs us around 1,500–1,600 rupees for four without skimping on extras for high-quality dishes. We’re almost the only ones in the dining room, and we once again enjoy a wonderful welcome and exquisite cuisine: a Rajasthani thālī bringing together the region’s best specialties, dāl bāṭī chūrmā, another Rajasthani specialty of crispy bread balls dipped in dāl with crumbled sweets, the ever-present Kelyandre noodles, and Théo’s dāl khichṛī. Kelyandre even gets spoiled by the chef with a five-star ice cream scoop! We start walking back to the hotel, which isn’t too far, but the blazing sun, lack of shade, and Théo’s fatigue force us to (literally) disturb a rikshāwālā napping in his vehicle, who really doesn’t want to take us. He finally gives in for 40 rupees—a small price, but expensive for the one-minute ride it represents. An essential nap in the coolness of our cheap palace room, which even has window benches behind the curtains to lounge like Rājpūt princesses.

Around 4:30 PM, we set off again to visit Jaisalmer kā kilā (the fort). At this still scorching hour, activity around the site is almost at a standstill, and there aren’t even any touts bothering us—though we expected to run into the one who had latched onto us. As a Carcassonne native (among other things), I find that, for once, the tourist nickname "Desert Carcassonne" isn’t too far-fetched—you could imagine the famous medieval Cité of Aude under a *One Thousand and One Nights* spell, transplanted into the desert. The fragile 12th-century citadel, dangerously sinking over time due to human activity, has just had its twinning with Carcassonne officially announced barely two weeks ago, on August 30, 2025—a partnership strongly desired by the current Maharaja to strengthen exchanges in medieval city preservation. Like Carcassonne, Jaisalmer Fort is a living city, meaning it’s inhabited. Unfortunately, many of these homes are now hotels, shops, and restaurants that further threaten its slow erosion. 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.

We finally leave the fort to take a stroll through the alleys outside the ramparts. A shop catches Magali’s eye where she’s spotted some beautiful scarves: the very friendly vendors set us up, and there follow many fittings and haggling sessions while Théo has fun diving into the soft cushions. Then, deal made, both parties agree on a very reasonable price. We then find a small shop to stock up on diapers, which are starting to run low—a good thing done, so we’re set for a few days. We push a bit further toward a havelī neighborhood. 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...

I guess you were 4 in the rickshaw? Same for us, but 4 adults, so not much room... It was borderline dangerous, so with kids...? 😕

Yes, we’d squeeze four of us into the rickshaw—either all in the back with the little one on our laps, or me up front with the driver and one leg and one arm hanging out a bit. After all, Indians manage to fit even more in them! 😄 No, it wasn’t dangerous because the smallest was held securely, but it’s true that when there were potholes, the oldest sometimes bumped against the metal bar that forms the rickshaw’s frame—nothing too serious, though. The rickshaw was actually one of the things they enjoyed most in India.

I’ve just made a few minor tweaks: fixed typos, repetitions, and added a bit more info... nothing major.

I just made a few minor tweaks: typos, repetitions, little bits of added info... nothing major.

Hey there... Basically, if I understood correctly, it's better not to rush into reading the first draft... 🤣 😇 which is what I did when I saw the length of this new post yesterday... You’re making me want to check it out. In my various trips/stays in Rajasthan, I’ve always skipped Jaisalmer to visit less touristy spots. But after reading you, I really feel like I missed out... If I’ve got a bit of cash, I’ll try a quick getaway in December before the Christmas holidays. If the flight ticket from Kannur to Jaisalmer isn’t too pricey... By train, it’d be way too long and almost as expensive... I love travel journals that make you want to go see for yourself... When you tell the story, I feel like I’m right there with you. Especially because of the kids—they remind me of how my grandkids act/react...

In a way, if I understood correctly, it's better not to rush to read the first draft...

The issue is that I started this journal when I went back to work. So I write in the slim windows of time I have left, mostly in the evening when I'm really tired. That's why I only realize the mistakes and omissions afterward. But hey, these are just small improvements and clarifications—nothing major. I do it mostly for myself and for the two or three readers who might be interested in these tweaks. I’m well aware that I don’t have a big following, and if I were only doing this for others, I wouldn’t put in so much effort.

I really like journals that make you want to go see for yourself... When you tell your story, I feel like I'm right there with you. Especially because of the kids—they remind me of how my grandkids act and react...

That’s great because that’s exactly the intention I set out at the start of this journal: to write this trip from a subjective point of view, as if the reader were with us. And if it works for even one person, then I’ve achieved my goal!

In my various trips/stays in Rajasthan, I’ve always skipped Jaisalmer to visit less touristy places. But after reading your journal, I feel like I really missed out...

Even the same traveler can have very different feelings when returning to the same place multiple times, depending on their mood, who they’re with (or not), and the experiences they have. In 2007, during my very first trip to India, I didn’t really enjoy Jodhpur because I was new to India and the person I was with was a bit on edge. But I loved it every other time, especially the last trip with my family. Experience and context change how you perceive things each time. So, it’s possible that my story might make a reader want to go somewhere that they won’t actually like once they’re there, because appreciating a place is really subjective. It might also be my vision and way of traveling that makes places sound appealing in my writing. You know that even on well-marked paths, I inevitably end up off the beaten track. Even in the most touristy cities, all it takes is walking around, meeting people, chatting with them—or even following them—turning down a different street, exploring a neighborhood tourists don’t visit, eating at a local restaurant that no guidebook mentions... and everything changes! So the Jaisalmer I saw won’t be the same as what others have seen, or even the same as what I saw 18 years ago or 11 years ago... But yes, it has the potential to be really loved, or even the highlight of a trip to Rajasthan (that’s what Lonely Planet or the Routard says, I can’t remember which), if the conditions are right and you make the effort to create them!

But hold off on judging because the best of what we experienced in Jaisalmer is still to come... once I can keep writing...

I’m well aware that I don’t have a huge following, and if I were only doing this for others, I wouldn’t put in so much effort.

Now you’re pulling your M... uh... your Drama Queen act... 🤡

I’m well aware that I have few followers, and if I were only doing this for others, I wouldn’t put in so much effort.

But if, like him, you have a large following and your travel journal interests your readers, maybe they just don’t have time to respond, or they’re not sure what to say even if they love your vivid, authentic story...

I really enjoy journals that make me want to go see for myself... When you tell your story, I feel like I’m right there with you. Especially because of the kids—they remind me of my grandkids’ behavior and reactions...

That’s great because that’s exactly the intention I set out at the start of this journal: to write this trip from a first-person perspective, as if the reader were with us. And if it works for even one person, then the goal is achieved!

You also show us ANOTHER way to travel: doing it with young kids. It’s sharing a different kind of experience. That’s exactly what I wanted to do by sharing the unique way an elderly man with limited physical abilities (and maybe others? 🤔 😄) travels. It’s a different experience.)

Exactly 😂 But still, it's TRUE. Oh well, whatever...

Hi, your story reminds me of my last visit to Jaisalmer in April 2018. Hotel prices had literally plummeted. So many hotels... I really enjoyed going back after 12 years away. I'm still waiting for the leopards. Cheers

Hi Didier,

Jaisalmer and Udaipur are the two cities that seemed to have changed the most, especially in terms of hotel offerings. I’ve noticed that this increase isn’t due to more foreign visitors but rather Indian visitors. Compared to my previous trips, the Indian middle class has grown, and domestic tourism keeps rising. It was really obvious in Mount Abu, for example. I think that’s the reason behind this surge in offerings.

Be patient for Jawai Bandh—it’s not happening just yet, but it will!

an increase (...) of Indian visitors. Compared to my previous trips, the Indian middle class has grown, and domestic tourism keeps rising.

And that’s a positive point in India’s evolution and development, but the problem is that they’re noisy, intrusive, uncivil, and above all, the vast majority don’t respect the sites. They contribute to polluting and trashing places that were once protected and stunning—littering everywhere, mistreating nature, degrading their own artistic and archaeological heritage, etc... When will Indians (from the north?) stop tossing their paper plates, plastic cups, snack wrappers, candy packets, and... water bottles right where they stand or out the windows of buses, trains, and their pretentious big 4x4s?

Thanks for your encouraging message! I’ve got to be honest—travel journals on VF aren’t read as much as they used to be because the site seems less active now, and some VF members are more popular, so they get more reads. But I’ll say it again: it’s not a big deal. I do this for myself and for those who are interested. I also know some people read in the shadows.

And it’s a positive point in India’s evolution and development, but the problem is they’re noisy, intrusive, uncivil, and above all, the vast majority don’t respect the places they visit. They contribute to polluting and trashing sites that were once protected and stunning by littering everywhere, mistreating nature, and degrading their own artistic and archaeological heritage, etc... When will Indians (from the north?) stop tossing their paper plates, plastic cups, snack wrappers, candy wrappers, and... water bottles right where they stand or out the windows of buses, trains, and their big pretentious 4x4s?

Unfortunately, that observation is entirely true. Development is spreading, but the mindset isn’t keeping up... Modi tried to make people believe things would change with his "Swachh Bharat" ("Clean India") slogan, but he didn’t back it up with real action. And he didn’t clarify that his program was more about targeting minorities than actually tackling litter.

Hello,

I’m a "lurker"... who’s not hiding at all... Like many travel journals on this forum, yours is fascinating, and what’s really inspiring is the wide variety of styles—concise or detailed, intellectual or factual—everyone finds something they love.

Would you allow me to make a small request? To make reading easier, could you space out the text a bit more, add line breaks, and keep paragraphs shorter?

My poor old brain would really appreciate it.

Thanks again for all the work you’ve done for our benefit. Best regards,

Calaf