New adventures from Perpignan to Ranchi (Jharkhand) (page 3 of 4)

A little later, the Sarhul festival begins with a parade accompanied by music.



Sarhul is an ancient tribal festival celebrated mainly in Jharkhand, marking the worship of nature and the start of spring. The word "Sarhul" literally means the worship of the sal tree, which holds a central place in tribal beliefs as it’s considered the home of the goddess Sarna Maa. Women and young girls wear festival-specific saris in red and white.





Women have flowers tucked into their hair, while men also sport red and white scarves tied around their heads.





Trucks blasting music move slowly, and the whole crowd follows them. Women link arms to dance, forming moving chains. The atmosphere is joyful and lively, with everyone joining the procession in a kind of collective momentum.







But the sudden arrival of a storm and rain unfortunately cuts the celebration short. I take shelter under a tarp as the road turns into a river. Once the downpour ends, everyone scatters, and I have to walk through the dirty water. I get back to the hotel soaked; my sandals and pants are covered in mud. I wash everything before taking a shower, then head out for dinner.

Sunday, March 22 Today, I planned to go to Khunti to visit a weaving workshop. I took a shared taxi that only leaves when it's full—we were ten passengers. The taxi dropped me off near the market, about a kilometer from the city center. I strolled around leisurely. At the market entrance, I was impressed by the work of the blacksmiths, who belong to a local tribe. A man and a woman took turns striking a red-hot piece of metal pulled from the fire with a heavy mallet, while another held it with tongs. The movement was precise, rhythmic, almost choreographed. The woman, dressed in traditional attire, refused to be photographed. I didn’t insist and continued my visit.



I then set off on foot toward the city center in search of a rickshaw. One quickly stopped beside me and offered his services. Looking for a weaving workshop, I showed him a photo. He didn’t know the place but asked around in several shops. Finally, a man recognized the location and gave him directions—it was about ten kilometers away, in the middle of the countryside. Along the way, my driver stopped several times to check the direction. Just before arriving, he took a dirt road that led us to a dilapidated building surrounded by a few houses. The weavers likely lived in this small hamlet. We had indeed arrived at the Nimacha Cluster Open Field.



The room was huge, bathed in light, and filled with looms from another era. The warp—those long stretched threads that form the base of the fabric—extended well beyond the loom itself and was held in place by simple wooden stakes planted in the ground. The whole setup was rudimentary, almost fragile in appearance.





A weaver sat right at the loom, focused on his work. In front of him, the perfectly aligned red threads formed an already dense surface. With precise movements, he passed the weft—the horizontal thread—through the warp, then packed it all down with a piece of wood to tighten the fabric. The motion was repetitive, fluid, almost meditative.



Despite the simplicity of the tools—worn wood, ropes, handmade structures—the result was remarkably fine. The fabrics produced were even, taut, and of beautiful quality. The contrast between the roughness of the means and the delicacy of the result was particularly striking.



Only two men were working today, on this Sunday. The demonstration was simple but captivating.



One man then sat down at his spinning wheel, made of simple pieces of wood assembled together. The whole thing looked fragile, almost unstable—you wondered how it could still stand and function. Yet, as soon as it started moving, everything became fluid. The wheel turned steadily under his precise movements, transforming the fiber into thread with surprising efficiency.

Again, the simplicity of the tool contrasted with the mastery of the gesture. Nothing was superfluous; everything relied on habit, patience, and know-how passed down through generations.



On my way out, I didn’t dare venture further into the hamlet. No one invited me in, even though my presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. I still walked along the path leading to a river, in a peaceful landscape.



I took the time to savor this suspended moment before rejoining my devoted driver. Back in town, I returned to the market where I enjoyed an excellent samosa, fresh out of the fryer. In the same shop as the samosas, delicious pastries caught my greedy eye. The gulab jamun, those little golden balls soaked in fragrant syrup, sat alongside other sweets whose names I didn’t know: round doughnuts with a hole in the center, like little rings, and, slightly set back, orange balls that added to the temptation of the counter. It was hard to resist in the face of so many colors and unknown shapes… In India, every region has its own treats, and every shop window seems like an invitation to discovery.



I wasn’t in a hurry to return to Ranchi.

I had to take a taxi in the city center, at an intersection where several vehicles were waiting. I spotted the one for Ranchi at the end of the line. I was the first to arrive, and we waited with the driver for nearly half an hour before leaving. Back at the hotel, I asked about the bus schedules for the next day. I also took the opportunity to check if my laundry was ready. Unfortunately, it was returned to me just as it was—still dirty. It clearly hadn’t been washed. I hope to take care of it at the next stop; otherwise, I’ll have to do it myself.

I ended the day with a biryani, which, unfortunately, was much too spicy for me.

Monday, March 23 – From Ranchi to Jamshedpur, between religious fervor and colorful houses I leave Ranchi, where I’ll be passing through again in a few days. It’s just a short stop, just enough time to change buses. The bus is ready to leave, but for now, there aren’t many travelers yet. That doesn’t last long: passengers quickly board, and the bus fills up completely. It’s a "luxury" bus, and I pay 350 rupees for the trip. After a few kilometers, the bus drops me off at the side of the national highway. I want to visit the Diuri temple, located about two kilometers away, but I need to take a small side road. No autorickshaws in sight... All I can do is hitchhike. After a few minutes of waiting, a car stops near me. I approach and ask the passengers if they can take me to the temple. They agree easily and kindly drive me to the entrance. A Brahmin welcomes me and suggests I leave my bag in a nearby garage. Then he accompanies me to the Maa Dewri Mandir.



I’m immediately struck by the crowd. There are so many people, and a strong sense of devotion fills the place. The faithful arrive with their offerings, some with their families, others here to perform a specific ritual. I notice a man who came to have his motorcycle blessed, carefully decorated with flowers for the occasion. Here, vehicles can also receive a blessing before hitting the road.



The exterior of the temple is very colorful, richly adorned with decorations. The dome, with its vibrant colors, is magnificent.



The Brahmin waits for me at the entrance and lets me skip the long line. It’s a privilege that surprises and touches me.



The Maa Dewri Mandir is a unique temple in Jharkhand: the ceremonies (pujas) are performed by Pahans, priests from tribal communities, alongside Brahmins. The temple is dedicated to the goddess Dewri, depicted with sixteen arms. Thanks to the Brahmin, I can move forward to the sacred area. In front of me, many devotees wait patiently for their turn, holding their offerings in their hands. Outside, life at the temple continues. Small stalls surround the building, and women sit on the ground selling souvenirs, flowers, or items for offerings.



I notice a wall and a sacred tree whose branches are covered with yellow and red threads. The faithful come here to tie a wish. When it comes true, they return to the temple to untie the thread as a sign of gratitude.



It’s time to head back to the national highway to catch another bus. Once again, I need to find a solution. I pick up my bag from the garage and spot a van parked by the side of the road. The driver is at the wheel. I ask if he can take me to the bus stop. He kindly agrees and even stays with me to wait for the next bus. When he sees it, he signals for it to stop. When I try to thank him financially for his help, he refuses. That’s life in India... These small spontaneous gestures from strangers you meet on the road are part of the memories that stay with you. I continue my journey to Jamshedpur, a name I still struggle to pronounce. I check into The Villa, a pleasant surprise: a friendly and very clean place.

Next, I want to explore the village of Amadubi. I take a taxi to get there, but upon arrival, I find that the cultural center is unfortunately abandoned. I’m disappointed because I was hoping to learn more about this place. But that disappointment is quickly forgotten. On the way, I had noticed a street lined with houses beautifully decorated with paintings. I ask the driver to stop and set off on foot to explore this neighborhood.



What surprises me, beyond the beauty of the paintings, is how clean this street is. The houses are well-maintained, the facades are neat, and the whole village gives off an impression of harmony and care. It’s a lovely surprise, especially since this isn’t the first time I’ve noticed this during my trip. In the different states I’ve traveled through, I’ve often seen that tribal community villages are particularly clean and well-kept. The homes, the areas around the houses, and the living spaces seem to receive special attention. Beyond the traditions and colors, it’s also this way of taking care of their environment that strikes me.

At that moment, I don’t yet know the history behind this art of painted houses or its significance. I’ll discover it in more detail in a few days, but already I’m amazed by what I’m seeing. Some houses are simply decorated with a colorful stripe,



while others display full murals. The colors brighten the facades and give the village a joyful atmosphere.



A man invites me into the courtyard of his house. Here too, the walls are carefully painted. Everything is cheerful, vibrant, and full of color. A little further on, I discover houses adorned with floral friezes. Even the door frames are delicately decorated. Each facade seems to tell a story.





Gradually, the locals come out of their houses, curious about my presence. Smiles appear, and conversations begin. I take lots of photos and selfies with them, happy to share this simple and warm moment.





The children come to play around me, amused by this unexpected encounter. In the end, this impromptu walk through this colorful village will remain one of the highlights of my day. I arrived without knowing about this tradition, simply drawn in by the beautiful colors I’d spotted from the road... and I leave with the memory of a wonderful human connection.





I don’t know it yet, but I’ll soon rediscover this tradition of painted houses from a different perspective, with more explanations about its history and its place in the local culture.

The exterior of the temple is very colorful, richly adorned with decorations. The dome, with its vibrant colors, is magnificent.



So many beautiful things in your last two posts! That dome is truly stunning!

Your last two posts are full of beautiful things! That dome is truly stunning!

Yes, this temple is magnificent, and so is the atmosphere. It was a wonderful discovery. This region is absolutely not touristy, and I found it very difficult to find information about it. I passed through places that didn’t excite me—maybe it’s better to go with a guide, but on a 20-day trip through this state, that would make for a hefty budget if I’m traveling alone.

March 2nd — Departure by bus from Latour at 6:50 AM. The route isn’t direct: we pass through Elne then Corneilla. In Perpignan, I switch to a BlaBlaBus heading to Barcelona’s northern bus station.

I saved reading this travel journal for when I’d have the time to give it the attention it deserves, and today I’m finally diving in. At Marie-Jo’s, no long, unnecessary deliberations about the circumstances and intentions behind the trip like you find with Pagal and others 😄

This *in medias res* opening (starting the story right in the middle of the action) throws us right in without any warm-up!

I saved reading this travel journal for when I’d have the time to give it the attention it deserves, and today I’m diving in. At Marie-Jo’s, no long, unnecessary rambling about the circumstances and intentions behind the trip like you find with Pagal and others 😄

This *in medias res* opening (starting the story right in the middle of the action) throws us in without any warm-up!

Welcome, Pagal. Hold on tight—I don’t dawdle, and the road ahead is long, with both great and not-so-great discoveries. A journey into the unknown.

Tuesday, March 24 Yesterday, on my way back, I arranged for a taxi to pick me up at 9 AM for a new excursion: Chirudih, the right village this time. At 9:30 AM, the car still hadn’t arrived. The reception desk was closed, but luckily, the guard was sitting near the gate. I tried to explain that I was waiting for a taxi. Since I didn’t have the driver’s number, he called the owner of the guesthouse, who took charge. The driver finally showed up—with a good twenty minutes late. Chirudih is about sixty kilometers from Jamshedpur. It took us nearly an hour and a half to get there. The village is lost in the countryside. When I arrived, I got out of the car and walked down the main street. Very quickly, the first painted houses appeared. Here, the walls are true works of art.



This art is called Sohrai painting, a tradition unique to Jharkhand. The motifs, inspired by nature, depict animals, plants, and scenes from daily life. They’re made using natural pigments mixed with mud: yellow ochre, white (kaolin), black (charcoal), and red (iron-rich clay). The women apply them with their fingers, rags, or small chewed twigs that serve as brushes. This art is closely tied to the Sohrai festival, celebrated after Diwali, during harvest time. Cattle are honored and decorated, symbolizing gratitude for their essential role in agricultural life. The paintings express this deep connection between humans and nature, as well as respect for ancestors and hopes for prosperity.



In the past, these murals adorned the mud walls of houses. Today, as construction methods evolve, this medium is gradually disappearing, putting the tradition at risk. Yet, thanks to the women of the village, Sohrai art lives on. Girls learn it from a young age from their mothers and grandmothers, passing down this knowledge. I’ll come back to this art in more detail later in my trip. Three young people came up to me and offered to show me around the village. Without them, I never would’ve found all these scattered houses. They introduced me to the artists, some of whom were very young. I noticed that all the murals were signed. One name kept coming up: Amrita. I’d meet her a little later.





We passed through the courtyard of a home where a woman was resting with her granddaughter. Our presence didn’t seem to bother her; without leaving her charpoy, she welcomed me with a smile mixed with surprise.



We walked through another courtyard where a woman was sorting dried straw, probably rice or another grain. The movement was slow, precise, endlessly repeated. Around her, bundles of straw piled up, likely meant to feed the livestock. The scene was simple, almost silent, yet it spoke volumes about life here—paced by the seasons and agricultural work.



Next, my guide took me to visit the school. When I arrived, the class quickly emptied, and the students came outside to gather around their teacher. They all welcomed me outside, curious and smiling. They seemed so proud to have me in their little school, and I was touched by this simple and warm welcome.



We ended the visit at the small museum.



At one point, two young men were fixing a sound system. Soon, a French song started playing. A thoughtful, unexpected gesture just for me. A villager arrived with a jug of water to welcome me. Then, young girls in saris improvised a dance in my honor. Everything was spontaneous. So much kindness and generosity—I was deeply moved.



Before I left, Amrita joined me and gave me a small painting. I was so touched by the gesture.



I realized then that I’d come empty-handed. All I could do was give them a few rupees to thank them for such a natural welcome—yet so precious to me. I’d just experienced a rare moment. A simple, sincere encounter, but one of particular intensity. I already know I’ll carry this memory with me for the rest of my life.

Back in Jamshedpur, I take a walk in a park that’s still quiet at this hour. I then cross a street lined with bookstalls that reminds me of the one I discovered in Calcutta.



Back at the hotel, I ask about the next day’s plans. I want to visit Chaibasa, and it’s possible to do a day trip there and back. I feel so good here that I eventually decide to extend my stay by one more night. The team is thrilled with my decision and seems happy to know I’m enjoying my time with them. After dinner, I walk through the market, which is lit up with lots of decorations. The sight is unexpected—almost surreal in this city.



Colorful lights transform the streets into a festive scene.

In the middle of the street, despite the traffic, white chairs are set up facing a stage. I wonder if a wedding ceremony is planned.



A stage set up right in the street, ready for an event—maybe a wedding. Later in the evening, fireworks go off. Maybe they’re celebrating a wedding nearby.

Wednesday, March 25 At 8:30 AM, I head to the bus station. I take the opportunity to ask about the schedule for the next day to get to Saraikela. The choice is quick: there’s only one bus, at 6 AM. The bus to Chaibasa is about to leave at 9 AM. It takes about two hours to get there. Once there, I try to find information for the return trip, but it’s not easy—the men around aren’t very welcoming. I decide to walk to the museum, which is two kilometers away. Along the way, I pass through an alley where I discover an open-air stable. I’m always surprised to see so many in these regions of West Bengal and Jharkhand.



The museum is a large, modern building, but to my great disappointment, it’s closed today. I really don’t have much luck with museums! I still ask the guards if I can go in to use the restroom. They agree, and one of them accompanies me, waits for me, and then walks me back to the exit. I then head to the market, where I spend a good while. Most of the women are wearing a headscarf. I wonder what it means: is it to protect themselves from the sun or a sign of tribal affiliation? I don’t know.







In this market, some women sell sal leaves,



while others offer all kinds of vegetables.



I walk through a covered aisle where cheap jewelry sparkles,



then reach the grocery section, where many products are lined up, including different oils used for the deep-frying so common in local cuisine.



One stall catches my attention: the brooms, made from bound stems woven together. I’d love to bring one back, but it’d have to fit in my bag!



On my way back to the bus station, I pass by a dhaba, those typical little Indian restaurants where the food is always so good.



Few travel agencies offer tours in Jharkhand. Yet Adam, the guide I’ll meet in a few days, talks about it as a must-visit. I guess he leads these groups himself, because in this still little-visited region, guides must be scarce. As I walk around, I feel like I recognize what agencies highlight in their descriptions. This sense of déjà vu follows me throughout the visit, and by the end of the day, my enthusiasm has given way to a slight disappointment: Chaibasa didn’t offer everything I expected from it. Back in Jamshedpur, I end the day at the market near my hotel.

Thursday, March 26 I leave the hotel at 5:30 AM. A tuk-tuk takes me to the bus station to catch the bus to Seraikela. I put my bag in the hold, settle in quietly on the bus... then doubt starts to creep in. I check my itinerary again and realize with concern that I’ve mixed up my destination! Fortunately, I’m way ahead of schedule. I quickly grab my bag and rush to the bus heading to Simdega. Luckily, it’s right at the end of the aisle and still almost empty. My bag goes back in the hold, and I buy my ticket for 460 rupees. The trip is direct, and I have seat number 5, right at the front, which lets me enjoy the scenery. We leave at 6:30 AM. The bus will only make two stops before arriving in Simdega around 11 AM. I check into the Gayatri Hotel. The comfort is very basic—much less pleasant than my previous hotel, even though the price is twice as high. A price difference I find hard to justify. Once settled, the hotel manager offers to take me to the market on his scooter. It’s vast, lively, and incredibly colorful.



The vegetable stalls are set right on the ground. The women, sitting behind their produce, shield themselves from the sun with a scarf, just like in Chaibasa, but many also hold an umbrella like a parasol.



I quickly realize that coming to the market is about so much more than just shopping—it’s a way of life. A weekly outing people look forward to, almost like entertainment. You meet up, chat, observe, all while buying supplies from the small local producers sitting on the ground with their baskets of tomatoes, greens, or fresh herbs. The atmosphere is bustling, vibrant, and full of energy, with constant exchanges and comings and goings.



I approach a young man selling clothes. Seeing me take out my camera, he takes a moment to fix his hair, adjust his sunglasses, and strike a studied, almost nonchalant pose. Here, people love playing the star for a photo, and he clearly enjoys it.



A little further on, a woman agrees to pose under her umbrella. Her gaze immediately strikes me—greenish-gray eyes, surprisingly soft. I notice that in this region, many people have light-colored eyes, which adds to the uniqueness of their faces.



But just as I’m about to photograph a man who seemed happy to pose, another suddenly appears, snatches my phone, and runs off! I immediately chase after him, shouting. The scene draws attention—several men take off after him, stop him, and start scolding him loudly. I finally get my phone back. Needless to say, I’m pretty shaken by the incident and stay on guard for a while. Yet, the mood shifts quickly. People come up to me, curious and smiling, and we take selfies together. Women ask me to photograph them; I agree willingly, though I stay alert to my surroundings. When I show them the photos on my phone screen, they burst out laughing at their own images, and soon their neighbors want in on the fun too.





This moment captures everything I love about my travels: simple exchanges, smiles, mutual curiosity—far from language barriers. Despite the rocky start, I end up with a great memory of this market, which I even preferred to the one in Chaibasa.





I continue my walk through the sari aisle, where the colors and fabrics constantly catch my eye. I can’t resist photographing a man sitting among the fabrics. His pose seems perfectly natural: one leg bent, foot near his groin, the other casually folded. One arm rests on the piles of saris while the other leans on his foot. This relaxed yet elegant posture tells a story of everyday life. He’s not really posing—he’s just there, in his element, surrounded by the fabrics he sells or handles every day. It’s that simplicity that draws me in and gives the photo its charm.



I walk back to the hotel. In the end, the distance isn’t that far, and the walk is quite pleasant, even if there’s not much to catch my attention along the way. In the evening, I discover there aren’t really any restaurants nearby. So I have dinner at the hotel, where I’m served a Kashmiri rice dish that, unfortunately, doesn’t live up to my expectations.

This moment captures everything I love about my travels: a simple exchange, smiles, mutual curiosity, far from language barriers.

I totally get you! And you know, I’ve been saying this for a while—street photography really helps create these kinds of connections. Genuine, beautiful, and fleeting encounters 🙂

I totally get you! And you know, I’ve been saying it for ages—street photography really helps create these connections. Genuine, beautiful, and fleeting encounters 🙂

I completely agree with you, and I love those moments of sharing. With kids, I always try to have fun with them—it’s so joyful and heartwarming.😉

Friday, March 27 Breakfast is served in the room: two hard-boiled eggs, toast topped with cheese, tomato, and cucumber, plus a yogurt. I carefully sort through and remove all the cucumber pieces I don’t like. The rest has taken on the taste, oh well—I eat it anyway; I’m a little hungry after the light dinner the night before. Tomorrow morning, I’ll let the front desk know not to serve me any more.

The taxi arrives at 9:30 AM, and we head to Ramrekha Dam, a Hindu pilgrimage site. The surroundings are pleasant, even quite pretty, but surprisingly deserted. I expected to see a lot of people—no such luck.



Inside the temple, which looks like a cave, priests wait for devotees. A family is sitting on the floor; the parents are absorbed in their consultations while the children turn toward me and watch me curiously.



Photos are forbidden, but after a little insistence, I get permission to take one, as long as I don’t photograph the sacred part. Too bad—the deities were really beautiful. At the exit of the temple, I spot a small group of women and head toward them. They’re Indian tourists from Gujarat. One of them has traveled a lot in Europe, and of course, in Paris.



On the way back, we pass by the Kela Gagh Dam in Simdega. The landscape is hilly; we’re close to the Chhattisgarh border.



Back at the hotel, I go for a walk in the village. An event is being prepared: tables are set up on both sides of the road. Some volunteers are cooking savory and sweet dishes while others hand them out for free. Stalls offer drinks, fruit juices, and candies.







A large crowd has gathered to share the free food. Along the main road, lines form in front of each stall, with everyone waiting their turn in a patient yet friendly atmosphere.



I’m invited to join them, and they offer me food. I only accept a jalebi—I’m not hungry; I just had lunch—what a shame.

The festival is called Ram Navami. It celebrates the birth of Rama, one of the most revered deities in Hinduism, considered an incarnation of the god Vishnu. It embodies the victory of good over evil and values of righteousness, courage, and loyalty. For the occasion, processions are organized, devotional songs fill the streets, and free food distributions, called "prasad," are offered to participants.



The crowd gradually arrives, accompanied by trucks equipped with blaring sound systems. A parade begins, marked by flags. The men wear orange caps with a ribbon of the same color hanging down the back of their necks. Many are dressed in orange tunics, sometimes with matching bottoms. The omnipresence of orange, a symbol of spirituality and devotion, gives the festival a fervent yet festive atmosphere.



The sky turns threatening as soon as the procession starts. I decide to head back to the hotel—good call: no sooner do I arrive than the rain starts pouring down. At least today, I won’t get soaked. But it’s too bad the rain crashes every celebration. We’re not even in monsoon season; climate change is making itself felt.

Saturday, March 28 I'm heading to Netarhat, with a planned stop in Gumla, halfway there. I want to visit the ethnic museum, run by an association and located within the grounds of a Catholic school, which also has a church—Catholics are numerous in Jharkhand. To my great surprise, entry to the museum is free. The guard accompanies me and gives me the tour himself. The building is quite large, spread over several floors. Since the electricity is weak, he opens the shutters in each room to let in the light. The rooms feature reconstructed scenes of daily life: fishing, plowing, working in the rice fields, women in their kitchens... Upstairs, there are mostly paintings, often inspired by everyday life. The whole thing is simple but interesting.





At the exit, I’m asked to leave a comment in a register. Then the guard pulls out a donation book and asks me for a thousand rupees. I find the amount excessive and refuse. I end up giving him half, which already seems like a lot, but he’s not really satisfied. He explains that individual visitors are rare and that the museum mostly receives groups, for which the tour costs less per person. I then continue my journey by bus to Netarhat. About a dozen kilometers from arrival, everything comes to a sudden halt: the road is blocked. Vehicles quickly pile up: cars, buses, and trucks arrive one after another, and the line stretches endlessly. Soon, everyone gets out. Out of curiosity as much as necessity, we walk forward over a hundred meters to understand what’s happening. A bus didn’t have enough room to pass a truck loaded with heavy stone blocks. By hugging the edge too closely, the truck ended up with its wheels in the ditch, unable to climb back up, completely blocking the road.



Little by little, a spontaneous organization takes shape. We have to wait for another vehicle to start unloading the blocks manually. The men get to work, passing the stones hand to hand in an improvised chain. Then comes the crane, awaited like a deliverance, which will finally clear the truck. The wait becomes interminable—nearly five hours spent waiting in the middle of nowhere. Time seems suspended. Maybe more for me than for the locals, who seem to accept the situation with surprising serenity. No complaints, little impatience: conversations pick up, laughter sometimes bursts out, as if this unexpected event were simply part of daily life. Around us, the hilly landscapes are beautiful, softened by the afternoon light. Yet, the bushes lining the road block any truly open view.



My gaze then falls on the parapet, painted with bright, naive frescoes. You can see people in action, stylized animals, birds, oxen... These simple and expressive drawings bring an unexpected touch of cheerfulness to this dusty roadside and almost become a distraction during this long wait.



When the road is finally cleared, the bus can resume its journey, and I arrive in Netarhat at nightfall. The bus station is nothing other than the village square. Not knowing this, I don’t get off. After a few minutes, when there are only two passengers left, a man asks me where I’m going. He gets me off with him and takes charge. He asks a man running a shop—probably an employee—to take me by motorcycle to my hotel. I had booked the night before via WhatsApp without paying. To complicate the evening further, they hadn’t kept my room, and the hotel was fully booked. Fortunately, the motorcycle driver stays with me and takes me to another place where a room is available. He accompanies me, checks the room with me, and negotiates the price: incredibly kind. It’s almost 8 PM, I’m exhausted, and I accept without hesitation. I try to compensate him, but he refuses and leaves with a simple wave. In the end, this hotel is much better than the one I had initially chosen, and it even has a restaurant. Netarhat is a very popular destination among Indians, who come here seeking a bit of coolness. It’s the weekend, which explains the crowds.

Sunday, March 29 After a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast, I head out for a stroll to the market set up in the village square. But there isn’t much to see in the end, so I quickly return to the hotel. I decide to book a taxi to take me to Lodh Falls. I wasn’t expecting anything exceptional, and honestly, activities here are pretty limited. Looking back, this stop might’ve been skippable. On the way to the falls, I ask the driver to pull over so I can take a few photos. The fields have just been harvested, offering a dry, almost ochre landscape dotted with a few trees. What really catches my eye are these elevated wooden structures piled high with hay. They look like small open huts in the middle of the fields. The fodder is stored up high, protected, and these shelters also seem to give livestock shade from the sun. The whole setup is simple, clever, and perfectly blends into the rural scenery. The scene, with its warm tones and clean lines, has a very graphic feel to it.



The walk to the falls is family-friendly, and on this Sunday, lots of people have made the trip. A path runs along the river, offering glimpses of the cascades in the distance.

It then leads to a footbridge and a staircase that climbs up to get closer.



At the top of the stairs, the bravest—young and old—try to climb the large rocks to reach the base of the waterfall. I watch for a while, torn between wanting to try and being cautious. A few years ago, I probably wouldn’t have hesitated for a second, but today, I’m not feeling it. A man even offers to help me, but unusually for me, I decide to listen to reason and stay put. So, I turn back.



The falls themselves aren’t amazing, but this outing let me experience a bit of local life and keep busy for a few hours. Back at the hotel, I head out for another walk around the village. I take a small road near the hotel that leads to the lake and discover several places—some really nice, others completely abandoned. Above the lake, a landscaped garden with a promenade lets visitors relax and enjoy the sunset, which I do peacefully. Meanwhile, others rent rowboats or pedal boats to cruise on the water.



Monday, March 30 & Tuesday, March 31 – Betla, a stop to avoid At 6:45 AM, the manager walks me to the bus. The staff are giving it a deep clean. We leave at 7:30 AM and arrive in Betla at 2 PM. The hotel is right across from the bus stop. It’s really not great—and on top of that, it’s expensive. You can’t be too picky about cleanliness here. I have lunch at the restaurant across the street: it’s not very clean either, and the flies are everywhere. Not exactly inviting. I wait at the hotel until 4 PM before leaving for the safari. Paintings of tigers and elephants decorate the park entrance, which gets me in the mood. The hotel manager encouraged me to go. The entrance fee is steep—2500 rupees—and at that price, I was hoping to see plenty of animals. We set off in a jeep: the driver, a guard, and me. At the entrance, we spot a few deer and monkeys. Then we head deeper into the trails, searching for animals… that stay invisible.



I leave furious. Charging that much for seeing nothing is just outrageous.

Tuesday, March 31 I’m at the hotel before 7 AM to wait for the bus back to Ranchi. It finally arrives around 7:30 AM, and after about an hour’s ride, I have to switch buses. When I get to Ranchi, I take a tuk-tuk to the bus station where the bus to Hazaribagh leaves. The distance through the city is pretty long, and it takes me a while to find the right departure point. Luckily, the bus is ready to go. We leave Ranchi, and the road continues peacefully through the landscapes of Jharkhand. The trip is long, but it lets me keep observing this region I’m slowly getting to know. We finally arrive in Hazaribagh around 6 PM. This day marks the end of the first part of my trip in Jharkhand. A mix of beautiful discoveries, unexpected encounters, and a few disappointments. Between tribal villages, preserved traditions, local crafts, festivals, and landscapes still off the beaten path, this region gave me a different view of India—far from the usual tourist trails.

I know advertising isn’t allowed on VF, but I’ve traveled to India several times with this guide. She’s so down-to-earth, an tireless explorer, curious about everything, with contagious enthusiasm—and a foodie to boot. Honestly, I recommend her with my eyes wide open.

Her name is M.J. Aleph, and here’s her number: 06 05 04 03 02 01 let’s go!

I know ads aren't allowed on VF, but I've traveled to India several times with this guide. She gets up close with the locals, is an tireless explorer, curious about everything, with contagious enthusiasm and a love for food. Honestly, I recommend her with my eyes wide open.

Her name is M.J. Aleph and here's her number: 06 05 04 03 02 01 let's go!

There must be a mistake because I'm not a guide and I travel alone 😮

There must be a mistake because I’m not a guide and I’m traveling alone 😮

When someone tells her you’re beautiful, she looks behind her... 🎭 🙂