The last great wilds

Early morning from my window in Binsar, I can see the Mrigthuni ridge straddling Uttarakhand’s eastern and western regions of Kumaon and Garhwal. On one side stands the stately Trishul and on the other, Maiktoli gives way to Nanda Devi, India’s highest peak that is completely in the country, and the locals’ revered goddess. In different seasons, the window pane is covered with summer mornings’ dew, winter’s frost, and monsoon mist. Absent-mindedly, I pull my sleeve over my fingers every morning and clear the pane to peer at this magnificent piece of art. And more than any news report, this ridge and the varying levels of snow on it in the past few years have been my biggest assessment of climate change in the Himalayas, and understanding how real it is if only you clear the window of your perspective.

Growing up in Uttarakhand in the Nineties, I have seen the tail end of its freedom movement and its transition into independent statehood. Having returned to the mountains after a decade of being away, I have also seen its degeneration and how the entire effort has more or less been futile. Over the years, Uttarakhand has been plagued by natural and political disasters, the latter indirectly and inevitably affecting the former. The tussle for power has shifted focus from the prime issues for which the state was formed in the first place. The highly volatile and unstable nature of the state government has brought neglect to areas that need immediate attention, especially changing Himalayan climate in a province which is one of the last strongholds of unadulterated nature.

Multiple factors continue to contribute to the steady decline of this fragile environment, including one that has the power to turn things around— tourism. With a largely tourism-driven economy, Uttarakhand heavily relies on this double-edged sword, which can be turned either way to carve a path or destroy one. Sustainable tourism and responsible tourism are key words that often come up in discussions today, but it’s hard to say how much of what is said has actually been put into practice. The Kedarnath disaster in Uttarakhand that made headlines in 2013 was attributed primarily to the flooding of Mandakini, but with the no-holds-barred construction on the banks of the river, it was a man-made disaster in the making. Even after this, the state tourism focus continues to be on promoting the Char Dham that encourages people to visit sensitive zones already burgeoning with tourists.

Every year at any of the big tourism events, the Uttarakhand pavilion continues to welcome visitors with a tacky replica of the Badrinath ‘dwaar’ or gate. Every year, more hotels spring up along the route and unprecedented construction accelerates to accommodate the growing number of pilgrims. Every year, there is a proud appraisal of the increased footfall on a circuit where there should strictly be a cap on the number of visitors. 

In a country steeped in religion, places of pilgrimage anyway need little capital or promotion. If there were a shrine atop Everest, people would find a way of getting there regardless of the lack of infrastructure. Back in the days before chopper rides to the dhams existed, hardship was the measure of true devotion; not everybody could do it. It was also perhaps the best way for exploitation of nature to be kept in check. We would do better if the extensive footfall was evenly spread out across the region, and energy and funds diverted to the preservation of virgin belts and promotion of intelligent tourism there. Given that we are left with such limited patches, Uttarakhand simply cannot afford another disaster like the recent forest fires that were fuelled largely by the greed for forest wood and land. Before we go about inviting people to come to the hills, we need to weigh their requirements against our limited natural resources. Before we go about commissioning events like summer festivals, adventure competitions and food carnivals, we need to have a plan in place to cope with the aftermath.

There is no point in organising events on a preposterous scale in places that are not equipped to deal with mega numbers, or events that do more damage than good to a place. 

Roping in homestays greatly solves the problem of accommodating large numbers, and creates employment that prevents the problem of migration. Today when a concrete house symbolises prosperity in the hills, tourism can play a vital role in the revival of traditional homes and lifestyle that included sustainable farming. By strengthening local economy through homestays, tourism can do something that is otherwise hard to achieve—instil pride in the mountain folk about their culture. More than any preachy dialogue, it is simply this inculcating of pride, be it through homestays, development of natural and man-made heritage sites, training of locals as guides who educate visitors on the area, bringing back traditional farming methods and making them profitable for the farmer, that will go a long way in the revival of the erstwhile way of life which taught taking from the ecosystem nothing more than the bare minimum essential for survival.

The human race is an inherent part of nature and we have to do everything we can to tread as softly as possible; we don’t want to disturb her up and incur her fury. We cannot erase climate change; we can only slow it down.

We cannot go carbon neutral, for it is a myth. Unfortunately, we can only minimize the damage we cause by our mere existence. When we cross the line, nature leaves us plenty of signs, but sadly we miss them. While it is imminent, climate change today doesn’t mean a glacier melting and flooding of our cities. In the hills, warning signs have crept in stealthily like a spy you unknowingly welcomed into your family. The signs lie in the first fan bought for the summers in a place that has never required any. It lies in remembering to keep the butter dish in the fridge at a place where nothing ever went bad if left outdoors. It means turning your woollens into the chest drawer for the season when they had to be handy round the year. And for me, it means waking up early on summer days to get a glimpse of the ridge outside my window before the pollution and haze of the heat from the plains covers it, leaving behind nothing but a vague outline of the mountains and a lingering memory of my childhood when snow-capped peaks were visible all day to be admired by a wonder-struck teenager.

The author is a journalist, an avid adventurer, mountain explorer, wildlife lover and a culture connoisseur based in Binsar, Uttarakhand