Valley of Flowers: The dicey dance of development in the Himalayas

Writing of the Himalayan Bhyundar Valley in 1932, the intrepid British mountaineer, writer and botanist Frank Smythe, said (Opens in new window), “For half a year the lover of beauty and solitude could find peace in the Valley of Flowers. He would discover joy and laughter in the meadows; the stars would be his nightly canopy; he would watch the slow passing of the clouds; he would share the sunset and the dawn with God.”

Clearly in his element, Smythe further ruminated:

“Beyond the hills, nations might fly at one another’s throats; Mussolinis rise and fall; anarchy and revolution rot the nations; but in the Valley of Flowers the only strife would be that of the elements, the only sounds the wind in the flowers, the voice of the stream, and the rumble of the avalanche.”

Early August, I travelled to India’s Garhwal mountains in the Western Himalayas. The idea was to experience the Valley of Flowers firsthand. Almost a hundred years had passed since Smythe walked the field, much was different yet, some things remained the same.

Starting from Dehradun, a hill station that now resembles a northern outpost of smog-ridden Delhi, whizzing past bikers, two-wheelers of all shapes and sizes, buses carrying tourists and pilgrims, and various cars plying on the Himalayan hill roads, one could sense the slow creep of concrete in the high jungles. The invasion of urbanisation had begun. Haphazard, but steady.

The slow creep of concrete has reasons. A major motive for the Indian government to ramp up infrastructure in the mountains is strategic. Over the last few years, Delhi has built dense networks of roads, tunnels and landing strips in the high Himalayas, from Ladakh (Opens in new window) to Arunachal Pradesh. A wake-up call came in 2020 when China’s aggressive incursions led to serious fistfighting between Indian and Chinese troops along the Line of Actual Control. Beijing could easily forward deploy reinforcements given the immaculate infrastructure on its side. Delhi had to play catch-up.

Accompanying the speedy road development is a drive to electrify India’s frontier villages. As we passed rural hamlets in Garhwal, the presence of massive hydropower generation facilities was unmistakable. One such blob of concrete glistening in the night was the under-construction Vishnugad Pipalkoti Hydro Electric Project, partly financed by the World Bank. Rural electrification is seen as the first step to economic development.

Such measures were part of a broader policy to stem outward migration from the frontiers by bringing the fruits of development to their doorstep. There is an old (Opens in new window) saying among the people of the hills: the water and youth of the mountains are never useful to the mountains. (Water, as it flows down to the valley, and youth because they migrate to the cities) The Indian state’s frontier development policy, also called the “Vibrant Villages Program”, calls for locals to remain on their ancestral lands. Large-scale migration to the plains will depopulate the critical border regions close to China.

On the way to Ghangaria, a small village from where the trek to the Valley of Flowers National Park begins, we encountered some cantonments of the Indian army. A prominent one was the Joshimath military station, the main operational post for accessing the higher regions. Walls were painted in bright colours of the Garhwal Rifles regiment’s insignia.

As we reached the quaint village of Govindghat, the stretch of motorable roads thinned. We had to make do with our humble feet. Horses and ponies, the local beasts of burden, were expertly steered by their owners. A large part of the local economy mainly consisted of catering to the needs of trekkers and pilgrims. Young tourists roamed around with flashy sunglasses and heavy boots.

On the trek, local guides cajolingly told us that the next stop was never far. The morning air was dense with the smell of cheap beedis, incense, sprinkling mist and the fresh green brew of the wet mountains. A blooming sun followed light rain showers. Amidst this backdrop, one refrain that occasionally came up in conversations with locals was the vagaries of the local climate. Last year, it snowed till early May. Unusual phenomena were becoming commonplace. Landslides increased along with blatant over-construction and illegal encroachments. As recently as early 2023, the regional town Joshimath (Opens in new window) experienced land subsidence. Roads suddenly developed massive fissures.

Even in the valley, unpredictable monsoon patterns have shifted the natural flowering cycle. Bursts of rainfall are following long dry spells. The continuity of natural (Opens in new window) cycles that have persisted for hundreds of years has been affected. High tourist influx and over-exploitation of medicinal and aromatic plants have disturbed the local ecological balance. The crawl of invasive species has further harmed the natural vegetation.

Yet the local community is not despondent. They celebrate the surge of tourists from late June to early October. It is their economic lifeline. The challenge is to skill locals to earn a livelihood through the year. Being too dependent on squeezing tourists during a few months points to a lack of viable economic opportunities.

The onset of frequent landslides, varied rainfall and sudden avalanches suggests that the dicey dance of development has its own contradictions. Tourism, local economic generation and national security demanded bigger infrastructure, whereas nature had its own bitter way of reminding us of the perils of human wants. The Garhwal Himalayas are yet to find an equilibrium.

After a demanding climb to the Valley of Flowers, pleasant fragrances permeated the pastures. Large meadows of blue poppies and Himalayan balsams greeted us – a reminder of the innocence that suffuses the mighty mountains. Far from teeming humanity, one searched for solace in the valley.