Kodaikanal is a microcosm of a national problem. Our mountains need better scrutiny to ensure their fragile ecosystems do not buckle under rampant development and tourism
t is 11 a.m. in Kodaikanal, and I am stuck in traffic at the junction near the town’s star attraction — the lake. Behind me, rows of cars, buses and vans wait impatiently, honking. I look to the right where a trio of aerator fountains, one of the features of the recent ‘beautification’ plans, forces water up 20 feet in the air where it falls back in an arc. The honking seems to be synchronised to each thrust and fall, like a musical fountain.
A lady in the car next to me rolls down her window to chat. It is her family’s second day in Kodaikanal, she says, and they have not seen much. “We have spent most of our time stuck in traffic. This is worse than a city.” I nod distractedly. I am late for a dental appointment, and I wonder if I will reach in time. As it turns out, I will not, but my frustration dissipates when I hear about a medical emergency in our neighbourhood that morning. The patient was stabilised at the local hospital and taken down to the nearest hospital in Theni, 80 km away, down the only ghat road, but it was too late to save him.
On a day like this, many things may happen, simultaneously. A minister finds the heat in the plains unbearable, and decides to drive up to Kodaikanal with the inevitable entourage of security cars, local and district level representatives and favourseekers. Potholes and waste piles are hurriedly sanctified with bleaching powder. Additional security is needed as the town is already teeming with tourists, and a posse of trainee policewomen fitted with new khakis is rushed up the ghats to manage traffic. A young barefoot trainee (her new shoes are too tight, she says later) is flailing her arms about wildly, adding to the chaos, and a car swerves too close, running over her foot. The driver defends himself as an angry crowd gathers, saying he was distracted by her attire. More traffic piles up and the crescendo of honking reaches a desperate pitch. The ambulance finally arrives to pick up the injured policewoman who is sitting by the
Iside of the road, resting her swollen foot.
Later, drone footage shows that the ‘jam’ was precipitated by a largechassis tourist bus wedged on the narrow ghat section 20 km away, as thousands of cars and more busloads of tourists waited anxiously. Some were coming up, others leaving. “Just another day in paradise,” as the song goes.
While it is agreed that the hills should be accessible to all, it is clear that if urgent measures are not taken to control tourism, these beautiful mountains will become just another tourist trap. Local residents who see their town being steadily degraded insist that it is time to find solutions, without delay.
A pan-India problem
Some years back, a yoga teacher I met in Rishikesh told me, “The Himalayas are collapsing, even as we speak.” It was not a doomsday prediction; we had been discussing the frequent landslides in these mountains and the devastation they bring in their wake. Hours later, I witnessed this personally en route to the Valley of Flowers, as we waited with carloads of pilgrims and tourists in front of a cascade of mud and boulders. After an hour, we realised it showed no sign of abating and joined the posse of cars moving slowly through falling rocks and stones.
Following the more disastrous landslides in the region each year, in 2023, the Ministry of Environment, Forest and Climate Change asked the Supreme Court to direct 13 Himalayan States to conduct surveys to assess the ‘carrying capacities’ of towns in these fragile ecosystems. It recommended a detailed study by a panel of experts in the fields of hydrology, environment and climate studies, as per the guidelines of the GB Pant National Institute of Himalayan Environment.
Earlier, in 2018, the National Green Tribunal had directed the Union Ministry of Urban Development and Union Environment Ministry to undertake similar studies in all States and Union Territories. As reported by Down to Earth this February, till now only Aizawl in Mizoram has completed a carrying capacity study.
‘Carrying capacity’ is a broad term that covers many aspects and features of a region, indicating the maximum number of visitors to a destination at a given time, with least damage to the environment and cultural landscape. Ideally, it should be calculated along with the master plan of each region, while assessing its resources. Which brings up another reality — that there are very few town planners for the hills, with experience or understanding of the soil, vegetation and topography of the region.
Nevertheless, the Madras
High Court has now recommended similar carrying capacity studies for the hill stations of Udhagamandalam and Kodaikanal in South India, with the aim of regulating tourist entries.
Sky island in danger
The shola forests in the Western Ghats form one of the ‘sky island’ systems of the world — “isolated mountains surrounded by radically different lowland environments” (as defined by the U.S. Forest Service). But in the last 40 years, Palani Hills, which runs through Tamil Nadu and Kerala, has lost around 80% of its grasslands and shola forests. “At first, this was due to invasive species. But now, the new challenges are agriculture and tourism,” says Iti Maloney, director of the Center for Environment and Humanity at Kodaikanal International School. “The buffer zones between forest, agriculture and commercial land are not clear. So, encroachments are happening everywhere.” There have been some attempts at restoring the original ecosystem, mostly helmed by forest guards in the Kodaikanal Wildlife Sanctuary. “But for lasting change, there needs to be strong interdepartment collaboration,” says Maloney.