How a Rapidly Changing Climate Shapes Culture and Economy in the Indian Himalaya
On my first morning in the frontier town of Kaza, I woke up to the sound of rain gently falling. Despite being at such a high altitude—some 3,800 meters—my room was surprisingly warm. The deep blue of the Tibetan rugs, with matching pillows made from the same coarse woolen fabric scattered on thick mats across the floor, comforted me. A picture of His Holiness the Dalai Lama hung on the wall above a colorful bouquet of plastic flowers. His image appears in nearly every home in this Buddhist region of the Indian Himalaya, a region that shares strong historical and cultural similarities with its Tibetan neighbor.
I was staying with a host family that graciously offered me a room in their two-story, wood-and-stone home when I arrived in the Spiti Valley a few days earlier. I came to this remote Trans-Himalaya town to better understand the effects of climate change in its high-mountain region. I wanted to learn how a rapidly changing climate is shaping people’s lives and whether their cultural practices were adapting to new patterns of increased rainfall and decreased snowfall.
The smell of black tea wafted into the room, and soon my kind host delivered a tray with a steaming cup and a plate of sweet biscuits. Outside my window, the beauty of the scenery momentarily immobilized me. A thick layer of snow had enveloped the surrounding mountain ranges of this cold desert region during the night. Empty fields of recently harvested barley and green peas encircle the town. Fast-growing poplar trees, a tapestry of bright yellow and orange, lined the narrow unpaved roads and glowed in the dim light.
Photo by Aghaghia Rahimzadeh.
The desolated mountain landscape formed the backdrop for scattered settlements of whitewashed buildings. Bold, black brushstrokes framed their windows and doors. Wooden ladders and stone staircases rose to the upper stories, providing access to the main entrance of each home, as the first floors would, historically, be buried in mounds of snow during winter months, sometimes as much as two meters. Colorful prayer flags on every rooftop blew in the wind spreading their prayers to all beings—no doubt, prayers for the snow to keep returning.
Spiti, or “middle land,” in the local Spiti Bhoti language, refers to the land between India and Tibet. The Spiti Valley’s fierce weather and severe geography of mountain passes has made it one of the least inhabited districts in India. The region generally receives little rain—an average of about 170 mm a year—with long, harsh winters extending from November to March, bringing snowstorms, avalanches, and road closures. Temperatures range annually from -40 to 30 °C.
Over centuries, with endurance and fortitude, inhabitants of such extreme regions have adapted to survive with environmental limitations. Agropastoralism—a flexible indigenous production system of growing crops and raising livestock—allows Spitians to mediate these environmental risks. Also, because the area is arid with limited resources and arable land, Spitians have kept their ancestral landholdings intact and their population low through the practice of primogeniture. The eldest son inherits the entire family estate, including any family land, while other sons join local Buddhist monasteries and unmarried daughters become nuns. This system is, however, changing as modernization and access to the wider world increasingly inspires younger generations to imagine alternative futures for themselves.
The Spiti River meanders in a wide riverbed through the valley, breaking into countless smaller channels until it unites with the Sutlej River, which continues onward through the adjacent Kinnaur Valley. The entire expanse of Spiti rests above treeline, and the largely rocky, barren landscape holds only shrubs and grasses. Yet the region’s magnificent beauty and distinct culture have drawn more tourists in recent years. The changing climate, with shorter and warmer winters, is also increasingly opening the region for winter tourism. Visitors come for a glimpse of the many glaciers or the elusive snow leopard, to trek, or to visit the thousand-year-old Buddhist monasteries.
As I watched the rain softly fall that first morning of my visit, its rhythmic splattering grew louder and the drops soon turned to shards cutting through the sky. I sipped my tea and gazed out the window. The mountains disappeared into the clouds, and the stark landscape stretched until it became one with the heavens. It was September. Winter had arrived early. Cold rain and snow would continue to descend on the region for days.
Despite the freezing rain, I plotted my visit to the nearby villages. I was especially curious about how the recent warming of these high-elevation areas had made it possible for some villagers to plant apple trees as a new cash crop. The thought of apple trees in Spiti astonished me. Historically, the area has not been conducive to growing fruit trees. Yet, with warmer winters, apple trees may become Spiti’s most prosperous cash crop, as has already happened in other areas of the Himalaya.
I set out with Phunchok, my driver, and Uday, his friend, for an all-day excursion to several villages around Kaza. By midday, however, as I chatted with a family in the village of Lara, the second village on our itinerary, it was clear the storm was worsening and would force us to cut the trip short.
Photo by Aghaghia Rahimzadeh.
“This is strange,” he remarked, staring out at the rain. The sounds of rainwater hitting different bowls and buckets throughout the house rang in the air like an orchestra. Like most Spitians, Thukten was a strongly built man with Tibetan features. His face was already weathered from the harsh sun, making him look older than his 44 years.
“It should either be dry or snowing right now,” he said. “But the weather is changing year by year. Instead of four to six months of snow, now we get this. Days of rain, like the monsoon season.” He shook his head. “But we actually don’t have the monsoon here. We’re supposed to be in the rain shadow. We generally have very little rain.” Thukten took a sip of tea and gestured for us to do the same before continuing.
“When it rains like this and then we have sunny days, the crops get moldy, and the peas turn black. Moldy peas attract insects, so then we have to use chemical sprays on our crops.” He turned from the window and fed the woodstove with dried dung while a kitten napped on the hearth. “It’s difficult to predict the weather anymore. When it rains or snows out of season, our apple crops are harmed, too.”
Thukten’s father, who had the same broad shoulders as his son, also sat by the woodstove. His leathery skin, from many years of hard work in this severe terrain, likewise made him appear older than he was. He silently prayed with his mala beads in hand, moving his lips to the Buddhist prayer of “Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani Padme Hum….”
Thukten’s father was among the first to plant an apple tree in Lara, some 30 years ago. Once reassured that the tree would survive, he and Thukten planted the small orchard we now admired. Though most of the dozen or so households in the village have small orchards with around 20 apple trees, the oldest is just 15 years old.
Photo by Aghaghia Rahimzadeh.
Soon after India’s Independence in 1947, apples were introduced to incorporate various parts of the Indian Himalaya into the broader economy. But because of Spiti’s high elevation and dry desert climate, planting orchards was inconceivable at the time. Instead, starting in the 1980s, green peas were introduced by the new Indian government and became Spiti’s main cash crop for export. Green peas have gradually replaced vital traditional crops, like barley and local black peas, that had sustained people for generations. A less diverse agricultural system means Spiti is less self-sufficient and more dependent on the fluctuating market economy.
In the 1990s, as the climate gradually shifted and warmed, some of the villagers in Lower Spiti began their experiments with apple trees. The trial proved successful and apple exports to other parts of India brought in a steady income, eventually expanding to other high-elevation areas like Kaza and Lara. Thanks to a warming climate, the Himalayan apple zone has shifted 1,800 to 2,100 meters upward over the last 40 years. Orchards now commonly grow at 3,300 meters and higher.
But warming comes with irreversible costs. In Spiti and elsewhere in the Himalaya, farmers must now contend with the dilemma of projected droughts and increased frequency of other extreme weather such as cloud bursts and landslides. Should the region warm too much and extended droughts set in, it’s difficult to imagine how these new orchards will be irrigated.
“Look at this!” Thukten gestured to the bowls catching water throughout the room. “When it rains like this for days, we have to add more earth to the roof to delay the leaking, but it still drips.” He emptied one of the bowls sitting next to the woodstove. “We worry that our houses will collapse.” Thukten had obvious distress in his voice. “They are built from earth and stones, you see.” Among the many changes he and his children will have to adapt to, their homes will need to withstand the increased rainfall. Otherwise, the family may have to relocate from the land their ancestors have called home for centuries.
“We also worry about landslides and shooting stones harming our homes,” Thukten’s wife, Sonam, said in as she gestured to the mountain slope behind the house. Busy with attending to the many chores of the household, she had been hurrying in and out of the room but remained engaged in our conversation. “We have so many new problems with the rain.”
Thukten’s concern for what the storm might do to his home was etched across his face. Although the dung-filled woodstove burned vigorously to keep the house warm and dry, the room still felt wet and cold. Bowls and buckets collected the water dripping from the roof, and the room only felt damper as the rain continued. Many of the homes I visited that morning faced the same predicament.
Photo by Aghaghia Rahimzadeh.
For centuries, traditional Spiti homes have been built to endure snow, their thick walls of rammed earth providing excellent insulation from both summer heat and winter cold. These buildings, however, are unable to withstand the repetitive pounding of rain, which can cause the roofs to collapse and erode the base of the walls.
Newer concrete buildings are rapidly popping up throughout the Western Himalayan region—status symbols of wealth and modernity for those who can afford them. Unlike the old, rammed-earth structures, which lasted for decades, contemporary concrete homes lack thermal insulation, making them difficult to heat. Villages may also lose their indigenous character as the number of concrete structures increases. To address this new quandary, a local movement hopes to incorporate a hybrid system that combines local, indigenous craft with modern techniques.
Scientific models predict water scarcity and drought for Western Himalaya. The people of Spiti may be forced to rebuild their homes with concrete to withstand the rain. While these concrete homes might prevent leaks, they will be difficult to heat because the region’s electricity is unreliable, especially in the winter months. Most who live in the region currently heat their homes with traditional woodstoves that require dung or wood. But this too may become problematic with climate change. I recall what Chering, another Lara resident I’d spoken with earlier that day, had told me: “Keeping animals is part of our tradition. But now, people are raising animals based on water availability.” As we chatted, his four-year-old daughter sat on his lap, quietly playing with her father’s mobile phone. Behind him, metal pots, plates, and utensils had been neatly stacked on the kitchen shelves while a large bowl collected water from a leak. “Without water, we can’t grow grasses to feed the animals, which also means we won’t have enough dung to burn.” He pointed to a box of dried dung next to the woodstove, the concern in his voice noticeable. “Sometimes people sell off their animals, or if they can, they send them to other places for grazing.”
Because of the region’s arid landscape and short growing season, keeping animals like sheep, goat, yak, and dzo (a yak-cow hybrid), has traditionally helped supplement income from agricultural produce. This agropastoralism was once the mainstay of people’s livelihood. Now, the snowmelt and glacier-fed streams and springs that watered both crops and livestock are drying up.
Some people in villages in Western Himalaya, such as Kumik in Ladakh, have already abandoned their ancestral lands and homes, relocating to new settlements because the glacier and snowfields that fed their streams have dried up. Indeed, half of Kumik’s 40 families who could afford to migrate are now living in Lower Kumik Village, where an irrigation channel brings water to their newly developed fields. Kumik may be foreshadowing what will soon be a reality for many villages in these high, arid regions of the Himalaya.
As these regions experience more extreme weather, some families will be able to adapt by rainproofing their homes, changing to new cash crops, or even emigrating to urban centers. Relocating means a change of livelihood from their generations-old agropastoralism to a vocation perhaps not directly tied to the land, such as tourism or the service industry. But while younger people in search of more opportunities move away from villages to larger towns and urban centers, elders are left to face these challenges on their own.
Just as Thukten and his family lamented the worsening weather, Phunchok, the driver, walked through the doorway still exhibiting a smile. His eyes, however, flashed a deeper concern: “We must go back to Kaza right now, or we’ll be stuck here for some days.” Thukten rose from the table abruptly, nodding. A tall, middle-aged man, Phunchok was born in a nearby village and now lived in Kaza. He knew the area and the surrounding villages intimately. Seeing that he was clearly alarmed, I quickly prepared to leave. I bid my hosts goodbye and hurried off, having no idea how urgent our return to Kaza would become.
Photo by Aghaghia Rahimzadeh.
The two main roads to the Spiti Valley—the landlocked region’s only terrestrial connection to the outside world—wind over dangerous terrain and through mountain passes. As the rain intensified, it was clear that the roads would soon close, cutting off the valley. People of Spiti are familiar with road closures for extended periods, especially in winter, but this interruption in the season was unexpectedly early.
The festive Spitian music continued to play on the car stereo, its jubilant tempo of flutes, strings, and cheerful singing a sharp contrast to the tumultuous drive. The wheels of the rickety four-door hatchback seemed unequal to the Himalayan roads, yet the car splashed slopped through the mud as the rain and sleet pounded the metal hood and roof. I felt a jolt of adrenaline with every close call.
Phunchok drove with one hand on the wheel while the other stretched out the window to clean the sludge off the windshield with a scrap of cloth. Uday, in turn, used a piece of crumpled newspaper to repeatedly wipe the steam off the windshield’s interior, though his efforts were largely futile. With our windows rolled down to help prevent the accumulating condensation, rain splashed our faces. The smell of raw earth mixed with the cold rain forced our minds to stay sharp.
Rivulets of black mud slithered down the road and landslides tumbled down stones, many of them small, but some basketball-sized and other large boulders that made our passage nearly impossible. At one point, we stopped and Uday jumped out to clear the rocks off the road with his hands. Each time he moved a rock to the side, he glanced at the unstable mountain slope, ready to dodge the “shooting stones.” We didn’t dare look to our left, where the steep drop-off into the Spiti River threatened, teasing us with its sinuous, turquoise-colored water.
I sat in the backseat of the car, rain pelting my face, wondering whether we would ever reach our destination. In the decade I had been documenting changes related to the environment and the apple economy in the neighboring Kinnaur district, this was one of the most dangerous rides I had been on.
Photo by Aghaghia Rahimzadeh.
Like most people in Spiti, Phunchok embodied a resiliency and resourcefulness that had seen the tribal peoples of this region through many storms and roadblocks. Yet I wonder if the resilience of the Spitian people will see them through the larger climatic changes facing them, given that their centuries-old culture, architecture, livelihood, and resources are now on the brink of catastrophic change.
I trusted Phunchok, despite my apprehension, and I believed he would get us back safely. He swerved the car past a giant pothole in the road and soon we came around a bend and the settlement of Kaza appeared, a series of tiny white speckled blotches, like a watercolor of a village in a vast open desert surrounded by massive mountains. While I was grateful to roll into town safely, Phunchok and Uday carried on as if the drive had been unremarkable.
Afterward, in the guesthouse, I listened once again to the rain drumming on the roof and gazed at a wall lined with photographs of landscapes from around the world. My eyes rested on the California coastline. I daydreamed about my home in the Golden State, about the rolling coastal grasslands speckled with native oaks. The sound of the waves crashing rhythmically against the cliffs and on the dramatic rugged rocky coastline. Colorful tidepools sparkling like jewels as the smell of brine wafted in the air. The image soothed me.
Still, I had to ask: Will any of us feel safe in a changing climate’s unpredictable future, where everyone is faced with some form of extreme weather?
I came face to face with this painful reality when I returned to the Bay Area from my Himalayan trip. Now, like others in the American West, I must adapt to an expanding fire season that begins in summer and lasts through autumn. Looking out the window of my California home, instead of a deluge threatening the crops or a dripping mud wall, I watch the sky curdle into a burnt-orange cloak of smoke and choking ash. Like the people of Spiti, we too are adapting to our new normal.
I think of Phunchok and Uday laughing as the car dodged the rockfall. We all must adapt to cope with risk and uncertainty. But for those living in the remote Himalaya, the rooftop of the world, risk and uncertainty are more pressing as the impacts of climate change reach them sooner and economic security much later. The unpredictability that the future holds for Himalaya region and its people reminds us that we are all living in times as precarious as the roads that connect the Spiti Valley to the broader world.
Aghaghia Rahimzadeh is an independent scholar who has been conducting research on the social implications of climate change in Western Himalaya for over a decade. She is a Fulbright Fellow with a doctorate in Environmental Science, Policy, and Management from UC Berkeley. She is currently a scholar-fellow at the Black Earth Institute. Her publications have appeared in About Place Journal, World Development Perspectives, Land Use Policy, Conservation and Society, Human Ecology, and Newfound.
Header photo of a bridge over the Spiti River in Trans-Himalaya by Aghaghia Rahimzadeah.
