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Journalism of Courage
| Footloose in the Himalaya By Bill Aitken Permanent Black Price: Rs 450 |
Before Lonely Planet mapped the most touristy nooks in the Himalayas, before hippies undertook their voyages of discovery on the Road to Kathmandu, Bill Aitken took up permanent residency in this majestic arc. In 1959, he had left his native Scotland to circumnavigate the globe. That itinerary was junked after his first footsteps in the mountains. Enchanted, he threw down his rucksack, found a base in Mussoorie, and began a lifetime of explorations.
Okay, that8217;s an airbrushed, fairytale telescoping of 40 years of gritty acquaintanceship. As Aitken more than clarifies in this charming memoir. The Himalayas were made to be walked on, he says early enough, and as he counts back to his most memorable walks in the hills, he takes enough detours to chronicle the difficult adjustments that punctuated his wanderings.
Aitken is clear about his comfort levels. He prefers the trails of the lesser range. Garhwal strikes him as the most ravishing expanse, with Kumaon a close second. Little wonder then that most of the walkabouts are located in Uttaranchal 8212; though the range of his treks extends to Ladakh in the west and the Arunachal hills to the east, with a few thoughts devoted to the commercial madness on Mt Everest.
Indeed, tourism is on Aitken8217;s mind throughout. The past four decades have seen the traveller8217;s life become increasingly more smooth. Improved climbing technology, better tourist facilities and lucid guides and travelogues 8212; as too decreased government regulation 8212; have made the hills more hospitable. But they have also attracted the noisy hordes, whose only contribution to the local ecology is the piles of plastic bags they leave behind. Local employment in the tourism sector versus pristine greenery8230; it8217;s a tough toss-up. Because, as Aitken reminds us again and again, the bewitching vistas cannot hide the wretched existence of those who populate these hillsides, those very people who open their doors and meagre kitchens so generously to the itinerant writer.
The hills have changed in many other ways. Those dak bungalows 8212; each of them housing echoes of times gone by and each with its own ghost story 8212; are in a state of depressing disrepair. The eccentric chowkidars have been replaced by surly gatekeepers, appropriate architecture by brick monstrosities. The geography of settlements too is changing, as monied cityfolk gobble up chunks of strategic real estate, only to wall up their acreages and not return for years on end.
What has not changed is the probability of stumbling upon fellow oddballs. In the course of his travels, Aitken profiles many of the men and women who made their home 8212; some permanently, others temporarily 8212; in these mountains. George Everest, who became perhaps the first high-profile encroacher by extending his estate at Hathi Paun in Mussoorie. Sarala Behn, who did not hesitate to bend her Gandhian principles as she determinedly carried on with her social work in Kausani. Old Tiwariji, near Bhowali, whose raita had to be had to make a foray towards Binsar complete. And so many more.
A statutory warning had better be appended to this book: 8220;A trip to the hills is the only prescribed antidote for this travelogue.8221;
