Dolpo: A Childhood Memory 

Summer 2008. I was just a kid at the Karang School in Upper Dolpo, a northern part of Nepal in the Himalayas. I can still vividly recall the excitement that swept through our class as we ran to the hill beside our school, overlooking the narrow trail where yaks would arrive from the Tibetan marketplace (Tsongra). The long Yak-Pa (Yak Caravan), loaded with goods from Tibet, was a sight to behold. For many of us, the arrival of these caravans meant gifts from family members; for others, it was pure joy just to watch. We would transform the hillside into a bustling thoroughfare for our pretend Yak-Pa, re-enacting the ancient trade routes.

Fast forwarding to 2023, my return home reveals a sociological shift. Spending time with children again, I notice their play has changed. No longer were they pretending to be yak caravans. Instead, they mimicked bike races, tractors unloading goods, and modern-day scenes. It was a striking reflection of the growing influence of modernity.

From Netsang to Now: Dolpo’s Shifting Identity

Historically, Dolpo served as an intermediary in the trans-Himalayan trade, transporting salt from Tibet to Nepal’s middle hills, where it was exchanged for grain. This trade relied on nomadic groups using sheep, goats, and yaks to navigate the challenging terrain. For centuries, these caravans sustained family-based trade partnerships known as Netsang, which were deeply intertwined with Dolpo’s cultural identity.

In the mid-20th century, however, everything changed. The annexation of Tibet by China and the subsequent closure of the Tibetan border in the 1950s and 1960s disrupted this centuries-old trade system. The free movement of people and animals across the Himalayan passes came to an abrupt halt, leaving the region isolated once again.

Today, Dolpopas are striving for a change. A change that bridges the gap between their distinct world and the broader global landscape. But what will this transformation truly mean for the people? Returning to Dolpo in 2023, I witnessed this transformation firsthand.

Dolpo Revisited: A Changed Landscape

As I landed at Juphal Airport in August of 2023, the excitement I felt was different from that of my childhood. The sight of snow-capped mountains looming above Tse village filled me with a sense of longing, but I had one goal in mind: get to Karang as quickly as possible. The journey from Juphal to Karang takes locals four to five grueling days on foot. This time, I sought a quicker route.

The first leg of my journey took me to Taetsa, a two-day trek for most travellers. But this was only the beginning. The second day began at 5:30 in the morning. As I walked along the steep uphill paths, I couldn’t help but think of alternatives—how much easier it would have been if I had access to transport. By 10 AM, I trekked 4.5 hours and found myself exhausted at Shingshok (Sisal). Just as I was about to give in to fatigue, I hopped on a motorbike—what local often refer to as a “Bhag Bhag.” What would have taken two full days on foot took just six hours by bike to reach Komang village. It was a moment that encapsulated the ongoing transformation in Dolpo.

Roads to Progress: A Mixed Blessing

The Jajarkot-Dunai road, part of the North-South national highway project linking Marimla in Tibet to Rupaidiya in India, was completed in 2018. Though the section from Dunai to Dho remains unclear, these roads have already begun to shape daily life in Dolpo.

Similarly, the road connecting Mustang to Dolpo, a 75-kilometer stretch, has opened new possibilities for the region. The new road to Mustang, the shortest route to Kathmandu, could boost local tourism. However, the implications for international trekking routes remain uncertain. With this development, the once-isolated region is now more connected to the outside world.

This increased connectivity, though, brings mixed emotions for the locals. On one hand, road connectivity promises faster access to markets, resources, and even local tourism. Bikes are now used to transport firewood and facilitate movement between seasonal nomadic camps, while tractors could one day supply almost all essential goods.

But with this progress comes a question: at what cost does modernisation come? The coexistence of yaks and horses, with motorbikes on the same road present logistical difficulties. The situation clearly illustrates the clash between old and new ways of life. Furthermore, the influx of external goods and ideas brought by increased connectivity creates friction with long-held local customs and beliefs, where achieving general consensus often comes at a significant cost.

As the yaks fade into memory, so too do the centuries-old cultural practices that once defined life in Dolpo. The progress promises untapped potential, while simultaneously reflecting historical patterns that persist in the current context.

Environmental and Cultural Costs

Since 2017, road expansion has become a major local development project. It began with villagers laboriously widening the traditional routes by hand, followed by bulldozers to convert the path into a motorable road. The process, nevertheless, reveals a significant flaw in the initial planning. For instance, multiple route changes have been made along the way from Shela via Saldang to Karang. Construction crews dug roads through various paths, only to abandon them after flooding or failure, prompting new routes to be carved through fragile pasturelands—vital grazing areas that nourish livestock and sustain rare shrubs.

The constant excavation disrupts the region's delicate soil structure, increasing its vulnerability to erosion and flooding—a pattern we've seen time and again. Roads are excavated, and small gorges are filled without proper drainage, especially in uphill sections. As a result, rainwater accumulates, eroding the road, while runoff carries sediment onto nearby fields, degrading both the soil and the landscape.

A notable issue is bypassing local knowledge in favour of easier routes. While the region undoubtedly needs improved connectivity, this progress must not come at the expense of its long-term adaptation. Some of the initial routes surveyed failed to consider the needs of those who depend on these landscapes for sustenance and livelihood.

This disregard for local expertise is evident in the impact on the wetlands, which are vital for maintaining moisture in the surrounding areas, ensuring the growth of spring grasses crucial for grazing. In 2022, municipal authorities proposed cutting through a key pastureland in Karang to connect Saldang to Vijer. This illogical plan threatened to disrupt the delicate ecosystem. It took Tsewang Gyaltsen, the ward chairman of Karang, almost a year to persuade the authorities to choose a more sustainable route. This incident highlights a recuring pattern in Dolpo, where the pursuit of faster routes often comes at the expense of the region’s fragile environment and the wisdom of its people.

Perhaps most poignant is the fate of Dolpo's sacred architecture. Manis (mantra stones) and Chortens (stupa) —religious monuments that have stood for centuries—face displacement from road construction. These structures represent more than mere landmarks; they are the physical embodiment of Dolpo's spiritual heritage, now at risk of being sacrificed for progress.

The transformation of Dolpo presents a complex question: How can a region embrace necessary development while preserving its value? The answer may lie in finding a balance between progress and preservation, between new roads and ancient wisdom.

As I watch motorbike wind their way through valleys once traversed only by yaks, I'm reminded that change is inevitable. The challenge for Dolpo isn't whether to change, but how to ensure that the path to modernisation doesn't erase the footprints of its past.

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