In the rolling hills of Syangja District, Nepal, where monsoon rains unleash in torrents for four months before giving way to bone-dry seasons, water is both a lifeline and a looming crisis. As a hydrometeorologist and water management analyst leading an interdisciplinary team at the Nepal Water Conservation Foundation, I've witnessed firsthand how climate change, unchecked urbanization, and fragile geology are turning once-reliable springs into trickles. Our team's 2024 study in Galyang and Waling Municipalities of Syanja District—adopting a participatory Climate Adaptive Equitable Water Management Practice (CAEWMP)—uncovered these vulnerabilities while sparking local-led innovations to restore balance. It's a story of grassroots ingenuity, where communities aren't just surviving "too much and too little water," but reshaping their future.

Picture the Andhi Khola River basin: a verdant artery feeding thousands, now strained by sprawling roads, settlements, and Siddhartha Highway traffic. Our interdisciplinary team—geologists, hydrologists, environmental experts, political economists, and sociologists—mapped 28 springs, revealing a stark decline. In Waling and Galyang Municipalities, piped water supply to the individual households is increasing with recently built infrastructures. However, the sources can supply adequately only during monsoon when over 80% rainfall occurs in four months. Household surveys during the July 2024 monsoons painted a poignant picture: women like those in Ward 5 of Galyang hauling pots from distant sources, while landslides from a single week's 625 mm deluge in Waling buried roads and homes, costing millions in repairs.

These challenges echo the urgent calls for action I've made in my own work as a climate analyst. In Nepali Times op-eds like "Managing the Monsoon," I describe how monsoons revive parched landscapes—"Springs that had gone dry flow again"—yet warn that poor planning turns this boon into disaster, urging integrated strategies to balance development with ecological sustainability. Similarly, in "Water for Life," I advocate storing 85% of Nepal's monsoon rains through revived traditional systems like ponds and recharge pits to sustain springs and agriculture year-round, critiquing costly river-lifting projects in favor of nature-based resilience. These insights, drawn from nationwide analyses, reinforced our study's emphasis on protecting these vital sources amid erratic rains and land-use shifts.

The culprits? Unsustainable development. Slope-cutting for roads ignores rock fractures in quartzite and phyllites, triggering erosion and blocking natural waterways. Traditional ponds—vital for rainwater retention—vanish under concrete skating rinks, even at new tourist hilltops. Giant pumps lift river water to hilltop tanks, saddling municipalities with debt. Our findings, echoed in coverage by Nepali media, highlighted these gaps: no climate data in planning, under-resourced ward offices, and a reactive disaster mindset.

But here's where local wisdom shines. Through workshops and policy dialogues, we empowered youth and elders as "water champions." In Bahunthan, Waling, residents realized the mistake of a government funded project that improperly built a skating court replacing the traditional pond. Now they have planned to convert this into a rainwater harvesting model: contour ponds and recharge pits to capture millions of liters, recharging aquifers without heavy infrastructure—directly aligning with the sustainable storage approaches I've championed. Bioengineering took root too—planting amlisho (broom grass) and bamboo on slopes to curb erosion, drawing on Syangja's forest heritage. One elder shared, "We've always known the land's stories; now we're writing the solutions." These nature-based approaches aren't just cheaper—they're resilient, blending traditional knowledge with data-driven insights from our spring inventories and seismic vulnerability maps.

Municipal buy-in followed. Mayors in Galyang and Waling hosted expert panels, committing to databases for evidence-based planning. We've trained users' committees on drainage-aligned road designs, preventing runoff malpractices that amplify floods. Early results? Stabilized springs in pilot wards, reduced landslide risks, and communities mapping hazards via mobile apps—turning vulnerability assessments into proactive tools.

This work underscores a global truth: climate solutions thrive from the ground up. In Nepal's hills, it's not top-down mandates but intergenerational collaboration—youth coding risk maps, elders reviving pond rituals—that builds equity. As an alumni of UC Berkeley's Beahrs Environmental Leadership Program, I'm inspired by how these efforts mirror ELP's ethos: bridging science, policy, and people. With monsoons intensifying, scaling such innovations could safeguard livelihoods for 86% of households reliant on rain-fed agriculture. Our journey in Syangja proves: when locals lead, water flows not just from springs, but from shared resolve.

September 23, 2025

Kathmandu

[Blog preview photo credit: blog author Ngamindra Dahal]