I travelled to Sikkim for the first time at the beginning of September, for five weeks of initial fieldwork. After two weeks finding my feet in Gangtok, obtaining permits, and meeting government officials and researchers, I left the city in search of hot springs. I visited three sites, in West, South and North Sikkim. High monsoon rivers had submerged two of them, so only one was operational, but the visits were instructive, and I complemented them with conversations with locals about their experiences of the springs.
I learned that each spring has its own character and uses, shaped by the temperature and properties of its water, but also by its location and its social and religious history. For instance, Reshi hot spring (or Phur Tsa Chu) is frequented by Buddhist pilgrims, notably from Bhutan, because it lies beside a cave where Guru Padmasambhava is said to have meditated. Its high sulphur content also leads people to claim it is the most medically potent of all the springs. Borong hot spring seems to be the most popular site with the Sikkimese as a winter holiday destination. Many people, including Gangtok residents, recalled childhood memories of spending entire weeks camping on the banks of the Rangeet river, on which it is located, and bathing in its particularly hot waters. Lingdem hot spring in Dzongu emerged about 15 years ago following drilling for a since-abandoned hydropower project. It is accessible all year round: rather than being by the river, it lies half an hour's walk uphill next to a small village, and the cement structure with two pools built around it shields bathers from the rains and strong sun of the changing seasons.
People spoke of certain springs as more healing than others. I wonder whether some indeed have more healing properties, or whether they are curative in different ways owing to their different mineral compositions and temperatures. I also wonder to what extent a spring's story (for example, one inscribed in a religious history), its sulphurous smell and its heat, lead users to deduce or feel that it has greater curative powers. Beyond the treatment of particular ailments, people's accounts of hot springs as recreational spaces for holidays with friends and family suggest that these sites benefit wellbeing more generally, through the forms of sociality they foster and as a respite from the winter cold.
Rivers tend to form natural boundaries between wards or districts, which has implications for who can lay political or economic claims over springs located on riverbanks. For example, only residents of the ward in which a spring is located can run businesses to profit from the tourist season. Hot springs also tend to have several names, which might evoke a religious history, the presence of a certain ethnic group, or the closest settlement. One hot spring, for example, is located on the land of Gangyap on the west bank of the Rangeet river but is accessed from the east bank through Ralong, and is consequently known as Ralong hot spring. Gangyap residents have campaigned to have it renamed to recognise where it truly sits. Aside from recognition, could renaming bring any material benefits to the local population? What other histories can be revealed, and which are lost, as place names change over time?
When I return to Sikkim in the winter, I want to conduct longer interviews with Sikkimese people, both locals and those who travel to the springs, about their memories of visiting them. I will also be curious to note the seasonal differences from this first visit at the end of the monsoon: the water levels of the river, the temporary infrastructure around the springs as the sites are repopulated for the season, and the diversity of visitors from different places. I will want to learn more about the politics, economy and logistics of running and managing these sites. And of course, I hope to visit hot springs in the north of Sikkim, travel authorisations and road conditions permitting!
