MULUGU : The Bogatha waterfall and Laknavaram lake, nestled deep in the forests of Wazeedu and Govindaraopet mandals, were once known for their lush greenery, birdsong and calm waters.
Today, they boast a new attraction, an ever-expanding carpet of single-use plastic and empty liquor bottles.
Officially, plastic is “strictly banned” here. Unofficially, it’s the area’s most loyal tourist.
Forest and district officials occasionally remind visitors not to bring plastic, often by putting up a weather-beaten board that no one reads. Enforcement, however, appears to be optional.
Stroll through any of these “ecotourism” spots, and you’ll find nature’s best features reimagined: streams clogged with wrappers, trees adorned with plastic garlands, and the discarded bottles underfoot. For the residents of nearby agency villages, the growing mountain of waste is not a spectacle but a daily menace. The people here, who once depended on clean water and forest produce, now watch in despair as their environment turns into a landfill dressed as a weekend getaway.
Yet, the crowds — students, techies and families — keep coming, all chasing monsoon selfies at Tadvai Huts, Bogatha waterfall, or Laknavaram lake. After all, what’s a “nature retreat” without a few plastic plates and cups floating downstream or a couple of beer bottles glinting from the rocks?
When asked, Wazeedu Forest Range Officer B Chandramouli admitted that tourists continue to carry plastic. His department, he said, has installed “boards of caution” warning against it. As for enforcement, Chandramouli believes tourists must take “responsibility for stopping usage of plastic to save the environment.”
The department’s faith in voluntary human conscience appears unshakeable.
Sadly, tourists treat Bogatha like a picnic dump: Activist
Meanwhile, people like Santhosh Manduva, founder-president of Sulakshya Seva Samithi, are not willing to remain content watching the forest choke. He has made it his organisation’s mission to rescue Mulugu’s wilderness from this slow suffocation. The district, Santhosh reminds, is steeped in heritage and natural beauty and is a traveller’s paradise. Social media has only added to its fame, but also to its plastic problem.
“Hidden waterfalls that should have inspired wonder now look like picnic dumps,” Santhosh said. “Disposable glasses, plates, and bottles are everywhere. Even broken liquor bottles are left behind, posing a danger to both the land and the people.”
Sulakshya Seva Samithi volunteers spend weekends picking up plastic bags, bottles, wrappers and more. They often end up collecting more plastic in a day than the local authorities manage in months. Their clean-up drives are part rescue, part ritual, carried out in a cycle as predictable as the monsoon itself: tourists litter, the NGO cleans, officials look on.
Santhosh insists it’s time for the state government to wake up to the crisis and enforce stricter measures to curb waste in ecologically fragile zones like Mulugu. “If this continues,” he said, “future generations will only know these forests from old photographs, before they turned into plastic museums.”
