It’s fashionable to whine about how the place that once was super cool and undiscovered is now discovered and you are wrecking it for everyone, already, by walking all over it. I’ve noticed – since our return from Southeast Asia- a weekly diatribe against the horrors of tourism. Typically it’s written by some holier than thou traveler who laments how a place isn’t exactly like it was 20 years ago when he or she got to see that place in its unspoiled state. Maybe the poverty was prettier then, or the locals less jaded, and there were no crowds at the temples.
Of course we want to see those places. Writers went there before us, took spectacular photos, and told us all about the architecture or the food or how it was a crazy cheap bargain and the people were oh so friendly. Some of us studied those places in school and dreamed of the day we’d get to put our feet on the sacred grounds, when we’d get to see the sculpted dancers with our own eyes, when we’d get to stand at the edge of the Botticelli Venus’ clam shell and see all the tiny flowers painted in the meadow behind the pale goddess. We dreamed about crossing the Himalayas and seeing the tropical fish in Hawaii’s clear blue waters and oh, a bunch of other adventures. We gave up regular employment and a shot at normalcy to see the world. When we’d saved enough money and sold all our stuff or rented our house or quit our jobs or whatever, we headed out to get an eyeful of the exotic landscapes, whether they were carved thousands of years ago or painted on the ceiling of a Roman chapel hundreds of years ago.
A long time ago, I hate to admit how long ago it was, I went to Ladakh. My companion and I hitchhiked to a hilltown called Kargil, riding in the back of embellished supply trucks. We got drunk at a tiny monastery festival where, along with four other American backpackers, we were the only non-locals. We camped at the foot of Nanga Parbat in a field punctuated by prairie dogs. I saw a doctor in Leh for my bad belly. I ran back and forth from my room to the outhouse. The little guest house had no plumbing and was, I think, typical for Leh.
About a year ago I watched a web movie about some guys who’d lugged a billion pounds of gear to Leh, their goal being to ski a nearby peak. I did not recognize the town. Granted, time has passed, but also, loads of other travelers have been there for exactly the reasons I went – because of Leh’s status as a sort of second, smaller Lhasa, and because it’s the starting point for a classic trek over the Himalayas to Manali.
Manali had supposedly been “discovered” ten years prior to our arrival there, but once again, I’m sure I’d not recognize it were I to return. And I want very much to return, I’d like to make the trip again. I don’t have any expectation that it would be the same. If I want that, I’m going to need a time machine, not an airplane. I would expect to find it much changed – how would it be otherwise?
Adventure travelers are the thin edge of the wedge, breaking places wide open for the less hardy. It’s trendy for adventure travelers to flaunt some kind of cred and look down on the hotel and rolling suitcase crowd, but they wouldn’t be there if we hadn’t gone there first. It’s our own damn fault.
It’s unclear what we’re supposed to do about this. I’ve read some stuff about how maybe you should just stay home because your cultural footprint is out-stomping your carbon footprint, but as an incurable victim of wanderlust, I’m just not going to do that. I’m sorry I wasn’t at Angkor Wat 20 years ago, but I’m not sorry I was there this year. Those crowds are a huge bummer and hey, by the time I get to Laos (which is ruined now, you’re too late, according to some sources) it won’t be what it is today. And it’s never going to be what it was yesterday. And while I understand Bhutan’s restrictive tourism laws, I also don’t want every place to be like that – this “authentic” destination for the privileged few is off the cards for many just because of the economics.
The “I’ve been there already – you should stay home so it won’t be wrecked when I go back” thing is not helpful. The best we can hope for is an educated traveling populace, one that spends thoughtfully, encourages locally owned and run businesses, and gives generously to the causes that help cultural and natural monuments survive and thrive. We’re going to travel, may whatever saints or goddesses who protect our way have mercy on our souls, because we can not help ourselves. Rather than telling us how we are doing it wrong, I’d like to see more of this critical travel journalism refocused on helping us do it right.
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Really eloquently put, Pam. I’ve often struggled with this idea — with whether I would simply be contributing to the erosion of Angkor Wat by wandering about the temple that I’ve long wanted to see, or whether I would be part of the tourism crush that’s currently “ruining Tibet” if I visited the Himalayan state. I would definitely welcome more pieces about how to travel consciously.
In fact, I think most people would. Perhaps if that kind of travel journalism became the norm, we’d see less of the “rolling suitcase crowd” and more travelers looking for a valuable experiences.
Hey, thanks Ben. For the record, I’m down with the rolling suitcase folks – they decided to put on their shoes and see the world rather than head to, say, Vegas, for some craptastic facsimile. Hooray for them.
But why not see them as a resource rather than a scourge? Those travelers tend to have more disposable income than cheapskate backpack types like me and can give to local causes, pay the extra price for fair trade goods, and can spend their money in ways that make a difference.
Tie-dyed hippies have had as much impact on Goa as the performance fiber crowd has had on Angkor. Educating all travelers about low impact travel is way more useful than saying, “Dude, it was so much better before YOU were there.”