Inessential by definition, responsible for 8% of global carbon emissions, tourism has become bound up with all manner of anxieties about human behavior and the damage we wreak on the world around us. In places that have been overwhelmed or remolded in ways its inhabitants regret, there is growing resistance; taxes, prohibitions and no end of local antipathy are now as much an inconvenient feature of the holiday season as sunburn and gastroenteritis.
This past summer, as holidaymakers flocked back to Europe in their tens of millions, heatwaves and wildfires interrupted hallowed periods of rest with pressing temporal dread. Two contradictory statements felt simultaneously true. Tourism has never been more integral to society — but neither has it ever felt so problematic.
In “Overbooked” (2013), the journalist Elizabeth Becker traced the first true realization of tourism’s vast economic consequence to the founding of the World Travel and Tourism Council (WTTC), a business forum for some of the industry’s biggest players, which held its first annual meeting in 1991. Previously, there had been a reluctance to acknowledge the industry’s importance, as if travel, with its inherent carefree and escapist overtones, was beneath sober assessment.
Soon after its inauguration, the WTTC commissioned the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School to develop a means of substantiating tourism’s economic contribution as a whole. By the turn of the millennium, the statisticians had refined a formula known as the Tourism Satellite Account system (TSA), which could consolidate the economic value of multifarious tourist-dependent industries — hotels, airlines, agents, vendors and more, all operating in different currencies and across borders — into an aggregate dollar amount. “Its calculations were nothing short of a revelation,” Becker wrote.
By 2019, as the TSA revealed, tourism accounted for 10.4% of global GDP and 334 million jobs worldwide. A combination of individualism, technological advancement and a hardening ethical consensus built around the pursuit of happiness had transformed the tourist gaze into one of the most valuable commodities on Earth. What many tended to dismiss as a frivolous sideshow in fact ranked among the biggest industries in the world.
Today, the comforting bromide we tell ourselves to counteract any unease about the burgeoning scale of travel remains unchanged. At its heart, any celebration of it is founded on an ethical ideal that a global human heritage should be open to everyone, exempt from the private marketplace. As the anthropologist Dean MacCannell has written: “The inclusiveness and openness of the modern tourist compact is twinborn with the modern project of democracy.”
Why, then, does the modern figure of the tourist find themselves forever anathematized? “Animal imagery seems their inevitable lot,” wrote the cultural critic Jonathan Culler. “They are said to move in droves, herds, swarms or flocks; they are as mindless and docile as sheep but as annoying as a plague of insects.”
In “The Tourist Gaze” (1990), among the most seminal modern works on the social theory of tourism, John Urry explained how the democratic ideal of tourism was subject to multiple complicating factors. Chief among them was space. The view might be free, but the context for its appreciation, and often the very survival of the environment, is indivisible from its finite geography. (Three decades later, it is notable that many of the places most synonymous with “overtourism” are definitively circumscribed: Venice by its canals, Dubrovnik by its medieval walls.)
In this analysis, much of the problem with modern travel is spatial and aesthetic — a tragedy of appearances. Behold Angkor, built by generations of master stonemasons as a seat of gods and kings, the divine metropole of an empire that dominated Southeast Asia for 600 years. And here, centuries later, is a 50-strong tour group in matching baseball caps, murmurating at the behest of a tannoy-wielding guide, jostling to take their identikit photos of the sunset over the moat while their very presence threatens to precipitate the temples’ subsidence into the mud.
Here is tourism’s intractable contemporary paradox — that the democratization of our geographical and cultural riches too often precipitates their ruination. Again and again, tourism sacralizes the objects of its gaze, then desecrates them with footprints.
A crowd’s contaminating tendency does not necessarily correspond to weight of numbers, but how those numbers behave. People abroad are people at play, and the anonymity of being far from home invites disinhibition. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, so the maxim goes, and this inevitably means that holidays often provoke our most gluttonous, selfish and ignorant impulses. Camera phones have turned every tourist into a potential chronicler of the profane, meaning that each instance of touristic barbarism is now caught on film. Hence, in a video of a man scratching his initials into the nearly 2,000-year-old masonry of the Colosseum or a woman’s smiling selfie at Auschwitz, we see all of human perfidy distilled.
Soon after its inauguration, the WTTC commissioned the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School to develop a means of substantiating tourism’s economic contribution as a whole. By the turn of the millennium, the statisticians had refined a formula known as the Tourism Satellite Account system (TSA), which could consolidate the economic value of multifarious tourist-dependent industries — hotels, airlines, agents, vendors and more, all operating in different currencies and across borders — into an aggregate dollar amount. “Its calculations were nothing short of a revelation,” Becker wrote.
By 2019, as the TSA revealed, tourism accounted for 10.4% of global GDP and 334 million jobs worldwide. A combination of individualism, technological advancement and a hardening ethical consensus built around the pursuit of happiness had transformed the tourist gaze into one of the most valuable commodities on Earth. What many tended to dismiss as a frivolous sideshow in fact ranked among the biggest industries in the world.
Today, the comforting bromide we tell ourselves to counteract any unease about the burgeoning scale of travel remains unchanged. At its heart, any celebration of it is founded on an ethical ideal that a global human heritage should be open to everyone, exempt from the private marketplace. As the anthropologist Dean MacCannell has written: “The inclusiveness and openness of the modern tourist compact is twinborn with the modern project of democracy.”
Why, then, does the modern figure of the tourist find themselves forever anathematized? “Animal imagery seems their inevitable lot,” wrote the cultural critic Jonathan Culler. “They are said to move in droves, herds, swarms or flocks; they are as mindless and docile as sheep but as annoying as a plague of insects.”
In “The Tourist Gaze” (1990), among the most seminal modern works on the social theory of tourism, John Urry explained how the democratic ideal of tourism was subject to multiple complicating factors. Chief among them was space. The view might be free, but the context for its appreciation, and often the very survival of the environment, is indivisible from its finite geography. (Three decades later, it is notable that many of the places most synonymous with “overtourism” are definitively circumscribed: Venice by its canals, Dubrovnik by its medieval walls.)
In this analysis, much of the problem with modern travel is spatial and aesthetic — a tragedy of appearances. Behold Angkor, built by generations of master stonemasons as a seat of gods and kings, the divine metropole of an empire that dominated Southeast Asia for 600 years. And here, centuries later, is a 50-strong tour group in matching baseball caps, murmurating at the behest of a tannoy-wielding guide, jostling to take their identikit photos of the sunset over the moat while their very presence threatens to precipitate the temples’ subsidence into the mud.
Here is tourism’s intractable contemporary paradox — that the democratization of our geographical and cultural riches too often precipitates their ruination. Again and again, tourism sacralizes the objects of its gaze, then desecrates them with footprints.
A crowd’s contaminating tendency does not necessarily correspond to weight of numbers, but how those numbers behave. People abroad are people at play, and the anonymity of being far from home invites disinhibition. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, so the maxim goes, and this inevitably means that holidays often provoke our most gluttonous, selfish and ignorant impulses. Camera phones have turned every tourist into a potential chronicler of the profane, meaning that each instance of touristic barbarism is now caught on film. Hence, in a video of a man scratching his initials into the nearly 2,000-year-old masonry of the Colosseum or a woman’s smiling selfie at Auschwitz, we see all of human perfidy distilled.
The appetite for self-delusion foreshadowed by the Claude Glass — for manipulating the object of the tourist gaze until it subscribes to preconceived desires — has become universalized. People converge on celebrated sites, taking turns to have their photo taken at the viewpoint, while out of shot a queue of other aspiring influencers await their turn. What is this if not travel as pure aesthetic performance? (...)
“Travel turns us into the worst version of ourselves while convincing us that we’re at our best,” the philosopher Agnes Callard wrote in an essay titled “A Case Against Travel” in The New Yorker last June. Citing misanthropic antecedents from Emerson to Pessoa, Callard portrayed travel as an exercise in mimesis and banal one-upmanship. Whatever a traveler’s professed motives, she argued, they are more truthfully engaged in the most egocentric pursuit imaginable: escaping (or at least postponing) the “certainty of annihilation.” By removing us from the routine of domestic life, travel disguises the ineluctable fact of mortality “in a narrative about how you are doing many exciting and edifying things: you are experiencing, you are connecting, you are being transformed, and you have the trinkets and photos to prove it.”
Meanwhile, the closed environments decried by Boorstin continue to multiply. In recent decades, the fastest growing sector in tourism has been arguably its most mediated, the cruise, where customers can enjoy Italian food with a Jamaican sunset, then go ice-skating in the morning. It’s a floating pseudo-event that does nothing so much as echo Humbert Humbert: You have been to the Caribbean. You have been nowhere at all.
“None of the folderol about finding oneself,” Becker wrote about the burgeoning desert playground of Dubai, “or disappearing from the troubled world to discover anew the beauty of Mother Nature or the wisdom of an exotic culture.” Here is travel completely detached from the “tourism compact” of democratic ideals and curiosity, characterized as much by labor exploitation and offshored profits as the visitors’ incuriosity about where they are. And people are becoming desensitized to the fakery the more it becomes the norm. According to Google Ngram, use of the phrase “tourist trap,” which grew in lockstep with the explosion of tourism between the 1960s and 2004, has since dropped by about a third. (...)
The contradictions pile up. The traveler is a paragon of curiosity and generosity of spirit; the tourist is a facile automaton, a constituent of a witless herd. Travel is an expression of democratic freedom and the economic lifeblood for millions; tourism is an instrument of capitalist expropriation, an engine of inequality. The act of travel opens the heart and the mind to the lives of others, but it can equally be regarded as an exercise in selfishness, pursued for the accrual of personal gratification and cultural capital. Travel was better when there were fewer people doing it, but saying so out loud is nothing but snobbery.
It is impossible to count how many communities worldwide are caught on the horns of these dilemmas. Last summer’s terrible wildfires on the Hawaiian island of Maui, to take one stark example, exposed tourism as a Faustian bargain in which local calls for tourists to stay away were quickly followed by petitions for them to return.
Today, we are witnessing this endless tug-of-war between selfish desire and moral doubt culminate in the whispered sentiment, at once covetous and perverse, of tourists in an age of collapse: See it now before it’s gone. (...)
In the meantime, though, the costs would be unconscionable. What the thought experiment served to underscore was the extent to which tourism has become more than just one of several economic options for places with little else to sell. Oftentimes, it is the only option. For every hermetic purpose-built playground there are a thousand older and more precious communities that, having lost whatever economic purpose might have led to their original establishment and growth, had bet the house on foreign visitors. Shorn of those visitors’ gaze, there was a chance that such places — our most prized natural and cultural treasures among them — would simply atrophy.
Endless quandaries surfaced in my mind. Without tourists, there would be no more safari vehicles bundling across the savannah to rubberneck at animals, it’s true. But would the national park still exist? And what is worse: the tourist with a telephoto lens or the poacher with a gun? For somewhere to matter, it had to be beheld, Yeoman insisted. “If you want people to genuinely care about a place, they need to make the physical effort to go there,” he said.
by Henry Wismayer, Noema | Read more:
Image: Adam G; Caspar David Friedrich, “Wanderer above the Sea of Fog,” 1818
[ed. I grew up in late-50s Hawaii and late-70s pre-pipeline Alaska - before industrial tourism had firmly established itself in both places. I've thought about this all my life. Here's my conclusion: there is no hope. That is, if you define hope as some static cultural condition that should be preserved or protected against the onslaught of tourism in all its forms. Cultures evolve, especially so these days with the internet and world's globally connected economic systems. There will be enclaves and subcultures that preserve some of the more meaningful aspects of those cultures/traditions but you'll have to live in a place for a while to truly get them. In general, tourism is like the weather, always there, always a factor, and quite destructive (especially to the environment and whatever unique qualities exist in a place) if you aren't adequately prepared. It can be regulated and directed to mitigate impacts, but never completely controlled. There's so much more to this issue, like complete satisfaction with plastically representative experiences, cultural appropriation, impacts on other industries and politics, etc. but those are for another essay.]
[ed. I grew up in late-50s Hawaii and late-70s pre-pipeline Alaska - before industrial tourism had firmly established itself in both places. I've thought about this all my life. Here's my conclusion: there is no hope. That is, if you define hope as some static cultural condition that should be preserved or protected against the onslaught of tourism in all its forms. Cultures evolve, especially so these days with the internet and world's globally connected economic systems. There will be enclaves and subcultures that preserve some of the more meaningful aspects of those cultures/traditions but you'll have to live in a place for a while to truly get them. In general, tourism is like the weather, always there, always a factor, and quite destructive (especially to the environment and whatever unique qualities exist in a place) if you aren't adequately prepared. It can be regulated and directed to mitigate impacts, but never completely controlled. There's so much more to this issue, like complete satisfaction with plastically representative experiences, cultural appropriation, impacts on other industries and politics, etc. but those are for another essay.]
