In the eastern suburbs of Taipei, a little rural township nestles amid the northern reaches of Taiwan's central mountain range. A little railway runs through the valley, bisecting the township's component villages and bringing in tourists from all over the island and beyond into the embraces of their splendidly well-preserved architectures of the past and winding, hilly roads frequented in the township's glorious past as a top coal-mining spot. Honestly, the villages themselves are not that old, but that feel of "living history," along with all the foods and sights reminiscent of the past draw massive crowds on a regular weekend.
One of the favorite activities of this massive tourist crowd is to let fly what's called "sky lanterns" in the middle of the seldom-used railway. Made of plastic sheets with different colors that respectively symbolize the different kinds of wishes and luck they may respectively bring, the lanterns are graced by handwritten messages of hopes, expectations, and fortunes. The completed lanterns are then taken by the tourists to the middle of the railway, where, after almost compulsory picture taking, they are installed with a little fireplace on the inside bottom and sent flying into the air, hot air-balloon-style.
How romantic and poetic, one might think. Indeed, as a casual observer standing over the old street lining both sides of the railway, the views of colorful lanterns rising into the sky add so much atmosphere to an environment that, with exception of the essentially urbanite crowds, is already a world away from the hectic modernity of the metropolis an hour bus-ride away. But once one gets out into the mountains surrounding the little villages, the damages of those sky lanterns becomes a bit clearer, in an unfortunately disheartening way. The collective choice of everyone to ignore the consequences makes one question tourism's morality.
Sky Lanterns, after all, do not ascend into space. They fall as their little in-built fireplaces run out of juice in the moist coldness of the upper atmosphere. And fall they do, in the wooded wilderness of the mountains. The author spotted many deflated lanterns in his casual walk to seek out waterfalls in the hills, and even spotted some on top of trees as he rode on the train from village to village. So obvious in its colorfulness and large numbers, the deflated lanterns are nonetheless ignored by both the tourists and villagers, who tirelessly promote lanterns-related services to everyone getting off the train and walking into town.
The enthusiasm of the villagers is not at all surprising, though. There is a growing trend toward what can be called "lifestyle tourism," one that emphasize not visitation of stationary sights, but living through local customs and traditions. Hence, exaggerated versions of local idiosyncrasies, such as raising the sky lanterns, proliferate and take over travelers' itineraries in ways that are definitely not environmentally sustainable in anyway. It is precisely that the participatory portion of tourism is now so manufactured for mass consumption that both authenticity and value of rarity are fully lost.
Yet, too many used-up sky lanterns polluting the environment may still be the least of "manufactured tourism's" detrimental impact on the very implication of travel. Living traditions is great if the traditions being lived are actually real traditions. But in a modern world where tourist dollars are enough of an incentive to turn a whole town upside down, there is no such guarantee. The travelers, heading to supposed "old" towns with their "historical" spectacles, can only take for granted what are on display. Given the makeover, they have no basis for doubting the orthodoxy of what they are seeing.
At least when one heads to a not-so-well-maintained, pretty much crumbling archaeological sites, one can imaginatively construct in one's head what the places may have look like in the past, entertainingly filling in the missing pieces based on what remains as physical reality. But in manufactured tourism, such is impossible. All the "missing historical pieces" are already filled in for travelers by enterprising locals. It becomes inevitable that the travelers get lazy and buy into whatever is presented on the ground, taking up the modern renditions of what could have happened are pure facts without a sense of doubt.
That, is the fundamental danger of manufactured tourism. In its focus on attracting crowds with supposedly fun and meaningful activities, it quickly undertake a revisionist view of history, beautifying it with doubtful elements and twisting half-truths into questionable subjects of less-than-correct knowledge and half-baked education. In the process, traditions like sky lanterns are increasingly made into mere cultural products devoid of feelings and purposes, something done off a traveler's checklist rather than out of motivation to learn. Such tendency makes the end result of forests covered in colorful plastics all the less valuable.
One of the favorite activities of this massive tourist crowd is to let fly what's called "sky lanterns" in the middle of the seldom-used railway. Made of plastic sheets with different colors that respectively symbolize the different kinds of wishes and luck they may respectively bring, the lanterns are graced by handwritten messages of hopes, expectations, and fortunes. The completed lanterns are then taken by the tourists to the middle of the railway, where, after almost compulsory picture taking, they are installed with a little fireplace on the inside bottom and sent flying into the air, hot air-balloon-style.
How romantic and poetic, one might think. Indeed, as a casual observer standing over the old street lining both sides of the railway, the views of colorful lanterns rising into the sky add so much atmosphere to an environment that, with exception of the essentially urbanite crowds, is already a world away from the hectic modernity of the metropolis an hour bus-ride away. But once one gets out into the mountains surrounding the little villages, the damages of those sky lanterns becomes a bit clearer, in an unfortunately disheartening way. The collective choice of everyone to ignore the consequences makes one question tourism's morality.
Sky Lanterns, after all, do not ascend into space. They fall as their little in-built fireplaces run out of juice in the moist coldness of the upper atmosphere. And fall they do, in the wooded wilderness of the mountains. The author spotted many deflated lanterns in his casual walk to seek out waterfalls in the hills, and even spotted some on top of trees as he rode on the train from village to village. So obvious in its colorfulness and large numbers, the deflated lanterns are nonetheless ignored by both the tourists and villagers, who tirelessly promote lanterns-related services to everyone getting off the train and walking into town.
The enthusiasm of the villagers is not at all surprising, though. There is a growing trend toward what can be called "lifestyle tourism," one that emphasize not visitation of stationary sights, but living through local customs and traditions. Hence, exaggerated versions of local idiosyncrasies, such as raising the sky lanterns, proliferate and take over travelers' itineraries in ways that are definitely not environmentally sustainable in anyway. It is precisely that the participatory portion of tourism is now so manufactured for mass consumption that both authenticity and value of rarity are fully lost.
Yet, too many used-up sky lanterns polluting the environment may still be the least of "manufactured tourism's" detrimental impact on the very implication of travel. Living traditions is great if the traditions being lived are actually real traditions. But in a modern world where tourist dollars are enough of an incentive to turn a whole town upside down, there is no such guarantee. The travelers, heading to supposed "old" towns with their "historical" spectacles, can only take for granted what are on display. Given the makeover, they have no basis for doubting the orthodoxy of what they are seeing.
At least when one heads to a not-so-well-maintained, pretty much crumbling archaeological sites, one can imaginatively construct in one's head what the places may have look like in the past, entertainingly filling in the missing pieces based on what remains as physical reality. But in manufactured tourism, such is impossible. All the "missing historical pieces" are already filled in for travelers by enterprising locals. It becomes inevitable that the travelers get lazy and buy into whatever is presented on the ground, taking up the modern renditions of what could have happened are pure facts without a sense of doubt.
That, is the fundamental danger of manufactured tourism. In its focus on attracting crowds with supposedly fun and meaningful activities, it quickly undertake a revisionist view of history, beautifying it with doubtful elements and twisting half-truths into questionable subjects of less-than-correct knowledge and half-baked education. In the process, traditions like sky lanterns are increasingly made into mere cultural products devoid of feelings and purposes, something done off a traveler's checklist rather than out of motivation to learn. Such tendency makes the end result of forests covered in colorful plastics all the less valuable.
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