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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
