Armed only with selfie-sticks, masses of tourists jostle for their very own "authentic experience".
It was almost your standard souvenir shop.??
Postcards with low-res images of Burmese sunsets, fridge magnets with the word “Myanmar” in Comic Sans font, and cotton and silk longyis (the traditional Burmese sarong worn by both men and women) festoon the store walls and displays.
It’s the last stop on our boat tour of Inle Lake, in a town perched on stilts that tops lists of must-see spots in travel guides everywhere. At the front of the store, next to the longyis, a woman is hand-weaving the fabric. She is dressed in a loose kaftan and headscarf. Her arms are lined with brass coils. And her neck, from collarbone to chin, is encased in gleaming coils of brass, too. As tourists gawk and take photos, the woman sits stoically, weaving quietly and ignoring the cameras.
She’s referred to as a long-neck woman—visually synonymous with the Kayan community, an ethnic minority in Myanmar. Kayan women, also sometimes called giraffe women, wear brass rings that give them the appearance of having elongated necks. Some say the custom of the rings stems back to ancient beliefs about warding off tiger attacks or men from rival tribes. Some say it’s simply part of the cultural aesthetic. Whatever the reason, the coils are said to weigh some 11 kilograms; forcing down and deforming the collarbone, compressing the rib cage, and tattooing the neck with bruises.
#imresponsible
Visiting Kayan communities and gawking at the so-called the giraffe women is part of the standard tourist circuit in northern Thailand. Yet, the United Nations refugee agency has condemned the practice, calling the Thai spots “human zoos” that tourists should stop supporting. Now, there's increasing concern over whether the trend will gain traction in neighbouring Myanmar, as the number of visitors continues to rise.
If Bangkok is the Western tourist’s "gateway drug" to Southeast Asia, then Myanmar is the next step for the Asia junkie who’s done it all. At cafes and on trekking trails, travellers brag about diving in the Philippines, motor biking in Vietnam and drinking magic mushroom shakes in Laos. Those trips—geographic and otherwise—serve as stepping stones. Once you’ve conquered those roads frequently travelled, the elusive Myanmar is next. Some 3.4 million tourists ticked Myanmar off their bucket lists in 2017, according to the United Nations World Tourism Organization, up 18 per cent from just one year prior.
At the height of the country’s popularity surge in 2017, Myanmar’s Centre for Responsible Business released a report on sustainable tourism identifying Inle Lake as a site facing increasing environmental and social pressures from the flood of new visitors. The report highlighted how the livelihood of locals would be impacted and whether they would benefit from the growth in tourism.
The locals who participated in the survey were skeptical. In areas populated with ethnic minorities, such as Kayan communities, residents expressed widespread concern about not being consulted over tourism projects. There were fears that any financial gains would bypass their pockets and instead, go directly to crony businesses and military officials. In 2013, a hotel project in Hpa-an was cancelled after protests erupted over a lack of consultation with local communities.
Travellers visiting regions at the cusp of irreversible change—and possible damage—are facing an ethical dilemma. Whose responsibility is it to protect the lands we’re so desperate to walk on, and people we’re so desperate to know? There’s a craving to see more, to do more, and to experience the most. And yet, if we can’t rely on governments to safeguard these sacred regions and the people within its borders, perhaps the onus falls on our own backpack-bearing shoulders.
From overlooked to overbooked
More than 17,000 kilometres away, across two oceans and as many continents, a similar dilemma unfolds, with different stakes.
Unreal sights and pictures that look Photoshopped are the pot of gold at Vivicunca, Peru’s Rainbow Mountain. Layers of cranberry, gold and teal-coloured sedimentary rock, exposed over millennia by erosion, create multi-coloured stripes that leave visitors in breathless awe. Travellers are also breathless because the mountain is 5,000 metres above sea level, an altitude that leaves most unacclimatized hikers gasping for air.
We rise at the pitch-black hour of 3:00 am, to arrive by sunrise at 6:00 am. After a two-hour trek, partially on horseback, we’re there. And we’re not alone. A dozen or so other tourists have beaten us. By 9:00 am, the mountain is packed and I learn that some 1,000 tourists visit the mountain daily.
I learn that some 1,000 tourists visit the mountain daily. Yet, it only appeared on the radar of backpackers roughly five years ago. My 2016 copy of the Lonely Planet Peru guide doesn't mention the now-wildly popular site.
What's especially surprising about these numbers is that Rainbow Mountain only appeared on the radar of backpackers roughly five years ago. My 2016 copy of the Lonely Planet Peru guide doesn't mention the now-wildly popular site.
Now, the view at the mountain’s lookout is blocked by one of several snack stands selling cookies, instant coffee and tea. At the mountain’s base, construction is underway for a hotel.
The horses carrying people to the top have become a big business. Our guide, Jose, speaks the local language, Quechuan, to our horseman. I asked Jose if our aide donned his traditional embroidered vest because that was part of his regular dress, or if it was for the benefit of tourists, to pump up the feeling they’re having an “authentic” experience. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the answer was the latter.
In fact, Jose tells us that despite looking the part, horses are not native to the area. They were brought to the mountain from a different region, solely to haul tourists up to the perfect selfie-taking spot.
There has been such an explosion in tourist traffic up to the formerly-unknown Rainbow Mountain, that the footpath is already being eroded. Nearby, parkland has been transformed into a parking lot. The route from the busiest tourist hub, Cusco, is a winding, single-lane road without a guardrail. By mid-morning, it’s backed up with cars, vans, and tour buses that are as wide as the road itself. Jose tells us it’s unsafe for inexperienced drivers and recalls that, several years ago, the scary route took the life of a tourist who decided to drive it himself.
Unlike the heavily regulated Machu Picchu, Rainbow Mountain still exists in a state of lawlessness. At Machu Picchu, tourists are required to be accompanied by licensed guides. But people can, and still do, tackle the sometimes-precarious trek to Rainbow Mountain on their own.
It’s a site that brings in nearly half-a-million dollars a year, and everyone wants a piece of the technicolored pie. The local Indigenous community is in a tax dispute with the nearby municipality over who gets access to the tourism jackpot. Mining companies have, for a long time, eyed the area for its rich minerals and a Canadian mining company had been fighting to claim mining rights until a presidential decree ended the battle. Environmentalists are worried visitors could cause harm to local wildlife.
Jose tells us that before becoming a guide, he too came from the mountainous highlands. He says that before the tourism boom, people lived off the land, and his family of potato farmers would trade their crops for goods like cooking oil or meat, when needed. There was no real use for currency, he says. But the region’s recent cash injection is changing that, and introducing a whole new way of living.
Selfie planet
When backpackers sit around their hostels drinking cheap beers, sometimes friendly conversation turns into a contest of authenticity. Who ate the most street food for the least amount of money? Who had a ride on the sketchiest form of transportation? Who had the most interaction with the people we perceive to be locals?
Flights are cheaper than ever before. Ease of travel means more people can go further, faster, more frequently. And with a quick tap of a geotag, we can find more hidden trails, secret spots, and new faces to populate our feeds, as we wait for our "likes" to light up our screens.
As with the long-neck women in Myanmar and the costumed horsemen in Peru, reality and authenticity is a matter of a shifting perspective. And as the tourist footprint grows, the imprint of the old way of life shrinks. The landscape is new and changing, and the selfie stick in your photo is here to stay.