Responsible tourism?

‘Responsible’ tourism seems to have become a favoured term amongst the advocates of ethical tourism. I first came across it when interviewing a tourism officer from the WWF around ten years ago. It has also been adopted by many including eco-entrepreneur and academic Harold Goodwin – he even runs a Masters degree in ‘Responsible Tourism’ (note the emergence of such advocacy based programmes in the Universities in recent years).

Eco, green, community, responsible …. why all the prefixes? For 90% of tourists (written off as ‘mass’ tourists by the self-proclaimed guardians of ethical holiday making) these terms will not feature prominently in their vocabulary. Are they unaware, in need of enlightenment?

There is a circular character to the tourism debate - one ‘alternative’ tourism is promoted as good, ethical and new. Then, with a mixture of irony and cynicism, someone points out that it’s really just more of the same or, worse, complicit in spreading the net of modernity ever wider. Then a new term pops up to subtly address the shortcomings of the previous. So ecotourism for some is passé or ‘egotourism’, and needs a second prefix such as ‘community’, or to be replaced by ‘responsible tourism’.

The fixation with prefixes ( ‘prefixation’ ?) arises from an impulse to turn leisure activities into personalised moral identities. Personal behaviour has become subject to a critical and intolerant gaze on the part of more than a few writing on this subject. This problematisation of the personal, focusing on consumption and behaviour, has largely replaced politics.

For the responsible tourism lobby it has been decided a priori that ‘small is beautiful’, local beats national and mass package tourism is only for those lacking individuality and awareness of their deleterious impact on the planet. Real political choices on development (including the possibilities for transformative economic development) are written out in the moralistic language of responsibility. Before the question is even asked, certain things are deemed ‘responsible’, and, by implication, certain others irresponsible.

That is hardly in the spirit of open ended intellectual enquiry. Neither is it particularly responsible.

In defence of holiday Fordism

An excellent book for anyone interested in the role of tourism in the post World war Two economy and culture is ‘Europe at the Seaside: the Economic History of Mass Tourism in the Mediterranean’, edited by Luciano Segreto, Carles Manera and Manfred Pohl (Berghahn Books, Oxford and New York, 2009). It’s in the ‘business history’ genre – not something I’d normally read. However, it is a better commentary on the relationship between tourism and society than most books that claim to serve that function. It is also a riposte to the consignment of mass package tourism to the cultural dustbin of history by those enamoured of the new ‘ethical’ niches.

 

Tourism has been key in shaping and reshaping the economies of the Mediterranean. Also, ‘the Med’ has become iconic of mass tourism culturally as well as economically, with many of the destinations and companies featured in the book viewed rather critically through the contemporary prism of sustainability.

The book shows that Fordism in the tourism industry – efficient, integrated systems of production, standardisation and economies of scale – was in fact liberating in a very real sense. This is contrast to the notion that Fordism and choice are somehow antithetical, and that post-Fordism is a new era of creativity and enlightened consumers.

The jet engine was a key technological innovation shaping the industry. Aircraft linked the generating markets of the north to the Mediterranean. Jets could carry larger aircraft, and larger aircraft meant greater scope for economies of scale and cheaper travel. Independent charter airlines, boosted by capital from the shipping industry in the 1970s, pioneered the ‘back to back’ charter (itself seen as innovative in its time). A week on the French Riviera, the Costas, the Balearics, Rimini or a Greek island - all featured in the book - became closer to the cost of a week in Blackpool. For many the former proved preferable. The economic and social transformation of poor fishing villages in southern Spain into the Costa del Sol was one result. Host and tourist benefitted.

The chapter on the French Accor group is illustrative of the way Fordism and standardisation enabled growing numbers of people to travel for leisure. Standardised in the form of low cost hotels, initially intended for business use, rapidly became popular with leisure travellers – Fordism and standardisation, often portrayed as culturally limiting, contributed to the expansion of leisure mobility. It became easier for wider sections of people to visit friends, relatives, and towns and cities away from the principle tourism destinations. Counter intuitively, Fordism and standardisation led to greater choice.

The chapter on Rimini is illustrative of the fact that the growth of mass tourism on the Mediterranean was not simply a matter of constantly ‘more of the same’, an undercurrent in some contemporary commentaries that are critical of mass tourism’s legacy. Rimini’s development as a beach resort was itself innovative – it was new and exciting, and of its time, a leader in the field of family beach holidays in the 1950s and 60s. In response to stagnation in the latter 1960s (Spain and Yugoslavia offered cheaper alternatives), improved planning and marketing made a positive difference. In the 1970s and 1980s the resort reoriented itself towards night clubs and discotheques, responding to the changing fashions – it became the trendy disco capital of Italy. In the 1990s, conferences and trade fairs were developed, and new theme parks proved popular.

Many who travelled abroad to Rimini for their holidays in the 1960s and 1970s would have been doing so for the first time (some of course would have seen foreign shores on military service) - they were perhaps the pioneers of their day. My mother travelled to Rimini in 1960. For her and her Glaswegian friends this was theirfirst venture outside the UK, their first taste of another culture and language. For them, used to the local resorts on the Scottish west coast and islands, this was ‘new tourism’ – exciting, distant and exotic. It was also, as shown in this book, a major feature of Italian economy and society.

I also especially enjoyed the chapter on Club Méditerranée. I was surprised to find that the ideals of its founders matched those of the most leftfield niche wellness operator of today – eastern mysticism, the recuperative power of nature, a place to find ‘interior peace, equilibrium, and a profound happiness’. Was Club Méditerranée the ‘Alternative Tourism’ of its day?

The book is an economic history, but one that discusses the economic trends in context, as they were shaped by people, pioneers, and as they shaped the lives and possibilities for many others. It is very highly recommended for anyone interested in the economic and social history of tourism in the Mediterranean.

Education and geography

I’ve reviewed two recent books that all geographers and tourism geographers concerned with education should read:

Alex Standish’s ‘The False Promise of Global Learning: Why Education Needs Boundaries’ looks the rise of ‘global’ education. Within geography, at both school and University, ‘global perspectives’ are presented as a progressive development. Standish argues convincingly that the global agenda carries with it some worrying features. Firstly, he shows that geographical knowledge has been downplayed in favour of discussions of morality and global citizenship. The latter are certainly no bad thing in and of themselves, but Standish argues that solid geographical knowledge as a basis for citizenship and moral decisions is neglected – without it (and all too often this is the case) moral discussions become moralising.

This, by the way, is all too evident in writing and teaching around the tourism industry in geography and tourism studies, long characterised by a preachy, green emphasis on how to be a good ‘ethical’ tourist.

Also, global citizenship – an aspiration that when invoked is hard to argue with – sees people’s agency in relation to ‘global issues’,addressed by global (and unaccountable) NGOs. Accountable national governments - where we can vote and exercise democracy – are bypassed by the globalisation of citizenship. Global citizenship bypasses politics too in a sense. Standish quotes Heilman: ‘[C]osmopolitan global citizenship … seeks to shift authority from the local to the national community, to a world community that is a loose network of international organisations and subnational political actors not bound within a clear democratic constitutional framework’ (p. 66).
Standish also shows how the global agenda, whilst usefully addressing the issues of cultural differences across boundaries, mostly adopts a cultural relativism. Other cultures are considered with sensitivity, but are defined by their differences. This is often expressed in terms of ‘respect’ for these cultures. Standish is not arguing against the often admirable personal quality of respect for the views of others. Rather, he is arguing that what is being respected is difference, and only rarely commonality of aspiration. This rings true for me. Look at so many commentaries on green development, voluntourism projects etc. – most often other cultures are valued for their relationship to nature rather than people’s ability or aspiration to transform that relationship in pursuit of development.

Standish looks critically at the tendency in global citizenship education to personalise social problems, which are often approached through the question ‘what would / could you do?’ Personal responsibility in the face of major global threats is a common theme. In challenging this Standish invokes the analysis of Elizabeth Lasch-Quinn who argued that in the American Civil Rights Movement during the 1970s desired social change came to be viewed through the prism of individual identity in a fashion that diminished politics. Again, this rings true. With the growth of ethical consumption, charity challenges and voluntourism (currently quite a hot topic for human geographers as attendees at recent AAG and RGS annual conferences may know) ‘making a difference’ is rarely seen as what we as a society should do and more often as a personal project.

The second book of note is ‘Consuming Higher Education: Why Learning Can't be Bought’ by Joanna Williams. Many have written about the effects of marketisation on Universities in recent decades, but this is the most convincing analysis of the changing character of University education. Drawing upon historical experience in the USA and the UK, Williams shows that the construction of the ‘student as consumer’has much less to do with the introduction of fees per se, and more to do with the way Universities try to mould themselves around the prior abilities, preconceptions about and feelings of students. University departments spend far more time talking about the ‘student experience’ - league tables, marking ‘turnaround’times, student friendly forms of assessment and a general deference to the student in the name of being ‘student centred’ - than they do about their subject. I try to attend as many academic seminars as I can as they serve to remind me of what I was trained for and what a University should be about, but in the daily life of many of us these are dwarfed by discussions focused on ‘managing the student journey’ and similar mantras.

Williams challenges the role Universities can and should have in promoting extrinsic agendas such as social inclusion. Universities are not society, nor are they a branch of social work – they are ill suited to the task of promoting ‘inclusion’. They are suited to the passing on of a society’s intellectual heritage to the next generation. Once acquired, students can challenge, transcend or build upon that heritage, but it needs to be at the centre of the University’s mission. Where knowledge is instrumental to the resolution of social problems, knowledge suffers and so, ultimately, does society.

An interesting angle in Williams’ book is that she takes on the Left’s view that University fees are terrible and that neoliberalism is being imposed upon otherwise progressive educational system. Educational radicals and progressives have been vociferous in opposing fees, but acquiescent towards or even at the forefront of promoting the‘student first’ (but subject knowledge second) outlook that Williams shows is far more fundamental in diminishing the potential of the University. Fees are only a symptom of the retreat from knowledge into experience.

Overall, Williams explains that the current malaise in education is the product of an unwillingness to prioritise the passing on the best of what is thought and known to the next generation. You can buy an experience but, as Williams says in her title, ‘learning can’t be bought’. Both books describe trends that stem from an uncertainty over what education is for today, and what it can do. Both books offer optimistic alternatives that prioritise knowledge and its capacity to transform people into critical subjects and expert problem solvers. This is a worthy ambition for geography or any other field or discipline.

Refs:

Joanna Williams. 2012. Consuming Higher Education: Why Learning Can't be Bought. Bloomsbury
Alex Standish. 2012. The False Promise of Global Learning: Why Education Needs Boundaries. Continuum