Now that Kyoto is to all intents "Kyotoland," it might be instructive to turn to other countries and look at how they run their own "heritage industries." One good example would be Thailand, which realized early on that since tourism constitutes a major source of revenue, heritage-conservation policies must inevitably conform to this reality.
The influence of tourism has, in all countries, resulted in an "improved version of the past," since the political act of conferring heritage status on something often means denying it to something else. The end product also constitutes a kind of cultural nationalism, as it represents the way the country wishes to be seen, both by other nations and by its own citizens. This sometimes results in an "invention of tradition."
A recent example might be "traditional" emblems of Scotland -- kilts, haggis and the rest, all of which have been revealed to be of a much less ancient origin than is popularly supposed. There is nothing sinister in this -- a historical narrative of some sort is chosen because it has to be.
In Thailand, the choice was to trace the national style through the ancient cities of Sukhothai and Ayutthaya. That both of these sites were early included on UNESCO's World Heritage List enhanced Thai pride in its cultural patrimony, and also widened the appeal of these places as tourist destinations. At the same time, a political choice was indicated.
As Maurizio Peleggi, the author of this extremely interesting study, informs us: "The intrinsic import of ruins as tangible embodiment of the nation's past, whose distinctive traits are assumed to be Buddhism and monarchy, has not prevented ideologically diverse significations from being attached to them." Earlier preservations partook of a "civilizing mission," whereby "the royal elite legitimated its rule." Later, when the authority of politically conservative institutions was being openly challenged, "monumental sites such as Sukhothai and Ayutthaya (and their associated historical mythology) were given special visibility as symbols of the 'Thainess' [that] the political left was purportedly seeking to undermine."
This "civilizing mission" has been criticized, the accusation being that the state has, through its appropriation of sites for "national" interests (ideological as well as commercial), disrupted the significance of these sites in rural communities where they might serve as sources of a local identity, though one potentially at variance with the "centrally endorsed national identity."
A further complication is the necessary consumption of heritage sites as tourist attractions. With tourism a major source of foreign exchange earnings, more and more sites are being rendered "attractive." An example would be the light-and-sound show celebrating a local moon festival amid the ruins of Sukhothai, a "Broadway-like spectacle presented as a genuine Sukhothaian tradition" despite the fact that it is entirely against the true history of this festival.
Another example would be the River Kwai Bridge, a tourist attraction that has virtually elided its horrendous past and transformed itself into a place for entertainment, featuring "rides on vintage trains" and a sound-and-light show simulating an air attack. In this selling of "history," authenticity is no longer a requirement.
Sometimes, however, commerce can defeat itself. Singapore, for example, sought to make its image more attractive by destroying all the shop-houses typical of the Chinese diaspora, biting into the colorful Indian section and gentrifying lively Buggis Street. Later it came to regret having deprived the cityscape of a distinctive element that would have been a prime tourism asset. It was consequent to this that the National Heritage Board allowed the lavish refurbishment of Raffles Hotel.
Thailand has more or less kept its "unique" sites -- and multiplied them. The author reports that Bangkok's notorious Patpong Road "is now innocently gazed upon by many tourists -- even in family groups -- as an 'authentic' sight and a feature unique to the Bangkok cityscape."
It has even created new "sites." Though one of the pillars in the edifice of its national image is that Thailand was never colonized, the proven attractiveness to tourists of the "colonial" style (in, for example, Singapore's Raffles Hotel) has forced accommodation. Bangkok's Oriental Hotel consciously evokes colonial travel with its "famous author" suites and its general air of privilege. The Railways Hotel (now Sofitel Central) at Hua Hin has refurbished itself in colonial style. And the possibility of reveling in colonial romance is the main appeal of the Eastern and Oriental Express luxury train that links Bangkok to Singapore, which the author calls "a theme park on wheels," and which allows its patrons to "get the best of two worlds -- the luxury of the train and Asia at its fingertips."
Thus, even though Thailand's independence from foreign rule has value in the official historical narrative, the tourist narrative cannot but dispense colonial nostalgia. It is among these anomalies that Peleggi steers his shrewd course in this traversal of the politics behind ruins and the business beneath nostalgia.
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