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Chapter 1
Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism: Manufacturing Heritage, Consuming Tradition
Nezar AlSayyad
The twentieth century has been the century of travel and tourism. Indeed, the inhabitants of the world in the last two decades have met more other people than at any time in known history. As travel around the world has risen to unprecedented levels, the number of tourists visiting certain countries and cities in a given year often exceeds the numbers of those places' native populations. Global travel has encouraged this phenomenal growth of the tourism industry.'
Several world travel organizations predict that world tourism will grow at a rate of 4 per cent per annum, reaching a level of more than 700 million international arrivals and more than US$600 billion in revenue in the year 2000. And by 2010 it is predicted that arrivals will reach one billion and revenues will mount to nearly four times the current level. In the late 1970s less than one one-hundredth of a per cent of the world's population took an international trip in any given year.2 But by the end of the twentieth century this percentage had increased a hundred fold. As the twenty-first century unfolds, people of every class and from every country will be wandering to every part of the planet. This is indeed an age of voyaging on a global scale. Meanwhile, tourist destinations throughout the world find themselves in ever more fierce competition for tourist dollars.3
For many parts of the world - especially those marginalized in the global industrial and information economy - tourist development may seem to offer the only hope of surviving in the global era. Yet at the same time that cultural heritage attractions offer income-producing opportunities to some of the poorest (as well as the richest) communities in the world, such mass
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
tourism has often inflamed local and international passions, causing people to decry the irreversible destruction of traditional places and historic sites. In the final years of the twentieth century tourism has been called an 'unstoppable juggernaut, erasing all that is local and particular'.4 Such anxieties have caused talk about the end of history, the end of geography, and the end of tradition.5
In the presence of such trends, and amidst the monotony of global high capitalism, at a time when standardized products and services are increasingly marketed worldwide, there is an increasing demand for built environments that promise unique cultural experiences. Many nations, meanwhile, are resorting to heritage preservation, the invention of tradition, and the rewriting of history as forms of self-definition. Indeed, the events of the last decade have created a dramatically altered global order that requires a new understanding of the role of tradition and heritage in the making of social space and the shaping of city form.
Intersections: Manufacture, Consumption, Heritage and Tradition
This book is about the intersections of four major terms: 'manufacture', 'consumption', 'heritage', and 'tradition'. The standard meanings of these words were primarily established during the modern era, yet these meanings are also inextricably bound up today with the problems or issues they explain. Etymological consciousness of the words is thus essential to understanding the social and intellectual context within which they are used. As 'keywords' in the sense Raymond Williams has pointed to, historical inquiry into their many facets may be used to establish the record of an entire vocabulary of shared meanings.6 Examination of their dictionary definitions is a useful way to anchor this discussion.
The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) explains that 'manufacture' comes from two Latin words: manus, or hand; and facere, to make, and actually means 'the action or process of making by hand'. Yet as a cultural concept in recent times, manufacture has also come to be viewed negatively, as something produced to supply the demands of a market, often without the application of intellect.7 Likewise, while 'consumption' has always been associated with the notion of using, it has recently come to connote destruction or wasteful expenditure.8 For its part, 'heritage' derives from the Old French eritage, meaning property which devolves by right of inheritance in a process involving a series of linked hereditary successions.9 Lastly, 'tradition' has been defined as 'the action of transmitting or handing down from one to another a variety of beliefs, rules, and customs'.10
These four terms remain very complex concepts that can, have been, and will continue to be used in a variety of ways. The contributors to this volume have not adhered to any specified definitions of them, but instead
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have explored their many dimensions. In part, this reflects the difficulty of pinning down the meaning of these terms at a time when they have been caught up in larger cultural debates. This has particularly been the case with the notions of heritage and tradition. In fact, it is now possible to distinguish three discrete phases in the change of attitude toward these terms in the last two centuries. The first phase, which roughly corresponded with the end of colonialism, intensified contact between cultures and instituted a period of hybridity. Yet while interest in local indigenous heritage was often initiated during this colonial period, it was only during the second period of postcolonial nationalism that it came to full flower in the demand for historic monuments and symbolic buildings. At this time, invocations of nationalism caused newly established nations to resort to heritage preservation for what they perceived to be a form of resistance against the homogenizing forces of twentieth-century modernity. Today, in the third phase, which has loosely been called globalization, the situation is quite different. As these independent nations compete in an ever-tightening global economy, they find themselves needing to exploit their natural resources and vernacular built heritage to attract international investors. Tourism development has consequently intensified, producing entire communities that cater almost wholly to, or are even inhabited year-round by the 'other'. The new norm appears to be the outright manufacture of heritage coupled with the active consumption of tradition in the built environment. Kenichi Ohmae has even argued that globalization is about the choice between Sony and soil and if given the choice, people will not choose nationalism or soil but satellites and Sony."
Hsstoricizing the New Tourist Landscape
Understanding the connection between heritage preservation and tourism development requires a grounding in both history and political economy. Studies of colonial urbanism have provided valuable insight into the politics of heritage and the discourse of its preservation. Meanwhile, analysis of the macro-economy of global production and investment have afforded a better understanding of the dynamics of tourism. Such an appreciation for history and economics allows one to see how global consumers today seek 'difference' and 'hospitality' as economic goods, and it helps elucidate the role of those producers or suppliers, often in the Third World, who make their living catering to this demand.
What is it that motivates the interest of tourists in others, prompting them to travel to distant lands, sometimes under uncomfortable conditions, often only to see the mundane rituals of daily life? The answer to this complex question may lie in what John Urry has labelled the 'tourist gaze'.12 After examining the significance of tourism as a major industry in the waning years of the twentieth century, Urry suggested that this gaze is
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
now a core feature of an industry in which the contemporary tourist - like the old-world pilgrim - seeks authenticity and truth in times and places away from his/her own everyday life. But this gaze is not the same everywhere, and its spatial dimension changes from place to place. In fact, the process by which tourists engage the built environment and are engaged by it is one that deserves special identification. I will call this 'engazemenť, a term I use to mean the process through which the gaze transforms the material reality of the built environment into a cultural imaginary.13 It is this imaginary that this book attempts to explore.
Here the historical realities and political economy that have marked the development of a global heritage discourse become relevant. Specifically, in looking at the First and Third Worlds, one may notice that, while both possibly possess equal desire to explore the heritage and culture of the 'other', they have fundamentally different motivations for wanting to do so.14 These differences may be attributed to or explained by earlier relationships of colonialism, political nationalism, and economic dependency. Today, as a result of such historical and economic forces, Third World countries often wish to emulate the 'progress' of the First World and adopt its developmental practices - but only without risking the destabilization of their local cultures. This is clearly a situation of wanting to have one's cake and to eat it too. Thus, as Benjamin Barber has pointed out in the appropriately titled Jihad vs. McWorld, such nations want the veil, but they also want the World Wide Web and Coca Cola.15 Meanwhile, for its part, the First World appears more interested in consuming the cultures and environments of Third World societies. First World nations are often the main advocates for and financial patrons of the preservation of Third World built environments as part of what they define as 'universal' heritage - even when the 'natives' do not recognize its historic value. As a wealthy bloc, which often feels a sense of guilt and responsibility toward its former colonies, the First World has also tried at times to maintain or assist in preserving the dying or disappearing lifestyles and traditions of underdeveloped peoples and places. Yet it is also often the case that First World organizations, foundations and governments have engaged in such efforts while at the same time condemning or rejecting much of the social and political practices of the societies whose traditions they claim to want to preserve - especially when it diverges from Western standards of human rights, gender equality, and environmental sustainability.
As an example of the above dynamic one might consider the island of Bali, Indonesia. Here the First World has come to play the role of guardian of Third World traditions, but only so that would-be First World visitors can continue to appreciate them. In such an environment, the behaviour of the local people becomes fundamentally conditioned by the expectations of tourists.16 But, unlike Disneyland, where employees are given the title of 'cast members',17 here tourist industry workers are merely supposed to
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
continue 'being themselves', and act out their supposedly still-genuine culture. Such a theatre, which is globally constructed but locally produced, is, of course, continually in danger of coming apart, since it depends on the willingness of the locals to act for the cameras.
Two other examples of this phenomenon were recently presented as chapters in David Howes's Cross-Cultural Consumption: Global Markets, Local Realities. Carol Hendricksons contribution to this volume looked at linw handicrafrs.heralded as Guatemalan or Mayan may now be purchased through US mail-order catalogues. Not only does this reveal the powerful marketing value of 'cultural difference', Howes pointed out in his introduction, but it also may create a situation of considerable cultural misrepresentation. According to Howes: 'For example, the industrialized cities where many of the Guatemalan artefacts come from are presented as pre-industrial villages in the catalogues. This is so as to agree with the American purchaser's preconceptions about "Mayan life" as well as to foster associations with both "tradition" and "uniqueness"."s
in another chapter in ITowcs's book, Mary Crain examined the employment of native women from Andes villages in the tourist hotels of Quito, Ecuador. According to Howes: 'As is typical of "ethnic tourism" ventures of this kind, "native traditions" are disassembled and rearranged in order to recreate a marketable semblance of "authenticity". In the case cited, this involved the women being required to dress in a gaudy version of their traditional clothing for the purpose of attracting tourism.' But Crain argued that the women have not submitted entirely to such a form of objectification. Thus, according to Howes: '. . . by means of a calculated reconstruction of their gender and ethnic identities, they have actively reshaped the role assigned to them by their employer, and attempted to use it to their own advantage. In other words, they have proceeded to "occupy" and exploit the very stereotypes which were intended to dominate them.'"
To be able to understand how such a heritage discourse is indeed an invention of the early modernist empire-building era, one must first frame it within the context of the three phases mentioned earlier.20 The first phase corresponded principally with the nineteenth century. During this time the world witnessed the rise of modern industrial capitalism and the emergence of organized political dominance represented by colonialism. According to Anthony King, under the colonial paradigm, the world became divided into two kinds of people and two types of societies: powerful, administratively advanced, racially Caucasoid, nominally Christian, and principally European dominant nations; and powerless, organizationally backward, traditionally rooted, and mainly non-White dominated societies.21 Under this new form of government, a legitimized relationship of unequal cultural and socio-economic exchange was born.
Today one must take this history of political and cultural domination into account if one is to analyse issues related to the invocation of heritage
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
in the built environment. In particular, one must examine the processes during the colonial era by which local identity was violated, ignored, distorted or stereotyped. In terms of the built environment, part of this effort was almost always the introduction of a specifically colonial brand of architecture and urbanism. Thus, in many locales a certain hybrid form of building emerged - one that, at least at a visual level, unified the lands of colonial empires. For example, variations of the bungalow, a hybrid dwellina tvne first introduced bv the British in India, soon anneared all over the British Empire, making it difficult to identify its true origins."
It is interesting to note that at the same time that colonial governments were involved in suppressing indigenous cultural traditions, their fascination with the traditional customs of the 'other' also generated the first impulses toward its preservation. In fact, colonial empires eventually played a central role in maintaining, preserving and restoring much of what is today considered the built heritage of many Third World countries. The different 'World's Fairs' of the nineteenth century were important in this respect. To give an example, the images of a replica of an Egyptian temple built at the Paris Exposition Universelle of 1867 are today the only ones that exist of that destroyed monument. Likewise, the 'Cairo street' built at Chicago's Columbian Exposition of 1893 was one of the few representations ever made of what once constituted a substantial part of a Cairene urban fabric, but which is now in the process of disappearing." Through such cases, one may glimpse how it is becoming increasingly the case now that in the absence of a real thing, the representation has become the thing itself.
When the people of the dominated societies started to rebel against this colonial world order, they had little to cling to in their drive to establish their own sovereignty other than a broad invocation of heritage as an instrument of nation-building. Therefore, in the second phase of cultural transformation an awkward relationship emerged between people and their cultural heritage. Traditions and structures, many of which were no longer appreciated by the native people, were now cast as the prime expressions of a new-found national identity. In some countries, the colonial-influenced abandonment of native heritage had gone so far as to include the discarding of entire and efficient systems of construction because their aesthetic did not fit the modern (colonial) paradigm.24 But in the second phase, heritage also began to play a different role. It was now invented from the new, not only from the legacy of the past, even when the new was not yet fully developed. As a result, the urban environment of many developing nations was rapidly 'kitschizeď or pseudo-modernized.
A good example here is Singapore's massive program to build new public housing to replace its old ethnic neighbourhoods. Responding to the multiethnic legacy of the colonial era and attempting to diffuse a potentially explosive cultural issue, the government's intent was to use the new housing programs to forge a postcolonial identity. The programs involved two
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interlinked objectives: to demolish existing and clearly demarcated ethnic neighbourhoods and the cultures that inhabited them; and to build new large-scale multi-storey housing complexes that would force different groups to live together in what was perceived to be an integrated environment.2''
This brings me to the third phase in the invocation of heritage by both the dominant and the dominated. In today's climate of global economic and rultnral exchange, the search for and reconstruction of identity has become paramount. The reason is that once independence was achieved, the glue that bound these nations together during their independence struggles dissolved, and problems of national and communal difference started to surface. Where it was not resolved, religious and political fundamentalism flourished. Today such a pattern has appeared most violently in such troubled places as Kosovo, Afghanistan, Chechnya, and the Sudan - not to mention the Indian subcontinent and Indonesia. The problem of course originated with the fact that the political units that were formed as nations in the post-World War II era were expected to be homogeneous entities with common cultures. But the reality was otherwise, and eventually, clear internal conflicts emerged based on differences in such essential, though unequal elements of national identity as race, language, religion, history, territory and tradition.
Faced with this problem, Third World governments have resorted to the notion of national identity both to project their image in the international arena and to project the same image internally to the native population. Through their monopoly of policies and resources, many governments have attempted over time to create a national culture, even when they lacked one in the first place. One of the key ingredients of this campaign was often an urban building campaign. Of course, such heavy-handed tactics raised troubling questions about the ethics of one political faction 'designing' national identity from the top down. This question was indeed faced by many fledgling politicians who governed newly independent states, and the architects and planners who worked for them. In some places such issues were affirmatively resolved, as in Singapore, which came later to the nationhood game. Another good example is Bangladesh, where such buildings as Louis Kahn's Dacca Assembly were produced during the height of the modern nationalism movement.26
Of course, while it may provide solace against the perceived depredations of foreign domination, simple faith in a myth of traditional origins cannot ultimately provide a stable basis for constructing a true sense of national identity. According to Gwendolyn Wright, 'the past cannot simply mean a retreat to a golden age before the Europeans, before modern industrialization, for these factors have changed us irrevocably'.27 Furthermore, if one accepts that national identity is a social construct tied to temporal events,28 it follows that a nation's heritage can only symbolize identity as observed by
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
a single individual or agency at a specific point in time. Of course, the category of identity itself may be problematic; one may even ask if it is possible in the present global era to sustain any coherent, unified sense of the identity. Continuity and historicity of identity will always be challenged by the immediacy and intensity of global cultural confrontations.29 Furthermore, the problem of national identity today is complicated by the reality of global economic patterns of production and exchange. Thus, not only do many naiiuu» now have tc mediate hpi-wpen nrecolonial and colonial legacies, between the traditional and the modern, but they must also deal with the fragmenting effects of globalization. It would be convenient here to adopt Giddens's view that globalization has introduced new forms of world interdependence, 'in which once again there were no "others".'30 However, it is more likely that, since capitalism thrives on the construction of difference, the present era of economic universalism will only lead to further forms of division, in which culture will become the globally authoritative paradigm for explaining difference and locating the 'other'.31 It is important to recognize that the three historical periods mentioned above cannot be read as a simple linear chronology. Indeed, as the examples of this book will demonstrate, the practices and tactics of one period may often resonate with others, or be deliberately deployed for other purposes. The classification of these historical phases then is less a teleology than a cluster of techniques that are often recycled and revisited in interesting ways. Taking this into account, for the rest of this chapter, I present a typology of techniques quite deliberately dissociated from these historical phases. I do not intend thereby to de-historicize my discussion of places; rather, I hope to isolate the clusters of techniques that define various pathways of heritage manufacturing for the consumption of tourism. At times, the coincidence with specific historical phases and associated political economies is obvious. At others, the connections are more open-ended and non-linear. Regardless, I believe that the analytical exercise of typologizing heritage  places  is  as  useful as that of historicizing the discussion about heritage, tradition and tourism.
Constructing the "Other': Toward a Typology
The relation between built form and culture is especially affected in both the exercises of constructing national identity and manufacturing heritage for commercial consumption. One may distinguish three different types of physical environments which are produced today with the planned intent of making them places for the deliberate representation of cultural tradition. Despite the differences between them, it should be emphasized that all three are 'made', in the sense that they embody the clear objective of capturing, reconstructing, manufacturing, and possibly inventing social and built heritage.32
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idea
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
The first type is based on the notion of using history to create a dream landscape, a 'Wizard of Oz' land where all conflicts within a given culture are resolved, and where all cultural aspects are reduced to their basic representations. In such a vision, all icons of culture, such as architectural styles, building typologies, and spatial configurations, simply become the cultures that they are meant to represent. Authenticity here is desired, and is achieved though the manipulation of images and experiences.
Although such a strategy was often invoked in the building programmes u ŕ seme react'onaxyaationalistic regimes aimed at fixing an official ethnic heritage, the ultimate example is, of course, the commercial Disneyland. One must remember, however, that Disney was not the first to pioneer the ;a of replicating places of the 'other' for people to experience; for ample, the 'World's Fairs' referred to earlier were engaged in just such an tivity during the nineteenth century. Disney, however, was the first to recognize   the   permanent,   continuing  commercial   potential   of   such installations. At another level, this process has also meshed with present trends, since it is precisely about the manufacture of global cultural products. This phenomenon has been developing for long enough for a certain convergence of consumer preferences and behaviour to have already taken place, as evident in the worldwide appeal of places like Disneyland.33 Obviously, such places prove that even if the heritage is hyped, history sells. According to Briavel Holcomb: 'Despite critics who argue that the nostalgia industry distorts and commodifies the past, allusions to art and hints of heritage are vital colours in the urban marketer's palette'.34
The second type of environment that partakes of these processes of cultural objectification is that with a true claim to history, in the sense that it once was the site of an important historic event but over time has become marginalized. The attempt to resuscitate such environments (which may often be entire cities) by remaking them in their former image may serve one or both of two primary motives: to attract tourists for financial gain; or to serve as 'banks' of national memory and pride to ward off the subversive effects of historical change.
Colonial Williamsburg is a good example of such an environment. A replica of the capital of Revolutionary-era Virginia, it is arguably America's premier public history site. Yet, like other history museums, its legitimacy depends on its claim to 'real' history, as embodied in actual buildings and artefacts. But Colonial Williamsburg itself has long been criticized by historians for many of the same reasons as theme parks. For example, Eric Ciable and Richard Handler have called it little more than 'an airbrushed, consumer-oriented, patriotic shrine celebrating an upscale idyll loosely based on the life style of Virginia's Colonial elite'.35
Such criticisms have not gone unnoticed. As cultural administrators have sought to keep Colonial Williamsburg at the cutting edge of historical knowledge, a new group of historians, hired in the 1970s, attempted to
Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
refashion the site by (among other things) bringing greater prominence to African Americans both in the ranks of its employees and in its narrative of nationhood. Yet the influence of these historians has ultimately remained limited - not, however, because historians are poor contributors to the project of manufacturing an imaginable history, nor because they are reluctant to contribute to the parallel project of facilitating the consumption of heritage. Instead, the lack of 'real' history mainly derives from the concerns of management that visitors will not come, or return, unless their visits are enjoyable.'" thus, depicting the harshness of slavery or any of early America's other shortcomings would create a level of discomfort that might ultimately cut into Colonial Williamsburg's popularity or profit. There is a deep irony here. Although tourists generally long to visit 'authentic' places, the authenticity they seek is primarily visual. Thus, their encounter with 'real' history remains marked by distance. And while they may wish to meet the world of the 'other', they also take great pains to limit its influence on them.
There is, however, a third type of environment that seeks to exploit cultural heritage, and in these places any claim to the reality of history is clearly secondary to its potential to generate commercial profit. It is in such places that the loosening of ties between the signs of a culture and their referents may be most apparent. Quite simply, to optimize the desire or the producers to manufacture cultural heritage and the tourists to consume it (all in as pleasant an environment as possible), it is now common for both groups to simply agree to dispense with any pretension to reality altogether. The best case here, of course, is the city of Las Vegas. Unlike the first two types of heritage environment, the sophisticated, themed casino complexes of Las Vegas do not pretend to authenticity. Thus, while the real Doge's Palace does not sit directly on the Piazza San Marco, such an adjustment can easily be made in its desert sister, where the replica of this historic seat of government is the Venetian, a 120,000 square foot gambling casino. Likewise, the Rialto Bridge, which was once the only crossing over the Grand Canal, in Las Vegas is found to connect two powerful gambling institutions. And while the real Bridge of Sighs earned its name by serving prisoners en route to their executions, the only 'sighs' at the Las Vegas version are likely those of gamblers in the process of losing their money.
Thus, unlike real cities, which often resort to the manufacture of heritage for political purposes, or nations which have wilfully allowed the consumption of their traditions by others out of economic necessity, Las Vegas is the ultimate site for the consumption of the heritage of the 'other'. Yet before rushing to dismiss such a project as kitsch, one must consider that in Las Vegas there is no hidden agenda. Las Vegas presents an outrightly manufactured heritage, based on the concept of copying the traditional forms of everywhere for the consumption of everyone. According to Akhil Gupta and James Ferguson, in Las Vegas one may say, 'the local and "exotic" are torn
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
out of place and time to be repackaged for the world bazaar. Time and distance no longer mediate the encounter with "other" cultures.'"
Ultimately, one should not forget that the purpose of a categorization such as that I have just made between the three types of manufactured heritage environments is to point to certain social trends. Using such a categorical construction, it is possible to point out certain distinct types of effect on the relationship between tradition and tourist consumption on one hand, and cultural heritage and economic production on the other. Any such division into types may also be criticized because certain cases clearly span between categories, while others cannot be fit into the mould at all. In this regard, Seaside, Florida, and Santa Fe, New Mexico, might be said to fitted between the first and the second categories; while Poundbury, England, and New Gurna, Egypt, might be said to fit between the second and third categories. Meanwhile, Celebration, Florida, might be said to occupy a position by itself. Perhaps most precisely because these cases would appear to be exceptions, it might be most useful to explore their cultural dynamics in greater depth.
It is important to recognize that some of the places mentioned here are the creations of a design movement called New Urbanism (originally known as neo-traditional urbanism). The town of Seaside is perhaps the most well-known icon of this movement. Developed according to a strict zoning/design code known as Traditional Neighborhood Development (TND), it has been a great success in real estate terms. But like much of New Urbanism's output, it has also been criticized as a fake, involved with little more than the selling of nostalgia. Seaside has also been criticized for its exclusionary aesthetics and lack of social diversity. But perhaps the most severe criticism of it has been directed at its particular form of physical determinism, best represented by the belief that 'community' can be created by simply copying historical urban forms.18
Still on the margins of the first two categories, Santa Fe provides a slightly different case study. Here, while the built heritage may be real, its meaning has long since been diluted. Thus, although the town's distinctive indigenous adobe forms may be historically inspired, they have been long dissociated from their original cultural and historic context, so that now their consumption operates on an almost purely commercial level. It is well known that much of Santa Fe's authentic-looking adobe structures are in fact cement-plastered wood-frame buildings that give the appearance of adobe. The architecture of Santa Fe has accordingly caused one school of critics to label the town's particular style 'Santa fake'. In this regard, one might contrast the 'fake' authenticity of Santa Fe to the 'authentic' fakery of Las Vegas. One might even say that places such as Santa Fe represent consumed tradition but not manufactured heritage.
A third example comes from Britain. The town of Poundbury originated with Prince Charles's fight with the British architecture establishment. A
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
traditional English village designed by Leon Krier and built on land owned by the Prince, it has attempted to recreate the feeling of a twenty-first-century community that has grown up over time. Of course, the desired effect also includes a long stopover in the golden age of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries before the advent of architectural modernism. Thus, all services - telephone, electricity, gas and drainage - are buried in channels behind the housing, and the one large satellite dish that serves the entire community is hidden behind a high masonry wall. All that is visible protruding from the roof of a Poundbury house - which generally stands flush with the street so the entire town is just outside the front door - is a stately brick chimney or a polished weather vane.
Like Seaside, when plans for it first emerged in 1989, Poundbury was derided as the product of a kitschy time warp. Yet despite its sentimental pastiche of outmoded styles and small-town concepts, it has increasingly gained favor with its residents, as well as with writers and back-packing day-trippers. As one commentator pointed out, 'the effect is polite, elegant and as English as a vicar's tea party.'39
The village of New Gurna near Luxor, Egypt (which is also the subject, in a different sense, of a chapter in this book) provides a counterpoint to Poundbury's story of grudging critical acclaim. The work of Egyptian architect Hassan Fathy, New Gurna was planned in the 1950s as the new home for residents of a settlement the Egyptian government wanted to evict from their houses among the archaeological sites of the ancient Theban necropolis. Fathy designed the village using elaborate mud-brick structures that he imagined represented indigenous traditions. However, in his search for an ideal vernacular, he turned to the geometries and proportions of Islamic styles which had flourished in Cairo several centuries earlier. Among other things, this resulted in the use of unfamiliar forms (domes and vaults) for the project that the local people associated with the tombs and shrines of the dead.
New Gurna was an elegant depiction of an idea, but when the villagers who were meant to live there refused to move in, the attempt to create a new community with no real economic or social justification was revealed as a costly mistake. And in the end it became all too clear that Fathy's true concern was with his reputation among his First World architectural peers. Nevertheless, on account of the publicity his effort to adapt indigenous architectural forms achieved, Fathy came to be considered something of a guru among Third World architects. And today examples of Fathy-like architecture are widespread in the Egyptian landscape. It has only been in hindsight that the full extent of the liberties he took with such forms became clear - as well as his decision to avoid taking into account any of the concerns of the local people.40
Finally, there is the case of Celebration, Florida, whose story perhaps best   captures   the   complexities   of   all   the   issues   discussed   so   far.
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Celebration's success as a place both of the manufacture of heritage and the consumption of tradition was nowhere more evident than in the fact that on November 18, 1995, a lottery was held among 5,000 eager contestants to determine who would be permitted to place a deposit on the first 350 houses and 120 apartments to be built there. Celebration is, in fact, a $2.5 billion real estate development managed and financed by the Disney corporation. At completion, it is expected to have 8,000 dwelling units and up to 20,000 residents. But Celebration's true appeal is that it will actually allow people to inhabit a historical fantasy. According to a recent New York Times Magazine report, at the centre of this fantasy is 'a sleepy grid of streets, lined with upscale shops and restaurants'. To emphasize the architectural pedigree of such an idea, however, there will be 'a two-screen movie theater (designed by Cesar Pelli), a bank (by Robert Venturi), a neat toy of a post office (Michael Graves), and a visitors' center (really a sales office designed by the late Charles Moore).'41
The idea of such a Utopian American community is not new - not even for Disney. In the mid-1960s, the company's founder, Walt Disney, had originally proposed that EPCOT, now a world-cultural theme park, in fact be a high-tech model city of 20,000 residents (the acronym stands for the Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow). But this vision was not to be. Shortly after Disney's death in 1966, company executives, no doubt worried about profit margins and the likelihood that a city populated by real people might prove more difficult to manage than a theme park, decided to shelve his utopia. Thus, today Disney executives may glowingly speak of Celebration finally fulfilling their founder's quintessentially American dream of building a 'City on a Hill'. Such a statement, of course, leaves aside more mundane concerns such as the profitability of repackaging what is essentially Florida swampland, bought at $200 an acre in the 1960s, and selling it in quarter-acre lots for more than $250,000 today.42
Celebration is perhaps the crowning achievement of New Urbanism's all-enabling invocation of 'community'.43 It has never been clear what this community is, but it has nevertheless struck a powerful chord for its ability to raise hope and generate profit. According to the New York Times Magazine reporter, Michael Pollan, who visited Celebration:
. . . by the end of the walk the very designed-ness of Celebration had started to weigh on me. Eventually the streetscape began to feel a little too perfect, a little too considered. After a while my eye longed for something not quite so orchestrated.
From my research I knew that every last visual detail my eyes had taken in during my two-hour walk, from the precise ratio of lawn to perennials in the front yards to the scrollwork on the Victorian porches, . . . had been stipulated - had in fact been spelled out in the gorgeous and obsessively
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
detailed 'Pattern Book' that governs every facet of architectural and horticultural life at Celebration. I knew all that, yet now I felt it too, and how it felt packaged, less than real, somewhat more like a theme park than a town.44
A cynical reading of New Urbanism would be that such places are simply suburban developments, but with an interesting marketing twist -architectural heritage. An even more suspicious view would question the
LiaiiSiCi ui ucMgu tuiu puiiucai luuuui nulu lutai ^uvciiiiiiciiis anu citizens
to large corporations and the design professionals they hire. It is thus fitting that the town hall in Celebration is privately owned by the Disney Corporation. And it is also appropriate that a Disney executive would proudly describe this building as a one-stop shop for services, the ultimate in private-sector efficiency. One need look no further for the social impacts of such a transfer of control from 'citizens' to 'managers' than the town's design codes, which embody a high level of social control and are exercised according to few of the democratic processes that characterize other American localities. Thus, according to Pollan:
While I was walking around Celebration, I noticed some bright red curtains in the windows of a new Victorian on Longmeadow. Only then did I fully grasp the import of a cryptic little item I'd spotted in [the] monthly newsletter: 'Please refrain from using colored or patterned material in the windows. This can look pretty 'icky' from the street!'
Icky?! So this is the voice of private government in the '90s? It all struck me as fairly creepy, Big Brother with a smiley (Mickey Mouse) face.45
It is apparent that the red curtains in the window are clearly symbolic of an excess, a dissonance that New Urbanism cannot contain. Thus, Pollan ended his article by explaining how the banner proclaiming 'Disney's Town of Celebration' had been revised to leave only 'Town of Celebration'.46 His editors made this connection even more apparent by running the following teaser on the magazine's cover: 'Disney Discovers Real Life: Even with fine design, making the town of Celebration, Fla., turns out to be harder than making entertainment. What follows when people move in? Politics.'47
If tradition is about the absence of choice, as Yi-Fu Tuan argued some years ago,48 heritage then is the deliberate embrace of a single choice as a means of defining the past in relationship to the future. It is clear from the work of Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger, that all traditions are invented.49 Meanwhile, Benedict Anderson has shown that most nations are imagined communities.50 Combining the views of these authors, it should become apparent that all heritage is socially manufactured, and that all traditions have the potential to be consumed.
Although the two activities, consuming tradition and manufacturing heritage, are thus produced by different agents, one cannot separate them
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
from each other. In this global era, the consumption of tradition as a form of cultural demand and the manufacture of heritage as a field of commercial supply are two sides of the same coin. And many countries are now actively inventing or re-creating their own heritage, and using tourist revenues to do so. Their design agenda thus has two components: one politically self-serving; the other economically sustaining.
There are many cases around the world today in which the notion of a manufactured heritage has in this sense managed to take over a considerable segment of architectural practice. One might again cite the example of Singapore, alluded to earlier. Here, after government planners had ordered some of the most culturally distinct ethnic quarters to fall to the wrecker's ball, they realized they might actually need such places to compete in the new global tourist marketplace, with its emphasis on heritage sites. The challenge facing these same planners today, therefore, is to recreate new commercial areas that look ethnic enough to recapture some of the city's lost cultural heritage. Besides being patently fabricated, such actions reveal the craven tendency of many governments to bow to both political necessity and economic expediency. As Gupta and Ferguson have written, the new global context does seem to be recreating a sense of place and sense of community in positive ways, 'giving rise to an energetic cosmopolitanism in certain localities.' Yet, in other cases, 'local fragmentation may inspire a nostalgic, introverted and parochial sense of local attachment and identity.' They therefore argue that even if globalization recontextualizes cultural localism, it often does so in ways that are 'equivocal and ambiguous'.51
The situation of Hong Kong after its reunification with China in 1997 provides a slightly different twist on the same story. I first became aware of this dilemma at a conference I attended in December 1999, organized by the Hong Kong government to deal with the issues of heritage and tourism. I found the Hong Kong participants at this conference extremely enthusiastic about the prospect of putting their heritage to use for economic gain. However, the questions most participants forgot to ask were 'Whose heritage is to be preserved?' and 'To what end?' At the same time, it occurred to me that the most important topic such people could be beginning to address was how to recast their identity to fit the new reality of Hong Kong's political reunification with the mainland.52
What these examples point to are the dangers of heritage professionals who compromise their positions with regard to the tourist industry. After all, the tourist industry is a business, and not a charity, and both its ethics and aesthetics primarily respond to market demands.
The ties of heritage managers to nationalist agendas must also be considered suspect. Nationalism is, and always has been, a divisive governing philosophy because at its core it is exclusionary. The nationalist agenda has always been to set up contrasts: my nation versus yours; my
15
Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
history versus yours; and finally my identity versus yours. Such distinctions have been at the centre of many violent conflicts (which, in turn, may owe their origins to irreconcilable identity positions). To preserve heritage for such exclusionary ends serves little purpose other than to increase the potential for further escalating the sources of intra- or international conflict.
Here is the dilemma of globalization. Because of the importance of the heritage tourism industry in the economy of nations, preserving heritage has become important not only for economic sustenance but also so that nations, regions and cities may position themselves to compete globally. The paradox is that investment in heritage may only stir up further nationalist sentiment that often leads only to invocations of superiority and isolationist tendencies.
As Kevin Robins has written, one must remember that 'Globalization pulls cultures in different, contradictory, and often conflictual, ways. It is about the "de-territorialization" of culture, but it also involves cultural "re-territorialization". it is about the increasing mobility of culture, but also about new cultural fixities.'53 According to Gupta and Ferguson globalization is also associated with new dynamics of relocalization:
It is about the achievement of a new global-local nexus, about new and intricate relations between global space and local place. The global-local nexus is about the relation between globalizing and particularizing dynamics in the strategy of the global corporation, and the 'local' should be seen as a fluid and relational space, constituted only in and through its relation to the global . . . Indeed, the very celebration and recognition of 'difference' and 'otherness' may itself conceal more subtle and insidious relations of power.. .54
Robins has further written that globalization is about the '. . . increasing transnationalization of economic and cultural life, frequently imagined in terms of the creation of a global space and community in which we shall all be global citizens and neighbours.'5" The proliferation of common cultural references across the world evokes for some a cosmopolitan ideal. 'There is the sense that cultural encounters across frontiers can create new and productive kinds of cultural fusion and hybridity.'56
But the great danger lurking in this new global citizenship, of course, is the erosion of the public sphere. Briavel Holcomb has reported that a high official in the tourist industry once said, T can think of no industry other than tourism where the interests of the public and private sectors so closely converge?' Holcomb went on to argue, however, that this observation, 'rings truest when public means government leaders (rather than community) and private means business (not the private citizen).' Holcomb further remarked that the criteria for evaluating the relative costs and benefits of tourism to the public are both volatile and contested.57 The real
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
issues here involve who manages heritage sites, and how these are in turn managed in relation to both the demands of the tourist market and the (ioals of the national or municipal governments that control them.58
The contributors to this book attempt to address many of the above issues and confront their local/global complexities. Their contributions have been divided into the three sections that comprise the main body of this volume: 'Tradition and Tourism: Rethinking the "Other"'; 'Imagining and Manufacturing Heritage'; and 'Manufacturing and Consuming: Global and Local'.
Tradition and Tourism: Rethinking the 'Other'
The contributors to the first section of the book, Mike Robinson, Nelson Graburn, and Robert Mugerauer, deal with certain conceptual frameworks of encounter with otherness that underlie the activity of tourism. As tradition has increasingly become an object of world tourism, its audience is no longer confined to the members of the cultures that generate it. instead, the primary consumers of cultural traditions may now be visitors from elsewhere. These outsiders, as well as the local agents who package tours around cultural themes, are no longer willing simply to accept local traditions passively, and have increasingly taken an active role in manipulating and transforming cultures to fit their demands. This local-global process has resulted in the creation of stereotyped notions of 'others', which may be at odds with local people's conceptions of themselves.
The basis for much later discussion in the book is established by Mike Robinson in his chapter 'Tourism Encounters: Inter- and Intra-Cultural Conflicts and the World's Largest Industry'. In the chapter, Robinson discusses the features of current international tourism, its formidable role as a vector of cultural exchange, and the importance of the built environment as the cultural space and place of such encounters. Robinson suggests that tourism is a highly structured and organized form of human activity. He builds his argument on three basic observations: first, there are relatively few nations and cultures that are not affected in some way by tourism and the tourism development process; second, where tourism has emerged as an important economic activity, it is frequently characterized by a rapid and often dramatic expansion in supply; and third, world tourism is the product of a First World ideology that displays fundamental inequalities. Robinson then suggests that cultural conflicts in tourism can be understood on a range of interdependent levels: between individual tourists and representatives of a 'host' culture; between and within host cultures; and between the tourism industry as part of the development process and the host community/culture.
Robinson points out that much of the tourism industry demonstrates no real concern for the cultural dimensions of place or territory. Rather, the
■:~:';K ■                         17
Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
challenge is to package, image and transform traditions, rituals, and 'ways of life' into saleable products. Thus, the tourism industry largely conceives of culture(s) in two ways: either as value free, and thus largely as an inconsequential aspect of development; and/or as just another product to be packaged. As a result, culture(s) as embodiments of living traditions are reduced to superficial subjugates of consumerism and lose their active social aspect, political function, and authenticity. Within the short time period of a leisure or business visit, tourists essentially remain strangers and outsiders, with little opportunity or motivation to come to terms with a host culture in any meaningful way. In response to such a dynamic, the development of space, particularly urban and 'inner-city' space, to make it more attractive to tourists, is rarely accompanied by attempts to maintain viable communities of local residents in the same places. On the contrary, such factors as increasing land prices and rents, decreasing security of tenure, heavy competition for business, loss of indigenous control, and the dominance of aesthetics over social function have often created problems. Robinson concludes that in cultural terms, tourism establishes a primarily unequal relationship, since it does not usually take place on the basis of consent and frequently disregards any concern for mutual cultural understanding.
In 'Learning to Consume: What is Heritage and When is it Traditional?' Nelson Graburn next explores the concepts of heritage, tradition and consumption from an anthropological perspective. Using a subjective, personal approach, Graburn constructs a Foucaultian 'genealogy of heritage' which focuses on the way children acquire these concepts, claiming that this is the necessary first step to understanding how adults claim the terms. Graburn argues that heritage is defined as the knowledge of and/or rights over material and non-material things transmitted over time. It is, by definition, owned, and can, with permission from its owners, be consumed. The consumers of a heritage need not be those whose ancestors or immediate predecessors owned it, leaving the concept open to change and manipulation. Graburn's claim that 'all heritage is constructed', just as all environments are culturally constructed, bolsters the idea that heritage can be manufactured. He argues that it can be created and recreated for the purposes of those who claim it. Whether or not the owners of a heritage received it within the bounds of kinship - the original social paradigm of identity - a claim to heritage cannot only give a sense of concrete identity, but it may also demand the preservation and respect of its forms.
One might ask whether it is possible to preserve heritage at all, given that traditions are now often practised in locales far removed from their site of construction. Graburn's definition of tradition is consistent with his view of heritage and consumption. He views tradition as a product of modernity, which itself was the product of change and history. It is the product of a
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
lifetime of experiences by individuals and, having changed much over time, it is bound to change even more as it is passed along to the next generation. Graburn's model can easily be applied to the built environment, where it oresumes a set of component parts which once composed the original model, available for deliberate assembly into new variations of it.
Robert Mugerauer's chapter 'Openings to Each Other in the Technological Age' addresses the problems and possibilities that lie within the tension between modernity and traditional environments and peoples. Mugerauer suggests that in its all-consuming drive toward modernization, the West has lost track of its links and debts to other times, cultures, and value systems. By developing scientific attitudes and technologies that have dismissed or subordinated spiritual/cultural values, the West has made material culture and machines the 'measure of mankind'. This has resulted in modernity's negative definition of the 'other' - that is, the traditional -as lacking and disadvantaged. Thus, in the current practices of tourism, a true openness to each other cannot occur. Instead, locals are encouraged to 'dress-up' in traditional costumes and display themselves for touristic consumption, and sometimes for basic subsistence.
Mugerauer points out that if a tradition is vibrant, its members become objectified while unavoidably enacting their tradition. However, in this process personal actions will unavoidably be compared to a preferred version of tradition specified by the tourism industry. Mugerauer also warns that if a tradition is not strong enough to absorb such visitors and their expectations, the local people and places may become a 'fiction' entirely.
Mugerauer notes that, in addition to actually visiting other places as tourists, it is today possible to visit them 'virtually' through film, television, and the World Wide Web. In one sense this may provide an opening for self-articulated and affirmed identities and differences. However, in today's late capitalist global order, both real and virtual visits may often function as little more than instruments of stigmatization and stereotyping. As such, they may propagate the dominant forms of desire and the standard measure of human worth.
In concluding, Mugerauer argues that some aspects of modernist and postmodernist discourse may offer insight into ways to create non-imperialistic opportunities and establish self-determining, differentiated or heterogeneous identities and senses of place, and thus to continually rejuvenate tradition.
imaging and Manufacturing Heritage
The second section of the book turns to an examination of how heritage environments are manufactured. Derek Gregory, Phil Gruen, and Paul Oliver look at cases of such practices from the nineteenth century to today.
19
Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
They pay special attention to the interaction between the actual heritage asset, the manufacturing agenda, and consumer demands.
Derek Gregory's chapter 'Colonial Nostalgia and Cultures of Travel: Spaces of Constructed Visibility in Kgypt, 1820-2000' is a powerful exposition of the ways in which 'tradition' was manufactured and consumed at several levels in late-nineteenth and early twentieth-century Egypt. He opens by interpreting photographs and texts from travel literature on Egypt that evoke the glory days of late Victorian and Edwardian travel along the Nile. Gregory's project is to ask how these images of colonial nostalgia were constructed and, more importantly, what colonial histories are hidden from the views they presented. Eschewing the term 'postcoloniality', Gregory prefers to explore what he calls the 'colonial present', and to ask why and how, at the end of the twentieth century, people may still be seduced by such stories of colonial power.
Gregory's introduction links his work with that of Eric Hobsbawm on invented traditions as a response to modernity. But he departs from this frame of reference in his use of Edward Said's concept of the 'citationary structure of Orientalism'. Gregory argues that ideas about a 'traditional' Egypt were deliberately constructed through successive, referential travel accounts, and that they were subsequently marketed for the consumption of European travellers who had exhausted the Grand Tour in Italy and were hungry for a new frontier. Yet, at the same time that tourists were viewing 'traditional' Egypt, capitalism was producing a modern Egypt based on tourism and resource exploitation. Tradition, Gregory contends, became at once an indispensable and an irredeemably compromised term.
Key to Gregory's discussion is the idea of 'spaces of constructed visibility'. Drawing on concepts first elaborated by Henri Lefebvre, Michel Foucault and Bruno Latour, he sketches an historical geography of the rationalized, controlled spaces of the Egypt experienced by nineteenth-century tourists. This travellers' Egypt was mainly visual, viewed from the class-bound safety first of leased Nile barges or dahabeahs and then from Thomas Cook's steamer ships. Despite the best efforts of colonial powers to regularize and standardize the Nile tour, however, tourists along the river often found themselves negotiating their passage with local individuals, groups and events which disrupted the carefully manufactured view. Thus, Gregory discusses the ways in which Egyptian agents and actors disrupted colonial attempts to dictate images of a 'traditional' or 'authentic' Egypt. Yet he points out that since no written testimonial of the experience of the labourers exists, there is no way of knowing how the tourists' and travellers' gazes were returned or how travel on the Nile was experienced by the colonized people of Egypt. Gregory insists that researchers must seek out such complementary histories of purportedly 'traditional' people and their marginalized existence if the full extent of the cultural exchange is to be understood.
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
The tourist city is often experienced as a series of free-standing monuments. But in this section's second chapter, 'Everyday Attractions: Tourism and the Generation of Instant Heritage in Nineteenth-Century San Francisco', Phil Gruen argues that tourists in nineteenth-century San Francisco were as interested in the everyday life that made the city whole as they were in the monumental city promoted and manufactured by guidebooks. Gruen starts with an investigation of several key players in the generatipn__of_i_nstant heritage in early San Francisco, such as newspaper and magazine articles, photographic panoramas, as well as colour lithographs. Then through a historical survey, he suggests that nineteenth-century San Francisco was not only a source of visitor fascination because of its many 'sights', but it was also a city that offered the visitor multi-layered and multi-sensory experiences: picturesque, exotic, palatial, and 'world-class'. Thus, instead of seeking places of refuge away from the allegedly chaotic and morally decaying nineteenth-century city, tourists revelled in San Francisco's energy, and they considered that very energy a true mark of the city's 'advancement'. Consequently, tourists helped this alleged urban 'other' assimilate among the ranks of America's and the world's 'foremost' cities. Gruen argues that, contrary to the historiography of nineteenth-century tourist encounters, there was more to tourism in the American West than extended visits to the region's natural wonders. He concludes that the manufacture of heritage by official publications and the consumption of this heritage by tourists was a process of selection and exploration, not of direction and slavish obedience.
Lastly in the book's second section, Paul Oliver's chapter 'Re-Presenting and Representing the Vernacular: The Open-Air Museum' illustrates the way in which culture can be both manufactured - in the literal sense - and subsequently consumed, in the sense of being immediately available to those whose desire to experience it in a representational form. Open-air museums, or skansens, are assemblages of purportedly redundant buildings which have been relocated to artificially created sites, and to which visitors pay a fee for access. Oliver's examination of the politics of representation shows how history and tradition have been put to use by individual collectors or by national or regional groups searching for a past. In Oliver's view, open-air museums attempt to re-create an image of a past that may have never existed. By peopling their buildings like stage sets, they have destroyed as much cultural heritage as they have preserved. The consumers, in this case, are tourists hungry for authenticity.
Through examining the ways in which buildings have been wrenched from their original sites and repositioned on new ones, Oliver highlights the means by which the late twentieth century is driven by a desire to seek out and consume 'authentic' places. 'Authenticity' may perhaps be an unfortunate term to invoke here for, as Oliver contends, the destructive
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
consumption of any building is continuous from the moment it is built. But rather than preventing the consumption of the historic built environment, open-air museums merely abet its consumption in new ways.
Manufacturing and Consuming: Global and Local
In the third section of the book the discussion turns to examples of how the rise of global culture has had a particular impact upon the dynamics of cultural exchange. As built form is increasingly becoming just another product packaged for the purposes of tourism, it seems to lose its social function and appear value-free. Yet as Timothy Mitchell, Mark LeVine, and Anne-Marie Broudehoux point out, although the global heritage dialogue tends to present the built environment as an empty container, places of heritage remain places where real people live and where real conflicts may arise.
In 'Making the Nation: The Politics of Heritage in Egypt', Timothy Mitchell starts with an assessment of Hassan Fathy's 'model village' of New Gurna. Fathy's account of the events fifty years ago, as told in his Architecture for the Poor, relates how the New Gurna project was a story of the progress of ideas impeded by the ignorance of the authorities and lawlessness of the natives." Mitchell's account, however, reveals that Fathy's process of professional re-appropriation of the vernacular came complete with the seeds of its own destruction. The birth of the heritage movement in Egypt inspired by New Gurna was also the moment of its violent demise. For Mitchell, Fathy's failure to place his project into a larger social context makes its content a violent one.
Mitchell explains that today, from the Ministry of Culture and American development experts in Cairo, to the Luxor City Council and local contractors and tourism investors, a new coalition of forces has emerged, working to transform Gurna 'into a site that was clean, well lighted and signposted, with wide roads and ample parking, and people-free: in a word, not just an ancient heritage site but a modern one.' Fifty years after the demise of New Gurna, Mitchell explains how the government is still attempting to evict the population of old Gurna, and still describing them as lawless and unhygienic.
Mitchell claims that the authorities assume that enjoyment of historical treasures can only be secured by their physical separation from the local community. This has resulted in the creation of 'enclave tourism'. Indeed, most Luxor tourists live, eat and sleep in enclave hotels, travel in separate air-conditioned buses, and go to special entertainment sites. According to Mitchell, this process of segregation is being driven not only by the planning of international hotel chains and local entrepreneurs, but also by current Egyptian government policy and World Bank funding. Mitchell argues that such a segregated economic condition can be explained by
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
realizing that the tourist industry, like other conventional industries, relies upon the optimization of resource flows and timetables, and the rearranging of physical space to accommodate it. The twist with the tourist industry is that this process is organized around the maximization not of production but of consumption. To reveal the true nature of this relationship, one must bring the hidden violence of the 'heritage industry' into view.
In 'The ''New-Old Jaffa'': Tourism, Gentrification and the Battle for Tel Aviv's Arab Neighbourhood', Mark LeVine examines how Arab residents have attempted to re-imagine their 'city' and open up new spaces for agency and empowerment through which they can articulate a more autochthonous synthesis of the city's history and architectural traditions. Jaffa was the economic and cultural capital of pre-1948 Arab Palestine and is now a mixed Arab-Jewish quarter of the city of 'Tel Aviv-Yafo'. During the late 1980s and 1990s Jaffa became an object of 'development' as both a site for tourism and as a new, chic neighbourhood for the burgeoning Jewish elite of 'Global Tel Aviv'. These changes took place in the face of creeping dislocation, and were accompanied (and supported) by daily media and television portrayals of Jaffa as a poor, crime-ridden - and, at the same time, exotic and romantic - place.
Through a study of the ways in which the interplay of discourses on nationalism, modernity, architecture, tourism, and gentrification have influenced the transformation of Jaffa, LeVine argues that the double economy of fixing Jaffa for the Orientalist gaze and developing it according to a changing market economy relies on both the economization and de-politicization of the Arab community. The contested space of Jaffa and Tel Aviv thus epitomizes the complex manner in which architectural movements are inscribed in the politics of national identity in Israel. Both the erasure of 'tradition' through the application of the International Style, and then its reclamation through discourses of heritage promoted by postmodernist professionals, have expressed political idioms inherent in the construction of national identity in Israel.
Through this case study, LeVine also demonstrates that, although it is prevented from expressing itself through the actual planning of its lived environment, Jaffa's Arab population has articulated its identity through a series of 'spatializing social activities'. These have included art festivals, organized protests, and fighting to return streets to their original Arabic names. LeVine draws on one of the key concepts formulated by Henri Lefebvre, regarding 'representational spaces'. He suggests that in studying spaces which are linked to the clandestine or underground side of social life of the inhabitants, as opposed to those created by planners and political authorities), LeVine suggests that in studying the spatial system of Ajami and Arab Jaffa, one is confronted 'not by one social space but many such spaces in which the global does not abolish the local.'
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
In the final chapter in the book's third section, 'Modernism as Identity: Rio Cidade and the Aesthetization of Social Inequality', Anne-Marie Broudehoux describes and critiques the mechanism of city marketing and image making in a Third World context. In the course of the last few decades, the changing configuration of the global political and economic order has forced cities throughout the world to undergo major restructuring in order to become more competitive in the international market. In their struggle for economic survival, and in search for new sources of employment and revenue, city managers have turned to city marketing and image making to boost local distinctiveness and attract both visitors and capital. With growing awareness of their city's position in the global hierarchy, city officials and local entrepreneurs have often collaborated to exploit their city's image, and to 'sell' their locality by harnessing its actual or perceived attributes.
The late capitalist urban condition is characterized by a trend toward aestheticization, where the primacy of the visual and the centrality of the image have reduced the city to a landscape of visual consumption. Broudehoux points out that, despite a strong economic rationale, there is a social logic to this practice of selling places. She argues that urban image construction through public works and marketing campaigns is often used as a tool of social control, as dominant groups use visual and spatial strategies to impose their views and set the terms for membership in society. In this process some actors are sanctioned as participants, while others are ignored, segregated, and made increasingly invisible.
Broudehoux's study of recent image-making efforts in Rio is a study of just such a relationship between space, power and social justice in a society caught in a free-market frenzy and its concomitant process of socio-economic polarization. With the shift of the national capital to Brasilia in 1960, Rio's economy lost one of its main driving forces. The city was then hit hard by the economic crisis of the 1980s, and the lack of public funds led to massive disinvestment, creating a serious urban crisis. However, since 1993 the city government has conducted a series of public-works programmes to restore the city's image in the hope of retaining investment and making the city competitive on the world tourism market. Through three case studies of specific programmes, Broudehoux demonstrates that the current use of cosmetic solutions as forms of popular pacification is highly unsustainable and may actually be counterproductive.
Urban image construction has increasingly become a means of manipulating public opinion and controlling social behaviour to serve particular social, political or economic interests. Decision-makers use the built environment to manipulate consciousness, and disguise this manipulation in order to reproduce their political ideology and naturalize their power. Yet Broudehoux's case study of Rio shows how such attempts
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Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
at social control and exclusion are not always met passively, nor do they go unchallenged.
The Image Group: A Concluding Thought
I would now like to return to Disneyland and its Main Street, the street that has captured the imagination of visitors to the park as the most quintessentially 'American' of all places. Recent newspaper reports have indicated that its story may now have come full circle. Marceline, Missouri, and Fort Collins, Colorado, were the two towns that originally inspired the design of Disneyland's Main Street. Marceline was the hometown of Walt Disney, where as a boy he first sketched barnyard animals and fell in love with trains. Fort Collins was the birthplace of Harper Goff, Disneyland's first director in the 1950s. However, as The New York Times reported in 'A Talc of Two Main Streets', a reverse flow of cultural capital is now taking place from the copy to the models from which it was derived. According to the article, when Marceline and Fort Collins began to experience economic difficulties, both seized upon the expression of their ties to Disneyland's Main Street as a strategy for survival. In particular, the citizens of Marceline renamed its downtown Kansas Avenue 'Main Street USA' to cement the connection to Disneyland. The town tour now attracts several thousand visitors each year, and there are further plans to transform the train depot into a Walt Disney-Santa Fe Railroad Museum in anticipation of Disney's one-hundreth birthday in 2001. Meanwhile, in Fort Collins, the article reported that the preservation of its downtown had begun to look 'suspiciously like Disneyfiction'.60
These examples clearly show how in today's world, where the global heritage industry reigns supreme, the notion of authenticity has sometimes been cut completely loose from its moorings. The image of the thing may now actually replace the thing itself. At times the confused nature of authenticity may border on the absurd. Thus, at EPCOT the Moroccan pavilion was actually subsidized by a foreign government, and Moroccan craftsmen were sent by the King of Morocco to secure the country's place in the new global order.61 One must ask what kind of authenticity the Moroccan government thought it was buying by investing in such an obviously manufactured environment, especially when none of the wealthier nations represented at the exhibit, such as France or Italy, provided any such funding for their pavilions. Yet in this regard one might also remember the Cairo street built as part of the Paris Exposition of 1889. As part of that exhibit, curators felt compelled to import actual dirt, donkeys and caretakers. The concern for authenticity was so grave that several details of an actual historic structure (a Quranic school for children and a water fountain) were disassembled, shipped to Paris, and installed in the copy.62 In perhaps a supreme irony, 100 years later, when a foreign
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Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
preservation team working for the Egyptian government wanted to restore this structure, the only surviving clear and detailed representations of it were those recorded in exhibition publications. Here the copy of the thing became the means by which the thing could continue to exist.
To show just how pervasive such a system of global exchange may be, one may note how such typical movements of 'authenticity' from the Third World to the First, or from 'East' to 'West', may today also operate in reverse. Thus, at the same time that imitations of Western-branded goods such as Nike sneakers clog the shelves of Third World countries, David Howes and Constance Classen described how a Mexican merchant, Fernando Pelletier, actually managed to preempt the authenticity of 'Carrier' products and assert the primacy of the copy over the original. His approach was simple: open a shop and sell accurate 'simulacra' of the original items at cut rates that more accurately reflected the true cost of producing them in Third World environments in the first place.
When it was discovered that its goods were being counterfeited, the original Cartier company decided to open up its own shop in Mexico. The Mexican Cartier, in response, sent a letter to the President of Mexico denouncing the French Cartier's lack of respect for Mexican industry and government, and suggesting that the French products were fakes. This letter was printed in major Mexican newspapers and soon became the subject of angry editorials against the French invaders. The French Cartier also ran into problems when it tried to register its trademark designs in Mexico, for it found that Pelletier, the Mexican copier, had already registered them and thus had prior rights in them.63
I would like to end this introductory chapter with a personal anecdote. At a field trip that was part of a recent conference I attended in Cairo in 1998,M I met an American academic on the Giza plateau at the foot of the Pyramids. He was looking down toward the Sphinx. 'Oh, but it is so small', he was saying. He was really disappointed. His comment puzzled me, and it took me a couple of months to figure out what he meant. It turned out the man was a teacher at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. His city housed the famous Luxor Hotel and Gambling Casino, built as a glass pyramid with a three-times-enlarged Sphinx as its entrance. The professor was used to parking his car in a lot that faced the giant Las Vegas Sphinx. When he was in Giza, he became disappointed, not because the reality did not live up to its image, but because along the way, the reality ceased to be relevant when the image became the principal frame of reference.
This is reminiscent of a tale of mimesis once told by Jean Baudrillard. The cartographers of an empire draw a map that is perfect in every detail and eventually becomes a substitute for 'the real' it represents. The map is slowly rotting in just the parts where the territory in real life becomes
desert or occupied by other nations. '[Simulation is no longer ... a referential being or a substance. It is the generation by models of a real without origin or reality . . .'fi5
Notes
April 12, 1998, p.wk5.
2.   Ibid.; and review by S. Roaf of J. Jokilehto, A History of Architectural Conservation, Oxford, Butterworth Heinemann, 1999, in Traditional Dwellings and Settlements Review, vol. 11, no. 1 (Fall 1999), pp. 58-61.
3.  K. Robins, 'What in the World's Going On?' in P. du Gay (ed.), Production of Culture/Cultures of Production, London, Thousand Oaks, and New Delhi, SAGE Publications, 1997.
4.  A. Gupta and J. Ferguson, 'Beyond Culture: Space, Identity, and the Politics of Difference', Cultural Anthropology, February 1992, pp. 6-23.
5.  See, for example, F. Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man, New York, Free Press, 1992; R. O'Brien, Global Financial Integration: The End of Geography, New York, Council on Foreign Relations Press, 1992; and K. Ohmae, The End of the Nation State, Free Press, New York, 1995.
6.  R. Williams, Keywords, New York, Oxford University Press, 1976.
7.  'Flic Oxford English Dictionary (OED), 2nd ed., CD-ROM, New York, Oxford University Press, 1992, also explains that 'manufacture' first appeared in French, beginning in the sixteenth century. From the seventeenth century onward, however, 'making' was understood to be accomplished either by physical labour (humans) or mechanical power (machines), or both. During Adam Smith's time manufacture was also a branch of productive activity. The OED explains how Smith wrote that 'By means of trade and manufactures, a greater quantity of subsistence can be annually imported.' By the nineteenth century, therefore, people had already come to perceive the term in a deprecatory sense as a type of production requiring 'mere mechanical labour', as opposed to work of the intellect - and also as production destined for the market. What is lacking in all of these definitions, of course, is reference to the consumption of ideas and non-material products such as culture, history and propaganda.
8.  The OED further explains that although 'consumption' is of Latin origin {consumption-em), it comes most immediately from the French consumption, an early variation of consomption. The latter has since been ousted in French by the word consommation, which means 'the action or fact of consuming or destroying'. From the thirteenth century, the word was used to refer to the dissipation of moisture by evaporation. Other definitions imply decay, wasting away, and wearing out, specifically of the body by disease. As early as 1535, the word was used to describe the using up of material or food, and, a century later, the products of industry. By the seventeenth century, the word had come to be understood as meaning wasteful expenditure. Present use picks up nuances from many of the above definitions.
26
27
Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
9.  According to the OED, "heritage' derives from the Old French word eritage or heritage, meaning any property, especially land, which devolves by right of inheritance. This form of devolution is distinguished from property or realty transfers made by conquest or purchase. This definition was used from the thirteenth century onward. However, beginning in the early seventeenth century, the word began to connote 'that which comes from circumstances of birth; the condition or state transmitted from ancestors'. While these meanings are still implied in the use of the term today, the notion of heritage has been expanded to refer to both the material and non-material world that is passed from ancestors to their direct descendants through indirect means.
10.  According to the OED, the old French tradition had by the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries come to mean handing down, as in 'a saying handed down' or the handing over of a material object. It was also understood as the giving up or surrender of something, or even the oral delivery of information. By the seventeenth century, 'tradition' had been more substantially defined as 'the action of transmitting or handing down from one to another a variety of beliefs, rules, and customs'. But by the nineteenth century, tradition had again been more vaguely accepted as 'a long established and generally accepted custom or method of procedure, having almost the force of law'. Tradition became the corpus of experiences handed down by predecessors and widely observed.
11.  Ohmae, The End of the Nation State, 1995.
12. J. Urry, The Tourist Gaze, Sage, London, 1990. Another classic text in this context is D. MacCannell, The Tourist: A New Theory of the Leisure Class, New York, Schocken Books, 1976.
13.  In a recent workshop, Phil Gruen slipped when speaking of 'engagement' with the built environment, and instead said 'engazemenť. I have appropriated this accidentally coined term here, because it so aptly describes the engagement of tourists with the built environment under conditions of the gaze.
14.  Of course, the First and Third Worlds arc not homogeneous entities. The exercise of polarizing them into dualistic categories helps only in fleshing out fundamental differences between the attitudes of the former colonizers and the formerly colonized.
15.  B. Barber, Jihad Vs. McWorld, New York, Ballantine Books, 1995.
16.  There is a significant anthropological literature on Bali by major scholars. See, for example, C. Geertz, Person, Time and Conduct in Bali: An Essay in Cultural Analysis, New Haven, CN, Yale University, Southeast Asia Studies, Cultural Report Series, 1966. However, I only draw here upon personal observations as a result of a recent trip.
17.  For more on this, see M. Sorkin, 'See You in Disneyland', in Sorkin (ed.), Variations on a Theme Park, New York, Hill and Wang, 1992.
18.  D. Howes, 'Introduction: Commodities and Cultural Borders', in Howes (ed.), Cross-Cultural Consumption: Global Markets, Local Realities, London and New York, Routledge, 1996, p. 12. The chapter referred to is C. Hendrickson, 'Selling Guatemala: Maya Export Products in US Mail-Order Catalogues', pp. 106-124.
19.  D. Howes, 'Introduction: Commodities and Cultural Borders', p. 13. The chapter referred  to  is  M.  Crain,  'Negotiating Identities  in Quito's  Cultural
28
Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
Borderlands: Native Women's Performances for the Ecuadorean Tourist Market', pp. 125-137.
20.   N. AlSayyad, 'Urbanism and the Dominance Equation: Reflections on Cokmialsm and National Identity', in AlSayyad (ed.), Forms of Dominance: On the Architecture and Urbanism of the Colonial Enterprise, Aldershot, Avebury, 1992.
21.   A. King, Culture, Globalization, and the World System, Houndmills, MacMillan, 1991.
University Press, 1995.
23.  I. Bierman, unpublished paper submitted to the symposium 'An Authentic City for a Modern World: Cairo in the Nineteenth Century', held at the University of California, Berkeley, in October 1999.
24.  N. AlSayyad, 'Urbanism and the Dominance Equation'; 'From Vernacularism to Globalism: The Temporal Reality of Traditional Settlements', Traditional Dwellings and Settlements Review, vol. 7, no. 1 (Fall 1995), pp. 13-24; and 'Culture, Identity and Urbanism in a Changing World: A Historical Perspective on Colonialism, Nationalism and Globalization', in M.L. Cohen et al. (eds.), Preparing for the Urban Future: Global Pressures and Local Forces, Washington, D.C., Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 1996.
25.  M. Castells et al., 'Public Housing as Political Strategy', in The Shep Kip Mei Syndrome: Economic Development and Public Housing in Hong Kong and Singapore, New York, Pion, 1990, pp. 303-322.
26.  !.. Vale, Architecture, Power and National Identity, New Haven, CN, Yale University Press, 1992.
27.  G. Wright, The Politics of Design in French Colonial Urbanism, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1991.
28.  Such a view was first expressed by Louis Snyder in 1954. See L. Snyder, The Meaning of Nationalism, Westport, CN, Greenwood Press, 1954.
29.  Robins, 'What in the World's Going On?'
30.   A. Giddens, The Consequences of Modernity, Palo Alto, CA, Stanford university Press, 1990.
31.   R. Robertson, 'Social Theory, Cultural Relativity, and the Problem of Globality', in King (ed.), Culture, Globalisation and the World-System.
32. There are, of course, many other classifications produced by others that may be helpful in this regard. See, for example, S.S. Fainstein and D.R. Judd, 'Cities as Places to Play', in Judd and Fainstein (eds.), The Tourist City, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1999. In this chapter, Fainstein and Judd sort out three basic types of tourist cities: resort cities, which are places created expressly for consumption by visitors; tourist-historic cities, which have been sites of tourism for a long time and have transformed themselves into tourist sites through conscious promotion and reconstruction of heritage; and converted cities, which have built an infrastructure for the purpose of attracting visitors, but where the tourist space is insulated from the larger urban milieu within a process of uneven development (see pp. 262-267).
29
Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
33.  Gupta and Ferguson, 'Beyond Culture'.
34.  B. Holcomb, 'Marketing Cities for Tourism', in Judd and Fainstein (eds.), The Tourist City, p. 65.
35.  F.. Gable and R. Handler, 'In Colonial Williamsburg, the New History Meets the Old', Chronicle of Higher Education, October 30, 1998, pp. B10-B12.
36.  Ibid.
37.  Gupta and Ferguson, 'Beyond Culture', pp. 6-23.
38.  D.D. Hail, Community m me New uruaiiisiii: l^esign vision anu Syniooiic Crusade', Traditional Dwellings and Settlements Review, vol. 9, no. 2 (Spring 1998), pp. 23-36.
39. W. Hoge, 'In Stone, a Prince's Vision of Britain', The New York Times, June 11,
1998,  pp. B1,B6.
40.  N. AlSayyad, 'From Vernacularism to Globalism', pp. 13-24.
41.  M. Pollan, 'Town Building is no Mickey Mouse Operation', New York Times Magazine, December 14, 1997, p. 62. I have relied heavily on this article for the section on Celebration. Other viewpoints are provided by D. Frantz and C. Collins, Celebration USA: Living in Disney's Brave New Town, New York, Henry Holt and Co., 1999; and A. Ross, The Celebration Chronicles: Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Property Values in Disney New Town, New York, Ballantine Books, 1999.
42.  Pollan, 'Town Building is no Mickey Mouse Operation', p. 59.
43.  Hall, 'Community in the New Urbanism'.
44.  Pollan, 'Town Building is no Mickey Mouse Operation', p. 62.
45.  Ibid., p. 80.
46.  Ibid., p. 88.
47.  Ibid., cover page.
48. Y.-F. Tuan, 'Traditional: What Does it Mean?' in N. AlSayyad and J.-P. Bourdier (eds.), Dwellings Settlements and Tradition: Cross-Cultural Perspectives, Lanham, MD, University Press of America, 1989.
49.  E. Flobsbawm, 'Introduction: Inventing Traditions', in Hobsbawm and R. Ranger (eds.), The Invention of Tradition, London, Cambridge University Press, 1983.
50.  B. Anderson, imagined Communities, London, Verso, 1983.
51.  Gupta and Ferguson, 'Beyond Culture', pp. 6-23.
52.  'International Conference: Heritage & Tourism', Hong Kong, December 13-15,
1999,  sponsored by Antiquities Advisory Board, Lord Wilson Heritage Trust, and Antiquities and the Monuments Office of the Home Affairs Bureau.
53.  Robins, 'What in the World's Going On?' p. 33.
54.  Gupta and Ferguson, 'Beyond Culture', pp. 6-23.
55.  Robins, 'What in the World's Going On?' p. 12.
56.  Ibid., p. 38.
57.  Holcomb, 'Marketing Cities for Tourism', p. 65.
30
Global Norms and Urban Forms in the Age of Tourism
58.  Given such conditions, heritage managers - whether nations, cities, agencies or individuals - carry a responsibility that must be separated both from the possibilities of the market and the desires of national or municipal governments. While this may be unrealistic, an appropriate course of heritage administration for the twenty-first century could involve management by non-profit, nongovernmental organizations with philanthropic funding, supervised by local municipalities or regions.
59.  H. Fathy, Architecture for the Poor, Chicago, Chicago University Press, 1971.
6 1. As presented by a guide provided by Disney as part of a guided tour organized for ACSA Conference participants in April 1993.
62.  Bicrmen, unpublished paper.
63.  D. Howes and C. Classen, 'Epilogue: The Dynamics and Ethics of Cross-Cultural Consumption', in Howes (ed.), Cross-Cultural Consumption, pp. 188-189.
64.  The conference, for which I served as a director, was called 'Manufacturing Heritage and Consuming Tradition: Development, Preservation and Tourism in the Age of Globalization'. It was the sixth international conference of the International Association for the Study of Traditional Environments (IASTE), held December 15-19, 1998. Many of the articles in this book were originally presented there.
65.  J. Baudrillard, Selected Writings, ed., M. Poster, Palo Alto, CA, Stanford University Press, 1988, p. 166.
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31
Consuming Tradition, Manufacturing Heritage
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