What Is It Worth?
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Bangkok. My ankle is now strong enough that I can ride the transit system, run errands by myself, and go to the mall to buy snacks. I couldn’t be happier.
What Is It Worth?
Toby and his girlfriend took us for a seafood lunch a couple of weeks ago. One side of the street is lined with restaurants; the other with seafood vendors. Each vendor has a wide variety of the most beautiful seafood I’ve ever seen, fresh off the boat and constantly replenished, all squirming in buckets and bins full of sea water. You stroll along and choose what you want—tiger prawns, mantis shrimp, cockles, squid, grouper, snails, whelks. The vendor puts your selection in a basket, which you carry over to whichever restaurant you prefer. The restaurant cooks it all to order.
We strategized before we arrived. When we got out of the car, Lee and Toby and I walked in one direction, and Supha in the other. She didn’t want the vendors to know we were together, or they would charge us the ‘tourist’ price.
When she joined us in the restaurant and we had given the waitress our seafood and our order, Supha told us: she paid five dollars for our snapper, but if the three of us had been with her, it would’ve been 24 dollars.
I don’t usually mind paying the ‘tourist’ price, but that’s a pretty big difference. It was an interesting insight into how a tourism-based economy works.
Some countries have a literal tourist tax—on many Caribbean islands, for instance, you are required to pay the tax at the airport, upon departure. In many (most?) places, the ‘tourist tax’ is built into higher prices for the services, accommodations, and activities that tourists are looking for. And in other places, there’s just an honest recognition that tourists can afford to pay more than locals for the same items.
As much as I love to travel, I feel that it is beholden on me to acknowledge that the very act of travel has a cost. There is a cost to the environment, a cost to the people who live in the place I am visiting, and perhaps also a cost to the people who can no longer afford to live in the place I’m visiting.
Once (a long time ago) I was visiting a temple in Bangkok, and I waited in a crowd to get in. I got to chatting with a westerner who was also waiting—I can’t remember where he was from. When we got to the entrance, there were two signs. One said ‘Thais, with an arrow pointing into the temple. The other said ‘foreigners,’ with an arrow pointing to the ticket booth. My chatty new buddy simply walked in, following the sign for Thais, and skipped the entrance fee. I paid five or six dollars—whatever it was.
It really, really bothered me that he skipped the fee. Every religious building I’ve ever been to, either as a tourist or a member, has relied on donations. I don’t see that visitor fee as a predatory practice (apparently some visitors do). I see it as the way houses of worship keep their doors open so that I can stand around and gawk at their art and architecture.
In Thailand, more than anywhere else we’ve been, tourists complain about ‘tourist’ prices. That always makes me a little uncomfortable. I assume that travel—tourism—is optional in life. If I can’t afford a particular place, maybe I shouldn’t go (hello, Maldives—or not); I’m certainly not going to skip out on paying. That just ruins it for everyone else.
When we were in Venice last summer, I paid twelve euros to buy a pass that would get me into something like 18 churches. I only wanted to go into one, which would’ve cost me three euros. I didn’t need the pass, but I thought maybe it would tempt me to see more. And I could afford it, so I paid. It was one small thing I could do to contribute to the local economy—Venice, like Thailand, is heavily dependent on tourism, and we could see the economic devastation of Covid everywhere we looked.
I went inside the church, and took these notes, which may or may not make any sense, but I think they capture the moment pretty accurately:
Standing in a near-empty church. Light pouring through window. Tintoretto & Tiepolo on the walls. Intricately carved misericord seats arround the walls, topped with gilded scallop shells. Ancient tile and marble floors. Silence, but for pigeons cooing somewhere high above. Heavy gold and velvet thrones, five in a row. Venice’s faded glory. Altar inlaid with porphyry.
But mildew is creeping up one wall, softening and crumbling the plaster. The crypt is under water—once a problem, now a tourist attraction.
I never went into the other 17 churches, but that’s okay. It was worth every penny, for that moment of peace.
Take care,
Lisa
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